Idly, he wondered if she was going to cast up her accounts. That would certainly complete the ridiculous display, which seemed rather indicative of his life. How had he gone from being a rakish bachelor, unencumbered by anyone else, to a father, a man in love, who now had so many to answer to?
“You needn’t explain further, Miss Bennington,” he said reassuringly. “If, however, you would kindly see that the trotter is taken away with the rubbish before you lead Pandy back to the nursery?”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Miss Bennington curtseyed, clearly flustered. “Thank you, Your Grace. Once again, my deepest apologies for the interruption. It won’t happen again, will it, Miss Pandora?”
Pandy’s nose crinkled. “What’s a ’rupption?”
“What you have just done, child,” Grandmother informed her from behind the handkerchief. “A lady never goes running about halls or digging through dirt. She is to be clean and presentable and mild-mannered at all times.”
His daughter shook her head. “Then I don’t wanna be no lady.”
Brandon couldn’t contain his shout of laughter at Pandy’s response. Nor could he blame her. His daughter grinned at him, her green gaze twinkling. Cat barked. Miss Bennington looked as if she didn’t know whether to weep or flee from the room, and Grandmother continued to look bilious.
He rose from his chair and ventured to where Pandy stood, dubious pig trotter still in hand, and sank to his haunches so that they were at eye level. “You’ll make a fine lady one day, Pandy girl. But for now, you’re to do as Miss Bennington says. You mustn’t run off with Cat or play chase-chase indoors. Do you understand?”
She nodded, looking a bit crestfallen. “Yes, Papa.”
There was that word, the one that was by far the greatest title he’d worn, the mantle that made him feel like a goddamned king. Papa.
He ruffled her curls affectionately. “Good. And if you discover any pig trotters Cat has buried in the garden, you’re to tell Shilling, who will see that they’re properly removed by a footman.”
Her expression grew mulish. “But Cat loves ’em.”
“Cat also loves to scoot her bum on the carpets,” he explained patiently. “That doesn’t mean she ought to do so.”
“Brandon!” protested his grandmother over his shoulder, her tone scandalized.
“That was a rather indelicate matter for me to discuss,” he conceded, giving Pandy a wink. “You see? None of us is perfect. We are, each one of us, a book that’s still being written. From now on, Cat is only to have fresh trotters from the kitchens, no running about, and mind Miss Bennington.”
She nodded solemnly. “Yes, Papa.”
He bussed a kiss over her crown, love for her bubbling up in his heart, more than he had ever known possible. “Now run along, Pandy girl, and do see that you give the trotter to one of the footmen. It’s making Great-Grandmama gag.”
“I would never do something as indecorous as that,” his grandmother protested, her voice muffled from behind the handkerchief.
He gave Pandy another wink and patted her lightly on the head.
Cat barked, still miffed that she was being kept away from her stinky prize. Brandon gave her a thorough scratch between her ears as well. “Off you go, Pandy girl. And Cat, too.”
Cat barked, her tongue lolling. Pandy dipped into a passable enough curtsy, and then she hastened toward her waiting nursemaid, thankfully taking the trail of stench along with her.Cat followed in her wake, ever hopeful that she might get a second mouthful of rotten pig trotter.
Miss Bennington curtseyed. “Thank you, Your Grace, madam. It won’t happen again. You have my word.”
He inclined his head. “Thank you, Miss Bennington.”
Brandon waited until the unlikely trio filed from the drawing room, rotten pig trotter and all, before returning to his chair. In the absence of the source of the smell, Grandmother lowered her handkerchief, eyeing him warily.
“The child called you Papa, Brandon.”
“I am her father, am I not? What else should she call me?” he asked evenly, holding her stare without flinching.
She was silent for a moment, taking stock of him, perhaps the way some might a horse one was intending to purchase. “You truly intend to keep her here,” she said at last, breaking the silence.
“It’s where she belongs,” he repeated firmly. “I’ll not lock her away like a shameful secret. The woman I intend to wed will need to accept my position on the matter, and that is final.”
She thumped her cane on the floor with another harrumph. “Well, you had better wed the girl quickly, because you’re running out of time, and I remain firm in my determination that Horace will receive Wingfield Hall and the rest of my fortune if you refuse to marry.”
“I assure you, Grandmama, that I have already chosen my bride. Cousin Horace won’t be setting so much as one foot upon Wingfield Hall if I have anything to say about it.”
