Page 57 of Earl on the Run (The Duke's Estates 2)

They concealed a small, placid river. And Miss Finch sat right in the middle of it, a few yards downstream. Her horse had stopped a little farther along, cropping grass on the bank as if it had never misbehaved in the whole of its equine life.

Miss Finch looked dazed. The water came up to her shoulders. As Jack moved closer, she flailed at it and managed to stand, but the heavy skirts of her riding habit dragged her down. The current caught the mass of soaked fabric, threatened to topple her off her feet, and pulled her along. She lurched and stumbled, hands grasping but finding no hold in the water.

Jack jumped from the saddle and lunged into the water, half diving to reach her. He caught her around the waist and steadied her.

“I amnotcrying!” she declared.

“It’s just river water splashed on your face,” he replied.

“I…” Her breath caught on a sob. “Yes.”

Holding her tight against his side, Jack turned toward the shore and found he couldn’t move. His riding boots had sunk into a layer of sucking mud. He heaved at his right foot, finally got it free, took a step, and sank in again. The stuff was pernicious. He pulled up his left foot, managed another step. It took much of his strength. At the next try, he nearly lost a boot to the muck and almost dumped Miss Finch into the increasingly murky water.

Between the resistance of the mud and the tugging weight of her skirts, the trek to the bank was strenuous. But at last Jack stepped up onto the mossy bank, pulling Miss Finch along with him. “Are you hurt?” He ran his hands over her arms and ribs. Nothing seemed broken. She was standing without effort.

Miss Finch pushed at his chest. “You hit my horse!”

“I just tapped her rump, the sort of thing anyone does to urge a mount along.”

“Urge? She lost what little mind she possesses. It was like being carried off by a whirlwind.”

This seemed an exaggeration, but Jack made allowances. “There’s something off about that animal.” He eyed the still-browsing mount.

“Everything at my grandfather’s house hates me,” Miss Finch declared, clenching folds of his coat in sudden fists.

She was all right. She hadn’t broken a leg or suffered a knock on the head. Her spirits were clearly not broken. “Thank God,” said Jack.

“What?” The word crackled with indignation.

“That you are all right. Not that your grandfather’s… I was frightened out of my wits.”

“You were?”

“Of course I was. If you’d been hurt…” He ran his hands up her arms again to reassure himself she had not.

Miss Finch gazed up at him. She was breathing hard from the trek through the mud. Water dripped from their sodden clothing. Her green eyes were wide and still a bit wild. Jack found himself getting lost in them, and their surroundings seemed to drop away until nothing but the two of them existed. He bent his head. She raised her chin. Their lips met in a kiss of unutterable sweetness.

***

Harriet was ambushed by a sense of rightness. This felt like…home—his arms around her, his mouth tempting hers. Despite her sodden clothes, heat shot through her. Her hands slid up to his shoulders and gripped. Her body melted into his. She was aware of nothing but her dear, dizzying rogue.

***

Neither noticed when the duke and duchess rode through the fringe of trees a little way upstream. The Terefords sat on their mounts, observing their soaked, passionate companions.

“Ah,” said the duke. “So that’s the way the land lies.”

“Apparently,” replied his wife. “I hadn’t expected such…abandon.”

He glanced at her. “But you had expected something? What?”

“A frank exchange of views?” she answered with a half smile.

“Cecelia! How dreary. I don’t believe you can mean that.”

“Well, the situation is not as simple as it might look,” she replied.

The duke eyed the embracing couple. “I wouldn’t call that simple. More suggestive.” He raised one teasing eyebrow.

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