Page 9 of His Stolen Duchess

“You’re all right,” he said as he swam with her back to shore. “Breathe.”

He reached the bank and hauled her onto the grass before pulling himself up. Lysander stood over her, the soaked fabric clinging to her curves, her chestnut brown hair plastered to her face.

She trembled silently, a low whimper escaping her lips.

“Steady now,” Lysander said, crouching beside her.

He pulled her close enough to share some warmth, brushing the damp strands from her eyes with a rough hand.

And froze.

She looked up at him with wide, honey-brown eyes—soft, vulnerable, almost pleading. Her features were delicate and pure, and her full lips caught the light, tempting him in a way he hadn’t expected.

She didn’t move, only held his gaze, as if the shared moment had woven an unspoken bond between them.

There was something in that look—quiet, irresistible—that pulled at him. Lysander leaned in slowly, drawn by a force he barely understood, the warmth of her breath mingling with the chill of the water still clinging to them both.

“Georgina!”

Lysander jerked back.

“Georgina!”

Lysander looked up to see several figures emerging from the bushes: An older man leading, a younger, well-dressed lord close behind, then three women and three other men.

A small crowd began to gather around the lake, reminiscent of the earlier quarrel between the two lords.

He took in the scene carefully, noting the tight jaw and hard glare on the young lord’s face. This wasn’t the calm before trouble; it was trouble itself, already boiling over.

Lysander made no move to rise quickly, staying rooted on the bank, soaked and holding the motionless woman in his arms—Georgina, from what he could gather.

Her expression had changed, and the fear in her eyes was unmistakable.

Though he didn’t know the full story, the sight of a young woman being pursued by a group naturally put Lysander on her side.

“Lysander!” Thomas’s voice cut through the murmur as he pushed his way through the crowd and rested his hands on his knees, catching his breath.

A tense hush fell.

Without warning, the young lord—likely her groom, judging by his fine attire—strode forward and roughly grabbed Georgina’s upper arm, wrenching her toward him with a sneer.

Lysander was instantly on his feet, his body coiled and tense, anger flaring at the sight of a man treating a woman in that callous manner.

“Unhand her,” he instructed with measured calm.

The man ignored Lysander, turning his attention only to Georgina. “Look at the state of you!” he snarled. “Practically half-naked, your dress in tatters, clinging to another man. You’re a walking scandal!”

“You ought to watch your tongue around her,” Lysander warned, stepping toward him.

The three women were quickly beside Georgina, trying to shield her from the onlookers and perhaps also from the wrath of the man she was presumably to wed.

The older gentleman put himself between the young lord and Lysander.

“I-I can explain,” Georgina chattered. “I was only?—”

“Enough!” the young man boomed. “I’ve heard quite enough out of you today. If you say one more word?—”

“Ifyousay one more word,” Lysander interrupted, “you’ll be dealing with me.”