They continued consuming their imaginary sweets, and Cat became a bit bolder, her stomach apparently getting the better of her instinct for self-preservation.
“Cup your hands together now, my dear,” she instructed softly. “Pretend as if you are guarding something delicious there, and hold your hands just out of Cat’s reach. When she comes nearer, slide slowly away until she has emerged enough that I can scoop her up.”
The girl did an excellent job of heeding Lottie’s advice, making a show of “eating” her imaginary food and offering it to Cat, whose nose poked farther out of the shadows beneath the settee. A few more moments of luring, and Cat emerged sufficiently that Lottie was able to swoop, gathering the surprisingly strong bundle of wriggling fur in her arms.
“Hush,” she told the dog, trying to calm her when she attempted to escape. A decided odor rose up from the spaniel’s long, matted fur. “I do believe Cat is in need of a bath.”
Brandon muttered something beneath his breath that sounded suspiciously like an oath. But he wasn’t the one holding the squirming, smelly dog and befouling his fine silk bodice, was he?
“Perhaps Duke will give her a bath,” she suggested slyly.
“Oh yes, will you, Duke?” Pandy asked, unaware of Brandon’s displeasure.
Brandon’s eyes narrowed on Lottie. “One of the footmen shall have the honor, I believe. Thank you for your assistance, Lady Grenfell. I’m sure you must be ready to go on with whatever amusements you’ve planned for this afternoon.”
The rotter.
He was essentially telling her to leave.
Well, two could play at this game.
Smiling sweetly, she rose to her feet and unceremoniously offered the stinky, writhing beast to Brandon. “Here you are, Your Grace.”
“Thank you,” he gritted, taking the dog in a reluctant hold.
Cat twisted about and licked his chin, then his mouth before settling upon his earlobe, the flash of sharp little teeth the only warning the dog was about to bite before Brandon emitted a startled yelp. Lottie couldn’t suppress a chortle, which only made him glare at her more.
“Good day to you both,” she said cheerily. “It was ever so lovely to meet you and Cat, Miss Pandy.”
“And you, Missus Lady Grenspell,” the girl said, attempting a curtsy and nearly tripping over her own feet. “I do hope I’ll see you again.”
That same, troubling shift happened in the vicinity of Lottie’s heart.
She swallowed against an unwanted rush of tenderness for the girl. “Perhaps we will one day, my dear.”
But as Lottie took her leave, she knew that, more than likely, she’d never see the charming little spitfire or her odiferous rescued dog “Cat” again. She wouldn’t allow herself to feel sad over it, however. She was perfectly happy with her life just as it was.
Brandon was soakedand irritated when he stalked into his library, shoes sloshing, hair plastered to his forehead, shirt and coat and trousers thoroughly sodden, and found his irreverent friend King awaiting him, glass of wine in hand.
King flicked an indolent glance over him and raised a brow. “Is this a new sort of excess of which I’m blissfully unaware? Bathing with one’s clothes on and then…carrying on with one’s day?”
“Ha bloody ha,” he growled. “Give me some wine, will you?”
As it had turned out, washing the furred demon his daughter had discovered in the gardens had required not just the determined ministrations of two of his burliest footmen, but his intervention as well. He’d only realized as much when the drenched beast had gone tearing up the staircase at breakneck speed, however, forcing Brandon to engage in a rather humiliating game of “chase-chase” which had led to him falling on his arse, knocking a picture off the wall, and ultimately resorting to having Pandy fetch a pig trotter from Mrs. Willoughby to lure the little devil from her hiding place under hisowndamned bed.
From there, he had decided that the monster was going to have a thorough cleaning by his own hand.
King obligingly poured him a glass ofChateau Margauxand offered it to him. “Here you are, old chap. You look as if you need it.”
“I do.” He took the glass and poured half its contents down his throat in one long gulp, heedless of the wine’s excellent notes.
King grinned, gesturing toward his dripping person. “Care to explain?”
“It’s a long and tiresome story.” He glowered over his wine. “Suffice it to say that it involves a mongrel and the maddening Lady Grenfell.”
“Ah, dear Lottie,” King said with barely disguised amusement and a note of self-assured familiarity that suddenly had Brandon’s shoulders tensing.
“The countess is a friend of yours?” he asked, striving to keep his tone mild as he took another bracing sip of wine, trying to ignore the drip-drip-drip from his trouser leg onto the carpet.
