“Where’s Mr. Whiskers now?” Pandy asked with the naïve innocence of a child who has no notion of mortality.
“He was quite old, and he grew sick several winters ago,” she explained gently, her throat going thick with sadness at the reminder of her beloved cat, even after the passage of so much time.
“Oh,” the girl said with feeling.
“Do put the frame back where it belongs, Pandy,” Brandon commanded. “Before Cat eats it.”
Lottie eyed the dog, who was sniffing at Pandora’s skirts. “Has Cat been eating things she shouldn’t?”
“She appears to have a fondness for table legs and the gowns of nursemaids,” he drawled.
“Oh dear.” Lottie cast a speculative glance in the direction of her own tables.
“Fortunately, you’re not a nursemaid,” he said.
“But Idohave tables, Brandon.”
“Pandy will make certain Cat doesn’t cause mischief whilst she’s visiting.”
Her eyes narrowed, and she swiveled her head back to the handsome duke currently inhabiting her settee. “What do you mean,whilst she’s visiting?”
“Ah.” He gave her a rueful look, running a hand along his sharp, whisker-shadowed jaw. “That is the, er, favor I must beg you.”
She sighed. “Go on.”
“I had to sack the last nursemaid after what you told me,” he said quietly. “And the maid I cozened into taking up the situation had a fit of the vapors last evening when I was at the ball and Cat tore away half her skirts.”
“Oh dear.”
“Quite.” His smile was pained.
Lottie couldn’t say why she was taking an absurd enjoyment from his plight. Only that she was.
“Cat has discovered she possesses an affinity for eating skirts,” she mused. “What makes you think she won’t attempt to make mine her dinner?”
“Yours are silk.”
Quick with an answer, every time. The man’s tongue was despicably talented, and Lottie could attest to that personally, in more ways than one.
“I fail to see why that should matter,” she countered, clinging to her patience.
“Cat doesn’t prefer to eat silk, as far as I can tell.”
She stared at him, searching for a hint of laughter. A tiny twitch in his jaw. The wink of an eye. Anything to suggest he was jesting.
Nothing.
“Have you offered her silk as a dining option?” she asked suspiciously.
“Er, no. Pig trotters, cheese, and black French twill appear to be favorites, however.”
“Perhaps Cat is a dog who is also part goat,” she reasoned with a grin.
Brandon winced. “Either way, I must attend to a meeting where I cannot, for reasons you likely can discern, have Pandy as an accompaniment. You have been her champion. I was hoping you might be amenable to keeping her here with you for several hours.”
A meeting where the child wouldn’t be welcome. Her mind instantly flew to his need of a bride. Was he depositing his daughter with her so that he could court another woman? And after what had happened between the two of them yesterday?
She stiffened her spine, her levity dying, for she disliked the notion immensely. “As you said, Brandon, I’m not a nursemaid.”
