The dog’s paws touched land just as the pelicans caught up. Understanding his life was in imminent danger, Sir Bacon bolted past Jamie and Hortense without even stopping to give his fur a shake. In the nick of time, Jamie grabbed Hortense’s hand and pulled her out of the way of fractious pelicans bent on avian revenge. The next instant, however, the birds wearied of their vendetta and pivoted on the water, their long beaks set at composed angles, their ruffled feathers coming to lie placid and flat. It was as if nothing of note had disturbed their morning.
Sir Bacon, however, was another matter. He’d begun charging around trees and shrubs in circles and figure eights, kicking up mulch in flower beds, eyes wild, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. In short, he was one het up dog.
“Sir Bacon, you come back here this instant,” Hortense shouted, not one bit returned to her usual composed self.
Her words must have cut through the fog of mayhem clouding the dog’s brain, for, across the distance of some twenty yards, he stopped dead and met the eye of his mistress. Then he charged forward, and all Jamie could do was watch in unfolding horror as, a few feet from her, the dog leapt up, her arms only shooting out at the last second to catch him.
The dog was a wet, muddy mess, and within three seconds, Hortense was, too. He began licking her face and continued making a general spectacle of himself. She sputtered and fussed and finally got him back on the ground, at which point he streaked off again. Arms held out from her body, she stood before Jamie, hair askew, a soggy, dirty, disheveled mess. Undoubtedly, she smelled of London pond. He may have just caught a whiff.
She met his eyes, a bewildered moment held, then, as one, they burst out in laughter. The sort of laughter that swept through a person’s entire body and left one enervated and heaving for breath. It wasn’t that this was better than what they shared last night, but it was different and novel, and he wanted more of it, more of this Hortense.
Increasingly, he wanted every part of her.
At last, the laughter faded, but not the lightness left in its wake. She picked at her sodden dress and pelisse. “I think the gods might be telling us it’s time to return home.” Too quickly for Jamie’s liking, she corrected herself. “To Asquith Court, that is.”
He caught her gaze. “It is your home, too.”
“We both know that isn’t quite the truth.”
He opened his mouth to contradict her, but Sir Bacon came to a racing stop at her feet, his little chest huffing and puffing. “All done with your mischief?” she asked, not quite achieving the scold intended.
Too soon, they’d arrived back at Asquith Court.
Inside the receiving hall, Hortense faced Jamie, her customary seriousness returned. Already, he missed her lightness.
“Did you have a purpose in seeking me out earlier?” she asked.
“I did,” he said reluctantly. He reached inside his greatcoat and dug out the missive. “I received this.”
She accepted the note, turning it over, noting the broken seal. The broken seal of a duke. “When?”
“This morning.”
She took in the contents without batting an eye. It was from Rothesbury, inviting the Marquess and Marchioness of Clare to his private box in Vauxhall Gardens for tonight’s entertainments.
She returned the invitation to Jamie. “That was remarkably fast.”
“Rothesbury isn’t known for curbing his appetites once they’re whetted.”
She caught his gaze. She’d detected the note of anger in his voice. Rothesbury wanted Hortense, and the man intended to have her. Jamie would be damned to the farthest reaches of hell before that happened.
And here it was again, rearing its head, protectiveness…possessiveness.
The latter feeling must be curbed. Hortense wasn’t the sort of woman who would stand for being possessed by anyone.
“I know the sort of man Rothesbury is,” she said. “He can be handled.”
Her confidence from last night stirred the air. It hadn’t always been so, Jamie wanted to protest. But it would be wrong of him, and, further, insulting to her. She’d learned how to navigate the world of men like Rothesbury. Yet she hadn’t been able to handle that long-ago man…
Never again would she find herself in such a position.
Never.
“You stay in my sights at all times.” His tone, forceful and autocratic, brooked no opposition.
“That will slow our results.”
“At all times,” he repeated, very nearly growling.
