Ankles crossed, Morgan lounged against a thick trunk. An oak cluster had grown together, creating a natural alcove, even forming a crude seat.

Still seething from another ugly encounter with Father, which had left him feeling betrayed as well as enraged, he randomly skipped rocks across the lake’s gleaming surface. Sending the flat stones flying released a modicum of the tension throttling through his veins.

He heard the woman’s boisterous entry into this, his coveted sanctuary, before he saw her. Her tiny yelp alerted him, and he wheeled toward her.

Too late.

Her rosebud mouth parted into a startled ‘O’. Her wide, doe-like eyes, the color of warm caramel and filled with shock, embarrassment, and horror, latched onto his.

He lengthened his stride, lurching for her with outstretched hands.

An instant later, her very shapely calves disappeared over a steep drop-off.

Without hesitation, he shucked his coat and tore off his neckcloth. No time to remove his boots, dammit. And they were new too. A pity gift from his sister Viola.

Those unfamiliar with the terrain didn’t realize that, though the ground appeared level, a steep precipice dropped straight into the lake.

Poised on the overhang, he searched the depths for the woman.

There.

A beleaguered head bobbed to the surface. Mouth open, she panted, scraggly locks of sable hair covering most of her face.

Did she know how to swim?

Even if she did, she’d struggle to make it to shore with her skirts wrapped about her legs

In one swift, smooth movement, Morgan dove into the water. If he hadn’t been holding his breath, he would’ve gasped. To his overheated body, the freezing cold came as a shock and a blessing.

Surfacing, he treaded water, trying to locate her.

As yet unaware of his presence, she bobbed several yards away, barely keeping her head above the water. Her expression determined, her movements labored, she started for shore.

Devil it.

As Morgan suspected, her skirts hampered her, weighing her down like great sodden sails.

What if he hadn’t been here?

She would’ve drowned for certain. Still might.

The black thought burrowed deep in his chest, causing a queer tightness where it anchored.

After dragging in a lungful of air, Morgan hollered. “Turn onto your back and float until I get there.”

Eyes round with shock, she jerked her dark head his way.

Profound relief flooded her pretty features. Obediently, she rotated onto her back, her breasts—the bodice stuck to the full orbs like a second skin—jutted above the water line, the ends pebbled from cold.

He swept a fleeting, appreciative gaze over the mounds.

Voluptuous figures had always attracted him.

Tend to the task at hand, Le Draco. The gel needn’t drown while you ogle her marvelous charms.

With swift, strong strokes, he swam to her. He’d regained most of his strength after the explosion–something that had seemed impossible in the early days of his convalescence. Other than several hideous scars, reduced hearing in his left ear, and the loss of an eye, he was restored.

Physically.

His highly-coveted position in the 1st Royal Regiment of Dragoons, on the other hand…

Fortune hadn’t smiled on him in that regard.

While he’d been unconscious and no one had known whether he’d live or die, his sire had taken it upon himself to retire Morgan’s commission.

Now at eight-and-twenty, he had nothing to go back to.

Nothing to look forward to.

No purpose. No direction. No rudder to steer his life and guide him.

Unless—until—he found employment. He’d become a societal parasite, dependent on the goodwill and generosity of his friends and sister, for he refused to accept a guinea from his father, Ruben Le Draco.

Damned lucky to have survived.

So Morgan had been told over and over.

And over.

The blast had killed five, maiming and wounding dozens more, but he—

Stow it.

As he approached, the girl turned her head. The gratitude in her expression transformed to incredulity when she spied his eyepatch and the vicious scar’s jagged path to his mouth, pulling one corner up at a grotesque angle.

After a year, he ought to have been accustomed to the stunned reactions. Yet, he still cringed inwardly when people—women, especially—flinched and gasped or hastily averted their gazes.

And when children’s faces crumpled in terror—

Enough.

But this profoundly unique creature didn’t look away. Instead, her attention shifted to his remaining eye, and such sympathy blossomed on her porcelain face that his thrumming heart battered against its bruised walls.

Struggling to stay afloat, she managed a timorous smile, full of kindness and empathy.

In that instant, through some sort of preternatural instinct, Morgan knew she’d suffered too. Here she was, her pulse raging at the base of her delicate throat, in very real danger of drowning, and instead of turning away in disgust or revulsion, she’d shown him compassion.

Where the hell would she go, man? It’s not like she has any choice at present.

“Don’t be alarmed, but in order to help you ashore, I must put my arm around your middle.”

Teeth chattering, a bluish tint around the edges of her lips, she gave a shaky nod.

From behind, Morgan encircled her torso, and she stifled a gasp. The plump pillows of her bosoms lay heavily on his forearm. He couldn’t help but admire their fullness. Another time, he might have more completely appreciated the tantalizing display.

“Lay your head against my shoulder,” he gently ordered.

Crimping her mouth into a prim line, she nodded again then dutifully rested her soggy head on his shoulder. Her quaking vibrated his chest.

Fear as much as cold, he’d be bound.

For reasons he couldn’t begin to gauge, reassuring her was vital. He spoke softly into her ear. “It’s all right. I have you now. I promise, you’ll be in your chamber enjoying a hot bath within the half hour.”

A shuddery sigh escaped through her parted lips, and she relaxed against him.

Probably oughtn’t to have mentioned a bath, for now he couldn’t tear his focus from her breasts and stop envisaging bathwater, liberally dosed with scented oil, lapping the rounded mounds. Teasing the rosy tips into hard nubs.

He drew in a long breath, as much from physical exertion as to enjoy her heady scent.

She smelled sweet and delicate. Orange blossoms, but also something musky and a mite earthier.

“Should I kick? I think I can if I pull my gown up.” Her voice was low and languid around the edges, as if she struggled to speak.

Did he detect the faintest trace of a Scottish brogue?

“If you’re able to, yes. That would help.”

Enormously.

This was no skinny miss, all sharp angles and bony contours. Her shapely form deserved further consideration and admiration. But on dry land, when such pleasant contemplation didn’t put them at risk of ending up on the lake bottom.

And with his waterlogged boots, getting them to shore was proving a considerable task.

“I’ve certainly given the guests something to prattle about,” she quipped, raising her gaze, warm and sweet as dark honey, to study him above her forehead.

In a bungling, unpolished sort of way, her attempt at levity was heartwarming.

“Indeed.”

He winked, and her pansy eyes rounded, delicate color flaring across her cheekbones.

They couldn’t go ashore where she’d tumbled into the lake, so he guided them to another area of the beach.

Olson and his annoying, always-looking-down-her-superior-than-thou-nose mother stood gawking nearby, their unhinged jaws drooping to their knobby knees. Denton Olson, however, was notably absent.

No surprise there.

Likely the elder Olson had eschewed the house party and his wife’s and son’s titillating company. Perfect opportunity for him to spend a week in the cozy cottage he’d set his current mistress up in.

A few minutes later—probably no more than three or four, but to Morgan’s burning lungs and fatigued muscles, it felt like hours—he hauled the young woman into shallow water.

Breathing raggedly, he managed to prop her up, and after scrambling to his feet, offered her his hand.

“Here,” he gasped. “Permit me to help you stand.”

Even bedraggled and soggy, and with her hair plastered to her face, her soft treacle eyes glowed with gratitude, and another rosy blush swept up her cheeks’ gentle slopes.

Who was she?

Not one of the usual country house party set, to be sure.

Neither Olson made an effort to assist them. Probably afraid of getting their clothes wet or muddy.

However, Clarence Olson did concede to greet Morgan with a grudging, somewhat curt nod. “Dragon.”

Morgan clenched his jaw, his nails cutting into his palms.

Steady on.

He sucked in a silent, calming breath, forcing himself to relax and smile casually, as if unaffected by the deliberate slur. “Le Draco will do, Olson.”

Leave it to that sod to call Morgan by the nickname his regiment had bestowed upon him after the Battle of Waterloo. Few dared voice it to his face, and he’d bet his ruined boots the knave had done so to blacken his character to the woman shivering before them.

“Olson, I tossed my coat aside over there.” Morgan pointed in the general vicinity of where he’d heaved the garment. “Fetch it. Please. She’s freezing.”

Not for long. In this scorching heat, her gown would dry in minutes.

For an instant, Morgan thought he’d refuse, but after his mother touched his arm and murmured something, Olson gave a terse nod and trudged off in the direction Morgan had indicated.

Hugging herself, her chin tucked to her chest, the woman sloshed to shore. Her gown clung just as tenaciously to her backside, giving Morgan a glimpse of wondrously plump buttocks.

A heady wave of lust engulfed him, and he balled his hands against the urge to graze his palm over the supple mounds.

Since the accident, he hadn’t enjoyed feminine delights. No women besides trollops, and deuced few of them, welcomed a disfigured, half-blind man into their beds. And even had he ever been inclined to dally with trulls, he hadn’t the coin to spare.

Olson approaching with Morgan’s coat prevented him from making a complete arse of himself. He wrenched his befuddled gaze away from her delectable behind and swiped his hair off his forehead, shoving the longer-than-fashionable strands behind his ears.

A mocking grin twitched his mouth.

He really ought to get his hair cut. But his long locks irritated Father so much, Morgan had refused to let scissors near his head since learning his sire had overstepped the bounds and taken it upon himself to make the life-changing decision to terminate Morgan’s military career.

His refusal to enter the family business riled Ruben Le Draco more than Morgan’s overly long hair. Every time Morgan saw Father, his sire toddled down the same contentious, verbally plowed-to-bedrock path.

“As a dutiful son, Morgan, you’re obligated to oversee the sugar plantations and refineries.”

Why? So his avaricious father might grow wealthier at the expense of the wretched, abused slaves sweating their lives away in the tropics?

No, by God. Morgan wasn’t having any of it. Ever. He might not have much left in the way of pride or dignity, but his integrity and honor remained intact.

He’d told Ruben as much. Again. Not more than a half hour ago. Nothing this side of heaven or hell would ever compel him to profit off the suffering of others.

Playing the gallant and holding Morgan’s jacket open, Olson’s contorted his mouth into an oily, sycophantic smile. “Allow me, Lady Atterberry.”

Lady Atterberry?

Married then.

Morgan’s ribcage tightened. He had no right to feel such a fulminating crest of disappointment, like a rusty knife twisting in his gut.

Olson draped Morgan’s jacket over Lady Atterberry’s quivering shoulders. Had he been a true gentleman, he’d have offered his own coat, since Morgan stood dripping into his boots.

“Thank you.” She kept her attention fixed on her muddy, once white stocking-clad toes, her shred of a voice so soft, Morgan barely heard her.

Something akin to jealousy gripped him that his coat should have the pleasure of touching her when he could not.

“You disappeared right after breakfast.” The corners of Olson’s mouth sidled upward in what he no doubt believed was a charming smile.

Looked more like a rat about to pounce on a fresh, flaky croissant a baker had accidentally dropped.

No. Make that a posturing rooster.

Chest puffed out, one knee bent, and a hand resting upon his hip, he stood as if posed for a portrait. Temptation sorely prodded Morgan to inquire if Olson expected a portraitist forthwith.

“You missed a rousing croquet tournament,” Olson said, still postured in his ridiculous stance.

Rousing?

Racing a horse neck or nothing across the Scottish moors was rousing.

Surviving a bloody battle when your troops were outnumbered was rousing.

Even a quadrille with a certain pretty, sable-haired damsel with compelling melted chocolate eyes might be considered rousing.

Arousing, to be sure.

However, the only thing croquet could ever be credited with stimulating was wide yawns. And only a complete boor would’ve introduced the topic on the cusp of a near drowning with the victim still shivering from terror and cold.

“Croquet holds little fascination for me, I’m afraid, Mr. Olson.” The pale honey of Lady Atterberry’s skin glowed in the sunbeams sifting through the foliage above. Her voice had gained strength, and she gave Morgan a direct, if somewhat hesitant, look. “My interests lie in other areas.”

A double entendre?

Surely Morgan had imagined it.

Nonetheless, his cynical heart jostled a trifle giddily behind his ribs. Then kicked into a rousing—yes, rousing—triumphant jig when Olson’s faced hardened, aggravation bracketing his mouth.

“My lady, I’m certain we can find a pastime we’d both enjoy,” Olson persisted.

Doubtful she’s fond of drinking, gaming, or whoring.

“Archery?” he inquired hopefully.

“No. I fear not.” She shoved sopping strands of hair off her cheeks. “I never learned the skill.”

“Lawn bowling? Shuttlecock? Riding?”

Desperation raised Olson’s voice to a near whine when she shook her head after each suggestion. He cut his mother a fraught glance, to which she screwed her mouth and eyes tight, her expression shrieking, Try harder, dolt.

“Whist or loo? Charades? Singing? Canoeing? Fishing?”

Good God. Fishing?

Lady Atterberry’s adorable turned-up nose crinkled the tiniest bit. “No. I don’t fish. In fact, fish makes me ill.”

Morgan just managed to check his gleeful guffaw.

Oh, poorly done, Olson. Very poorly done. Made a grand impression there.

Everyone knew the Olsons were on the prowl for an heiress and in dun territory up to their haughty eyebrows. Almost as bad as Morgan’s own purse-pinched pockets. Except, unlike Olson, he’d never pursue a woman for her money. And neither was he third in line for a title.

Why all this posturing for Lady Atterberry if she was married, then? It didn’t make any sense. Perhaps she’d been widowed. Awfully young to have suffered that travesty.

Unless she’d married an ancient codger.

A droplet of water teased a slow path down Morgan’s forehead, and he swiped it away.

Imagining a decrepitude codger’s cold gnarly fingers caressing her tender flesh left an acrid taste in his mouth. He swallowed and, eyes narrowed in censure, stared pointedly at Olson’s hands.

They remained cupped upon Lady Atterberry’s milky shoulders.

Morgan set his jaw against an insane urge to wrench the dandy’s sweaty palms off her. And then toss the twiddlepoop into the lake. That ought to cool the ardor glinting in Olson’s randy gaze.

Instead, wringing out his shirttail, Morgan studiously, leisurely, and most thoroughly, took her measure.

He refused to ponder why exactly, other than her curvaceous form could tempt a saint. Which he assuredly was not.

Why did he feel so protective then? Possessive even?

Hers wasn’t the first life he’d saved, and there wasn’t anything heroic about diving into the lake. He’d only acted the gentleman. Done what any decent chap would’ve done. And in all honestly, he hadn’t been positive he was equal to the task. Those last few feet had been murderous.

He slanted a dubious brow at Olson.

Morgan doubted that unprincipled jackanape would’ve risked his life to save her, even had she been his wife. Olson couldn’t even be bothered to help her ashore after Morgan had plopped her in the shallows.

And Olson seriously thought she’d welcome his attentions after that oversight?

His noggin must be as dense as the oaks surrounding them.

“My dear young lady, Clarence will escort you back to the manor,” Mrs. Olson declared, her pointy nose angled authoritatively. “I must admit, I cannot conceive how you found yourself in the lake.”

“I clumsily tripped on a root and fell in.” Lady Atterberry hadn’t even attempted to alter the truth or paint herself in a more favorable light.

However, such self-castigation riddled her voice that Morgan longed to reassure her.

Mrs. Olson cut the sparkling water a dubious look before glancing at Morgan’s face. Unable to completely conceal her distaste, her artificial smile wobbled, and her attention skittered away. “So very fortunate Captain Le Draco was nearby.”

“Yes. It was. Most fortunate, indeed.” Lady Atterberry tilted her head at a winsome angle. Shyly peeking at him from beneath her thick, spiky lashes—looking like a soaking-wet kitten—she offered Morgan what he suspected was a rare, genuine smile.

Her innocent gaze softened at the corners as she regarded him. Warm and sincere, her mesmerizing, chocolatey eyes sucked him in. Nothing coy or pretentious about Lady Atterberry. A true original.

He rather liked that. Liked it a great deal, in truth. And he hadn’t any right to. He’d nothing—absolutely nothing—to offer any woman.

Getting miles ahead of yourself there, old chap. Rein in your cavorting imagination.

“I must thank you, Captain. I’m not convinced I’d have made it ashore without your assistance. Please forgive my ineptness, which compelled you to jump in after me.” The slope of Lady Atterberry’s cheeks pinkened charmingly again. Her regard sank to his sodden boots, and her forehead furrowed into two neat rows. “Your boots are quite ruined. You must allow me to replace them.”

Her contrite gaze met his before fluttering over his shoulders and hips, then flitting away like a nervous little bird.

His groin constricted at her timid perusal. What was it about this woman that penetrated the surface of his emotions and stirred his dormant senses to full alert? Dangerous that, and not a path he dared venture along.

“And your garments too, naturally.” Embarrassment, or perhaps strain, made her speech clipped and formal, yet an undercurrent of sensual awareness tinged it too.

“That’s not necessary.” He hadn’t sunk so low as to accept clothing from damsels he’d rescued. For the party’s duration, he could always borrow boots from his closest chum, Allen Wimpleton. They were of the same size and build. “You are well worth the sacrifice.”

Faint color flared across Lady Atterberry’s cheeks once more.

“Come along at once, dear girl. You don’t want to catch a chill. Clarence, take her arm.” Clearly not pleased with the conversation’s turn, or perhaps sensing Morgan’s budding fascination, Mrs. Olson flapped her hand between her son and Lady Atterberry. “I shall brook no refusal.”

What a controlling, interfering harridan she’d be as a mother-in-law. God spare Lady Atterberry that purgatory.

Before Olson could grasp her elbow, Lady Atterberry scooted away, her discomfiture as obvious as her soaked appearance. She caught her lower lip between her small, white teeth, then, with apparent resolve, straightened her spine, raised her head, and notched her delicate chin upward.

Admiration swelled in Morgan’s chest.

Well done you, Lady Atterberry.

Her frank gaze sought his, a question, or perhaps a plea, in its glowing depths. “Thank you for your kind offer. However, there’s no need. The captain already graciously offered to see me safely to the house.”