they exchanged, the tittering of the ladies. Wonderful. He'd given them a sensational story to tell over luncheon. And he'd been unconscionably rude to Emma. She hadn't shown a smidgen of hurt in her expression, but her face had burned a dull red, betraying the wound he'd inflicted.
And in playing the villain, he'd thrust Lancaster into the role of rescuer. Lancaster—that charming, golden-haired fortune hunter.
Hart hid his anger behind a cool glance of displeasure for the closest group of bucks. When he crossed his arms and glared, the boys took the hint and sidled away, back toward the house, trailing the rest of the group. The women had disappeared, no doubt eager to spill the details of Lady Denmore 's undignified behavior and Somerhart's contempt. Hart simply stood in the cold, watching his breath condense into clouds under the bright sun.
By God, he'd felt an ax strike him over the head when he'd stepped into the gardens and spied Lady Denmore careering across the pond like some gleeful bedlamite. And when she'd fallen, when her face had melted from determination to pain, he'd felt such a sudden bolt of anger that he'd actually stumbled. Why he felt concern for the irresponsible chit, he couldn't imagine.
Giving his head a hard shake, Hart attempted to throw off his roiling thoughts as he swung about to return to the house—and his plans to leave. But his eye caught on something discordant. . . a strange shock of color. He blinked, narrowing his gaze to the trampled snow just a foot away. Four crimson spots flashed in the white. Even as he watched, the red began to fade, spreading to deep pink in the snow.
Blood. He was sure of it. He searched the ground for more evidence and found two more drops on the path Lady Denmore had taken toward the house. The woman had injured herself, likely she'd cut her leg open on that blasted ice. Christ.
Hart stalked to the door and back to the front hall where he spotted Lancaster walking away. Ignoring his spike of irritation, he bounded up the stairs and down the hallway to the guest chambers. A peek into one of the open rooms rewarded him with the startled gasp of a young maid.
"Would you be so kind as to direct me to Lady Denmore's room?"
"Uh . . ." Her eyes blinked rapidly, fluttering with fear. "Two doors down, sir. To the left."
"Please bring hot water and soap to her chambers."
The girl dropped a wobbling curtsy as Hart spun away to stalk down the hall and knock on the door.
"Come in," she called before his hand had fallen away. Hart pushed open the door. "If you—" The words ended on a sharp draw of air and her hands flew to flick her skirts down, but not before Hart spied the gash that ran from mid shin to her knee.
He looked to her red-stained boot and the crumpled ruin of a silk stocking puddled on the floor. "A maid is coming with water and soap."
She ground out, "Why are you here?"
"I saw blood. I wanted to be sure you were all right." Uninvited, Hart closed the door behind him and crossed to kneel by her leg.
She scooted it away from him. "As you can see, I'm fine."
"On the contrary, that looks rather nasty."
"Just a scrape. And your opinion doesn't signify."
He almost laughed at that. He was quite sure no one had ever said those words to him. Excepting his father, of course, but he was long dead. "It looked to be more than a scrape. It may need stitching."
"Unlikely. Please leave."
Hart shifted back a little, startled by the hardness of her words. Her hazel eyes met his in unflinching scorn. "I apologize, Lady Denmore , for my earlier words."
"Fine. Now go."
"I was taken aback when I saw you in danger—"
"I can't imagine what you mean, Your Grace. We do not know each other. And I sincerely have no wish to be chalked up as another of your paramours, so please leave my room."
"I see." Hart stood, the movement quickened by a rush of anger. "I'm sorry I bothered then."
"Sorry you bothered to check on my well-being? Only because I don't wish to be
And in playing the villain, he'd thrust Lancaster into the role of rescuer. Lancaster—that charming, golden-haired fortune hunter.
Hart hid his anger behind a cool glance of displeasure for the closest group of bucks. When he crossed his arms and glared, the boys took the hint and sidled away, back toward the house, trailing the rest of the group. The women had disappeared, no doubt eager to spill the details of Lady Denmore 's undignified behavior and Somerhart's contempt. Hart simply stood in the cold, watching his breath condense into clouds under the bright sun.
By God, he'd felt an ax strike him over the head when he'd stepped into the gardens and spied Lady Denmore careering across the pond like some gleeful bedlamite. And when she'd fallen, when her face had melted from determination to pain, he'd felt such a sudden bolt of anger that he'd actually stumbled. Why he felt concern for the irresponsible chit, he couldn't imagine.
Giving his head a hard shake, Hart attempted to throw off his roiling thoughts as he swung about to return to the house—and his plans to leave. But his eye caught on something discordant. . . a strange shock of color. He blinked, narrowing his gaze to the trampled snow just a foot away. Four crimson spots flashed in the white. Even as he watched, the red began to fade, spreading to deep pink in the snow.
Blood. He was sure of it. He searched the ground for more evidence and found two more drops on the path Lady Denmore had taken toward the house. The woman had injured herself, likely she'd cut her leg open on that blasted ice. Christ.
Hart stalked to the door and back to the front hall where he spotted Lancaster walking away. Ignoring his spike of irritation, he bounded up the stairs and down the hallway to the guest chambers. A peek into one of the open rooms rewarded him with the startled gasp of a young maid.
"Would you be so kind as to direct me to Lady Denmore's room?"
"Uh . . ." Her eyes blinked rapidly, fluttering with fear. "Two doors down, sir. To the left."
"Please bring hot water and soap to her chambers."
The girl dropped a wobbling curtsy as Hart spun away to stalk down the hall and knock on the door.
"Come in," she called before his hand had fallen away. Hart pushed open the door. "If you—" The words ended on a sharp draw of air and her hands flew to flick her skirts down, but not before Hart spied the gash that ran from mid shin to her knee.
He looked to her red-stained boot and the crumpled ruin of a silk stocking puddled on the floor. "A maid is coming with water and soap."
She ground out, "Why are you here?"
"I saw blood. I wanted to be sure you were all right." Uninvited, Hart closed the door behind him and crossed to kneel by her leg.
She scooted it away from him. "As you can see, I'm fine."
"On the contrary, that looks rather nasty."
"Just a scrape. And your opinion doesn't signify."
He almost laughed at that. He was quite sure no one had ever said those words to him. Excepting his father, of course, but he was long dead. "It looked to be more than a scrape. It may need stitching."
"Unlikely. Please leave."
Hart shifted back a little, startled by the hardness of her words. Her hazel eyes met his in unflinching scorn. "I apologize, Lady Denmore , for my earlier words."
"Fine. Now go."
"I was taken aback when I saw you in danger—"
"I can't imagine what you mean, Your Grace. We do not know each other. And I sincerely have no wish to be chalked up as another of your paramours, so please leave my room."
"I see." Hart stood, the movement quickened by a rush of anger. "I'm sorry I bothered then."
"Sorry you bothered to check on my well-being? Only because I don't wish to be
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