Page 6 of The Lady’s Guide to Deception and Desire
Meanwhile, Mr. Disapproving was simply standing, looking up at her.
“I’m so glad you’ve found us.” She summoned what she hoped was a "damsel-in-distress" expression. “Might you help, do you think? I’m dreadfully scared of heights.”
It wasn’t true. It had been a while since she’d clambered the old cherry tree in their yard, but she’d been rather good at it once.
“And I don’t think I can manage on my own.”
As if!
The fellow pondered for a moment. “My climbing up won’t necessarily help.” He scanned the slope. “You’ve already loosened things. Better if you make it down on your own.”
Well! Thank you for nothing!
Rosamund glanced over at Pom Pom. Having polished off the sausage, he was lying down, looking unperturbed.
“But, my poor puppy!” Rosamund twisted her hands together. “I can’t just leave him.”
“He’ll come down when he’s ready. He’ll be fine. As I said, it’s yourself that’s the problem. You’re a deal heavier than the dog.”
Rosamund bit back a retort.
Clearly, she’d found the one Englishman without a shred of chivalry.
Easing off her knees, she stood upright.
Her costume had been newly laundered: white, sprigged in daisies. Now, the hem was stained orange. Where she’d been kneeling, there were two similar marks about halfway down her skirts.
Tutting, she shook out the material, brushing downward with her palms. Too late she realized that her hands were also coated with bronze dust. Mrs. Appleby wouldn’t be pleased.
“Here.” The bespectacled personage dropped the canvas bag from his shoulder and stretched towards her. “Make your way slowly. Take my hand as soon as you’re able.”
Rosamund smiled to herself.
I can do better than that!
She only hoped all this effort would come to more than a hill of beans.
There was a slightly steeper section where she’d first made her way up. It would be easy enough to act as if she was losing her balance, launching herself the final few feet, where Mr. Get-Yourself-Down could darn well catch her.
As it happened, she didn’t have to pretend too much. On the final descent, several stones dislodged. Skidding across the scree, she doubted she could have stopped herself, even had she tried.
Her shriek as she tumbled over, landing atop him, was not altogether feigned.
Uttering an audible "ooph!", he stumbled back, but managed to remain upright, his arms naturally closing about her as she slid down his chest. Briefly, he made contact with her derriere, before her toes touchedterra firma.
Tipping back her head to look at him, she saw that his spectacles were askew, and she’d knocked the straw boater from his head. Her own was threatening to tumble, despite the application of three hat pins. Wisps of hair were escaping.
With some satisfaction, she noted that she’d left a colourful smudge across his cheek and two streaks down the front of his shirt. White linen, it was a loose-fitting affair and, most shockingly, the upper buttons were undone, revealing a flash of chest hair.
There was no sign of a cravat or bow tie.
Recovering his wits, Mr. Don’t-You-Know-That’s-Dangerous unhanded her and took a step back, self-consciously fumbling with his glasses. He stared at her with a shocked expression.
“Are you alright?” He blinked twice. “I mean, you’re not hurt?”
They were rather kind eyes. Brown, like his hair, and with a softness in them.
Somewhat breathlessly, she answered. “I’m unharmed—thanks to you.”
