The officer saluted as he came to help Jane down, then stood making polite conversation for a few moments. She had no qualms about helping the lovers, for Captain Maxwell was perfectly eligible and had patently honourable intentions. If she was Jane he would match every one of the WWIGG criteria.
It was only Jane’s over-romantic sensibility that convinced her that theirs was a Doomed Love and that her father, who had simply murmured a few understandable concerns about serving officers in time of war, would refuse the captain’s offer when it was made. Another example, Sophie thought crossly, of how this love nonsense clouded young women’s minds.
A high-perch phaeton and pair bowled past, doubtless on its way to the more fashionable Hyde Park, and Sophie regarded it enviously. Papa had vetoed such a dangerous sporting vehicle for her, insisting on the safe, low-slung version with one well-mannered mare to draw it.
Still, she consoled herself, sending Moonstone into a brisk trot, it was a very stylish vehicle and her dapple-grey mare was a beauty. Probably this was quite fast enough, even though Thomas, perched up behind, was not making the sucking sound through his teeth that was the first indication that he thought she was speeding.
The track split and she took the branch away from the Queen’s Walk towards the centre of the park, up over the slight rise, round the corner and –
‘Miss!’
‘I see her.’ A toddler intent on an escaping ball scampered out from behind a bush, right into Moonstone’s path. The mare shied violently, the child turned, then, disastrously, teetered back into the road. From the side someone screamed piercingly and Moonstone reared up. Sophie hauled on the reins as a figure ran out, scooped up the infant and rolled with her in his arms away from the slashing hooves to the side of the track. A tall hat spun away under the wheels and there was an unpleasant crunch as the phaeton rolled back over it.
Sophie thrust the reins at Thomas and was out of the carriage as Moonstone came to a shuddering, snorting halt. The man sat on the dusty grass with his back to her, the child between his knees, and did not look up as Sophie reached them.
‘That was very exciting to be sure. Did you bump anything?’ The deep voice was calm and interested.
Tousled blonde curls shook and the little girl removed her thumb from her mouth. ‘Pretty horsey.’
‘Very pretty,’ the man agreed. ‘And where is your nursemaid?’
‘Miss Lucy! Oh, Miss Lucy!’ A young woman in a plain blue gown and cloak and a straw bonnet ran across the track and snatched the child into her arms. The infant began to bawl.
‘She was perfectly fine a moment ago,’ Sophie said, relief making her sharp. ‘Do not fuss her so and she will stop crying. Come and talk to the pretty horsey, Miss Lucy.’
That worked like a charm. Moonstone submitted to having her nose patted, the sobs died away and the nursemaid was able to check that her charge was not so much as bruised. She hurried her away, scolding over the renewed cries as Miss Lucy was removed from Moonstone.
‘The maid might at least have said Thank you. If it wasn’t for you that could have been dreadful.’ Sophie turned back to the rescuer and found him still sitting on the grass. His back was hunched and there was something very wrong with the line of his shoulders. ‘Are you all right, sir?’
He looked up as she dropped to her knees in front of him. ‘You will forgive me if I do not get up for a moment. I appear to have dislocated my shoulder.’ He was pale under the tan, his dark hair ruffled, his mouth set in a hard line against what must be agonising pain, but the silver eyes smiled at her. ‘You drive a very dashing equipage, Miss Wilmott.’
‘Your Grace.’ Of course, of all the men in London to choose from, she had to run down the Lost Duke and almost achieve what seven years of perilous foreign travel had not.
Chapter Three - Where the Duke Discovers Desire
‘You are in pain.’ Oh well done, Sophie. A statement of the utterly obvious. He looks as though he’s in agony.
‘Dislocations tend to be uncomfortable. If you will give me your hand for a moment so I can get up without falling flat on my face again, I would be obliged.’
‘I’ll get my groom.’ She scrambled to her feet and ran back to the phaeton. ‘Give me the reins, Thomas. You help His Grace to his feet – carefully, minding his right arm. I’ll drive him directly to Doctor Felbrigg.’
Toby had dislocated his arm once, hunting. He’d described it as the worst pain he had ever endured. Worse than a broken leg, worse than a shoulder full of buckshot from a pigeon-shooting accident. ‘I was screaming the place down,’ he’d confessed. ‘Cast up my accounts, almost bit the doctor.’ And now it was her fault that the Duke was suffering the same. She should never have taken that blind rise at a trot.
Dealing with the guilt at least distracted her as Thomas helped him to the phaeton and, with a lot of grunting on the groom’s part and utter silence on the Duke’s, got him seated. He held his right arm to his body with his left hand.