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Tobias Forsythe, Duke of Heatherston’s strong mouth quirked into that disarming smile he bandied about with the ease of a baker kneading bread.

When had he come to Town?

“You?” Emily croaked, whether because of his great weight pressing into her, fear having tightened her throat, or shock at unexpectedly seeing him, she couldn’t discern.

“’Tis a great pleasure to see ye again, Mrs. Grenville.”

He’d slipped into his Scottish brogue, and the burr tunneled deep into her belly, warming her in a most peculiar fashion. Almost as if her femineity responded to him.

Stuff and nonsense. What utter rubbish.

Clutching as much of her tattered dignity as Emily could muster—given she lay beneath the duke with her legs bared, and she was quite certain the scant few people in Hyde Park had homed in on her circumstance and were approaching with alacrity an Ascot racehorse would envy—she managed with a flat look, “I cannot say the same, Your Grace.”

Throwing his head back, his strong chin on full display and exposing the thick column of his throat, Heatherston burst into laughter.

What was so dashed humorous?

His slightly too-long auburn hair fell forward over his forehead when he lowered his head once more, his bachelor-button-blue eyes alight with hilarity.

“Are ye hurt, lass?”

Genuine concern shadowed his eyes rimmed with lush lashes many a woman would envy.

Emily did, and envy was far too pedestrian for her.

“I don’t think so.” Emily pulled in a shallow breath. “But as you are squashing me, I cannot be absolutely certain.”

A deep melodic chuckle reverberated in his much too wide and hard chest.

With admirable agility and adeptness, he bounded to his feet and then held out his hand. He didn’t even glance at Emily’s legs, which were, as Emily feared, bared to mid-thigh.

“Permit me to assist ye to your feet, Mrs. Grenville.”

His gentlemanly behavior warmed her heart in a strange manner, and that he hadn’t leered at her legs raised him a notch in her estimation. Though he still ranked among the slithery, crawly creatures; maggots and the like.

Avoiding his keen gaze, Emily pushed her skirts down, silently bemoaning the grass stains that marred her gown and redingote. As she accepted his hand and rose, she reminded herself that they were only things—but such beautiful new things.

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

A quick glance around revealed concern stamped upon the faces of a half-dozen people.

His grace released her hand but remained near as if he feared she’d swoon.

Emily was made of more starch than that, but she didn’t blame him for being cautious. After all, she’d have had sufficient time to move out of the horse’s path if she hadn’t been transfixed with terror.

“I’m quite fine,” she assured the small crowd with a smile that wasn’t as steady as she wished. Swiping at the blades of grass and dirt clinging to her garments and ruining her gloves in the process, she said, “Just a bit bruised and smudged.”

She raised her soiled dark-blue gloves—a new pair purchased just last week to match her redingote—and grimaced. Frugal to the point Justina had called her a pinchpenny, Emily abhorred waste.

Heatherston silently handed her parasol over.

“You gave me quite a start.” A plump nurse with a kindly face gently bounced the pram before her where a wide-eyed toddler lay, sucking his thumb. “I was certain you’d be run down.”

“She would’ve been if his grace hadn’t been so quick on his feet.” Wearing an alarmingly ugly tweed suit, a shade between vomit and pond scum, a skinny fellow straightened his bowler hat. “Well done, sir.”

How could he have known Heatherston was a duke?

“Hear, hear,” the trio of gentlemen sporting unfashionable muttonchops and wearing almost identical black striped suits intoned with enthusiastic nods. Bankers, she’d wager. Exchanging jovial grins, they shook each other’s hands as if they’d prevented Emily from being trampled.