Chapter 3
The lantern light shimmered upon the surface of the lake. Lucinda stood upon the narrow wooden bridge, her gloved hands resting lightly against the railing, her breath finally beginning to slow after the discomposure of her encounter.
She leaned forward, peering down at the water, watching the way the light reflects itself on waves, as though inviting one to step into a different world entirely.
She replayed the duke’s voice in her mind—the arrogance of his assumption. The ease with which he had presumed her intent, as though every woman in proximity to him must necessarily harbor designs upon his fortune and his title.
It was infuriating.
She had not even been thinking of him until he had placed himself squarely in her path and then had the audacity to accuse her of scheming.
And yet, beneath the irritation, beneath the sharpness of their exchange, there had been something else. A flicker of something like interest… or perhaps merely the rare satisfaction of being unafraid to speak her mind to a man like him.
She shook her head faintly, annoyed at herself for dwelling on him at all.
He was precisely the sort of man she had no patience for; she had come into the garden to escape precisely that.
She shifted her weight slightly, adjusting her stance upon the bridge, her skirts brushing against the weathered wood.
She leaned farther forward, craning to see the far edge of the lake, curious whether the lanterns on the opposite bank mirrored those on this side. The railing beneath her hands felt smooth, worn by decades of touch.
Her shoe slipped.
It was not dramatic at first. Merely a brief loss of balance, a slight shift of footing, the kind that might ordinarily be corrected without thought. She felt her heel slide against the damp surface of the wood, the traction lost, her weight tipping forward.
She inhaled sharply.
Her fingers tightened against the railing, but her grip faltered, the smoothness of the wood offering little resistance as her body pitched forward.
For a single suspended moment, time seemed to slow, her body suspended between certainty and disaster, her heart leaping into her throat, her breath catching painfully in her chest.
Then the railing slipped from her grasp entirely.
The air rushed past her ears, her skirts billowing, her arms flailing instinctively as though she might catch herself on nothing at all. The water struck her with a force that drove the breath from her lungs.
The lake was far colder than she had anticipated, the chill seizing her instantly. The impact drove her beneath the surface, the world narrowing to the roar of water in her ears and the burning ache in her chest.
She opened her mouth, water rushed in, she closed it again with a choking gasp, her throat convulsing, her lungs screaming for air.
She kicked instinctively, her legs thrashing beneath the heavy weight of her gown, but the fabric dragged against her, soaked almost instantly, wrapping around her calves and ankles like leaden chains.
Her stays were tight, as always, constricting her ribs, limiting the expansion of her chest, making each breath an effort even under ordinary circumstances. Now, submerged, they felt like a vice, compressing her lungs, stealing the space she needed to draw in air.
She kicked harder, her arms sweeping through the water, trying to propel herself upward, trying to find the surface, the light, the air. Her skirts ballooned around her, the layers of silk and petticoats becoming heavy and unyielding, pulling her downward with relentless insistence.
She could not rise. Her lungs burned, the pressure inside her chest mounting with terrifying urgency, her body demanding oxygen she could not supply; she clawed at the water, her movements frantic
Her mind flashed with images of her mother’s smile, Phoebe’s laughter, and Julian’s voice.
Her vision dimmed, the edges of her sight blurring, the darkness pressing in from all sides. She felt herself sinking. Not merely physically, but mentally; her strength faltering, her resolve weakening, her movements growing sluggish, her limbs heavy.
I am going to drown.
The realization struck her with a terrible certainty.
She kicked again, desperately, but her strength was waning, her muscles burning, her lungs screaming, the world narrowing to a tunnel of darkness and pain.
And then, suddenly, she felt hands on her. They closed around her arms, around her waist, gripping her with unmistakable purpose. She felt herself being pulled upward.
The pressure around her lessened, the water rushing past her as she was drawn toward the surface, the darkness giving way, the light returning in fractured glimpses,.
She broke the surface with a violent gasp, her mouth opening wide, her chest heaving, air rushing into her lungs in a burning, ragged inhalation.
Water spilled from her lips as she coughed, her throat convulsing, her body shuddering as she fought to draw in breath after breath, each one painful, yet blessed beyond measure.
She was lifted. She felt herself being drawn toward the edge of the lake, her body heavy, uncooperative, her limbs numb and unresponsive.
Her rescuer’s grip did not falter.
She felt herself dragged onto the bank, her body leaving the water with a wet, dragging sound, her gown soaked through, clinging to her like a second skin, her hair plastered against her face and neck, her limbs trembling uncontrollably.
She lay on the grass, gasping, her chest heaving, her throat burning, and her lungs aching. The night air struck her wet skin with shocking cold, her body shuddering violently, her teeth beginning to chatter almost at once.
She rolled slightly onto her side, coughing up water again, her stomach contracting painfully, her muscles trembling with exhaustion.
“Breathe,” a voice said. “Slowly.”
She forced herself to lift her head. The world swam before her eyes, her vision blurred, the lanterns above her smearing into golden streaks, her surroundings indistinct and shifting.
But the face above her was unmistakable—the Duke of Ravenshaugh . He knelt beside her on the damp grass, his shirt already soaked at the cuffs, his hair damp, and his coat set on the ground, dry.
“You,” she croaked, her voice hoarse, barely audible.
“Yes,” he said simply.
She coughed again, her body shaking, her breath coming in short, uneven bursts.
“You fell,” he said. “You are safe.”
She felt as though her body no longer belonged to her, as though it had become something heavy and foreign, something that trembled and shivered and refused to obey her will.
“I,” she tried to say, but the word dissolved into another cough.
“Do not speak,” he said. “Save your breath.”
She obeyed, closing her eyes briefly, focusing instead on the sensation of air entering and leaving her lungs, .
She felt his hands move. He reached for her pelisse, which had been buttoned over her gown, now soaked through and clinging to her shoulders.
“Forgive me,” he said, already undoing the fastenings. “But you must not remain wet.”
She did not protest.
He shrugged the pelisse from her shoulders, pulling it free of her arms, the damp fabric heavy in his hands, water dripping from its hem.
The cold struck her immediately, sharper now, her body shuddering harder, her teeth chattering audibly.
He picked up his coat, the movement swift and decisive, and draped it around her shoulders, wrapping it securely around her, pulling it close, his hands firm and warm against her chilled skin.
The contrast was startling—the warmth of the fabric, the heat of his hands, the cold that had seized her body.
She shivered violently, her arms trembling beneath the coat, her breath unsteady, her muscles weak.
“You,” she said faintly. “You took off my pelisse.”
“Yes,” he replied.
“You,” she repeated, her voice still hoarse, her throat sore. “You… you can swim.”
He blinked. “I should hope so.”
She managed the ghost of a smile. “It is… not common.”
“Among whom?” he asked.
“Dukes,” she said weakly.
His mouth twitched, though his eyes remained serious. “I was not raised in a drawing room.”
“Apparently not,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
She shuddered again, her body trembling, her breath catching slightly as another wave of cold passed through her.
He adjusted the coat around her shoulders, drawing it closer, ensuring it covered her arms and chest, his movements efficient and careful.
“Can you sit?” he asked.
She nodded faintly.
He helped her shift, guiding her into a more upright position, his arm supporting her back, his hand steady at her elbow. The grass beneath her still felt damp and cold.
She leaned into the coat unconsciously, her body seeking warmth wherever it could find it.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
“You are fortunate,” he said. “Had I not followed you…”
She swallowed. “Yes.”
The garden seemed suddenly louder to her, though no sound had changed. The rustle of leaves. The distant noises of the ballroom. The faint splash of water against the shore, settling after the disturbance of her fall.
She became abruptly aware of her appearance.
Her gown was soaked through, the pale silk darkened with water, clinging to her form. Her hair had come undone, curls fallen loose from their careful arrangement, plastered against her face and neck. Her gloves were sodden, her shoes likely ruined, her hem heavy and dragging against the ground.
I must look a spectacle.
“I am sorry,” she said, suddenly embarrassed. “For the trouble.”
“You have caused none,” he replied.
“I have caused you to become wet,” she said, glancing at the cuffs of his shirt, his boots, his trousers, all damp from the water.
“It is of no consequence,” he said.
She shivered again, her body trembling despite the coat, her breath still uneven, her muscles weak.
He watched her closely. “You are cold,” he said.
“Yes,” she replied.
“Your teeth are chattering,” he observed.
“I am aware,” she said faintly.
“You must be taken inside,” he said.
Her heart lurched.
“No,” she said at once. “I cannot.”
“You must,” he insisted. “You will fall ill.”
“I cannot,” she repeated, more urgently now. “Not like this.”
“Why not?” he asked.
She hesitated.
“Because,” she said, “I am soaked. I am disheveled. I look as though I have been dragged from a lake.”
“You have,” he said, in an obvious tone.
“Yes,” she replied. “Precisely.”
“That is not reason enough to risk your health,” he said.
“There are others inside,” she said. “People. My parents.”
His expression shifted. “Your parents,” he repeated.
“Yes,” she said.
“And what of them?” he asked.
She hesitated again, her throat tight, her breath still uneven, her body trembling. “I would rather not be seen,” she said quietly, “like this.”
“There is no shame in having fallen,” he said.
“There is in falling into a lake at a ball,” she replied.
He sighed faintly. “You cannot remain here,” he said.
“I cannot go inside either,” she replied.
“Then what do you propose?” he asked.
“I propose,” she said, “that I sit here for a moment, until the worst of the cold passes, and then I will return quietly.”
He regarded her skeptically. “Quietly is unlikely.”
“I can be quiet,” she said.
“You nearly drowned,” he said.
“I am quite capable of being discreet,” she replied.
He did not look convinced. “You are stubborn,” he conceded.
She shivered again, more violently this time, her breath hitching. He moved closer, his posture shifting subtly, his body angling toward her, his presence suddenly more immediate.
“You are in shock,” he said. “Your body temperature is dropping. You need warmth.”
She hesitated.
She did not wish to be escorted back into the ballroom in this condition, wrapped in his coat, dripping water onto polished floors, becoming the subject of whispers and speculation and judgement.
Yet she also did not wish to collapse in the garden from cold and exhaustion. She opened her mouth to speak.
Before she could, she heard a sound—footsteps, voices, gasps.
They both turned.
The light revealed a small cluster of figures approaching along the path, their faces alight with shock and concern.
Lucinda recognized them at once—her mother and father—several prominent members of the ton. She felt her stomach drop. She felt the color drain from her face, though it was likely already pale from cold. Her mother’s hand flew to her mouth.
“Lucinda!” Lady Brentwood exclaimed.
Her father stepped forward, his face taut with concern. “What has happened?”
Others gasped, voices overlapping.
“Oh my.”
“Heavens.”
“The duke.”
“In the lake?”
“Good Lord.”
Lucinda looked up at them, her breath still uneven, her body trembling beneath the duke’s coat, her hair loose, her gown soaked, her posture half-supported by his arm. She looked at him, he looked at her… and then they both looked at the assembled members of the ton staring down at them.
Lucinda felt the heat rise to her face, a sudden, burning flush that had nothing to do with the chill still clinging to her bones.
She looked at the faces surrounding her, at the widened eyes, the parted lips, the fans already fluttering with new urgency, the heads bent together in hushed consultation. She felt as though the entire garden had narrowed to a single, merciless circle of attention.
“I—” she began, her voice unsteady, hoarse from water and shock. “It was an accident.”
No one seemed to hear her.
“Did she faint?” someone asked.
“Was she pushed?” another pried.
“How improper.”
“Out alone, with him.”
“In the gardens.”
“Scandalous.”
Lucinda swallowed, her throat tight, her heart pounding in her chest, her hands trembling beneath the duke’s coat.