Edmund Valmont to Anthony Elliot, the Earl of Greyley, while sitting at White’s, enjoying a bottle

Selfish? How dared she? Chase threw open the door of the house, his boots ringing loudly on the polished wood floor. It had taken him almost two hours to reach the house on foot. He was tired, sore, dirty, and far too aware of the odiferous waft of sheep salve to be comfortable.

Damn Harriet and her narrow view of things. He wasn’t selfish. Why, how many times had he come to the rescue of his own brothers and friends? Not that many of his friends required much in the way of rescuing—except Harry Annesley, of course. Chase paused in the hallway at the thought of Harry, but he quickly shook it off. He was not selfish. The entire idea was ludicrous.

Leave it to Harriet Ward, the most obstinate, outlandish, prone-to-exaggeration female of his acquaintance to toss off an ill-conceived word like “selfish” without so much as a second’s worth of consideration for his feelings.

The faint sound of girlish voices reached his ears—Sophia and Ophelia deep in conversation. Chase paused, glancing up the stairwell.

He didn’t like to think of bringing anyone pain, but God knew he’d already caused far more than his fair share of it. If he closed his eyes, he could still see the white face of the woman his carriage had run down, hear the clack of the hooves on the cobblestones, feel his own rising panic as he realized she could not have escaped.

The memory of that pain held him in place at the foot of the stairs. The voices from upstairs settled into a low murmur, while golden dust motes floated through the air. The hall was silent but for those voices, a faint scent of beeswax and plaster filling his senses.

The library door swung open and out stepped Harriet dressed in a gown of cool blue muslin. She’d had time to bathe and change, and pin her hair atop her head. Except for the telltale pink of her cheeks from being in the sun and the fact that her arms and nose were sadly tanned, she looked as if she belonged in a drawing room and not a pasture.

She was closing the door, but she stopped as she caught sight of him, a guilty expression crossing her face, followed quickly by a mulish jutting of her chin.

“I made it back,” he said grimly, aware that he looked and smelled atrociously. “In case you were concerned for my safety.”

“I wasn’t.” She snapped the door closed behind her. “Even a braying ass can walk a fathom without falling in a ditch.”

The little minx. Chase closed the space between them, pinning her to the door with only an inch of space between her fresh skirts and his muddied breeches.

Her nose curled. “You smell like—”

“I know exactly what I smell like. I haven’t had time for my bath. Not yet.”

“Pray feel free to rinse in the trough by the barn until your bath is ready.”