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carried. She must have been a girl, and a small girl at that. It had always been a matter of pride, for Lucy, to choose her own path. Whether walking or riding or driving the gig—she decided just how far she went and in what direction, and she found her own way back. Eventually.
    But there was something strangely pleasant about surrendering to this strength, her eyes closed, her body limp in his arms. He could have been carrying her anywhere, or nowhere. But wherever he was going, Lucy was willing to be taken. She pressed her ear to his chest and listened for the distant rhythm of his heartbeat, beating faster to match his determined pace. Beating for her.
    He trudged down an incline, and her body sank lower in his grasp with each step. Her cheek slipped from the rough wool of his lapel to the smooth linen of his shirt. His fingers bit into the flesh of her thigh. He broke stride briefly, tossing her body into a new, stronger grip.
    “Oh!” she cried, falling against his chest with a soggy thud.
    He stopped.
    “Lucy?” His voice rumbled through his chest like distant thunder. It sounded different this way. Deeper. Darker. Slightly dangerous.
    “Mmmm?” She kept her eyes shut tight and her cheek plastered to his chest.
    “Are you finished playing Ophelia, then?”
    No. It couldn’t be. Her eyes flew open, and cool blue eyes met her startled gaze.
    Jeremy .
    “I thought Henry was jesting this morning, when he said you planned to pursue the stage. You have the madness bit mastered, but the drowning? That’s a bit rich. There are fish in that stream that could take swimming lessons from you.”
    “I didn’t mean to fall in.” She wriggled in his arms. “Put me down.”
    “No.” He pulled her back against his chest and resumed walking at a brisk pace.
    “I said, put me down!” She beat against his shoulder with her fist.
    “I said, no. You wanted to be rescued.”
    “Not by you!” Lucy jabbed her elbow into his ribs, levering her arm to increase the space between them. “Jemmy, I do not need to be to increase the space between them. “Jemmy, I do not need to be carried.” She growled with frustration. “Put. Me. Down.”
    At last he complied without ceremony, fairly dropping her into the mud. To her added irritation, Lucy missed his warmth immediately.
    She hugged herself against the chill and looked around to get her bearings. The house’s familiar Tudor façade winked at her through the Manor’s iron gates. In the distance, the rest of the group crested a distant rise.
    Jeremy shrugged out of his navy wool coat and draped it over her shoulders testily. The front of his shirt was wet. The thin linen clung to his chest, revealing every muscled ridge and hardened plane she had so recently—so mistakenly—molded her body against.
    “You’re making a fool of yourself, Lucy.”
    If her teeth hadn’t been chattering so fiercely, she would have flung his coat back at him, along with a few choice curses. Leave it to His Lordship to dispense chivalry with a generous dose of condescension.
    His disapproving glances at her drenched gown and sodden tangle of hair were wholly unnecessary. She didn’t need him to tell her she looked a fool. Standing in the autumn breeze, dripping river water into her nankeen half-boots was a small clue. She was soaked to the bone with humiliation.
    And why should he care?
    She firmed her chin and glared at him. “You’re jealous.”

CHAPTER THREE

    Jealous? Jeremy wanted to laugh. It seemed he must laugh. To provoke Lucy, to distract himself—it didn’t matter which. He only knew that if he didn’t muster an ironic little laugh soon, or at least another insult, he might do something truly embarrassing. Like shake her, or kiss her, or just plain crumple to the ground with relief.
    He couldn’t stop reliving that moment, when Lucy had tumbled into the stream and his stomach had plummeted with her.
    Worse, he couldn’t help noticing how she looked wet.
    She looked furious