Her sister nodded, gritting her teeth in anticipation of the pain. A fine sheen of perspiration shone on her brow.
“Do be careful,” Caroline said, hovering over Eliza’s shoulder to see.
“Do step back.”
Eliza snipped the thorn where it met the branch, allowing Philippa to stagger free and sit down in the grass.
“Oh, it hurts,” she moaned, stretching her neck to look over her shoulder. “I’m almost glad I can’t see it.”
“It’s not so bad,” Eliza assured her. “It’s more painful than serious. You’ll feel good as new once it’s plucked out.” Getting it out, however, would be a true challenge. She grasped the tiny edge with her finger and thumbnail. “Hold a moment. Almost have it.”
“It’s not bleeding, is it?” Caroline asked, bending to look. “I can’t stand the sight of blood.”
Then stop gawking and get out of my way, Eliza wanted to reply.
“It’s not bleeding,” she answered instead. “Not much, anyhow.”
As she pulled on the thorn, Philippa yelped with pain. A large, quivering teardrop of blood welled at the site of insertion.
Apparently that single drop of blood was one drop too many for Caroline Farnsworth. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she dropped to the ground like a felled tree.
In all the excitement, Eliza lost her grip on the thorn, and it slid deeper than ever. It was completely embedded beneath the skin now. They would need a sharp needle to remove it, if not a surgeon.
“Drat.” She blew some loose hair out of her face and made a soothing pat on Philippa’s good arm. “It’s no use. We’ll have to go back to the house.”
“How?” Philippa asked, gazing with horror at their unconscious hostess.
“I suppose I’ll go ahead and return with help.”
Her sister winced. “That could take an hour. What if you get lost? What if she doesn’t wake? You can’t leave me alone with her.”
Just then, Eliza heard the sound of approaching hoofbeats and carriage wheels rumbling on the lane. The hedgerow made a wall between her and the road, but if Eliza could find the gap and flag down the passersby…
She ran along the hedgerow, looking for the nearest gap. At last, she found a small burrow in the thicket. She plunged through. Thorns scratched at her exposed arms. Her oversized straw bonnet snagged, and the ribbon ties nearly strangled her, but she pushed on, emerging breathless into the lane.
“Stop!” she called, dashing into the center of the road and waving madly to the approaching carriage. “Stop, please!”
HARRY PULLED HARD on the reins. In the lane ahead stood a young lady wearing a smock and an enormous straw bonnet. She leapt and waved for their attention.
Far be it from Harry to refuse a woman attention.
He murmured to Brentley, “I thought we came out here to avoid the temptations of Town. You didn’t warn me that in your neighborhood nubile young ladies fling themselves before a man’s carriage.”
Brentley only laughed. “She must need help.”
Did she? She looked healthy and fit enough to Harry’s eyes. He couldn’t make out the woman’s face, what with the bonnet—but he could see that her figure was curved and pleasing beneath the simple apron she wore.
The bonnet amused him greatly. Yes, they were in the hottest part of summer, and he could have wished for a bit of shade himself—but that bonnet. It was like the rings of Saturn, that thing. The brim orbited about her head.
As the phaeton rolled to a halt, Brentley called down to her. “Ho, there. Can we be of some assistance?”
Harry remained silent, holding the team still. He’d let his friend do the rescuing. Brentley was the local lord, anyhow. And though Harry was a duke’s heir with a few attendant leanings toward gallantry, he tried to suppress them as best he could.
“Sirs, please,” she said. “If you will, my companions have fallen ill during our walk, and—”
A gust of wind caught her bonnet and pushed it at a sudden tilt. Harry caught a glimpse beneath it, receiving a general impression of English prettiness. And then—for the briefest of instants before she had the brim tamed—their eyes met.
Well.
He saw it in her eyes. More than a year later, and she recognized him, too.
Oh no, her expression said. Not you. Any man but you.
Oh yes. We meet again, Miss Eliza Cade.
He laughed to himself. The world was a damned amusing place.
“Taken ill, did you say? More than one in your party?” Brentley slid down from the phaeton’s high perch, and Harry followed, securing the reins.
“Yes. I’m Miss Eliza Cade. My sister and I are guests at Farnsworth Hall. Perhaps you know it?”
“Know it?” Brentley smiled. “Why, I’ve only owned the adjacent estate all my life.”
Her shoulders relaxed. “You must be Lord Brentley then?” Belatedly, she dropped in a curtsey. “We’ve heard a great deal about you.”
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance—though I would wish it were under happier circumstances. This is my friend, Mr. Wright.”
“Charmed, I’m sure.”