He touched the brim of his elegant top hat before he swung himself up onto his horse again. "I assure you, it was nothing at all."

Oh, no, nothing at all, to come galloping after a runaway coach and pull a distraught young lady out of a bog, then make her forget all about the pain in her head and elbow and the fact that her skirts were dripping wet with that cold, sticky slime.

He clicked his tongue, walked his horse back into the water, and took hold of the harness. "Onward, now," he said.

While he led the team in a wide circle and back up onto the grass, Rebecca admired his form without the coat. Wearing a fine black dinner jacket and crisp white shirt with a dark, crimson necktie, he was even more perfect than she could have imagined, for there was an incredible strength and vigor in his shoulders and in the defined lines of his torso and hips.

As soon as the wheels were on dry land, he rode closer and dismounted again. "Allow me to assist you."

She glanced uneasily at the coach. "The horses won't bolt again?"

"Not while I am leading them."

He certainly knew how to instill confidence.

"Then I must thank you." She took his hand and stepped back inside.

She settled into the seat and covered herself with his coat to keep warm. He closed the door with a firm click, but opened it again a mere second later and said, "I am twenty-four."

She stared numbly at him as he smiled. He closed the door again.

A moment later, they started back along the road to where her father was surely waiting in a tizzy.

She shook her head when she thought about that. Her father's tizzy. Surely it could be nothing compared to hers, for it could never have been so frightfully wicked, yet so wonderfully breathtaking at the same time.

Chapter 2

"Thank the Lord!" her father said, looking her up and down from head to foot as she stepped out of the coach. "What happened? You're all wet!"

"I am fine, Father," she replied.

"The horses turned off the road and into a bog," the gentleman explained as he dismounted from his own horse. He removed his gloves and strode toward them, glancing briefly at her father's misshapen hand upon his cane. "May I enquire about your driver, sir? Where is he?"

"I am afraid I do not know. We thought he might have stopped to retrieve a bag that fell from the coach before you came along."

"Did he not tell you of his intentions?"

"No."

Tapping his fine leather gloves against his palm, her handsome rescuer looked up at the baggage tied down on the roof. "Everything appears to be secure, even after what just occurred." He turned to look in the direction from which they had come. "Wait here, please. I'll be back shortly."

He started walking.

"Well, at least you're all right," her father said, glancing briefly at her. "This gentleman, was he…Was he helpful?"

"Very helpful, yes," she replied, sensing her father's concern and doing her best to alleviate it with a show of indifference. She could not possibly tell him what really occurred, not to mention how much she'd enjoyed it. "I'm fine, Father."

A few minutes later, they heard footsteps returning, and curiosity compelled Rebecca to start walking toward the sound.

"Where are you going, child?" her father snapped. "Stay here beside me, if you please."

She stopped in the center of the narrow road, but remained exactly where she was with her back to her father, anxious to see her magnificent hero returning. At last he appeared, carrying Mr. Smith over his shoulder like a heavy sack of potatoes.

"What in the world happened?" she asked.

He continued walking toward her, but addressed her father, not her. "I regret to inform you, sir, it was not a piece of baggage that fell from your coach. Your driver has had too much to drink and tumbled over the side."

"How can you be sure?" Rebecca asked, following them back to the coach. "What if he is ill?"

He carried Mr. Smith around to the front of the coach and managed with a grunt to tip him over the driver's seat rail. The unconscious man fell backward across the cushioned bench, his arm falling limp and resting on the footboard. He snorted and groaned.

"I found the empty bottle a few feet away from him," her gentleman-hero explained as he wiped at his hands. "And he smells like a distillery."

Rebecca's father limped around the coach and stood beside her, leaning on his cane. "He is no good to us in the driver's seat. What the devil are we to do now?"

"May I ask your destination?"

"The Cotswolds Arms for tonight, then we're on to Burford in the morning."

The man turned and strode toward his horse. "You can expect to be there in an hour."

Her father limped after him. "But wait, sir! How are we to get there?"

Rebecca followed as well. After everything her handsome rescuer had done for them so far, was he going to abandon them now? Surely not.

"I beg your pardon, sir," she said, "but my father cannot drive. His hands cause him great pain."

The man had already reached his horse and was now leading the animal past them, toward the back of the coach. "I understand that," he said, "and it would be my pleasure to drive you."

Rebecca exhaled with relief, then marveled at the strangeness of this day and the miracle of how this extraordinary man seemed to have everything decided before she or her father even realized there was an issue to work out. And her head was still spinning from the wild carriage ride and the most unnerving memory of his touch. She would never forget it, not as long as she lived.

"That is most kind of you, sir," her father said, while the gentleman tethered his horse to the handrail above the page board. "But we don't wish to inconvenience you. Are you certain it is no bother?"

The gentleman stroked the horse's muscular neck, then his expression warmed as he bowed slightly at the waist. "As I said, it would be my pleasure. It's a perfect night for a drive."

She could sense her father's reluctance to accept the offer, as he did not enjoy being beholden to anyone for anything. God forbid that particular person might pay a visit to their isolated house in the country to provide him the opportunity to return the kindness. But under the present circumstances, they did not have much choice unless he would allow Rebecca to drive, and that was most certainly not going to happen.

Her father straightened his thin shoulders and finally resigned himself to the necessity of accepting the offer. "You are most kind," he said to the gentleman. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Charles Newland, Earl of Creighton, and this is my daughter, Lady Rebecca Newland."

Introductions at last.

The gentleman held out his hand to shake her father's. "It is an honor to meet you, Lord Creighton, and a pleasure, Lady Rebecca." He bowed to her, revealing nothing of what had occurred between them earlier. Not a hint of a grin, wicked or otherwise. No mention of the way his hands had worked over her arms and down her neck.

"I am Devon Sinclair, Marquess of Hawthorne," he said. "My father is the Duke of Pembroke."

"Of Pembroke Palace," her father blurted out.

"That is correct."

Good Lord, they were in illustrious company indeed, and they were about to employ a marquess, the future Duke of Pembroke, as their coachman.

"The palace is not far from here," he said. "Just under an hour's ride to the north."

This was his father's property, all of it, miles and miles of prosperous farmland and thick, lush forests. And he was the Marquess of Hawthorne, and heir to one of the oldest, most prestigious titles in England. Rebecca could barely comprehend it. A thrill rolled up her spine, as thick and compelling as the mist all around them.

"But what about our driver?" her father asked. "I'm half tempted to leave him here."

"Father…" Rebecca admonished, glancing down at the ground as her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

Lord Hawthorne smiled. She was so glad she finally knew what to call him.

"I might be tempted toward the same end myself," he said, "if he were my driver. But have no worries. I'll prop him up beside me, and he'll keep me company when the moon rises." Lord Hawthorne glanced up at the darkening sky. "Which will be very soon, so if you don't mind, I must insist we move on. Allow me?"

He opened the door to the coach and lowered the step, then straightened and held out his hand to Rebecca. A rush of butterflies invaded her belly at the thrilling notion of touching him again, and when she slowly wrapped her tiny, gloved fingers around his larger ones, she felt the strength of his whole arm and the rock-solid support he offered, which she already knew firsthand. She gathered her heavy wet skirts in her other hand, then met his gaze for a brief, fleeting second. His blue eyes were dazzling, captivating, disarming, and the whole world came to a shuddering halt on its axis.

She wet her lips and managed to say, "Thank you," in a quiet, ladylike voice. He bowed his head and handed her up.

Her heart was still racing when she sat down on the leather seat and watched the ducal heir assist her father up as well, holding him by the arm to steady his frail form.

How strong and capable he was, like a brave knight from a childhood story. None of this seemed real.

As soon as her father was seated, Lord Hawthorne raised the step, but Rebecca spoke up. "Your coat…"

He held up a hand. "I insist you take care of it for me until we arrive." Then he addressed both of them from the open door. "We shall reach the Cotswolds Arms in one hour, so settle in. I will see you when we get there."