Elizabeth stumbled backward trying to hold him up. St. Evert rushed up beside her and tried to shift Horton’s dead weight to him. But it was awkward, and in the end, Lord Horton slid down the front of her dress. Mr. Dunworthy, Robert, and Lord St. Evert carried poor Lord Horton to the shade of a large tree where Lady Alameda had a tea table set out.
The countess presided over the medical ministrations. “He’s scarcely breathing. Take that coat off of him. And for pity’s sake, remove that ridiculous cravat. His collar is so high he probably strangled to death.” She directed them with the authority of a general. “Unbutton his vest. Now the shirt. Tear it open. He’s probably wearing a male corset. Yes, just as I thought. No wonder he overheated. Cut the laces, Valen. And stand back.”
Valen ran a knife through the lacing and the device sprang apart. The countess grabbed a pitcher full of lemon water and doused him. Lord Horton sputtered back to life, a lemon wedge resting atop the sparse hair of his chest.
The sight of poor Lord Horton in his undress quite overset Miss Dunworthy’s delicate sensibilities. She started lisping incoherently. “It’th horrithying. Thimply thoo, thoo much.”
Robert chafed her fair hands and tried to soothe her. Lord St. Evert suggested to Mr. Dunworthy that his sister might have experienced enough excitement for one day.
Lord Horton surveyed his lack of attire with nearly the same alarm as had Miss Dunworthy. His coat was gone, his cravat cast aside in the grass, his vest and shirt unbuttoned, and his girdle split open like a Sunday goose. He shook like a leaf as he accepted the glass of water Lady Alameda offered. Gulping it down, he struggled to his feet and attempted to button the top portion of his shirt, missing it by a row. One side puffed up higher than the other, testifying to an extraordinary amount of starch in it. The torn bottom half flapped out like a sail. Elizabeth concluded this would probably not be the day he kneeled at her feet and begged for her hand in marriage.
She couldn’t honestly drum up much regret. Instead, relief pervaded her being, as well as genuine sympathy for poor, hapless Pointy-Nose. He may be a dreadful poet, but he really was a gentle soul, a kind person.
Lord Horton gave up trying to fasten his shirt and vest, glanced around completely flustered, and bowed to his hostess. “Thank you for your hospitality, Lady Alameda. A very pleasant afternoon. However, in light of... under these circumstances... I must take my leave. Lady Elizabeth, a delight, as always.”
She handed him his coat. Lady Alameda extended his soiled cravat to him with two fingers, as if the thing were contaminated. “Do come back again, Lord Horton. I’m all agag to hear more of your poetry.”
Elizabeth murmured, “Agog. She means agog.”
But Lord Horton didn’t appear to be listening. He lurched unsteadily toward the house. Lady Alameda signaled, and a footman hurried to assist the fleeing lord. Then she whirled around to her remaining guests. “Anyone care for tea and cakes?”
Elizabeth dropped into a chair, ready to devour a full glass of any sort of liquid and at least three cakes. But Lady Alameda pinched up her lips and shook her head disapprovingly. “Oh, my dear, just look at you.” She waved her hand at the front of Elizabeth’s dress.
Egad. Elizabeth dropped her head into her hands and massaged her forehead. The satin had absorbed every droplet of perspiration and formed stains. Rivulets had formed in some very embarrassing areas. She frowned skeptically at her hostess, who had pinched up her nose and was making a great show of her revulsion. The lady had known full well they would be playing battledore when she sent the clingy satin gown up to Elizabeth’s room today.
Lady Alameda turned to her nephew. “Good heavens, Valen, you’re dripping too. The pair of you look like a couple of racehorses. I daresay you must cool down properly. Take Lady Elizabeth for a walk. She is dreadfully overheated. Down by the trees where there is some shade.” She fanned herself and turned to the others. “Oh, but Miss Dunworthy, how very clever you are not to sweat. You may stay at the table with us and have tea.”
Lord St. Evert held out his arm to Elizabeth. “Care for a trot around the park?”
Despite herself, she smiled at him and accepted his escort.
Valen glanced at her sideways. “You must forgive my aunt. She can be rather caustic at times. I’m certain she meant no insult, likening you to a racehorse. Probably meant it as a compliment.”
“She likened you to a horse as well.” Elizabeth smiled crookedly, and he noticed for the first time the delicate dimples that formed when she grinned. “Your aunt may appear to fumble her speech, but I’ll wager she knows precisely what she is saying. Even so, I find it impossible to dislike her for it.”
“You surprised me today, Lady Elizabeth. I thought you far more...” But then he realized he had nowhere to go with the remark that would not insult her. He had thought her far too stuffy to play a game like Battledore, much less play it with such vigor. Neither could he forget the tale of her jumping off the roof.
“I’m well aware of what you think of me, my lord.”
“Thought.” He said, before he realized what he was doing. He found himself smoothing his hand over her elegant fingers as they rested on his sleeve. Gad! He was no better than Horton, petting her hands. He stopped and cleared his throat. “I would never have guessed you could play battledore with such ferocity.”
“Yes. And I would have won too, if—”
“My lady, humility, humility.” He pretended to scold her. “Do you really think I would have allowed you to trounce dear Miss Dunworthy? She would have been devastated. No. That would be completely unacceptable. Ungentlemanly.”
“Allowed?” She yanked her hand away
