Page 132 of Lady Waldrey’s Gardening Almanac for Cultivating Scandal

James's eyebrows flew up, his jaw tightened.

Sensing the storm about to land, Candace swiftly said, “He’s already dry. Perhaps if we knew how to shake like a dog, we’d be better off. Now do as your father says, quickly. His patience has already been tested.”

Arthur nodded and offered another small “I’m sorry” before running toward the wagon, his quilt flapping around him.

“You, too,” James clipped. “You need to get warm and dry.”

Candace thought she probably should argue—after all, what kind of hostess left her guests behind at a party? Then she remembered she’d already done so once this week, in a far more scandalous manner. Compared to that, this was perfectly sensible—she’d nearly drowned, after all.

Besides, exhaustion sagged her shoulders. She shivered beneath her quilt and gathered it more tightly around her—not only to ward off the chill, but because she was keenly aware that the lake had plastered her coat dress to her form. She’d also lost one boot to the lake.

“Very well,” she conceded, and trundled over toward the wagon, where Arthur was already seated.

Lord Cavendish came alongside her and offered her his wet elbow.

“My lady,” he said with a smile. “There’s never a dull moment when you’re about.”

“I aim to please.” She’d aimed for airy nonchalance with the words but had fallen far short. She sounded as tired as she felt.

Now that the emotional charge of the moment had drained away, it had taken all her strength with it. Her fingers trembled. She tried to stop the shuddering of both hands by clasping the one tighter into the quilt, but she was certain Lord Cavendish felt it anyway—he leapt onto the wagon and fairly lifted her up into it.

Candace glanced back to find James glowering just behind her.

“What’s the matter?” she asked. “Is Seamus all right?”

Arthur came to his feet in the wagon at the mention of the dog, craning his neck to find him. Candace smiled wearily—just then, Arthur reminded her strongly of the baroness’s squirrel.

For his part, Seamus had found a patch of sunlight between two quilts and spread himself out to dry like a piece of laundry. She gave a sly smile of delight when she noticed he’d lain himself directly next to Daisy, who looked as if she’d succumb to a wide-eyed swoon any moment.

“That brute is fine,” James said, snapping his fingers at Arthur until the boy took his seat. “And I’ll hear no more expressions of concern for him today.”

James sat so close to Candace that she was forced to scoot over, lest he rest on her quilt. He frowned down at her as the other wet guests loaded themselves.

The gentlemen were jovial, clapping each other on the shoulder and grinning as they climbed into the back of the wagon—as if the near-drowning had been a wonderful break in the monotony of the day. Even as Mr. Scott gently slapped his reins and put the horses into motion, they laughed amongst themselves. Then again, perhaps they were just delighted to leave the ladies they’d brought with them behind.

James was a grim exception. He sat stiffly next to Candace, every few seconds glowering down at her until he finally gave up the pretense of looking away altogether and just stared. She didn’t dare meet his eyes. She could read his emotions in the tightness of his body beside her; she was fully aware that only the presence of the other men kept her and Arthur from receiving an ear blistering.

The wagon pulled from the clearing, and Candace noticed that Seamus had rousted himself and was now walking behind. His head drooped, his ears swinging with each plodding step.

“Can we—” she began.

“I’ll not hear of it,” James snapped.

“James.” She laid her hand gently on his wrist and met his stony gaze with pleading eyes. “Surely he’s tired, too. He didn’t mean to fall in. I know you’re angry, but it isn’t the dog’s fault.”

Candace thought she heard James's teeth grind; his jaw feathered.

A moment later, he barked, “Stop the carriage!”

James bounded down before the cart was fully stopped, gripped Seamus by the collar, and pushed him the rest of the way in by the hindquarters. The other men cheered and Lord Cavendish ruffled Seamus’s wet head.

If James had been a little rough, Seamus didn’t seem to notice in the least. He circled the floor of the wagon, demanding pets from the occupants with all the assured confidence of a fare collector. Then he gave a great shake; Candace hid her smile as she ducked beneath the cover of her quilt to escape dog-scented droplets. The mighty dog sprawled on the cart floor at Arthur’s feet, rested his enormous head on his paws, and sighed as if contented.

Lord Cavendish leaned forward and grinned at James, who was once again sitting on the edge of Candace’s quilt, his arm sprawled behind the back of her seat in a manner that prevented her from leaning back unless she wished to make contact with his admirable bicep.

“James,” Lord Cavendish said. “You do know this is a cart, not a carriage, right?”

“This spoken by the man to whom this cart would be an improvement,” James grumbled. “I heard the British Museum came calling to see if you’d like to donate your barouche for their display of antiquities.”