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Nala never behaved like this and concern for the artist’s safety drove Beatrice to lengthen her stride into a sprint. The emeralds at her neck bounced up and down, and one curl plopped onto her shoulder and then another curl. And another.

Nala skidded to a stop in front of Mr. Westbrook, and then, to Beatrice’s utter astonishment, rose on her hind legs, placed both her immense paws on his shoulders, and gave him a slobbery doggy kiss before they both toppled to the ground.

“Oomph.” Mr. Westbrook landed with a thud, Nala atop him and continuing to lick his face.

Teddy joined the fray, running in circles around the two of them, barking.

“Oh, no.” In her shock, Beatrice released her gown, which promptly tangled about her legs.

Rip.

Before she could cry out, she fell, rolling over and landing a few feet from Mr. Westbrook.

She only spared half a second to consider her coiffure and gown’s complete destruction. Had she planned this debacle, the outcome couldn’t have been better.

“I say, Miss Fairfax. Are you all right?”

Though his tone was gentle, distinct humor underscored Mr. Westbrook’s query.

Face scorching with humiliation, Beatrice dared to open her eyes, her gaze colliding with midnight blue. A tremor swept through her.

More than all right, thank you.

He patted Nala’s withers as if it were a common occurrence to be knocked on one’s back by a huge hound and to have the beast perch upon one’s prone form.

Oh, he is quite the loveliest man I’ve ever seen.

Beatrice offered a shy smile.

“I b-believe, Mr. Westbrook, ’tis I who ought t-to be asking you that question.” As she sat up, she slid her attention to Nala. “Nala, off M-Mr. Westbrook. Sit.”

Naturally, her blasted stutter would have to manifest.

Nala promptly complied, her tail thumping a happy rhythm.

Tongue lolling, Teddy plopped his little bottom beside her.

Nala never took to strangers.

Never.

“What the devil goes on here?”