Page 42 of The Season of Lady Chastity

Serenity suddenly turned sharply toward the moat and planted her feet, coming to a skidding halt.

Relief flooded Chastity for only a brief moment before she realized she no longer sat in the saddle—though she maintained a tight grip on the reins.

Her body flung sideways, and the reins snapped from her hold. She splashed into the moat, sending cold waves of water over her head as she broke through the thin layer of ice.

Ironically, Chastity noted as she rolled to a sitting position, that the water was only five or so inches deep…though she wished she’d gone under and not resurfaced as shouts sounded around her.

She brushed at her eyes, pushing not only the murky moat water away but also her hat, which had not withstood the summersault and her subsequent awkward landing. Her mare stood above her on the bank, eyeing her as if Chastity had done something wrong—while the beast’s only job was to keep her rider safe. Blessedly, Chastity’s scream had been masked by the retreating hooves of the hunting party as they continued away from Chastity’s moment of disgrace.

“Oh, shoo, you disloyal beast.” Chastity swatted at the water, sending a spray up toward Serenity, who—smart mare—backed away before the icy water could reach her. Chastity’s bum lowered as the mud at the bottom of the moat attempted to pull her tighter into its grasp.

“I am coming, Lady Chastity.”

Of course, Bastian had witnessed her being thrown into the moat. Of course, it would be Lord Mansfield who climbed down into the frigid, iced-over water to rescue her. Of course, Prudence and Lady Mansfield were likely watching from the bank above, much like her fickle mare.

Bastian splashed into the water behind her—reaching her with a swiftness she hadn’t thought possible.

“Chastity,” he whispered close to her ear. “I wish you’d voiced your intent to be thrown into the moat. I would have worn my traveling pants and coat.”

She wanted to laugh at the same time she longed to cry as memories of her first words to him returned: “Are you going to throw yourself in? Because I must warn you, I will not muddy my gown to save you, nor risk my health jumping into the freezing water.

Yet, here Bastian was, slipping his arms beneath her and hoisting her from the moat, his fine walking trousers, white linen shirt, jacket, and cravat utterly ruined, turned brown and sodden from the water.

“I assure you, my lord, I did not set out on the hunt with the sole purpose of landing in the moat,” she scoffed.

Bastian waded around her where she stood, soaked and dripping, eyeing her from head to toe. “Are you injured?”

“Only my pride,” she muttered, rubbing her gloved hands down the front of her skirts as if she could remove the offending muck so easily.

“Allow me to assist you to the bank.” He took her arm and slung it around his shoulders before slipping his hand behind her knees. Before Chastity realized his intent, Bastian was cradling her against his chest as he climbed up to the bank. “We shall have you dry and dressed in no time.”

Chastity’s teeth began to chatter, and her body shook violently as the cold seeped through her clothes, resulting in Bastian tightening his hold. She turned her face into his damp jacket to hide from the onlookers most certainly surrounding the moat to gawk at her.

“My dear girl,” Lady Mansfield called. “Bastian, my heavens, don’t drop her.”

Prudence’s high-pitched laughter rang across the open area. While Chastity was happy to hear her sister’s genuine laugh, she was not pleased to be at the center of the commotion.

“The wee lass might catch ‘er death.” From the accent, Chastity was certain it was Ophelia’s grandmother who spoke. “Haven’t we a doc hereabouts?”

Chastity pulled her head from Bastian’s shoulder long enough to spy a stately, tall gentleman. He was one of the men she’d seen departing with the walking party, though now she noticed that he held a black satchel—a physician’s bag.

“Chastity!” Glancing over Bastian’s shoulder, Chastity saw Luci, Edith, and Ophelia staring at her from across the moat. “Are you hurt?”

“I do not believe she is injured, only startled,” Bastian answered, his breathing unlabored despite her weight. Chastity was happy for his reply. As the cold set in further, she didn’t trust her voice not to wobble if she spoke. “I have her, Lady Lucianna.”

Yes, Bastian, Lord Mansfield, most definitely had her.

More specifically, he had her thinking about their first meeting. He had her thinking about the press of his lips against hers, warm despite the chilled night. He had her thinking about the solid expanse of muscle hidden under his white linen shirt—and what it would feel like to slip her wet, gloved hand under his jacket.

Her embarrassment flared once more, overriding her longings, when he reached the upper bank and glanced down at her upturned face.

His eyes held only concern and worry. “I am going to set you down now.” He paused, and she swore a hint of desire darkened his eyes. “Let me know if anything hurts.”

Chapter 12

Bastian held Chastity firmly against him, knowing the time to return her to her own feet had come and gone long ago. With each inhale and exhale, their chests moved in unison; her breathing labored after the fright from her fall, and his from the sight of her being thrown into the air, feet over head before landing in the moat. But his breathing did not even out once he held her in his arms. No, it only increased with the press of her body against his, just her damp, clinging habit separating them.

And his ruined shirt, of course.