Page 12 of The Smuggler’s Escape

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Richard waited a few yards from the path while the idiots galloped by again. This time he was close enough to recognize them. He turned to Noelle, who approached slowly through the trees. “Stop sulking and hurry up.”

“I’m not sulking.” Noelle’s tone indicated she most definitely was. “I am merely trying to decide how to get a chance to talk to Mr. Towne. He will be busy tonight.”

A yelp broke into her maunderings, followed by a bellowed exclamation and a thud. One pair of hooves receded into the distance, while the other slowed and then ceased. Another thud, and a slurred voice said, “Tim, old fellow, you took a toss!”

Richard blew out a breath. What a damned nuisance. “I’d best go see what’s toward. Wait here.”

Noelle ignored him. “That’s Mr. Tunbridge and Lord Harry. What if Mr. Tunbridge is injured?”

She pushed ahead and Richard followed. They came upon a moaning heap on the pathway with the disheveled figure of Lord Harry Walsh standing over him. Mr. Tunbridge’s horse was nowhere to be seen. Lord Harry’s chestnut hunter, blowing and stamping irritably, waited at the side of the path.

Noelle jumped down and rushed toward the two drunken fools. “Mr. Tunbridge, are you hurt?”

Lord Harry slowly raised himself and executed a tolerable bow. “Mademoiselle de Vallon.” Not too drunk, evidently, to run his eyes up and down Noelle in a completely unacceptable fashion.

Tim said, “’S’an angel, come to minister t’me. Mend m’ broken arm, angel, please.”

“That’s no angel,” Lord Harry said. “It’s Noelle.”

“Kisses like an angel.” Tim clutched his arm and gazed longingly at Noelle.

Lord Harry gave a derisive laugh. “She’s a damned tease.”

“Angel,” Tim insisted. “Kiss my arm better, pretty Noelle.”

“She’s more likely to kiss my cock,” Lord Harry said. “You’ll see.”

“Your cock went down to ig-ig-ignominious defeat,” Tim said. “Oh, different sort of cock. You think she would?” He appeared to consider. “She’s a lady, old boy. Not likely. That part of the bet?”

Lord Harry didn’t answer, because at that moment Richard’s fist connected with his chin, and a second after that he landed in the ditch. A flicker of common sense passed through Richard’s brain, and instead of murdering Lord Harry Walsh, he swiveled and stalked over to Tim Tunbridge. “What bet?” He glared down at the goggling Tim.

“Dicky, old boy! Hear your father died. Condolences, old fellow.”

Common sense reared its head again, but Richard shoved it aside. He put the toe of his boot against the arm with which Tim was trying to raise himself. “Tell me about the bet, or you’ll have two broken arms.”

Noelle, his Noelle, damn it, cried, “Richard, stop it! Don’t hurt him!”

Richard ignored the siren who had haunted his dreams for two-and-almost-a-half interminable years. “What bet?” He bore down with his foot.

Tim cringed. “Firs’ to get under the lady’s skirts.”

Noelle made a choking noise and stormed away.

“Running ten to one in favor of Harry,” offered Tim.

Richard straightened and removed his foot. “You may tell your cronies that all bets are off. Mademoiselle de Vallon’s skirts and everything under them belong to me.”

“Whatever you say, old fellow,” Tim said. “No idea why she chose to kiss me, if you want the truth. Couldn’t refuse a lady, though. Churlish thing to do.”

Noelle, confound her, had gone over to the ditch and was poking at Lord Harry with her crop. When he stirred and groaned, she stepped away. “Thank heavens you didn’t kill him.”

Richard got a hold of himself. He mustn’t let Noelle know the extent of his . . . what?

Fury? Acceptable enough, considering the situation. Long ago, he had asked her to marry him. Did she think he had gone back on his word?

Evidently so, for she hadn’t considered herself betrothed to him when she’d flirted with other men. She’d said as much back at Tifton’s place.