Page 12

Anything was better than becoming Stanhope’s mistress, she supposed.

Isabel heaved a sigh and leaned against a tree. Tears burned at the back of her eyes.

What had become of her life? She had been a diamond of the ton when she made her come out. Every eligible gentleman bowed at her feet at the mere opportunity to escort her on a walk or to bring her a cup of ratafia.

Now she was fighting to marry a man she didn’t like, so she could avoid becoming the mistress of a man she’d once loved.

Her gown was rumpled, her half-boots muddied, her hair disheveled, and she was looking for an enormous dog that had the power to knock her over with a flick of its paw.

And once she found it, what was she to do then?

Isabel flicked a lock of hair away from her face and pushed off the tree. She was not a simpering debutante. She would not be caught crying in the park alone. She was a strong, confident woman who had been taking care of her four siblings after the death of her parents. She’d single-handedly hosted balls and soirees for stuffy old lords and pretentious old matrons when her brother became a viscount.

She could handle one bloody dog!

Isabel put two fingers to her lips and whistled loudly. Whistling was not something ladies did. But nobody would expect ladylike behavior from her anymore. Her reputation was already in shreds. The least she could do was secure herself a husband.

She whistled again, although she doubted the dog would even respond.

Either fate had finally smiled upon her, or the dratted dog actually paid some heed to the whistle, for at that moment, the monstrous animal galloped toward her. Isabel positioned herself in front of the tree so if the dog attacked her again, she would catch him and not tumble down in the process.

The dog ran full speed toward her, his ears flapping in the wind, his tail wagging happily, his tongue sticking out and slobbering everything on his way. Isabel fisted her hands at her sides and dug her heels into the ground so as not to take off running.

Once the dog was just a foot away, he stood on his back paws and planted his muddy, heavy front paws onto Isabel’s chest.

Isabel screamed and covered her face with her hands. Forget being a strong, confident woman! She was not an animal handler. She had never seen such a large animal up close except for a horse, and if she were to die right then and there, she’d make certain to let everybody know that the Marquess of Vane was to blame.

But just as her tumultuous thoughts took on a dark turn, somebody dragged the dog away from her. Isabel opened her eyes to see Vane put a leash on the dog’s collar.

“Sit!” he commanded sternly, and the dog obeyed.

Hell, Isabel was tempted to obey too. Her legs barely held her, and she would enjoy sitting down immensely.

But now, as the dog sat quietly, she could see him clearly. He was truly large, although he didn’t seem so sitting next to the tall marquess. He had white—albeit dirty—fur with black spots on his back, his rear, and his head. His dark eyes shone with kindness, and his tongue still stuck out as he studied Isabel.

“Rogers! Gerald!” the marquess shouted.

A few moments later, two liveried footmen appeared by his side.

“Take Button home,” he said.

The footmen took the leash and led the animal away. Button barked in protest, although he had no choice but to follow the footmen.

The marquess looked at Isabel and shook his head as if in disapproval.

“I found him,” she said as confidently as she could, but her voice shook.

Vane took a handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to her. Isabel looked at it with a frown. What did she need the handkerchief for? She shrugged and wiped the sweat from her forehead.

The marquess’s shoulders shook, and a moment later, he started wheezing. The cad was laughing at her!

Isabel scowled and threw the handkerchief back at him. “What could possibly cause you such amusement?”

Vane caught the handkerchief against his chest and took a step closer. “What causes me amusement is the fact that you’re all covered in mud, but the only thing you think of wiping is sweat off your forehead.”

Isabel looked down at herself and groaned. Her cloak was covered in paw-shaped mud, her skirts were dirty, and she was certain her face was muddy as well.

“I doubt your handkerchief would help,” she grumbled.