* * *
The Marquess of Dorsethad emerged from the river like some sort of mythic god. His white shirt was soaked and clung lovingly to every contour of his well-muscled chest. His trousers were stuck to his thick horseman’s thighs and calves. Although his dark hair was slicked to his head, he looked nothing short of glorious. Disturbingly handsome.
And he had saved a kitten, which took the opportunity to burrow its tiny self into his neck. Using claws if his sudden grimace was any indication. But he remained gentle and tender, slowly stroking the orange kitten’s back with his large hand.
What was this sensation, this wild fluttering and urgent longing in her belly? And worse, in her heart? The sight of him cradling the poor kitten he had just so boldly rescued from the river made her heart give a pang.
Her heart…
No.
The moment the errant thought began to form, she ruthlessly quashed it.
She was not in love with the Marquess of Dorset.
“He has rescued the kitten,” Charity said on a dramatic sigh as if reading Clementine’s thoughts, pressing a hand to her heart. “Oh, Tiny, I amin love.”
“With the creature or with the Marquess of Dorset?” Wilton asked stiffly from Charity’s other side. “Either way, I daresay your affections are appallingly easily won, Lady Charity.”
Charity sent the proper viscount a minx’s grin. “Is that jealousy I detect in your voice, my lord?”
Wilton scoffed. “Jealousy is an emotion that is both futile and puerile.”
Clementine looked from the rigid viscount to her wild friend, wondering at their exchange but still too flustered from the realizations clicking together inside her like the mechanisms of a machine. She could not make sense of anything more than immediate facts.
The kitten.
It had been adrift in the River Derwent.
Now saved.
The Marquess of Dorset’s vibrant emerald gaze upon her.
The beating of her heart.
The warmth of the sun.
The strong slash of his jaw, the perfectly molded sculpture of his lips.
Those kisses last night.
The yearning inside her.
Nothing made sense, and yet, everything did.
Horrible, terrible sense. She had just told Dorset she wanted to end their betrothal, and he had agreed, his vehemence most nettling. What were these confusing feelings whirling about within her?
Dorset was stalking toward her. His eyes on her. He was drenched. And handsome. So very handsome. And…
Bleeding.
He stopped before her, towering over her with his greater height. The kitten’s sharp claws had punctured his flesh. Small dots of crimson blood stained his shirt over his heart, and trickled down his throat to his necktie where the kitten had climbed.
“My lord,” she said breathlessly. “You are injured.”
“The bloody feline is attempting to slay the very man who saved it from a watery death,” he said, still petting the soaked orange fur.
“Would you like me to take the kitten?” she asked, thinking she ought to aid him in some way. “Those claws look painful.”
