The Ton's Most Notorious Rake. Sarah Mallory

A glance each way along the cart track showed her that it was deserted. She might sit there all day in the hope of someone driving past. Molly bit her lip, knowing she had no choice but to shout out and ask the only other person within sight for help.

      She called, then called again. The man stopped and she waved to attract his attention. He started back up the path, but it was only as he turned into the lane that Molly realised he was no farmer, despite the long staff he held. As he strode along the lane towards her she could see the embroidered waistcoat and the tight-fitting buckskin breeches he wore beneath his country jacket and his mud-spattered top boots had the cut and fit only obtained from a first-class bootmaker. With a sinking heart she raised her eyes and looked into the lean, handsome face of Beau Russington.

      * * *

      It took Russ a few moments to recognise the bedraggled figure leaning against the wall and he was aware of a most reprehensible feeling of satisfaction. So the widow who had so plainly shown her dislike of him, who had been so contemptuous, now needed his help.

      ‘Mrs Morgan.’ He touched his hat, all politeness. ‘How may I be of assistance?’

      Her cheeks were flushed with a mixture of annoyance and chagrin.

      ‘I think I have sprained my ankle.’

      ‘Indeed?’ He could not help it, his lips twitched. ‘Possibly fate is paying you back for your using the excuse the other night. I should be flattered that you were prepared to go to such lengths to avoid dancing with me.’

      She bit her lip and glared at him, but he noticed she did not deny it.

      She said icily, ‘I thought, perhaps, if you would lend me your staff, I could manage to walk home.’

      ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ He rested the staff against the wall and came closer.

      ‘Wh-what are you going to do?’ She shrank back, putting her hand out as if to hold him off.

      ‘I am going to carry you.’

      ‘B-but you can’t.’ She looked horrified.

      ‘Oh, I think I can. You do not look to be too heavy.’

      ‘But I am covered in mud. Your clothes—’

      ‘The mud will certainly test my valet’s skills,’ he agreed, scooping her up into his arms. ‘However, we must risk that.’

      ‘And it is too far,’ she protested.

      ‘Flack is waiting with my curricle at the bottom of the lane.’

      ‘What about your staff?’ she objected as he began to walk.

      ‘I will send someone back to collect it later.’ He settled her more comfortably in his arms and set off towards the footpath. They had only gone a few yards when he stopped and looked down at her. ‘I think you will be more comfortable if you allow yourself to lean against me,’ he said. ‘And you might want to put your arm about my neck to support yourself.’

      Her cheeks flamed, but one dainty hand crept around his collar.

      He grinned. ‘That’s better.’

      She did not reply, neither did she look at him, but Russ did not mind. He was enjoying himself, bringing the haughty widow down a peg or two. That might be an ignoble and unchivalrous sentiment but it was damned satisfying. After all, he was only human.

      * * *

      The curricle was soon in sight and Flack showed no surprise when Russ came up with a woman in his arms, merely watching in wooden-faced silence as Russ deposited his burden on the curricle seat. She winced as her foot touched the boards and he frowned.

      ‘We had best ascertain the damage to your ankle. May I?’

      She did not protest, but pulled her skirts aside to reveal her footwear. As Russ untied the laces, he reflected wryly that he was more in the habit of removing satin slippers than serviceable half-boots, but such thoughts disappeared when he looked at her ankle.

      ‘I do not think you have broken any bones, but it is already swelling,’ he muttered. ‘We must get some ice upon that as soon as we can.’

      * * *

      Molly was beginning to feel a little faint, and she clung on to the side of the curricle as the beau jumped up beside her and they set off at a smart pace along the road, the groom swinging himself up into the rumble seat as the vehicle shot past him. Her ankle was throbbing most painfully and she was content to sit quietly as the curricle bowled along, but when it slowed and turned off the main road she sat up, saying urgently, ‘This is not the way to Compton Parva.’

      ‘No. I am taking you to Newlands.’ He glanced at her. ‘Do you have any ice at the vicarage?’

      ‘No, but—’

      ‘We need to reduce the swelling, and thus the pain, as quickly as possible. Newlands has an ice house. Not only that, but it is considerably closer.’

      Molly was silenced. She knew she was not thinking clearly and all she wanted was for the pain in her ankle to be over. She gave a sigh of relief as they reached the door of Newlands and made no demur when her escort lifted her into his arms to carry her indoors. Miss Kilburn was crossing the hall as they entered and as soon as she realised the situation, she sent a footman running to fetch some ice before instructing Mr Russington to follow her upstairs to one of the guest rooms. However, when she directed that Mrs Morgan should be laid upon the daybed by the window, Molly was roused to protest.

      ‘No, no, my clothes are far too dirty.’

      She was dismayed to find her voice broke upon the words, but no one remarked upon it. Agnes pulled a cashmere shawl from the back of a chair and spread it over the couch.

      ‘No one will worry about a little dirt, ma’am, but you shall lie on this, if it makes you feel better. Oh, goodness, you are looking very pale.’

      ‘Shock,’ said the beau, removing Molly’s gloves and beginning to chafe her hands. ‘Perhaps we might find a little brandy.’

      ‘Yes, yes, of course.’

      Agnes hurried away and Molly thought she should protest at being left alone with a gentleman who was no relation, but she did not have the energy to complain and the way he was rubbing warmth into her hands was so comforting she did not want him to stop, so she lay back against the end of the daybed, watching him from half-closed eyes, thinking idly that it was quite understandable if ladies threw themselves at such a man. He was very attractive, in a dark and rather disturbing sort of way...

      Molly knew she must have drifted off to sleep, because the next moment, she felt a glass pressed gently against her lips and heard a deep, soothing voice urging her to drink. She became conscious of being cradled against a man’s chest. The smooth softness of a waistcoat was against her cheek and when she breathed in her senses were filled with a heady mix of citrus and spices and something very male. There was something familiar about that scent, but at the moment she could not place it.

      Obediently she took a sip from the glass and coughed as the sharp and fiery liquid burned her throat. She struggled to sit up and immediately the strong arm around her shoulders released her. For the first time she saw Agnes Kilburn standing on the other side of the daybed, looking down at her with concern. Molly was relieved at her presence and even more so when she looked back to Mr Russington, kneeling beside the daybed, and realised he was in his shirtsleeves.

      His eyes were full of amusement, but also understanding.

      ‘I beg your pardon for removing my coat, ma’am, but it had picked up rather a lot of mud from your clothes, and I did not want to rub that into you.’

      Molly murmured a faint thank you and looked past him as a footman hurried in.

      ‘Ah, the ice at last,’ exclaimed Agnes. She removed the bucket of ice and towels from the servant and brought them over. ‘Mr Russington, will you see to it, if you please? You have much more experience in these