Kent, England
June, 1809Robert Kemble, earl of Macclesfield, had never been given to flights of fancy, but when he saw the girl by the lake, he fell instantly in love.
It wasn't her beauty. With her black hair and pert nose she was certainly attractive, but he'd seen women far more beautiful in the ballrooms of London.
It wasn't her intelligence. He had no reason to believe that she was stupid, but as he hadn't shared two words with her, he couldn't vouch for her intellect either.
It certainly wasn't her grace. His first glimpse of her came as she flailed her arms and slipped off a wet rock. She landed on another rock with a loud thump, followed by an equally loud "Oh, bother" as she stood and rubbed her sore backside.
He couldn't put his finger on it. All he knew was that she was perfect.
He moved forward, keeping himself hidden in the trees. She was in the process of stepping from one stone to another, and any fool could see that she was going to slip, because the stone she was stepping onto was slick with moss, and
Splash!
"Oh dear oh dear oh dear oh dear!"
Robert couldn't help but grin as she ignominiously hauled herself to the shore. The hem of her dress was soaked, and her slippers had to be ruined.
He leaned forward, noticing that her slippers were sitting in the sun, presumably where she'd left them before hopping from stone to stone. Smart girl, he thought approvingly.
She sat down on the grassy bank and began to wring out her dress, offering Robert a delicious view of her bare calves. Where had she stashed her stockings, he wondered.
And then, as if guided by that sixth sense only females seemed to possess, she jerked her head up sharply and looked about. "Robert?" she called out. "Robert! I know you're there."
Robert froze, certain that he'd never met her before, certain they'd never been introduced, and even more certain that even if they had, she'd not be calling him by his given name.
"Robert," she said, fairly yelling at him now. "I insist you show yourself."
He stepped forward. "As you wish, my lady." He said this with a courtly bow.
Her mouth fell open. She blinked and scrambled to her feet. Then she must have realized that
she was still holding the hem of her dress in her hands, baring her knees for all the world to see. She dropped the dress. "Who the devil are you?"
He offered her his best lopsided smile. "Robert."
"You are not Robert," she spluttered.
"I beg to differ with you," he said, not even trying to contain his amusement.
"Well, you're not my Robert."
An unexpected surge of jealousy raced through him. "And who is your Robert?"
"He's ... He's ... I fail to see how that is your concern."
Robert cocked his head, pretending to give the matter ample thought. "One might be able to broach the argument that since this is my land and your skirts are soaked with water from my pond, then it is indeed my concern."
The color drained from her face. "Oh, dear Lord, you're not his lordship."
He grinned. "I'm his lordship."
"But, but his lordship is supposed to be old!" She looked most perplexed and rather distraught .
"Ah. I see our problem. I'm his lordship's son. The other his lordship. And you are ... ?"
"In big trouble," she blurted out.
He took her hand, which she had not held out to him, and bowed over it. "I am extremely honored to make your acquaintance, Miss Trouble."
She giggled. "My name is Miss Big Trouble, if you please."
