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twinkled. She thought of emeralds.
    “Of course, Stonebridge. Ah, Stonebridge. Er, Wait. Stonebridge, as in the Duke of?”
    Please say no. Please, please say no.
    He bowed stiffly, and she couldn’t help but notice the tight pull of his morning jacket across his broad shoulders. Was that a hint of a smile on his face just before he tipped his head? Not likely. She shook off her wandering thoughts. Again.
    “Indubitably.”
    “Excuse me?”
    He sighed. “Yes, I am the Duke of Stonebridge. At your service.”
    “Your Grace! I am Miss Grace Radclyffe. Sir. Er, Your Grace,” she exclaimed, breathlessly, as the reality of exactly WHO he was crashed through her scattered thoughts like a stampeding heard of wild wildebeests.
    Wild wildebeests?
    So, this was the Duke of Stonebridge and her cousin Beatryce’s soon-to-be-almost betrothed? Well, certainly nobody bothered to inform her that His Grace had eyes.
    Ugh. Note to brain: Re-engage, please.
    Had her mother been in attendance, she would have been proud of the fluidity of Grace’s curtsey despite the embarrassing circumstances and encrusted mud upon her person. Perhaps it was the shock: it certainly wasn’t her inability to remove her eyes from His Grace’s bottom lip, but in her haste to greet her would-be rescuer as befitting his station, her flawlessly executed curtsey in reality only remained regal for approximately three seconds before her left foot slid right out from beneath her…
    Oh, Hello mud. Nice to meet you again. We really need to stop meeting this way.
    This encounter might possibly be her most embarrassing of all time.
    Plop.
    Was that mud dripping from His Grace’s boots? Again?
    Of course, and oh yes, to make things even better, mud was now splattered up the right leg of the tailored breeches. Fitted second-skin-painted-on breaches encasing disconcertingly well-muscled thighs.
    Hmm…Clearly, the duke does not believe in lying about all day doing nothing .
    She shook away her wayward thoughts. For the umpteenth time. Without question, this event was more embarrassing than any of her previous mishaps. Ever. Probably.
    “I think, perhaps, I have need of your assistance again. If you would be so kind, Your Grace?”
    “Indeed. Mayhap we should dispense with further formalities of greeting and relocate to a more…stable…patch of earth, if such exists?”
    “Yes. Certainly.” She ignored the not-so-subtle quip.
    Grace had barely completed her last thought when the duke bodily lifted her by the waist from her personal bed of mud. She closed her eyes to the experience. For the first time in her life, she felt feminine and delicate. She was not a short lady (in fact, she was quite tall at five feet, seven inches), yet her feet did not brush the ground as he carried her to safety. His hands held her aloft with ease, and in return, she gripped the sides of his upper arms with a surprising strength of her own.
    The heat of his hands around her waist sent tingles of warmth out from her center and set her heart to racing. Before she knew it, his hands were sliding further around her waist as he pulled her closer until she was flattened against his chest. She told herself it probably made carrying her easier.
    She kept her eyes tightly closed. She imagined this was a disconcerting (though shockingly real) dream. Perhaps, if she held her breath and opened her eyes gradually, she would find she was still in her room up at the house. And the heat she could feel all over her body would, in reality, be the result of a small house fire in the corner of her bedroom. One could dream, right?
    Her fanciful thoughts were interrupted by a sound she could smell. Smell? And feel. And it wasn’t an unpleasant sensation at’all.
    “Ahem.”
    She reluctantly opened her eyes only to be lost in deep pools of green. She was at eye level with the duke, and so close, she could discern tiny golden flecks in his emerald irises. He pulled back from their tight embrace. Just the