To Marry A Matchmaker (Historical Romance) by Michelle Styles

weakness at being so cripplingly afraid of dogs, she refused to faint. She never fainted. It was a point of principle. Fainting was for people like her late mother who had nothing better to do and wanted attention.
    ‘You shouldn’t have risked yourself for me,’ she said, concentrating on the stones in the road. ‘I fell and became winded. It could happen to anyone. That coach would have missed me.’
    ‘Why would I walk away from a person in trouble, particularly someone I consider to be a friend?’ he asked in that lilting Northumbrian accent of his. ‘And I refuse to allow my friends to be crushed under the wheels of a coach.’
    ‘Shall I fashion you a halo? Your Good Samaritan credentials are impeccable,’ she said, trying to move her ankle; waves of pain crashed over her. Perhaps she’d been overoptimistic in thinking she could make her way home. Her ankle seemed to be insistent on aching. Of all the stupid accidents, to try to run but instead to trip and turn her ankle. And then the dog had sunk his teethin, pulling at her. It might hurt, but there wasn’t much blood. That had to be a good sign.
    She would be willing to guess that Robert Montemorcy had had a good glimpse of her petticoats. She tried to remember if she was wearing her lace-trimmed one or the more practical flannel one or, worse still, the one that needed mending.
    ‘Your humour was unaffected and that is a start.’ A dimple flashed in his cheek. ‘Henri.’
    She looked up into his piercing amber eyes. Her insides did a queer sort of leap that had nothing to do with her ankle. ‘Are you really going to call me that? You’ve always called me Lady Thorndike before.’
    ‘You said I might as I saved your life.’ He leant close and his breath fanned her cheek. ‘Who am I to deny a beautiful woman? You may call me Robert if you desire.’
    ‘Not that. I’m just…well…me.’ Henri squashed the faint sense of giddy pleasure that ran through her. Not even Edmund had considered her beautiful—striking, maybe, but not a beauty. Her nose and mouth were too big for her face, and her figure a bit too angular. ‘My colouring and figure are all wrong to be considered fashionable.’
    ‘You’re far too modest, Henri.’ The lines about his eyes crinkled and made him appear younger, more approachable. ‘And here I thought you didn’t care a jot for fashion. You have your own unique style.’
    She stared up at the blue sky, trying to gather her wits about her. She knew what he was doing—speaking of inconsequential things until she had recovered. She wished they weren’t quite so personal. She needed to change the subject quickly or that unsettling ache inher belly would grow. She needed to get up and be on the same level as he. Then she could take control of the conversation and keep it away from potentially troublesome personal details. If he was a gentleman, he’d never refer to the kiss again. It was an aberration brought on by the dog attack.
    Henri attempted to stand, then sat back down again as throbbing pain shot from her ankle. She hugged her knees to her chest.
    ‘A dangerous dog like that should have been chained. It savaged my leg without provocation,’ she said, attempting to control the pain. Mind over body. Once she started to walk, she’d shake off the pain. ‘I expect I need to arrange a talk for next autumn on the correct care of dangerous animals. The last one obviously had no effect whatsoever.’
    ‘The dog is not to blame. The owner is.’ His dark brown eyes burned. ‘And as I’m the man who pulled the dog away from you, I’m not the one who needs the lecture. As attempts to deflect attention from your injury go, that was pretty pathetic. I’m concerned about
you,
Henri, not what caused the accident. The causes can be remedied later.’
    He’d seen through her ruse. With an effort she turned her head. The world tilted slightly and if anyone else had been standing beside her she would have given in to the