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gentlemen fared no better.
    “I’d have a full bag by now in Scot—”  Norwood abruptly halted as one of the dogs froze. The beaters flushed a dozen partridges into the air. Seven guns fired simultaneously.
    “Got one,” said Norwood in satisfaction, pausing to reload.
    “Damnation,” swore Lord Geoffrey. “I only winged mine.”
    The talk turned to horses as they circled a craggy outcrop. Despite dangling after the same lady during the previous Season, the men were friends, Geoffrey’s estate running with Norwood Castle. His lordship was several years younger than his grace and possessed two brothers and four nephews to protect him from any titles, so he was under no pressure. He had not yet seriously considered marrying, content to wait until he found a lady he truly cared about.
    Frustration mounted, finally prompting the party to split up. Thorne, Craven, and Bradford worked their way through a stand of trees while the others veered around the flank of the hill. The heavy overcast that had produced overnight showers was dissipating, allowing sunbeams to fleetingly spotlight a hilltop or stream or jutting rock.
    The accident occurred so suddenly that Norwood had no time to think. The dogs had flushed another covey of partridge, along with a pheasant. Choosing the elusive partridge as being more worthy of his skill, he allowed Geoffrey to bring down the larger bird. But he was so intent on tracking his game that he paid little heed to the terrain. As he fired, the recoil drove his weight against his back foot which promptly collapsed when the ground gave way beneath it. Tumbling down a steep hill, he fetched up against a rock at the bottom.
    “Are you all right?” gasped Geoffrey after an undignified race down an easier slope.
    “I think so..” Norwood shook his head to clear the dizziness and stood up. His right knee collapsed, depositing him back on the ground.
    “You don’t look it,” observed his friend.
    Norwood took a moment to glance around. No one but Geoffrey seemed aware of his fall. They had lagged behind the Stevenses, who doubtless believed they had now stopped to reload. He was lucky. His only injuries were a gash on the thigh and a wrenched knee.
    “It is nothing,” he disclaimed, removing his cravat to wrap the thigh. “But I had best return to the house and change..” His breeches were torn and the rest of his clothing muddy.
    “I will collect our horses,” his friend offered.
    “Get mine, if you will, but you must stay with the others. I would rather not make anything of this. If anyone asks, I grew weary of the paucity of game.”
    Geoffrey stared for several seconds before nodding in agreement.
    * * * *
    Norwood berated himself as he rode slowly back toward the Court. How had he allowed his attention to wander so badly?  He was always cautious, especially when shooting over unfamiliar ground. But today he had paid no attention to his surroundings. Despite maintaining the usual conversation, his mind had been uselessly pondering his upcoming betrothal.
    Why?  Five months of thought had examined every benefit and pitfall many times over. The decision was made. His courtship was too advanced to set aside. And why would he want to?  Lady Emily’s expectations were identical to his own. She wanted only the social cachet she would have as the Duchess of Norwood. Neither enjoyed emotional scenes. Both looked for a marriage of convenience. It was perfect.
    He must speak to Thorne and get the formalities out of the way. There was no reason to feel nervous about it. He had been through the process before. And this time he was worldly enough to make no mistakes. He shuddered as another picture leaked out of his memory.
    An imposing butler had ushered him into Crompton’s library where Annabelle’s father greeted him warmly and pressed an excellent French brandy on him.
    “I wish to pay my addresses to Miss Crompton, my lord,” he had blurted out once the necessary comments on health