“I’m glad to hear th—”
“Georgiana! I say, Lady Georgie!”
Tristan looked down the street. Lord Luxley, that damned pretty-faced stuffed shirt, galloped toward them, knocking over an orange cart in his hurry to reach them. If that idiot had sent the letter Georgiana’d been so smug about, he would eat his hat. The baron suffered from a woeful lack of intelligence.
He watched Georgiana’s gaze travel from the oranges rolling all over the street to Luxley’s face. “Good morning, my lord,” she said, in the cool tones she usually reserved for Tristan.
“Lady Georgiana, you look like an angel. I’m so pleased to see you this morning. I have”—and he began digging through various pockets—“something I wish to give you.”
Her expression unchanged, she held up one hand, calling for him to stop. “I think you also have something to give that cart vendor.”
“Hm? What?”
While Tristan continued to watch her, intrigued, she gestured at the old woman standing next to the overturned cart, weeping as the morning rush of carriages and coaches crushed her produce into orange pulp all over Park Road. “Over there. Lord Dare, what is the price of an orange these days?”
“Two pence each, I believe,” Tristan answered, tripling the price.
She glanced at him, acknowledging his exaggeration, then returned her attention to the baron. “I think you need to give that woman at least two shillings, Lord Luxley.”
Finally, Luxley looked over at his victim. “That orange girl?” His lip wrinkled in distaste. “I think not. She shouldn’t have left her cart in the middle of the street like that.”
“Very well, then. You have nothing I wish to receive,” Georgiana said coolly. Reaching into her pocket, she produced a gold sovereign. Clucking at Sheba, she moved past the stunned, red-faced Luxley, and leaned down to hand the money over herself.
“Oh, bless you, my lady,” the old woman gushed, grabbing her gloved hand and pressing it to her cheek. “Bless you, bless you.”
“Lady Georgiana, I must protest,” Luxley blustered. “You’ve given her far too much. You can’t wish to spoil the—”
“I think Lady Georgiana has done exactly as she intended,” Tristan broke in, bringing Charlemagne between her and the baron. “Good day, Luxley.”
They started up the street again, leaving a slack-jawed Luxley behind them. After a moment of silence, Georgiana sent Dare a sideways glance from behind the brim of her blue bonnet. “It’s probably a good thing you interrupted him just then, Tristan, or I would have had to punch him.”
“I was only thinking of the injuries to myself if I had to separate the two of you in a brawl. And of the damage you’d do to poor Luxley, of course.”
Her smile touched her green eyes. “Of course.”
Good lord, she’d granted him two smiles in one morning. And she’d called him by his Christian name for the first time in six years. Thank God he’d been on his way out to arrange a picnic with Amelia, or he would have missed spending this morning with her.
He wondered what she would think if she knew that he kept her stocking in a mahogany box in the top drawer of his chest. As far as society was concerned, he’d won the first part of the wager by gaining a kiss, and failed abysmally at the second part. His silence might have saved her reputation, but it hadn’t saved what might have grown between them.
Tristan shook himself. “Shall we?” He kneed Charlemagne.
With a laugh, Georgiana and Sheba were off like a shot beside him. “To the trees!” she shouted, the wind blowing the bonnet back off her curling golden hair.
“Sweet Lucifer,” he murmured, mesmerized at the sight. His big bay was stronger and faster than Sheba, but even Charlemagne seemed to realize that today they were in this for the pursuit, and not the victory.
If Georgiana was playing some sort of game, it was a damned interesting one.
She reached the trees first. Laughing in triumph, she faced him as he drew up beside her. “My dear Lord Dare, I think you let me win.”
“I’m not certain how I should answer that,” he said, patting Charlemagne on the neck, “so I’ll only say that you and Sheba move as though you were made for one another.”
Georgiana lifted a fine eyebrow. “A compliment, now. I’m almost inclined to be impressed by your manners. Next time we race, though, do try harder.”
He grinned. “Then I’m afraid you’ve enjoyed your last victory.”
“I’d put my money on Lady Georgiana, anytime,” a voice came from the trees, and the Marquis of Westbrook emerged onto the path, ducking overhanging branches as he approached on his gray gelding.
Her smile faltered. “I don’t participate in wagers, my lord,” she said, a slight tremor in her voice.
