Page 19 of Prince of Scandal

Under no circumstances could Sir Alan’s sister be allowed to win this hoop race. Surely it couldn’t be so hard to spin the large, thin, colorfully painted circle and keep it moving for a few minutes. The other two races hadn’t taken long at all.

“Ladies!” called Reverend March. “Our last race.”

Cheers and applause sounded; it appeared every single person in Brundall was lined up along one side of the path to watch.

Georgiana stared at her hoop uneasily as they lined up. “Please roll properly. And straight to the pole, there’s a good hoop.”

“Ready…steady…go!”

She lunged forward as far as her gown would allow, then shortened her steps to match the roll of the hoop. Hell and damnation, this was much harder than it looked; one had to be stern with the stick as the hoop could change course by a single blade of too-long grass. Bloody India was already several feet ahead.

“Run, Gigi!” yelled Phoebe. “You’re doing splendidly!”

Picking up her pace, Georgiana concentrated fiercely on keeping the hoop in line to travel the shortest distance to the rapidly approaching pole. Remarkably, she’d found some sort of rhythm, and the hoop was behaving as it should. Although suddenly India’s wasn’t, as it veered left into her path.

Her gaze narrowed. No. Surely not.

But India had slowed right down, and was moving further and further left, forcing Georgiana to move as well. Directly into a patch of soft, wet mud.

She tried to stop herself, only to receive an unladylike shoulder shove just as her bare feet skidded in the mud, and she slipped and landed bottom first with a humiliatingly loud, squishing slap.

“My dear!” bellowed India, her eyes gleaming. “You poor thing, let me help you out of that horrible mess!”

Georgiana gritted her teeth, wanting to kick herself for underestimating the evil of a country spinster.

Clearly, the battle for Ashton Latimer would be vicious indeed.

* * *

It seemed like every single person in Brundall was currently rushing to Georgiana’s aid, albeit some with more levity than the situation deserved.

Ashton scowled darkly at two young lads who were laughing at Georgiana’s attempt to crawl sideways from the mud patch, in actual fact the most sensible thing for her to do. Perhaps many were wondering why she hadn’t accepted Miss Dunmore’s loudly exclaimed offer of assistance, but from the starting line, he’d seen the change in the spinster’s direction, and a distinct shoulder movement just before Georgiana had fallen.

Sir Alan’s sister was a loathsome woman and would soon know exactly how frigid a Prussian prince could be.

“Mrs. King!” said Ashton, practically hurling others out of the way before entering the treacherous mud pit with slow, careful steps. “Are you hurt?”

She looked up at him, and just for a moment, her emerald eyes burned with fury. Then his courageous girl rallied and offered a rueful half-smile. “Only my pride, Mr. Latimer.”

“Let me help you up,” he replied, burying his feet in the cool mud for stability and holding out both hands. “Alas, I’m not sure if your gown can be saved.”

“It was such a pretty gown,” said Miss March, glaring daggers at Miss Dunmore.

Reverend March wrung his hands. “Oh dear me, please do accept my sincerest apologies, Mrs. King. I knew it was a bit muddy down in this area, but thought the pole was far enough away. I feel terrible.”

Mrs. King shook her head as she went onto her knees, then grasped Ashton’s hands and hauled herself upright. “It is not your fault at all, Reverend.”

“I could not believe it when Mrs. King fell,” said Miss Dunmore, sidling closer. “In the spirit of friendship, naturally I halted the race at once and offered my aid.”

Ashton’s eyebrows flew to his hairline, not so much at the ridiculous lies, but the way they were being swallowed hook, line, and sinker by most of the people around them. How exactly did they think Georgiana had gotten near the damned mud? She’d shown admirable control of her hoop for a beginner and had been progressing down a straight path! “Please do explain, Miss Dunmore,” he said coldly, “how someone of your experience at this game abruptly went to the left so hard when the pole was to your right.”

The ebony-haired woman’s eyes widened in shock. “I…er…well…”

“I wondered the same thing,” said Miss March. “So very…strange. But Gigi, let’s get you back to the parsonage. We can scrape and sponge off the mud as best we can, and restore you with a nice cup of tea. Papa, would you go and fetch Mama? I’m sure she will have advice on how best to manage the stain. And Mr. Latimer…might I presume upon you to fetch Mrs. King’s shoes and stockings? Sir Alan and I will escort Gigi to the parlor.”

Ashton bowed. “Of course, Miss March. I shall meet you there directly.”

Muttering curses the entire time, he hurried back to the race start to fetch Georgiana’s shoes and stockings and his own. It should be him attending to her. Scooping her up in his arms and taking her home, where he might personally attend to a bath. Wash those wayward golden curls, glide a bar of finely milled rose or citrus soap across every inch of her smooth, milky flesh…before taking her to bed and fucking her so deep and rough that he—not some damned mud—would be imprinted on her skin. He needed Georgiana under him as soon as possible; the woman had infused his blood. And it would be good, he knew that. Better than good. As long as he remained in full control and didn’t accidentally allow his baser nature to take over. Never again would women gaze at him with that terrible mix of disgust and contempt the way Virginia’s mother, the Duchess of Lansbury, and his own mother had.