“Sir Winford, are you all right?” Meg searched his face. He was a dear man and she felt entirely responsible for this.
“I believe so. I just need to… rest a bit.” The knight closed his eyes.
“Of course. Of course.” Meg reached out and brushed the hair from Sir Winford’s eyes. His hat had flown from his head and was lying on its side several paces away. Meg scrambled over to fetch it.
“Can we get you anything, Sir Winford?” Sarah asked.
Lucy came running up behind them. “Sir Winford, Derek has your horse and has given him to one of the grooms. He’s bringing the coach around. We’ll take you to the nearest doctor.”
Meg came back slowly, turning the knight’s hat over and over in her hands. She’d never forgive herself if Sir Winford was seriously injured.
“Thank you kindly, Your Grace,” Sir Winford said, his eyes still closed. Ever the gentleman, even when his neck might be broken. Meg swallowed a cry. He looked so still and pale lying on the grass. She glanced at Hart, who was still bent over the knight.
“Can you feel your arms and legs?” Hart asked Sir Winford.
Sir Winford’s boots moved and his fingers did, too. “I believe so.” He winced as if he was in a great deal of pain.
Meg knelt next to the knight and untied her scarf from Sir Winford’s sleeve. She pressed it to his forehead to stop the bleeding. “There, there.” Her gaze met Hart’s over Sir Winford’s prone body. Hart looked… guilty.
Moments later Lucy’s coach pulled to a stop nearby and all of the men, including Hart, Derek, and the grooms lifted Sir Winford carefully and placed him inside the coach. Meg and Sarah were helped in after him. Derek climbed atop to sit with the coachman and the conveyance headed for the doctor’s house. As the coach rumbled over the heath, Meg fervently prayed for Sir Winford’s health.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Hart hadn’t seen Meg since Thursday, the afternoon of the confounded race that he never should have suggested in the first place. Bloody awful idea. He’d known he was a far better horseman than Winford. Why did he always have to bloody well prove it? Why did he always feel the need to be so… competitive? The man’s interest in Meg hadn’t helped.
Now the poor blighter was laid up with a broken leg and a head injury and Hart had gone and made Meg Timmons’s life worse. The one man she’d been expecting a declaration from, needed one from because she was leaving for the Continent soon, and Hart had gone and challenged the chap to a bloody race and the fool had hurt himself. Blast it.
Hart was a complete menace to Meg Timmons. He should stay far, far away from her. Which is why he was here, at another blasted ball, trying not to stare at Lady Elizabeth Forester’s décolletage.
He couldn’t remember a word Lady Elizabeth said, but Sarah had assured him she was eligible. This talking-to-women-at-ton-events-in-an-attempt-to-find-a-suitable-wife business was downright dull. No wonder he’d been avoiding it for years. He hadn’t had a bit of fun at any of the parties except… except the time he’d spent with Meg. In fact, the most fun he’d had since all this had begun was being locked in the silver closet with her.
Thank Christ it had been Sarah who had found them. He intended to marry, but not at the wrong end of a scandal. He refused to consider the fact that for a few short moments before Sarah had opened the door to the silver closet, he’d actually been at peace with the notion of marrying Meg. His parents would hate it, of course, but he would be… well, it didn’t matter what he would be, did it? The fact was that he’d have done the gentlemanly thing by marrying her. He supposed Meg would have a much better life with the calm, pleasant Sir Winford as a husband. That’s what Sarah said she liked about Sir Winford. That he waspleasant. Not a word Hart would ever use to describe himself. Yes. It was all for the better that Sarah had been the one to open the silver closet door.
But why was it that the most fun he’d had all Season had been with the most ineligible lady of all? Life was bloody complicated, that’s why. Their world worked in a certain way and the order of things like who should marry whom mustn’t be disrupted by inconsequential things like who was more fun than whom.
Hadn’t he always wanted to have the one thing he shouldn’t have? Hadn’t he always wanted to do the one thing he shouldn’t do? That was his nature, and his nature was bloody wrong. He might be a rogue, but hewould never do anything to dishonor Meg, despite his decent number of indecent thoughts about her lately. The fact remained that Meg should marry Sir Winford or someone of his ilk and Hart should marry Lady Eugenia or Lady Elizabeth or some other lady whose name probably began with an E.
It was inevitable. In fact, he might as well go ask Lady Eugenia for her hand now. She’d seemed willing enough, his father approved of her, and one suitable young lady was as good as the next. Yes, that was it. He tossed back his drink. It was time to stop this nonsense of thinking about Meg. He would go inform Sarah.
***
Meg was standing with Lucy, unhappily contemplating Hart’s dance with Lady Elizabeth. She’d also been considering poor Sir Winford. According to the doctor they’d found near Hampstead Heath, he should remain abed for at least the next fortnight. Thereby ending any chance Meg had to secure an offer from him before she had to leave town. Perhaps they might continue their acquaintance via correspondence. Perhaps Sir Winford might offer for her via a letter to Spain. Hardly the romantic proposal she’d dreamed about as a girl.
Oh, it was probably for the best. She didn’t love Sir Winford and never would. She’d realized that when she’d seen him lying on the grass, pale and unmoving. She’d been worried about him, but she didn’t love him, and Sir Winford deserved better than that. He deserved a wife who adored him. Meg should go off to Spain and make the best of her new life. Spain would be lovely and bright and affordable and uncomplicated. Perhaps the Spaniards didn’t care about things like outdated gowns and graying gloves.
Sarah came hurrying up. She wore a gorgeous ruby-colored gown, her dark hair piled high atop her head, and she had a decidedly worried look on her face.
“You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.” Meg tried to shake off the uneasy feeling that had come over her the moment she’d seen Sarah’s expression.
“You do look a bit pale, dear,” Lucy agreed, searching Sarah’s face.
Sarah wrung her hands. “It’s bad news, I’m afraid. Quite bad.”
“How bad?” Meg held her breath, bracing for news of her father suffering another attack or Sir Winford’s health having taken a turn for the worse.
Sarah winced. “Hart just informed me that he intends to ask for Lady Eugenia’s hand.”
“What?” Lucy’s eyes nearly bugged from her skull. “No!”
