And with a mighty crash, she slipped onto her backside. Her legs kicked out from beneath her and smacked into his, effectively knocking him off-balance.

With his abrupt submersion, the icy water instantly saturated his coat and breeches, stealing his breath. As he drifted down beneath the surface, the surge of water up his nose brought with it the taste of stale pond and rotting vegetation.

When he pushed to his feet and rose above the pond’s surface, utterly soaked, it was to a scene he’d not soon forget.

Joan, hand over her mouth in mortified shock. Her maid bumbling over, withdrawing a hanky. And Morgan, arms folded and watching without even trying to contain his laughter.

As Rowles sloshed to the edge of the pond, he cast an irritated glance to his friend, who didn’t so much as offer his hand. Well, Rowles mused. This was not how he’d expected the morning to go. But as he glanced at Joan, who still seemed utterly flustered, he decided that it might not have gone as he expected. But it had gone better.

Even if his Hessian boots were likely ruined, again.

Twelve

Joan was not one given to hysterics. No, she prided herself on being rational and even-tempered, not fainting easily or given to rash outbursts—but when the duke rose from the water with a strand of pond grass lying across his head, she came dangerously close to losing her composure.

Because it was her fault.

The sound of his boots squishing in the mud—her doing.

The scent of stale water—a result of her clumsiness.

And damn her brother, who stood there and laughed.

Never in her life had she been more mortified, more at a loss for what to do, or more willing to murder her own flesh and blood. She was not the violent sort, but she most certainly had a moment as Morgan circled the dripping duke once he rose from the water like some merman.

“I wasn’t aware that swimming was a great passion of yours,” Morgan noted, hand on chin, smug expression fixed to his face.

Joan clenched her fists. And why was he even here? They had been obeying propriety, and nothing untoward had happened.

“It seems I was suddenly inspired to take a swim.” Rowles displayed an ironic expression.

Joan wanted to sink into the ground and become invisible. Her bottom ached from the force with which she’d fallen. Her legs had slipped so quickly, it indeed felt as if someone had kicked her. Bothersome grass.

Yet, instead of being kicked, she had kicked someone else—and with enough force to send him flying into the drink.

A crowd began to gather despite the early hour.