“You’re doing that on purpose,” he muttered.
“Of course I am.”
“Well, stop it. Your groom’s back.”
John galloped back up the path, three of his fellows behind him. Tristan didn’t know what four servants intended to do with one horse, but whatever they had in mind, he wasn’t relinquishing Georgiana to any of them.
“My lord,” John said, panting, “Bradley here is to fetch a physician, if one is necessary.”
Tristan looked down at Georgiana again. She was in all likelihood fine, but if she wouldn’t let him look at her bottom, someone needed to. He nodded. “Do so.”
“Tris—”
“You may have cracked something. Don’t argue.”
That left three grooms hovering around them. Charlemagne began tossing his head and stomping, and Tristan wrenched him back under control. The last thing he wanted was for Georgie to be thrown to the ground again.
“See to Sheba,” he ordered, handing the mare’s reins back to John. “The rest of you, keep back, for Lucifer’s sake.”
With a chorus of “yes, my lords,” they did so. By the time they reached Hawthorne House, Tristan felt like the drum major of a parade. The dowager duchess hurried out to the front portico as they arrived, and he had the feeling that things were going to get worse again.
“What in the world happened?” she demanded, coming down the steps to grip one of Georgiana’s feet. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” Georgiana said, turning so Tristan could hand her down. “There’s no need for hysterics.”
Her knees buckled as she touched the ground, and she grabbed the stirrup to keep from falling. Tristan jumped down and caught her up in his arms once more. “Allow me.”
“This way,” the duchess instructed, clearing the hallway of gawking servants.
He was fairly certain that he knew which bedchamber to enter, but allowed Frederica to lead the way. No sense ruining things now, just when they were beginning to look mendable. Carefully, he set Georgiana on the bed, noting her wince as her backside contacted the soft coverlet.
“Thank you, Lord Dare,” the duchess said. “Now, if you will kindly leave so I can tend to my niece?”
As he nodded, Georgiana reached out and grabbed his hand.
“You promised you’d look after Sheba,” she said.
Tristan smiled. “And I will.”
Georgiana watched him as he slipped out her door, closing it softly behind him. He’d never promised her anything before, and something about that seemed significant. So did the way he’d looked so worried, and the way his hands had shaken when he first held her after her fall.
“Let’s get you out of that dress,” her aunt said, pulling her out of her daydream.
“It’s really not that bad. I just landed rather hard.”
“Your elbow’s bleeding.”
“Yes, I know. It stings. Serves me right, though, for racing against Dare. No one ever beats him.”
Her aunt stopped moving. “You were racing Lord Dare? Why is that?”
“Because I wanted to. No one else was about, and I thought it would be fun.” And it had been fun—exhilarating fun—until Sheba threw her.
“Was this ‘fun’ his idea?”
“No, it was mine.” Georgiana slid to the edge of the bed, wincing again and trying to keep her weight on her left haunch, so she could shed her shoes. “And I think I nearly scared him to death when I fell, so don’t go yelling at him for it.”
“I don’t understand you,” Frederica said, going to work on the buttons of her riding dress. “You hate him, and then you go to live in his house. You run from there, and then you go riding with him.”
