"They're completely different." He leaned forward and positioned himself this time so that he was directly in front of the dog. "Watch. I'll demonstrate the proper technique for winning a puppy's loyalty."
"There's a technique?"
"Obviously." Andrew lowered his voice to what he hoped was an appealing tone. "Come here, boy. Come to me, and I'll... I'll let you sleep on my bed. How's that for an offer?"
"You're going to regret that promise when he's muddy," Isobel warned.
"A small price to pay for victory." He held out his hand. "Come on, boy. Don't make me beg."
The dog stood, stretched, and then laid its head in Isobel’s lap before heaving a contented sigh.
Andrew pressed a hand to his chest in mock devastation. "Betrayed. By a dog."
Isobel's laugh rang out again, bright and unrestrained. "Perhaps you're losing your touch, Your Grace."
"Impossible. I never lose." But he couldn't keep the smile from his face as he watched her gather scratch the dog gently behind the ears. The puppy immediately settled against her as if he'd always belonged there.
"You just lost to a woman and a puppy," she pointed out.
"The first time I've lost to both in the same day." Andrew laughed internally at what had just unfolded between them. If his staff found the Duke and Duchess of Foxdrey sitting on the entrance hall floor like children, so be it. "Actually, that's not quite accurate. This is my second rejection."
"Second?" She looked at him curiously. "Who else rejected you?"
"My wife."
Her expression shifted, amusement fading into something more guarded. "I haven't rejected you."
"Haven't you?" He kept his tone light, but there was an edge beneath it. "Every time I get close, you pull away. Every time we start to breach the distance between us, you find a reason to retreat."
"That's not—" She stopped, jaw tightening. "You're the one who told me to return to my room the other night."
They stared at each other, the air between them crackling with unspoken tension. The dog, apparently sensing the shift in mood, whined softly and burrowed deeper into Isobel's lap.
"We should name him," Isobel said finally, breaking the spell. "We can't keep calling him 'the puppy' or 'menace.'"
"No, I suppose not." Andrew was grateful for the change in subject, even if part of him wanted to push further, to demand she acknowledge the wanting he saw in her eyes. "Though 'menace' has a certain ring to it."
"We are not naming our dog Menace."
"Ourdog." He smiled. "I rather like the sound of that."
Her cheeks flushed pink. "You know what I meant."
"I do. But I enjoy watching you fluster." He reached over to pet the dog, his hand deliberately brushing against Isobel's. "What about Mischief?"
"Better than Menace, but still no."
"Trouble?"
"Are you simply going to suggest every word for 'poorly behaved'?"
"Would you prefer something noble? Prince? Duke? Lord Barkington?"
She laughed despite herself. "Lord Barkington?"
"Too much?"
"Far too much." She looked down at the puppy, who had fallen asleep in her lap, small body rising and falling with each breath. "He needs a name that means something. Not just a jest."
