“A lofty name for a furred creature who stinks and hides beneath my desk,” he snapped. And then, the temptation to touch her face proved too great to resist. His fingers rested upon her soft, smooth chin, tipping it up. Tilting her waiting, delicious mouth toward his. “Furthermore, I do not now, nor have I ever desired, a creature to tend to.”
“Perhaps not,” A lone, neat brow rose, taunting him. “But perhaps you may long for companionship. Dogs are very loyal creatures, quite comforting, or so I am told by Freddy.”
Jealousy surged through him, bitter and sharp and stinging. He did not like the way it felt. His brows snapped together as he pinned her with his most ferocious frown. “Who the devil is Freddy?” he growled.
Whoever the fellow was, Morgan would make him swallow his teeth. At the very least, he would leave the bastard wishing he had never importuned the Marchioness of Searle.Devil take it, was Freddy a former suitor of hers? His ears were growing hotter by the moment as he contemplated all the possible reasons for his wife being acquainted with a cursedFreddywho fancied he could speak on behalf of all canines.
She flushed, and by God, the delicious pink tinge swept over her cheeks, down her throat, and all across her delectable décolletage. She resembled nothing in that moment so much as a confection he would devour in small bites.
Christ, he could consume her whole. Lift her skirts…would the sainted Freddy perform any of those feats? He rather doubted it. If Freddy even so much as dared, Morgan would plant him a facer so vicious that it would send him into next Wednesday.
“Freddy is Lady Frederica Isling, mayhap better known to you as Mrs. Duncan Kirkwood.” Her frown overtook her entire face then, anchoring the corners of her lush lips into a perfect frown, leaving her looking joyless and empty and ferocious all at once.
His foolish jealousy dissipated with the suddenness of a summer thunderstorm chased by the sun. It would seem the bloodlust he had felt toward the mysterious Freddy was wholly unwarranted. Oddly, his chest felt lighter.
He cleared his throat. “Indeed. Pray explain why you had occasion to discuss canines with Mrs. Kirkwood.”
Her countenance softened. “Do not fear, my lord. I did not divulge your nightmares to Freddy.”
Irritation thundered through him once more, replacing the relief. “I do not have nightmares.”
It was a lie, and they both knew it. But he detested this weakness within him, a frailty he could not shake or control. He stared at her, daring her to contradict him.
To his relief, she did not. Instead, she rose at last. “If you do not want Julius Caesar, I will keep him for myself. I never had a pet dog of my own, though I wholeheartedly longed for one. Mama’s constitution did not allow such a possibility, for she claims they make her sneeze. She finds furred creatures grotesque, you know. Even felines.”
The memory of those brown eyes returned to him once more. Sad, pathetic little pup, really. And what ailed him was he saw himself in it.
“Where did you find the mongrel?” he asked in spite of himself.
She smiled as if he had pleased her, and he felt the effects of that sweet quirk of her lips in a place where he was supposed to feel nothing, his heart.
“The Duchess of Whitley aided me,” she said softly. “Her Grace has recently acquired a pug for His Grace.”
“You accomplished all this while I was gone today?”
“Yes.” Her smile deepened, and for the first time, he spied a charming dimple in her right cheek. “For you.”
For him.
Her words took him aback. No one had done something for him in…he could not even recall how long it had been. Surely one of his nurses or his old governesses had shown him kindness, but that was a long time ago now, and if they had, he could not recall it. He knew without a doubt neither his mother nor his father ever had. They had been too preoccupied with venting their mutual hatred upon each other that there had been little room for anyone else in their lives. Especially not their sons, reminders of the bloodless sense of duty which had drawn them together in matrimony.
“But it would seem you are displeased with Julius Caesar, and that was not my intention,” she continued. “I shall see him returned if you would prefer, my lord.”
Brown, blinking eyes taunted him.
“A ridiculous name for a dog,” he said instead of answering her, offering her his arm to escort her from the dining room.
Her hand slid neatly into the crook of his elbow, as if that was where it had always been meant to sit. As if their bodies had each been fashioned for the other. “You may call him Caesar instead, if you prefer, my lord.”
He made a noncommittal sound in his throat. It would seem the mutt was staying after all. “We shall see, madam.”
Chapter Eight
“There you are,my lady.” Hill finished brushing out Leonora’s curls. “Is there anything else I can do for you this evening?”
“Thank you, Hill.” Leonora, seated before a looking glass in her dressing area, contemplated her reflection. She wore nothing beneath her dressing gown but a nightdress so fine it was transparent, and she felt as if she were entirely nude, her body acutely conscious Searle would soon make his evening visit. “That will be all.”
Hill quietly slipped from the chamber, leaving her alone with her thoughts.
