Free The Reluctant Countess by Wendy Vella Page B

better than any other. Unfolding his legs, he stepped down from his carriage. It seemed his lunch would not be forthcoming if he did not remove whatever obstacle blocked his path. Glaring at his driver, who still sat on his perch eyeing the scene before him, Patrick stalked to where a large group had gathered, and pushed his way through.
    “What the hell is going on here?” he barked at the rotund gentleman who seemed to be doing nothing but scowling. Below him, a lady, obviously hurt, was being tended to by another lady who had her back to him.
    “Silly chit walked in front of my carriage, now she refuses to wake up. Probably thinks I’ll hand over some money if she continues with this farce for long enough.”
    “You … you bloody insufferable, ill-mannered clod! H-how dare you speak of this girl as if it were she who caused this!”
    Patrick blinked. He knew that voice even if it was shrieking loud enough to drown out a dockside whore. Had she really just cursed in public? His eyes studied the fall of black curls trailing down the slender if somewhat rigid spine before him. Yes, it was definitely Sophie, Countess of Monmouth, kneeling in the dirt before him. It seemed that every time he left his house lately he found her in a position from which she needed help extricating herself. He studied the simple white muslin dress she wore today. Part of the hem was torn and trailing behind her. The sight of two small leather soles peeking out from beneath the dress produced a pain in his chest, which he immediately credited to the beef he had demolished for breakfast.
    “I believe I asked for your handkerchief, sir. I have need of it to stop the blood that is currently flowing from the wound your carriage inflicted on the young lady’s head!”
    Patrick felt his lips twitch at her curt tone. He had never heard Sophie speak this way. Her voice was calmer now, although it still held threads of anger, which she was obviously making an effort to withhold. Taking the two strides necessary, he crouched beside her and held out his own handkerchief. “Will this help?”
    “Lord Coulter!” Sophie gasped.
Why, why, why is he always the one to find me in an undignified position?
She pulled her eyes from his dark gaze and tried to focus on the task at hand. Holding out one hand, she did not look at him again as he passed her the soft, snow-white square of linen.
    “Thank you.”
    Turning to the girl who had woken and was now whimpering in pain, Sophie made small soothing noises as she gently dabbed the cut, which was oozing a slow trickle of blood. “It will be well, please remain still,” Sophie said, using her other hand to pat the girl’s shoulder as she tried to rise. “Can you tell me your name, my dear?”
    “Ginny, Miss,” the girl whispered in a voice laced with pain.
    Patrick moved to the opposite side so he faced the countess. He was in time to see the gentle smile she gave the girl. Her dimples flashed and the result was a tightening of every muscle in his body.
Bloody hell, Coulter, you would do well to remember that you are in a public street
.
    “Well, Ginny, my name is Sophie and I would like to help you if I may.”
    Sophie had instantly given her first name, which was puzzling; most of the women of Patrick’s acquaintance would never be so familiar. A slow flush crept into her cheeks as he looked at her. He raised an eyebrow and her color deepened. This was just another piece of the puzzle that was the Countess of Monmouth.
    “M-my basket, Miss?” the injured girl asked.
    Sophie looked at the basket where it lay strewn across the road; small brightly-colored threads and pieces of fabric were scattered everywhere. Getting to her feet, she placed her hands on her hips.
    Patrick remembered those slender hips encased in emerald satin and how they had felt in his hands. The woman was a temptress, even here, dressed as prim as any young miss. He watched as she then pointed a finger at the man who seemed to be