“I’m no’ panicked, mon.”
“Ah, and there’s the brogue, a sure sign—”
“Will you shush!” she hissed, his teasing alarming her so, she missed a step in the dance.
Anthony grinned delightedly and decided to let her off the hook for now. Starting something in a ballroom was not only in bad taste but would get him nowhere.
Noting the fortune in diamonds that sparkled on her with each turn into the light, he said in an impersonal tone, “What does a man give a woman who has everything?”
“Something that canna be bought,” Roslynn replied absently, for she was still thinking about whatmighthappen when this dance ended.
“His heart, perhaps?”
“Perhaps—no—I mean—” she stammered to a halt, glaring up at him, her tone bitter as she continued. “I’m no’ wantingyourheart, mon, no’ anymore.”
One hand disturbed the curls along her temple. “But what if it’s already yours?” he asked softly.
For a moment, Roslynn lost herself in the vivid blue of his eyes. She actually drifted closer to him, was about to offer him her lips, heedless of the crowded room and what was between them. But she came to her senses with a gasp and drew back, glaring at him again.
Furious at herself, she said, “If your heart’s mine, then it’s mine to do with as I choose, and I’d be choosing to cut it into wee pieces afore I give it back.”
“Heartless wench.”
“Not so.” She smiled wryly, amusing him though she didn’t know it. “My heart’s right where it’s supposed to be, and that’s where it’ll be staying.”
With that, she jerked loose of his hold and flounced off in the direction of his elder brothers. In their presence was the only place she felt safe from Anthony’s bold taunts and the supposedly innocent touches of his caressing hands.
Chapter Thirty-four
George gave the door knocker a few sharp raps, then stood back, whistling a jaunty tune as he waited. It was Dobson who answered.
“You’ve just missed him, my lord, by five minutes,” Dobson informed him before George even started his business.
“The devil, and here I thought I had time to spare,” George replied, but he was undaunted. “Right you are, then. He’ll be easy enough to find.”
George remounted his bay stallion and headed for Hyde Park. He knew the paths Anthony favored, those well away from Rotten Row, where the ladies turned out. He had joined him several times on his morning rides, but then those times had been after a night of carousing, when neither of them had yet to go to bed. Never had he actually gotten up at this ungodly hour to ride or do anything else, for that matter—until recently.
George continued to whistle, his spirits so high he could have been floating along. His habits had changed in the past three days, drastically, but he couldn’t have been happier. Early to bed, early to rise, and each day spent with Franny. No, he couldn’t be happier, and he owed it all to Anthony. But he had yet to have an opportunity to thank his friend, which was why he had thought to ride with him this morning.
Entering the park, he picked up his pace to catch up with Anthony, but it was a while before he finallyspotted him a good distance ahead, and that only because Anthony had stopped at the start of the long run that he usually used for his all-out gallop. George raised his arm, but before he could shout to be heard, a shot was fired.
He heard it, he just didn’t believe it. He saw Anthony’s horse rear up so far that nearly both rider and horse tumbled over backward, but he still didn’t believe it. Anthony did tumble over. The horse found his footing, but he was obviously spooked, shying away, tossing his head, backing into a bush that further spooked him. And a redheaded gent about twenty yards away from Anthony mounted a horse concealed in the brush and took off at an instant gallop.
Anthony had yet to rise, and although it had all happened in the space of only a few seconds, the pieces finally came together in George’s mind with heart-stopping clarity. And then Anthony sat up, running a hand through his hair, and the blood rushed back into George’s ashen face. He glanced between the fleeing redhead and Anthony pushing himself to his feet, apparently not wounded at all, and made his decision. He turned his horse to follow the redhead.
Anthony had just handed his mount over to the waiting footman to return him to the stable when George cantered up behind him. Bloody hell. He was in no mood for George and his “everything going right” ebullience. Not that Anthony begrudged him his good fortune. He just didn’t need to be reminded how opposite was his own state of affairs.
“So you made it home under your own steam,” George remarked, grinning at the instant scowl that darkened Anthony’s features. “No broken bones, then?”
“I take it you witnessed my unseating? Nice of you to lend a hand in retrieving that bloody nag of mine.”
George chuckled at the deliberate sarcasm. “Thought you might rather have this, old man.” He tossed a scrap of paper at Anthony.
Anthony’s brow rose just a smidgen as he read the address, which meant nothing to him. “Doctor? Or butcher?” he snarled.
George laughed outright, knowing very well he wouldn’t consign his favorite mount to the butcher’s block. “Neither. You’ll find the red-haired chap who used you for target practice there. Strange fellow. He didn’t even wait around to see if you were down and out for the count. Probably thinks he’s a crack shot.”
Anthony’s eyes were gleaming now. “So you followed him to this address?”
