Page 38 of Ne'er Duke Well
“Done,” she said. “And Your Grace?”
He’d turned back to Selina, but he dragged his gaze away to look at Georgiana again.
“Thank you. Now go make sure she stays hidden in the bulrushes.”
Selina had done quite a bit of mental swearing since she’d started swimming—and thanks to Belvoir’s, her mental vocabulary was extensive.
She’d cursed Peter Kent thoroughly, and with several words she wasn’t entirely sure how to pronounce.
She’d cursed the dog, whose fur was so plastered to its smallwhite body that it barely looked canine, all huge eyes and mouse tail.
She’d saved the largest vocabulary of vulgarities for herself. Why had she insisted on tracking Peter down in Hyde Park? Why did she let him goad her into recklessness that she normally reserved for Belvoir’s and nothing else in her life? Why was she always so certain she knew what was best for everyone else?
Why, why,whyhad she kept her stockings on? She had liked these stockings.
Now she was going to be in the scandal sheetsandshe was going to have to throw away her favorite stockings.
Bloody. Larking. Bollocks.
She pulled the dog on its makeshift raft into a small copse of reeds and pushed her sopping hair out of her eyes. “I hope you’re grateful. I’m bloody certain you could swim if you gave it a try.”
“Selina!”
Peter’s voice was a drawling, lightly accented whisper, and she jumped so high she nearly fell on her backside and had to grab a fistful of bulrushes to remain upright.
“Keep your head down,” Peter’s voice went on. “Stay in these grasses. You’re practically invisible from the footpath. I checked.”
“What on earth—Peter, whereareyou? What are you doing?”
His dark head popped out from within the rushes. “Going for a row,” he hissed. “Stay here until I can come around with the boat. Ten minutes.” And then he vanished.
She wasn’t sure whether to curse more or sit down and cry. Surely he wouldn’t throw himself into scandal anyway, would he? After she’d swum straight into the current of public humiliation for him, and ruined her favorite stockings besides?
She picked up the dog, which whined and nuzzled its face into the sodden fabric of her bodice. “Poor thing,” she whispered. “You’re rather chilly.”
In answer, it licked the wet, ruined lace and sighed pathetically, relaxing into her body. It made a small damp weight against her chest.
“I’ve got you,” she said. “You’re all right.”
She had no way to tell the time, but before long she could see a rowboat making its way toward her, Peter alone at the oars, his head bare and his dark curls burnished red in the sun. She stayed crouched in the rushes, and he maneuvered the craft up into the copse in moments.
“Come on,” he whispered. “Can you get in? Stay low, if you can.”
She waded into the water and handed him the dog. It gave a little moan of dismay, but Peter soothed it with gentle hands before placing it on the wooden seat beside him.
Selina eyed the boat warily, trying to think how she could get in without tipping them both. She hiked up her dripping skirts, grateful she’d worn her lightest muslin, and tossed one leg over the side of the boat.
Wordlessly, Peter reached out a hand, and she locked her arm with his at the elbow. In one quick pull she was over the side and in the boat, water splashing and pooling into the bottom.
“Sorry about this,” Peter said, “but I think you’ll have to lie down if you don’t want to be seen once I row away.”
She glanced up at him, but he was staring seriously down at the craft as though wondering how she might fit.
“Oh bloody fine,” she mumbled, and wedged herself in between the two wooden benches, curling her body into a tight C and tucking her head onto her arm. She had an excellent view ofPeter’s right calf, tightly encased in his leather Prussians. Water slopped into her ear as he started to row away.
“Wait,” she said abruptly, and he paused mid-stroke, lifting the oars out of the water. She could see the muscles of his shoulder bunch beneath the close-fitting fabric of his coat. It rose in her mind—her dream, the planes and angles of his body, his bare skin all pressed to hers in the humid dark—and she bit her lip for focus. “My gloves. My boots. They’re still on the bank.”
“Georgiana got them,” he said. “And this boat, and my carriage too, which she’s hopefully sent down to the dam to meet us.”
