Sweet. Jesus.

He nearly shoved his head under the pump for another dousing. If the reaction of every other male in the vicinity hadn’t told him his eyes didn’t lie, he’d have believed her a vision conjured by exhaustion. But not even his imagination could have manufactured such a breathtaking piece of womanhood.

She wore a deep cobalt blue riding habit that fitted her form so precisely, his hands itched to shape themselves around those well-defined curves. The habit was in the military style, with elaborate silver lacing across her torso that drew the eye to a magnificent bosom and trim waist.

Griffin peeled his gaze from her mouthwatering form and forced it to her face. Eyes as blue as the heavens stared at him beneath a sweep of thick black lashes and delicately arched brows. Rich golden ringlets escaped artfully from one side of her jaunty black hat.

The angle of that hat seemed unconscionably rakish. In fact, with her pearly skin and her adorable bow of a mouth, celestial eyes and gilt curls, the set of that particular piece of millinery struck a jarringly saucy note. It was as if an angel stood before him, closing one eye in a sly, knowing wink.

Stunned as he was, moments passed before the truth crashed in on him, like Armageddon.

Lady Rosamund Westruther.

Bloody. Bloody. Hell.