She was about to respond when a commotion rose from the direction of the group gathered by the river.
“Something must be amiss,” she said needlessly.
From their vantage point on the knoll overlooking the River Derwent, Clementine could clearly see Charity waving her arms, Olive pointing, and Melanie pressing a hand to her mouth as Wilton looked into the waters.
“Come,” Dorset said, voice grim as he took her hand in his and began hauling her toward the river.
Chapter 8
The source of the alarm became apparent as Dorset and Clementine reached the riverbank.
A tiny, furred creature was bobbing in the current, heading downstream.
“A kitten has fallen into the water,” Lady Charity announced. “Wilton cannot swim. Can you?”
“I can.” He was already shedding his blasted coat.
“You must save the poor darling,” Miss Pennypacker urged.
“I will do my best.” He took off his shoes and hat.
“Are you a strong swimmer?” Clementine asked, her lovely countenance marked with what he would have sworn was concern had she not just so thoroughly eviscerated him up there on the knoll.
And why should I give a damn? She wants the same thing I do, the ending of this farce of a betrothal. Freedom!
“I excel at swimming,” he told her coolly. “Not that you ought to care.”
With that parting shot, he stalked down the river bank and waded in. The water was cool, the rocks beneath his feet slippery. The kitten was bobbing ever farther downstream, and there was not a moment to waste. Finding his way in the current, he waded deeper until he could float, and from there, it was just a matter of propelling himself with as much speed as possible. He stroked through the water, determined. The cheers of the ladies on the bank spurred him on.
He was gaining on the pathetic little creature, whose small legs were no match for the current. The poor fellow was paddling, his head just above the water, nothing more than a scrap of drenched orange fur.
Dorset stroked and kicked. Finally, he reached the kitten and caught him by the scruff of his neck. Now came the truly difficult part of this rescue—swimming back to the bank with one arm as he held the kitten above the water with the other. Slowly, painstakingly, he made his way to the bank. After what seemed an eternity but must have been mere minutes, he reached a part of the river where he could stand. Cuddling the terrified creature to his chest, he emerged, sloshing through the water.
The ladies were applauding him. The rakehell he had become after Anna cried off their engagement would have preened beneath so much feminine attention. He also would have taken the opportunity to attempt to win a kiss from each of the lovely women at different moments over the course of the house party. Ever since losing Anna to Huntly, he had unapologetically devoted himself to chasing one set of petticoats after the next.
And yet, as he held the trembling kitten to his chest and slogged through the grassy riverbank, he had eyes only for one woman.
The woman who had just told him she wanted to end their betrothal immediately.
You are the last man in the world I would ever wish to marry.
Her taunting words echoed in his mind, resonating. Mocking. Troubling. He wished he could read her gaze from this distance. Wished he could do something more than stand here on the banks of the blasted River Derwent, dripping like a fish freshly plucked from the waters. But he could not, because something strange had settled over him. A kind of mental torpor.
There in the summer sun, as he stood soaked to the skin, a bedraggled kitten’s fierce claws cutting into his chest, he made the most astonishing, horrifying, bloody terrible realization.
He loved Lady Clementine Hammond.
The kitten, now freed of the water and no longer in imminent danger, began attempting to climb him like a damned tree. He wondered if he was bleeding. The pain searing his chest suggested he was.
But he was too flummoxed to care.
He wasin lovewith the most maddening baggage he had ever met. With the meddlesome woman responsible for Anna throwing him over. With the last woman he should have found himself drawn to at this cursed house party. With the only lady who had been foolish enough to gallivant without her drawers in the midst of a garden and managed to get a bee up her skirts.
The kitten sank its claws into the sensitive patch of skin between his neck and shoulder, digging in as if attempting to punish Dorset for its adventure in the river. Or as if attempting to crawl inside his damned body. He patted the creature, trying to calm it.
How the devil had it happened? How had he fallen in love with Clementine? And when?
More importantly, what was he going to do about it?
