Page 4 of Let Me Be Your Hero
Izzie turned and ran, then stopped as she realized she had started in the wrong direction and was heading deeper into the dark walks.
She started to turn but saw that Mr. Bassingthwaighte had struggled to his feet. “You’re going to… regret that!” he ground out, staggering toward her.
Oh, dear. He was blocking her best escape route. Now, she had no choice but to flee even deeper into the gardens.
Behind her, she could hear a series of pops as the evening’s fireworks display commenced. She came to a crossing and turned left, catching a glimpse of Mr. Bassingthwaighte lurching after her. He was gaining ground in spite of his injury, and she struggled to gather handfuls of her skirts so she could run properly.
He pulled within an arm’s length, and she made a quick decision. Without warning, she cut sharply to the left, abandoning the path and taking her chances in the wooded thicket.
It was pitch black in the trees. Izzie couldn’t see where she was placing her feet, but she knew she couldn’t stop. She stumbled once… twice… but somehow managed to keep her feet. She could hear Mr. Bassingthwaighte crashing through the underbrush behind her, cursing all the while, but she couldn’t see well enough to determine how close he might be.
Somehow, she managed not to fall, and after what seemed like an eternity of stumbling blindly through the darkness, she detected the faint red glow of the fireworks display filtering into the woods up ahead.
Surely enough, the path appeared before her. She could have wept with gratitude as moonlight fell upon her face.
And then, after having somehow floundered through the trees in total blackness,thatwas the moment she managed to trip.
What a disaster this night was turning into! She braced herself, expecting to fall face-first in the dirt.
Instead, a pair of strong hands caught her about the waist. Rather than feeling the gritty path against her cheek, she collided with a warm, firm wall covered in soft wool. But no, not a wall.
A man.
Oh, God. It was probably Mr. Bassingthwaighte, and she was out of the frying pan and straight into the fire. Although… Mr. Bassingthwaighte had smelled of cheap wine and sweat. This man smelled clean, like plain white soap and fresh linen that had been dried in the sun.
She tentatively lifted her head and peered at him in the moonlight. “Mr. Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy?”
“Y-yes,” answered a familiar, deep voice.
Izzie sagged with relief, clinging to him for purchase. “Oh, thank goodness it’s you!”
On one level, almost anybody was better than Tristan Bassingthwaighte. And it was true that she scarcely knew Archibald Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy.
But her entire family held him in high esteem. Her sister, Anne, thought the world of him.
Surely,he would help her.
“Are you all right?” his rich baritone rumbled in her ear.
She answered honestly. “I am, now that you’re here.”
That must’ve flummoxed him because he didn’t answer. What he did was stand there, steady as an oak, not pawing at her, or dragging her about, but giving her a moment to catch her breath. His hands, warm and gentle, remained at her waist, but strangely, she found their presence reassuring rather than threatening.
She had almost recovered her equilibrium when the sound of someone crashing through the underbrush behind her sent her reeling again. She squealed, glancing over her shoulder, but couldn’t tell how close Mr. Bassingthwaighte had drawn in the darkness.
Suddenly, her feet left the ground. Mr. Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy lifted her and turned, reversing their positions so he could shield her with his big body.
Her heart gave a squeeze. After the assortment of vices she had encountered in the dark walks, it was good to remember that there were some decent men left in the world.
Still, if Tristan Bassingthwaighte was going to come crashing out of the underbrush at any second, she needed to take action. She had told him her purpose in visiting the dark walks was to meet another man.
There was another man right here.
“I must ask you for the most terrible favor.”
“Anything,” he whispered, his breath carrying a hint of cinnamon.
Although… perhaps he was not the right man to ask to help her stage this scene. He was courting Cecilia Chenoweth, after all, and had just taken her off in order to propose marriage when the Duke of Trevissick had arrived at Vauxhall and announced his intention to do the same.
