How she hoped for the heavens to open up a second time. Rain heavy enough so one couldn’t see one’s hand in front of one’s face, much less the great black strips of paint flaking off the trim and front door of Number Ten.
But she encountered no such luck as they slowed to a stop before her address.
Mr. Deverill began moving around to the side of the horse, and an idea born of absolute necessity came to her. If she could just hook her good foot into the stirrup…and grab hold of the pommel with her good hand…while twisting her body around…it would only be a short hop to the ground and she would have dismounted without his touching her.
Her first win today—or for the last several hundred, if one was counting.
The plan, however, wasn’t as easily executed in reality as in her imagination, for she hadn’t accounted for her satchel. It would have to remain clutched in one hand while she attempted the maneuver.
But she managed with only a few grunts until…the twist.
The twist that had her sprawled on her belly and clutching the opposite side of the saddle to prevent herself from crashing to the cobblestones.
Thusly, she remained—her breath tight in her lungs…her heart rattling against her ribcage…her bottom in the air.
Behind her came a snort.
Possibly—very probably—a suppressed laugh, too.
Mortification fired through her, swift and hot.
His throat cleared, and she waited for him to ask… “May I be of assistance to you, my lady?”
“As it happens?—”
Oh, how she wanted to refuse him.
“Yes, my lady?” he asked, patiently—toopatiently.
She couldn’t refuse him.
And he knew it.
“Yes,” she blurted without an ounce of grace.
“Your wish is my command, my lady.”
He was laying it on a bit thick with themy ladies, wasn’t he?
How she longed to tell him where he could stuff hismy ladies.
But as she was entirely reliant on him at the moment, well, she couldn’t.
Yet.
Large hands found her waist, their heat penetrating layers of soaked wool and muslin, firming their grip. All rational thought flew from her brain, as he carefully eased her down…down…down…in a humiliating, inelegant slither off the saddle.
Her feet hit yet-slick cobblestones, and despite the warmth of his hands, she felt frozen. Though she faced away from him, in the space between their two bodies she sensed…something.
Something she’d never experienced in this way with another person.
Awareness.
She gave herself a brisk shake, both mental and physical, and stepped out of his grasp. A great, sudden yelp instantly followed.
She’d forgotten her injured ankle.
He reached out to steady her, and her palm shot out between them. “You’ve done enough, Mr. Deverill.”
