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"Wait," he called, barely moving now, his mouth an O of alarm when she shot past him. He'd stopped, afraid to go farther. A sharp crack sounded beneath her. Emma slowed, sliding carefully now, edging closer to the bank as she approached the midpoint of the pond, trying to keep her weight even on each foot.
Cantry must have shifted or dared to take another step, for a flurry of small pops crackled through the air. Even she was startled by it, glancing back to be sure he hadn't plunged through the ice. But he stood safe—stranded, but safe—and his eyes widened at her smile.
"Don't go any farther," he called as she turned away and inched ahead.
"You're far larger than I, Mr. Cantry. I do believe it will hold my weight."
She'd passed the center of the pond now and relief loosened her limbs, but her next step proved her hope false, for the ice caved beneath her boot and sucked her leg into freezing water. The force of the fall pitched her forward, her other knee smashing to the ice with a muffled thud. Shouts floated to her ears.
A writhing, stretching ache enveloped her foot and calf. When they grew numb, the pain twisted its way to her knee, then up to throb mercilessly in her hip. Emma bit back the curses that flew to her lips and tried to smile toward the nearest shout. It was Lord Lancaster, standing a dozen feet away, shoes sunk in the soggy snow that lined the bank.
"Stay there, Lord Lancaster. The ice won't hold you and if you rescue me you'll forfeit my win."
"Damn the stupid bet," he muttered but didn't approach. He could not; the pond would never support him.
"I'm fine," she lied and shifted her weight to her gloved hands to try to pull her nerveless leg free.
"What is going on here!"
That voice stilled her attempts and whipped her head up in alarm. The Duke of Somerhart approached the pond, his striking face hardened by a frown. Emma glared.
"Bloody hell," she whispered and yanked with all her might. Her leg scraped free, but the sudden pull spilled her to the ice, slapping her face against the slick wet. "Hell, hell, hell."
Ice creaked and shifted beneath her like some beast she'd woken from slumber. She couldn't see Somerhart now, but she heard his vicious curse to her right and assumed he'd joined Lancaster.
"What the hell have you gotten yourself into?" he growled, as if he had some right to scold. Emma's anger gave her the will to rise to her hands and knees.
"Hold still. I'm coming out."
"No!" she shouted, piercing him with a glare, trying to ignore the way her heart lurched at his tall form. "I'll not forfeit my prize."
Somerhart muttered something that widened even Lancaster's eyes.
"I concede the win," Cantry cried from behind her.
The duke stepped onto the ice.
Emma inched forward, moving toward the solid white of firm ice that loomed ahead. A crack and a splash told her that the duke's foot had already breached the surface. She tried not to smirk at his growl.
"I may be a woman, gentlemen, but I do have some sense of honor. I won't concede now when I knew the ice was too thin to hold Mr. Cantry." She'd reached a thicker patch and pushed to her feet, hoping her sparking, tingling leg would hold her. A new pain joined the ache, sharper and more distracting. Emma took a tentative step. Then another. Within two minutes she'd reached the far bank and the gawking crowd that gathered there.
Several hands clapped her on the back in congratulations, though the two young matrons stood apart, mouths flat with disapproval. Let them disapprove, Emma told herself. You are fifty pounds richer. A sudden hush alerted her to the approach of the other men and gave her time to fix a smile to her mouth.
"Your Grace," she murmured when he loomed into view. "Are you injured?"
"I am well, thank you."
"Lady Denmore," Lancaster interrupted, "your cloak." "I wouldn't have expected you to encourage this, Lancaster."
The viscount swept the cloak over her shoulders, offering Emma a hidden grimace at Somerhart's chiding. She held back a nervous giggle when his twinkling brown eyes caught hers. "I wouldn't use the word 'encouraged.' The lady seemed determined."
"Determined," Somerhart growled. "Determined to make a fool of herself for a few quid."
Emma froze, her eyes locking with the duke's when Lancaster moved away. The murmur of the crowd died out as all heads turned toward Somerhart.
Blood rushed to Emma's face, but she forced her mouth into a laughing smile. He blinked and seemed to remember himself, for his face flushed too.
"And where are my winnings, gentlemen?"
