A Rakes Guide to Pleasure (Somerhart 2)

Cantry rushed forward to thrust the coins into her hand. "I admire your bravery, madam," he offered with a pretty bow, though his lips were stretched thin with embarrass­ment.

Emma forced her neck to bend in an easy nod, then turned her shoulders slightly, angling away from Somerhart and his glinting blue eyes. "A fine bit of entertainment and noon has not yet struck. I thank you, Mr. Cantry, for accept­ing my silly proposal. A pleasure to have met you, Lord Lan­caster."

Somerhart stepped close, his fingers wrapping around her elbow. "Let me escort you inside."

Emma gritted her teeth and felt her mask of gaiety slip. She couldn't help the sneer that stiffened her mouth when she looked at his hand, dark against her pale sleeve. His grip loosened in response, fell away. A murmur swept over the group.

"Viscount? I do believe my skirts are somewhat soggy. Will you see me to the hall?"

"I'd be honored," Lancaster drawled and gave her his arm.

Hart watched Lady Denmore walk away from him for the second time in as many days. The first time, of course, her hand hadn't been locked in a cozy clasp around Viscount Lancaster's arm. And Hart hadn't just insulted her in front of a large group of her peers.

"I say, Your Grace, that one's giving you a merry chase."

Setting his jaw, he turned his eyes to the young pup who'd spoken. "Pardon me?"

"Uh . . ." The boy's eyes fell to the snow at Hart's feet. "Nothing, sir."

He let his gaze sweep over the group of staring people, noticing the wide-eyed looks they exchanged, the tittering of the ladies. Wonderful. He'd given them a sensational story to tell over luncheon. And he'd been unconscionably rude to Emma. She hadn't shown a smidgen of hurt in her expres­sion, but her face had burned a dull red, betraying the wound he'd inflicted.

And in playing the villain, he'd thrust Lancaster into the role of rescuer. Lancaster—that charming, golden-haired fortune hunter.

Hart hid his anger behind a cool glance of displeasure for the closest group of bucks. When he crossed his arms and glared, the boys took the hint and sidled away, back toward the house, trailing the rest of the group. The women had dis­appeared, no doubt eager to spill the details of Lady Den­more 's undignified behavior and Somerhart's contempt. Hart simply stood in the cold, watching his breath condense into clouds under the bright sun.

By God, he'd felt an ax strike him over the head when he'd stepped into the gardens and spied Lady Denmore careering across the pond like some gleeful bedlamite. And when she'd fallen, when her face had melted from determination to pain, he'd felt such a sudden bolt of anger that he'd actu­ally stumbled. Why he felt concern for the irresponsible chit, he couldn't imagine.

Giving his head a hard shake, Hart attempted to throw off his roiling thoughts as he swung about to return to the house—and his plans to leave. But his eye caught on some­thing discordant. . . a strange shock of color. He blinked, nar­rowing his gaze to the trampled snow just a foot away. Four crimson spots flashed in the white. Even as he watched, the red began to fade, spreading to deep pink in the snow.

Blood. He was sure of it. He searched the ground for more evidence and found two more drops on the path Lady Den­more had taken toward the house. The woman had injured herself, likely she'd cut her leg open on t

hat blasted ice. Christ.

Hart stalked to the door and back to the front hall where he spotted Lancaster walking away. Ignoring his spike of ir­ritation, he bounded up the stairs and down the hallway to the guest chambers. A peek into one of the open rooms re­warded him with the startled gasp of a young maid.

"Would you be so kind as to direct me to Lady Denmore's room?"

"Uh . . ." Her eyes blinked rapidly, fluttering with fear. "Two doors down, sir. To the left."

"Please bring hot water and soap to her chambers."

The girl dropped a wobbling curtsy as Hart spun away to stalk down the hall and knock on the door.

"Come in," she called before his hand had fallen away. Hart pushed open the door. "If you—" The words ended on a sharp draw of air and her hands flew to flick her skirts down, but not before Hart spied the gash that ran from mid shin to her knee.

He looked to her red-stained boot and the crumpled ruin of a silk stocking puddled on the floor. "A maid is coming with water and soap."

She ground out, "Why are you here?"

"I saw blood. I wanted to be sure you were all right." Un­invited, Hart closed the door behind him and crossed to kneel by her leg.

She scooted it away from him. "As you can see, I'm fine."

"On the contrary, that looks rather nasty."

"Just a scrape. And your opinion doesn't signify."

He almost laughed at that. He was quite sure no one had ever said those words to him. Excepting his father, of course, but he was long dead. "It looked to be more than a scrape. It may need stitching."