Page 21 of Lady Like

But then Harry simply retrieves the dropped rag.

“It was only the rain,” she says.

As though it had been waiting in the wings for that cue, the sky opens and thick torrents of rain gush down. Havoc sprints back toward the stables. Matthew tosses his head again. One enormous hoof paws at the mud.

Harry holds up a hand to shield her face. “Miss Sergeant, I must insist you return to the stables.”

“Give me—a moment—” Emily’s voice is almost drowned out by another peal of thunder. She is trying to pry herself from the swamp she had stepped hard into, but the more she struggles, the more the mud seems to suck at her.

Harry lets out an exasperated sigh. “For God’s sake, you’re going to catch pneumonia, which is far less interesting than the poets make it sound. And you can’t marry Alex if you’re dead.”

“It’s not that—I’m stuck!”

Harry holds a hand up to her face, shielding it. “What?”

“I am stuck in the mud!” Emily tries again to free herself, only to nearly lose her balance.

Harry grabs her by the arms, pulling until Emily is able to pry her feet out of the mud and stagger back onto solid ground.

She has so little sensation left in her toes, it takes a moment for her to realize one of her slippers is gone, leaving her in only a soiled stocking, slipped free of its garter.

Harry notices too and asks, “Where’s your shoe?”

“If I knew, it would be on my foot!”

“Oh hell. Here, I’ll find it. Hold on to Matthew for balance.”

The sky flushes white with lightning. Thunder rumbles.

Emily puts a tentative hand on the horse’s flank, hopping to stand at his side as she had been instructed.

Harry is on her knees, rooting around in the mud like she’s tunneling.

“Son of a bitch,” she hears Harry mumble.

“Enough of this.” Harry staggers to her feet, wiping her muddy hands on her muddier pants.

“I’m afraid your shoe has gone to its great rest. Put your arms around my neck. ”

Emily obeys, even as she asks, “What are you—”

But before she can finish, Harry loops an arm around Emily’s knees, the other around her back, then picks Emily up, cradling her like she’s a child. Harry bends her head against the rain, face low over Emily’s to shelter her as she carries her to the stables.

Emily wants to flinch away from the touch. But more than that, she wants to settle into it like a hot bath.

For Harry is so warm. Like sitting beside an open flame.

And yes, Emily understands objectively that as living beings, all people emit warmth, and yes, perhaps it is the closeness and her own chill and the delirious shimmer of the rain that is skewing her sense.

But Harry is also a mystifying combination of hard and soft.

For, as previously noticed, her muscled shoulders and sturdy arms—but also the soft swell of her breasts, which Emily must not look at, no matter their proximity and the translucency of Harry’s riding shirt.

She must not look and she must not think of them pressing against her, and God, Emily feels light-headed.

Though perhaps that’s to do with the cold.

Rochester. She must think of Rochester.

But when they reach the stables, the only men there are the grooms, their oiled hoods thrown up as they brace themselves to step out into the rain.

“Where’s the duke?” Emily asks one as he passes them.

“Gone,” he calls. “He had a luncheon appointment and wanted to be off before the storm.”

The scales tip suddenly, and Emily finds herself sliding into the absurdity of this preposterous set of events.

Her, with one shoe, soaked and splattered in mud, trying to impress a man who has already left.

Instead of cursing as she had at the ball, she laughs.

She turns her face into Harry’s neck and laughs, feeling lightly hysterical.

“Are you crying?” she hears Harry ask tentatively. “Or have you gone insane?”

“Put me down, please.”

Harry obeys, and Emily immediately regrets the request. Without Harry’s body against hers, she feels cold and small and suddenly very alone.

She wraps her arms around herself, but that only doubles the amount of wet material against her and she begins to shiver in earnest. Even her chemise is wet, and her petticoats are strangling her legs.

Her ribs feel too tight around her lungs, and her breath hitches.

“Here.” Harry retrieves a heavy coat from a hook beside the door and wraps it around Emily’s shoulders, then rubs her hands up and down Emily’s arms. “Where is it your cousin lives? I’ll take you home.”

“Chelsea,” Emily replies, teeth clacking.

“Good lord. You were determined to see Alexander in his riding leathers, weren’t you?”

“I can walk myself there,” Emily says. “It’s not so far. And look, the rain has nearly stopped.”

“No chance. You’ll be frozen solid before you’ve crossed the park, even in a curricle. You need dry clothes. And some soup. Perhaps for someone to set you on fire. Let’s find somewhere you can recover.”

“You needn’t perform any longer,” Emily says. “Rochester is gone—a show of compatriotism is not necessary.”

“Show?” Harry repeats. “Miss Sergeant, your lips are turning blue.”

Emily can hardly deny this—she’s struggling to form plosives—but still she protests, “I need no charity from you, Miss Lockhart.”

“Please, don’t be stubborn. It’s adorable, but it’s goddamn wearing me out. Stay here while I find a carriage.”

“I can walk, thank you.” Emily knows she’s being ridiculous—and how desperately she wants that soup and fire and dry socks and to not have to walk home in this state.

Christ, this coat is so warm and worn in at the elbows.

She wants to be buried in it. But she still has her pride, and will not be coddled by the likes of Harriet Lockhart.

Out in the paddock, she was horse-struck and wild with the thought of Rochester so near.

Drunk on the rain and mud and Harry’s substantial forearms, she had lost herself for a moment, but she has returned, and she will not be lured further into the woods of Harry’s kindness.

Surely wolves wait amid those trees. This is, after all, the same woman who so irritated her under the wisteria that she lost her temper for the first time in years. She can’t risk that kind of proximity.

She tries to twist out from beneath the coat, but one of the buttons catches on the stitching at the sleeve of her dress, and when she attempts to disentangle them, finds her fingers are too cold to undertake such delicate work.

She shakes her arm, hoping that button and stitching will magically uncouple themselves.

Or rip—perhaps she should just tear them apart and run.

“Calm down, you infernal pixie!” Harry pins the coat around Emily, fastening the top button at her throat and rendering her a prisoner.

“Heed me—there is a tea shop near here, where I’m known.

We can walk there together, then you can sit by their fire and dry off and you will not be charged so you won’t owe me a thing and your pride will remain undamaged.

Please, if only to ease my guilt should you die of a chill.

Let me believe I did everything I could to save you. ”

Emily would clench her jaw, but her teeth are chattering too badly. She nearly bites her own tongue. Dry clothing is such a daft thing to fight against—and pride such a daft thing to die for should she catch cold.

“Fine,” Emily says. “But I still expect you to shoulder substantial guilt at my passing.”

“If that’s what it takes,” Harry replies, “I promise to make you my greatest regret.”