Leslie Lafoy Read Online Free PDF Page B

up his place beside her.
    “They wouldn’t say shit if they were buried up to their necks in it.”
    He blinked and his jaw sagged. He quickly recovered, making a mental note to ponder the wonder—and implications—of her language at a later time. At the current moment, there were more important considerations. The immediate need to effect rescues was obviously past and no one in need seemed unattended, but the injuries he could discern ran the full gamut of severity.
    “If you keep going,” he warned, “you’re likely to see some grisly sights.”
    “As you may have heard,” she countered, continuing her course and looking around the yard, “only the last six years of my life could be described as sheltered. Ridiculously so, actually. But my memory goes back a good bit further than that. I can promise you that I will not retch or cry or faint.”
    Yes, but she might have nightmares. And he wouldn’t be in any position to garner her appreciation for offering comfort in the dark of the night. “I haven’t heard much of anything about you,” he confessed. “But I’m incredibly fascinated by what I’ve seen so far this evening.”
    “Is that so.”
    He ignored her sarcasm. “Of course. You’re very different from all the other misses.”
    “I have been described as a true diamond in the rough. The windbags were in a kind mood that day.”
    “I think roughness, like beauty, is defined by the eye of the beholder. Personally, I think man rarely improves on Nature’s creations.”
    She stopped and slowly turned to face him. Her chin came up. So did one beautifully wing-shaped raven brow. “Are you attempting to make my heart go pitter-pat with all this?”
    Well, yes. He smiled. “Is it working?”
    “No.”
    “What would make your heart go pitter-pat?” He leaned down slightly. “Just a hint will do.”
    “Why?”
    “Why not?” he countered, thoroughly enjoying the game.
    She rolled her eyes and walked off, saying, “I don’t want my heart tripping and skittering, thank you very much.”
    Only because she’d probably never felt the thrill of it being done properly. Once again, as was rapidly becoming their pattern, he caught up with her. “This is why you’re so fascinating. Most women dream of feeling the flutter of true love.”
    “Yes, well, most women are—” Whatever observation she’d been about to make was lost as she darted off, calling, “Haywood!”
    The man—presumably Haywood—into whom she flung herself was tall and fair-haired going to gray and wearing what had undoubtedly been, at the start of the evening, an impeccable suit of high-quality fabric and fine tailoring. Now it was badly singed and either the left sleeve had been torn loose or the shoulder under it had.
    “Oh, thank God you’re all right,” Haywood said, giving her a hard, one-armed hug. “Drayton and Caroline would have killed me if something had happened to you.” He let go of her, quickly looked her up and down and then over to meet Tristan’s gaze and ask, “Where is the rest of your dress and who is this man?”
    “My dress is hanging in knotted strips out one of the front windows,” she supplied happily. “And this is Tristan.”
    “Tristan who?”
    She frowned, the expression clearly conveying that she didn’t have the foggiest notion.
    Ah, but he was good at being a White Knight of All Occasions. “Lord Tristan Townsend,” he said, extending his hand. “The Marquis of Lockwood. Lady Simone is a recent friend of my sister, Lady Emmaline Townsend.”
    His gaze was hard and openly assessing, but he stuck out his hand, saying, “The Honorable Cyril Haywood.”
    “It’s a pleasure, sir.”
    “Likewise.”
    The formalities attended to, Simone moved them on, asking, “How did you break your arm, Haywood?”
    “It’s not broken. Thank God.”
    Tristan nodded. “If I were to guess, I’d say that your shoulder has been dislocated.”
    “It is. Compliments of Lord Marthorpe. He let nothing