Think how smug he would be if he knew you were thinking about him.
“Have you ever been to Rotten Row?” she asked.
His brow quirked. “My dear, we areonRotten Row.”
Laughing, she reworded her question. “I was trying to be subtle, but I am asking if you ever participated in latching phaetons to swift-footed stallions to make the dust surge sky-high.”
“Racing in the middle of midnight with bets thrown into a bag by wild young men who are completely bored with regular life?” Hansen teased. “Surelynot. And they were not dappled grays, dear, they were chestnut beasts higher than my head.”
Giggling, she lifted her skirts to avoid a clump of dirt, before adding, “Surely not. You have no vices; such things are for men with no ambition or responsibilities.”
“If you have any more questions about my alleged vices, I shall direct you to my solicitor,” Hansen laughed. “But I promise you, my dear, my madcap days are behind me. As a matter of fact, anear miss with another phaeton has spurred my need to travel and consider my purpose in life. Do not judge me for being daring.”
“I would never judge you,” she said, shaking her head. “Daring is one thing, being a scapegrace is another—” Then, noting her faux-pas, rushed to add, “I am not calling you one, at all, I am—oh dear,” she sucked in a breath.
To her mortification, he chuckled, “I know what you meant, and no, I am not a scapegrace, but I know some who are. Speak of the Devil, one heads our way now.”
Her head snapped around and her heart fell to her feet—the deuced duke was heading her way. Had her thoughts summoned him? Was she cursed to always run into the man?
Her hands balled inside her butter-smooth gloves, and her cheeks grew uncomfortably warm. Why did the man affect her so? It made no sense. Even if she found him the teensiest bit attractive, it was no excuse for her actions. She had acted like a trollop with him.
Her heart thudded as she recalled the sensations he had elicited in her, not only when he touched her but even in her dreams; so strong... and intense.
His ink-black jacket and tan breeches were exquisitely tailored, molding to his long, virile lines. Above the bronze waistcoat, his cravat held a perfect knot, but what drew her eye—and everyone else’s—were the two enormous Bloodhounds trotting at his side.
She forced a smile.
CHAPTER 11
Her eyes shot sparks at him, while her smile was as sweet as an angel, but he pretended not to notice. “Lord Hansen and Lady Brianna.”
“Bridget,” Hansen corrected him coolly.
“My apologies,” William said blithely. “What were the chances of crossing paths here?”
“Well, it is a Sunday and the touted fashionable hour, so I would assume the chances are high,” Hansen replied, his tone dry. “However, I have never seen you here before. Another miracle, is it not?”
“Divine intervention,” William said.
When one of his dogs nosed at Bridget’s hand, his tongue shot out, sheeepedand nearly flew into Hansen’s arms—something he didnotwant.
“Atlas, Perses—down.” At their master’s sharp command, the dogs obeyed; their rumps hit the ground. “I am sorry for that. They are usually friendly boys. Did he bite you?”
“N-no,” she said.
“Humor me,” he grasped her hand and examined her soft gray glove. The moment he swept his thumb over the lines of her palm, she snatched her hand away as if his touch scorched her.
“No damage, Your Grace,” she said, chin notched up, cheeks coloring defiantly. “Thank you for your concern.”
Hansen was getting cross and William knew it was time to move on… for now. “No damage,” he pulled away. “Enjoy your evening. Boys, come.”
Bypassing them, he headed off, while keeping an eye on the two. Bridget looked to Hansen and said something to which he nodded, and they headed off to another part of the park, less trafficked by the rest of the ton, with a maid strolling behind them.
Of course, he would find them again, by taking the opposite way.
The gall of the man! What a conceited nodcock!
“I apologize on behalf of Duke Arlington,” Graham’s lips pressed tight. “He is unschooled in ways of propriety.”
