He tried to put this Lady Georgiana with that other one: mud-spattered and dressed as a boy—in breeches and boots, no less!—in the middle of nowhere, riding a magnificent stallion that was—that should have been—far too strong for a lady.

She glared at him and folded her arms beneath her bosom. He tried not to drop his gaze to take in the gentle curves, and failed.

However had he imagined that the rider he’d pursued across the heath was a boy? There was nothing boyish about her. It was more than a little disturbing. Why had he never noticed her before?

He’d met her, what—half a dozen times? Exchanged no more than perfunctory greetings with her. He vaguely recalled a couple of comments she’d made—erring on the cheeky side as he recalled—but certainly there had been no actual conversation.

But he’d never really looked at her, not really. His attention had always been elsewhere, on the other people in the room. Or the church. And who noticed other women when you were betrothed and in the process of being jilted? Still . . .

Blind. He’d been utterly blind. But now . . . now he saw her.

“Enjoying the evening?” Lady Georgiana repeated. She glanced pointedly at his companions. “Trying to—and failing.”

“Ah,” Hart said, adding with deliberate provocation, “so, you have no interest in fat men and women caterwauling in public?”

She gasped and her slight bosom swelled with indignation. “How dare you!”

He ostentatiously fingered her broken fan—two of the ivory ribs had snapped. It was no mere flirtatious tap she’d given to Monty’s friend—and raised a brow. “How dare I?”

Her eyes sparked. She flushed but held out her hand in an imperious gesture. Keeping his gaze locked with hers, he slipped the fan into his pocket.

She lifted her chin. “Thieving now?”

“I say, miss,” one of Monty’s friends interjected. “Don’t you know who this is?”

“Of course she does, lackwit,” Sinc said in a low voice. “Lady George was one of the bridesmaids at his wedd—the canceled er—the Unfortunate Event.” His words carried across to the other box.

His friend sniffed. “Gel lacks respect.”

Her eyes flashed. “Respect? What have you—any of you—ever done to deserve respect? Nothing except be born into a life where you’ve been pampered and petted until you think you are tremendously important.” Hart had no illusions about who her little speech was addressed to; she might have waved a scornful hand at all of them, but she hadn’t taken her eyes off him.

Sinc, Monty and friends were shocked to silence.

“Georgiana!” Lady Salter hissed something else Hart couldn’t catch.

“And am I not?” Hart said, all ice and silk. Women rarely challenged him. Not like this—head-on. He wasn’t sure whether he was aroused or annoyed. Perhaps a little of both.