What was wrong with him? He had no wish to see Miss Adelia Fox’s knees.
Did he?
Lion cleared his throat.
“It’s Marchingham,” he said. “I am desirous of a word with you, madam.”
“Well, I am not desirous of a word with you, my lord,” she called.
He set his teeth on edge. “I am not a lord, Miss Fox. I am a duke.”
“In America, we don’t have such silly customs. You’ll have to forgive me for my confusion. I’m an uncivilized Yankee.”
Fury rose within him. He was being insulted by a bloody door. The maddening woman hadn’t even deigned to open it.
“Is refusing to open a door to the person speaking to you also a product of being an uncivilized Yankee?” he snapped.
Muffled footsteps sounded within, and in the next breath, the portal opened just wide enough to reveal one green eye and the corner of her lush pink lips. “What do you want, Marchingham?”
Lion clenched his jaw so hard that the muscles ached. “I want to know why the mongrel isn’t in the stables.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Proving her a liar, the hound’s face appeared near the floor, or rather a black nose and a wrinkly forehead, accompanied by loud, pronounced sniffing.
He raised a brow. “I’m talking about the dog at your feet.”
“Oh, Dandy is not a dog.”
“Surely you aren’t going to insult my intelligence by suggesting it’s a mouse,” he drawled.
Had the snow ceased yet? He certainly hoped it had. Why couldn’t the vexing chit have decided to invite herself in summer instead? He’d have already had her waiting for the next train out of here by now.
“Of course not,” Miss Fox said brightly. “I would never dream of insulting your intelligence, Your Graceship.”
His gaze narrowed. “The correct form of address isYour Grace, Miss Fox.”
She beamed. “As I said.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Yes, I did.”
“No, you—” Lion stopped himself, gritting his teeth. Why was he arguing with this lunatic? “Explain, if you please. If the snuffling thing at your feet isn’t a dog, then what, precisely, is it?”
He could hardly wait for her response.
“She is my darling,” Miss Fox answered. “My baby. I am her mama, you see.”
“You cannot be a mother to a mongrel.”
Miss Fox sighed, shaking her head. “I’m afraid you’re wrong, my lord.”
She was mocking him. Intentionally addressing him incorrectly.
“Also, Dandelion isnota mongrel,” she added. “She hails from exquisite French bulldog bloodlines in Paris.”
As if to concur, the hound barked at him. Then barked again. And again.
