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her cane, she casually dropped her right hand along her side. Her forearm brushed her hip; her gloved fingers touched Tricksey's barrel, gentle muscular flexing. Excellent, straight and balanced; the saddler's concerns regarding her little alteration were proving unfounded. Of course, if in the end it proved unworkable, she could always let him change it.
    A duke. She couldn't help but watch him from her eye's corner, as the line passed the conversing men and stamping horses at the lamppost. A duke not only took notice of her; he'd also asked for her friends to be presented, offered to dance with them at the assembly, requested the first two with her. She'd never expected to live a fairy tale, with a titled nobleman galloping up on his charger and rescuing her from an impossible situation; no, she'd never expected anything of the sort. But if such a scenario offered, would she be wise to accept? Or—
    Tricksey stumbled.
    The saddle dipped, the offset pommels hauling her right thigh along with it. Tricksey's head followed, leaving Beryl hanging in air and defying gravity. Her innards surged into her throat. She'd been dumped before — of course she had, anyone who rode regularly would be — but she'd never before been dumped while riding at a sedate walk. On Rotten Row. In front of everyone. Everyone who mattered.
    In front of the two men whose clashing mounts, stallion and gelding, had just symbolized their all-too-human clash over her.
    Perhaps this new Owen sidesaddle, with its too-clever alteration, wasn't such a great idea.
    Then Tricksey's head rose, resumed its proper position; the saddle righted itself, and her innards and the world around her returned to normal. Just a misstep; even the best of horses occasionally took one, and no fault to her sweet mare. Oh, that had startled her—
    But Tricksey's next step was a limp, her head bobbing down then up. And again.
    Alarm flooded Beryl. Lame; Tricksey was lamed, and she'd left Paul at home, thinking his expert assistance would not be needed since she rode in company. Without pausing even to rein in the mare, she kicked her foot from the stirrup, slid from the saddle. Her habit's skirt bunched against the leather, had to be showing an indecent amount of leg. Let it. Easing dear Tricksey's distress was more important than any momentary immodesty. Twisting in midair, she landed with a hard, startling thump beside the glossy chestnut shoulder. The mare blew and stopped, nodding a final time at her final step. Her near foreleg, then.
    Fitz landed beside her on the sandy roadway, Rounder's liver chestnut face peering over his shoulder. Gratitude soothed her alarm and pricklings of guilt pinched her soul. Of course she could depend upon Fitz for something so ordinary, even if she'd started noticing another man's handsome features. Fitz was still her friend and always would be. Even if he'd never deign to be more.
    But then Lissie and Violetta drew rein, causing those riders behind them to follow suit, and all of Rotten Row began creeping to a halt.
    Behind her. Because she'd slid from her saddle in the middle of the path. She didn't need to look to know that every rider in the crunch stood in his stirrups or craned her neck, trying to see the dunderhead who'd caused it. Wait 'til Father heard about this scrape.
    Not after their morning conversation. Beryl tossed her skirt, ensuring her legs were decently covered, caught Lissie's eye, nodded down the sandy lane, and waited until Lissie nodded back and walked on, taking Violetta and the thickening cluster of horses and riders with her. Then Beryl drew the reins over Tricksey's lowered ears and clicked to the poor dear. Fitz and Rounder beside her, she led the mare to beneath the shade trees, her boots sinking into the sand, to where fashionable pedestrians loitered, watching the riders.
    Now watching her.
    And Tricksey limped every time her near foreleg touched the earth. When they stopped beneath a spreading oak, she whuffled