She continued to gaze at him, her expression inscrutable. He made to turn away again.
“Apology accepted,” she said curtly.
He raised one eyebrow.
“Iwashumiliated,” she admitted. “I felt foolish and was very angry.”
“Yes,” he said. “I know.”
They stood looking at each other for a few moments. She rubbed her hands lightly over the bark on either side of her, and he looked down at them. Slender fingered. Caressing. There was something unconsciously erotic about the movement. She must have realized it or at least felt uncomfortable at his scrutiny. She curled her hands into fists in a closed, defensive gesture.
He turned decisively away then to stride off through the trees in the direction of the house. But something made him stop and look back.
“Are you on your way to the house?” he asked.
For a moment he thought she was going to say no and willed her to do so. Damn his impulsivity. Then she shruggedher shoulders slightly, pushed herself away from the tree with her hands, and stepped toward him.
“Yes, I suppose I am,” she said.
Beauty wagged her tail.
•••
Abigail was aware that she had no reason to dislike him any longer. He had apologized for yesterday. And directly after the Battle of Waterloo he had taken pity on an ugly, half-starved puppy. He had some sense of humor—what she resembles most these days is a vastly overweight greyhound wearing someone’s ratty old cast-off fur coat or else an unshorn sheep on stilts.
Perversely she wished he had not apologized, that he had not explained how he found his dog, that he did not have any sense of humor at all. Something about him gave her the shivers. Oh, she was not afraid of him despite his size, those well-remembered muscles beneath his coat and shirt, and his morose, scarred face. She did not fear he would do her physical harm. She just... It was the way he looked at her. Those very dark eyes of his seemed to see all of her, including her hands spread over the tree on either side of her just now, and left her feeling uncomfortable and breathless and... exposed.
Yet here she was walking along beside him and his dog, on the way back to the house when she had been intending to go to the lake. But there had been no point in continuing with that plan. Her peace had been shattered.
He was very tall. The top of her head must reach no higher than his chin. And he had a long stride. She was aware of him shortening it to accommodate her shorter one and almost felt his irritation.
That was unfair. How could onealmost feelwhat someoneelse was feeling but not saying? He was not saying anything. Neither was she. He exuded masculinity. But whatever did she mean by that? Well, what she meant was that he made her feel hot and bothered and self-conscious and tongue-tied and she did not like any of it.
She did not like him.
Her only comfort was that he would soon be gone. He had accompanied Harry home, which was undeniably kind of him, though it had been unnecessary in light of the fact that Avery and Alexander had gone to Paris for that express purpose. Having arrived here, he had stayed a few days. That was kind of him too, for if he had rushed away he might have left Harry fearing that it had been a nuisance to come all the way to Hinsford with a semi-invalid.
But surely he would go soon now. He must feel the awkwardness of being the only nonfamily member here—and there were more to come. Did he not have a home and family of his own to go to? He must surely be eager to be on his way. He had been away from England for at least a year and a bit, had he not, first on St. Helena and then in Paris? She almost asked him when he planned to leave, but the question seemed impertinent.
She said nothing. So did he.
They walked on in silence. When he did speak, it was to his dog.
“Beauty,” he said, “stay close to heel.”
Abigail immediately saw the reason. They were drawing clear of the trees to find that the lawn was rather crowded. Anna and Wren had come outside with the children. Rebecca, Anna’s two-year-old, was trying to catch up with Wren’s three-year-old Nathan, who was presumably pretending to be a kite or perhaps a bird as he ran in a wide circle, his outstretched arms dipping from one side to theother. Nathan’s brother, Richard, one year old, was toddling in a straight line toward the stables, where his father was in conversation with Avery and Marcel. Avery was holding Jonah, the baby. Little Josephine was at his side.
Josephine was the first to spot them. She came dashing toward Abigail, jabbering excitedly about her ride on Cousin Bertrand’s horse.
Oh, family was a wonderful thing, Abigail thought, blinking away unexpected tears. She had taken hers so much for granted during her growing years—until she thought she had lost it forever. Her father’s side of it, that was. The Westcott side.
“I saw you,” she told Josephine. “You were up before Papa. You have a splendid seat.”
But Josephine had spotted Beauty and stopped in her tracks when she was still several feet away. Nathan’s human kite was headed their way too before he dropped his arms to his sides and froze, also staring at the dog. Rebecca came after him, shrieking with mingled excitement and fright.
“Doggie,” she said, pointing.
Abigail was suddenly terrified for them. But Beauty stood quietly at the lieutenant colonel’s side, panting and waving her tail in greeting—just as though she had never in her life even dreamed of dashing at a human and pinning her to a tree with giant paws on her shoulders and doggie breath in her face and tongue licking her ear and neck.
