Speaking of luck, she had interrupted him at a critical moment, pointing out his injury just when he’d been about to declare her the most beautiful woman of his acquaintance. She’d spared him the inadvisability of voicing that gushy tribute. Natalie Fanshawe might be strikingly attractive with that combination of deep green eyes and sable hair, and her curvy form, but she was far too egalitarian to be his wife. They came from vastly different worlds. Within his elevated sphere, he had his pick of far more suitable ladies.

Including Lady Ellen.

He winced from more than just the ache in his shoulder. By letting himself be distracted, he’d forgotten all about his intended bride. He mustn’t let that happen again.

Nevertheless, his thoughts strayed back to Natalie. His intense desire for her could not be faulted. Any adult male not on his deathbed would find her enticing. But he would admire her from afar and control his baser impulses.

They’d be friends. Just friends, nothing more.

Natalie used the pinning of her hair as an excuse to watch the duke—Hadrian—walk away. He strode directly to his cousin, who was sitting on the ground, rubbing his knee. The husky, dark-haired fellow in workman’s clothing who stood over Wymark must be Bert, the groom. When the duke reached them, he and Bert pulled Wymark to his feet. The younger man proceeded to slap the dust from his buckskin breeches and green coat.

Dragging her gaze away, she looked for Leo. The boy was lying on his stomach beside the paddock fence, playing with his toy cavalryman as if nothing untoward had happened. He deserved a sound scolding, but she was still too shaken to summon the energy to administer one.

It was more than the near-tragedy that disturbed her. It was also the experience of lying beneath Hadrian in the aftermath. She had a vivid memory of his hard body, heavy and masculine, pressing into her bosom and hips. The alluring feel of him had awakened a hunger unlike anything she had ever known. Excitement had sizzled like wildfire in her depths, along with the giddy desire to let him do with her as he willed. Her body still quivered with the afterglow of warmth.

Heaven help her. He was an English lord, the highest rank of the nobility. It was absurd to feel so drawn to a man who was all wrong for her.

Wasn’t it?

Then again, any woman would be attracted to the Duke of Clayton. Even if one ignored his title, he was a tall, well-built man who exuded an air of competence and strength. The breeze tousled his thick brown hair, the sunlight picking out lighter caramel strands. But it was more than just his devilishly handsome features that appealed to her. In the gray eyes that she’d initially found cold and impenetrable, she had come to see intelligence and humor. She’d enjoyed the byplay of their conversations. And although his countenance was often serious, he also had an ironic wit that made him stimulating company. He’d parried her teasing well, and she’d always appreciated a man who could laugh at himself.