Reforming Lord Neil: A Regency Romance (Inglewood Book 5)

by Sally Britton

  A pair of eyes stared back, from above a long snout and in a fur-covered face. The animal had blue eyes, gray tufts of fur, and the thinnest belly Neil had ever seen on a dog.

  “Oh, you poor devil.” Neil kept his voice soft, unwilling to cause the animal further distress. The bedraggled creature was likely frightened. He whistled quietly and held his hand out in invitation. The dog pushed itself deeper into the hedge and turned its head away from him.

  An animal trained as a guard dog would react defensively. Most of the hunters he’d raised would’ve wagged a tail and come out, head ducked down. But this creature behaved as though it hoped to be ignored and forgotten. A gentle animal, then, likely with reason to distrust a man.

  Neil considered the animal. If he pretended he had never seen the dog, walked away, it would likely be gone as soon as the rain let up. Which might occur sooner rather than later.

  Neil slowly backed away from the blackberry brambles, rose to his feet, and walked calmly back toward the house. When he was several yards away from the dog, he picked up the pace, almost running toward the cottage. When he arrived at the back door, he nearly ran directly through, but remembered his boots before stepping on the kitchen floor.

  That likely saved him from a rebuke from Mrs. Godwin. He cleared his throat and looked inside.

  Caroline sat at the worktable, holding a biscuit. Her eyebrows went clear up to her black curls.

  “Caroline,” he said, grinning widely at her. “I need a few of those biscuits. Would you get them for me?”

  The sweet child did not even ask a question. She beamed back at him, likely pleased because he finally needed something from her. She slid off the bench and ran to the pantry. When she came out again, both hands were full of ginger and shortbread biscuits. She held them out to him, her grin wide. “Here you are, Mr. Duncan.”

  “Thank you.” He bowed deeply as he accepted the abundance of treats. “I’ll have a story to tell you later.” He winked, then hurried back into the rain.

  It didn’t take him long to return to the bushes, pockets full of sweets. He found where he had kneeled before and resumed the position. The dog was still there. It made eye contact with him a moment and then tried to ignore him again.

  “That’s hardly friendly,” Neil said, soft and coaxing. “I’ve gone to get you something. A real treat.” He took a shortbread biscuit from one of his pockets and held it out to the animal, still too far away from him for him to touch it. The dog’s eyes moved and froze upon seeing his hand. Hunger shone in the pitiful animal’s eyes.

  Good.

  Neil tossed the biscuit directly beneath the dog’s snout.

  Cautiously, the animal bent and sniffed the biscuit once before gulping it down. Neil grinned at his success and tossed another biscuit, this one ginger. The dog snapped it up even faster. Neil tossed the next one a few inches closer to himself.

  “There’s a good dog. Try another bite of biscuit.” He soothed with his voice, bringing the dog closer with each treat, and backing away from the bush. The dog stopped just shy of leaving cover, watching Neil carefully. Slowly the gray head raised, the dog’s blue eyes wide and afraid. Its tail wagged, hesitantly.

  “You can trust me,” Neil said, still low to the ground. He held out his hand with another biscuit as far from himself as he could reach. “I promise. I’ve never hurt any creature, and dogs are my favorite of all four-legged sorts.”

  The animal sniffed the biscuit, then carefully took it from him and chewed it to bits before swallowing. Neil held out only his hand next. The dog sniffed at it, then licked at his fingertips, likely tasting all the leftover bits of sugar and ginger. The tail wagged again, with somewhat more enthusiasm than before.

  Slowly, Neil moved his hand to scratch behind the dog’s floppy gray and black ears. He’d never seen a dog bred to look the way this one did. The gray, wavy coat was reminiscent of a Spaniel, but the structure of the animal’s head was all wrong, the snout too long. Its tail hadn’t been cropped, had no curl to the bone, and the fur grew long enough to make a banner of the tail when it wagged.

  A mongrel, then. The dog was likely the product of an unwanted mix of parents. But it wasn’t a puppy. It hadn’t been killed at birth, as most unwanted litters suffered that fate from kennel masters. Where had the poor bedraggled thing come from?

  He offered the animal another ginger biscuit.

  “Wherever you came from, and whatever your lineage, I will not turn you away now.” Neil scratched the dog behind its ears, pleased when the animal leaned into his touch. “Wary beast that you are, I can’t imagine you’ve been treated well in the past.” He carefully wrapped his arms around the dog’s legs before standing, lifting the animal with him.

  The dog did not fight him, but relaxed against his chest. It seemed he’d won the animal’s trust. Or perhaps the creature was too hungry, tired, and wet to care what became of it.

  But Neil cared, much to his own surprise, and the dog would soon find itself warm and dry. And fed on more than biscuits.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Teresa fretted at the kitchen window, looking out repeatedly across the barnyard to where the lantern light glowed from the open doorway. Her mother sat behind her at the table, reading by another lamp the book of sonnets Mr. Duncan had gifted them.

  “What is taking Caroline so long?” Teresa asked.

  She had decided it would be best to let her daughter practice milking Abigail at night. Not because Teresa wished to avoid the barn that evening. Of course not. It was merely time for the girl to take on greater responsibility, and Caroline always wanted to check on her kitten anyway. The arrangement made sense.

  The only sound in the kitchen was when Mother turned the page in the book. Until she spoke. “You will bite a hole through your lip if you keep that up.”

  Immediately, Teresa let her lip out of her teeth. She pulled her shawl closer. “Old habit.”

  “Very old.” Mother put a ribbon between the pages of the book and closed it. “You used to do that when you were a child, working yourself up to ask for something you were certain your father or I would deny you.”

  Teresa relaxed, letting out a strained laugh. “Was I a vexatious child?”

  “No more so than our sweet Cara.” Mother looked at the door, then pointedly at Teresa. “You may as well go and see what is keeping her. Mothers often must go looking for wandering daughters. At least until they’re old enough to know best when to come home.”

  “I am certain Caroline is well enough out there.” Teresa looked out the window again and pulled her bottom lip between her teeth before catching herself.

  “Teresa.” Her mother pointed to the door. “Out with you.”

  “You do not understand, Mother.” Teresa went to the door, going so far as to rest her hand on the latch. “I have complicated things between Mr. Duncan and myself.”

  Mother sniffed and turned her back on Teresa. “Oh, dear child, I understand quite well. Never doubt that.”

  “And you would still send me out there?” Teresa asked, hesitantly. Her mother could not truly know and certainly never guess that her only daughter had kissed a man that very day. The man currently residing in their barn.

  “I would.” Mother rose and took her book up. “Good night, Teresa.”

  “Good night, Mother.” Teresa watched her mother go through the kitchen into the main room of the house, then turned back to the door. Strengthening her resolve, Teresa undid the latch and walked out into the night, toward the barn.

  When she entered, her lamp in hand, she did not immediately spy her daughter or Mr. Duncan. She heard him speaking, though.

  “We cannot always tell what a creature has been through by looking at them, be it man or beast. But people certainly hide things better. This poor creature, you can see she is afraid, though she wants to trust me.”

  Teresa paused, waiting for her daughter to answer.

  "It is a good thing you found her, Mr. Duncan. She is so sweet a
nd gentle.” One could hear compassion in Caroline’s voice. Her heart was always quick to love and care for people and animals alike. It would be hard on her the day Mr. Duncan left.

  Likely hard on all of them. The man had stirred up their lives with his company, his quick wit. And now, for Teresa, with his kisses.

  She called out from the entrance to the barn. “Cara, dear, have you finished milking Abigail?”

  The straw in the empty stall between Abigail’s and the horse shifted, then Caroline peeped over the wall. “Mama, come and see what Mr. Duncan found.”

  Given that Abigail did not complain and moan at the sound of Teresa’s voice, the cow had likely been seen to. Teresa held her lantern up and approached the middle stall, where Caroline’s head disappeared again.

  When she came close enough to look over, the sight that met her gaze warmed her heart. Caroline sat in one corner with her lantern and kitten; in the opposite corner sat Mr. Duncan, his lantern out of his reach. In his lap, he held a dog. The dog’s head was upon Mr. Duncan’s knee, its eyes nearly closed, and Mr. Duncan was carefully combing through the matts of the dog’s hindquarters.

  He looked up at Teresa, and he shared no more than a tip of the head before focusing on the animal again. The dog trembled but did not resist his ministrations.

  She kept her voice low as she spoke. “Where did that poor thing come from?”

  Mr. Duncan’s tone was gentle, soothing even. “I found her beneath the brambles, in the rain. I fed her some of my dinner, and she trusts me enough now to let me get her clean.” The dog shuddered and turned its head into his side as though hiding, then it huffed.

  Caroline giggled. “I think she likes Mr. Duncan. He saved her.”

  “That he did.” Teresa smiled at her daughter. “And it’s kind of you to look in on them both, but if you have milked Abigail you had better take the milk inside and go on to bed.”

  “Yes, Mama.” Caroline stood, kissed her kitten on the head, and came out of the stall. The dog’s ears twitched when the latch clicked shut again. Caroline grinned at her mother, took up the pail where she had left it on a barrel, and Teresa followed her inside. The child was likely already planning how to play with the dog the next day and win its affection.

  Once the milk was seen to, Teresa kissed her daughter’s forehead and sent her to bed. But Teresa hesitated to make her own way up the stairs. She stood still, in the main room of the house, and looked to the basket upon the shelf full of her sewing things. Her best scissors were in that basket. It would be simple enough to have them sharpened again, and that dog’s fur had been in rather terrible shape.

  She went to the basket and found what she needed. Then, after another moment of hesitation, she fetched Henry’s shaving kit where she had left it in a cupboard. She hadn’t given it to Neil before, as it had seemed too personal a gift.

  “I might as well see them both trimmed,” she said. Leather pouch and scissors in one hand, lantern in the other, Teresa went back outside.

  She had only been away from the barn for ten minutes, perhaps. Yet she was relieved to find that Mr. Duncan had not moved from where she had seen him before. Teresa hung her lantern from a hook above the stalls, then entered. The dog in Mr. Duncan’s lap trembled again.

  “Poor little thing,” she whispered.

  Mr. Duncan did not glance up at her. “Wherever she came from, she was treated poorly. I cannot think why. This dog has not barked, and she’s not even once tried to bite. If she was not kept as a guard dog, why mistreat her?”

  “Some people are cruel for cruelty’s sake.” Teresa lowered herself to the straw next to Mr. Duncan, on the side near the dog’s tail, where most of the tangles were. She put the shaving pouch aside and kept the scissors in hand. “I brought some shears. If you wish to keep her calm, I can trim out the worst of the knots. It does not look as though you can do much more with your comb.”

  He looked down at the tool in his hand. “You are right, of course. Thank you.” He looped one arm gently beneath the dog’s body and used the other hand to keep stroking her gray and brown fur. “She seems to do better when I’m talking. That is why Caroline stayed. My conversation kept her outside. I apologize.”

  He still had not looked at her.

  “Caroline’s little heart would break if she saw a creature like this be neglected. I imagine sitting here with you did her a great deal of good.” Teresa used the comb herself to lift the matted fur away from the rest, keeping her hand gentle. When the shears opened, the dog cringed and whined. “Poor dear girl. We best keep talking.”

  “I hope your afternoon was pleasant, Mrs. Clapham.”

  Teresa’s eyes narrowed, and she looked at him, finally catching him looking at her. His smile was weak at best.

  Had her rejection of his kiss actually hurt him? That would put the situation in a new light entirely. If Mr. Duncan had been hurt, perhaps there had been more to the kiss than an impulsive gesture.

  She turned her attention back to her work. “It was pleasant enough. There was a great deal of work to do, but we have put up all the cherries in the jars I bought with the market money. Now we can trade or sell the jars.”

  “A wise investment.” Mr. Duncan rubbed the dog’s ears, and the animal’s shaking slowed. “It is admirable, how careful you are with your funds.”

  Teresa lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Saving pennies here and there has kept us fed and clothed. Some years ago, I never thought much about it. I have had to learn.”

  There was a bit of his old teasing back in his voice as he spoke. “As I have had to learn any number of things these past days. Tomorrow, I will have been here three weeks. Have I come along enough, do you think?”

  “Certainly.” She snipped off a particularly awful knot, then immediately gave the dog a gentle pat. “Especially when it comes to mucking out the stalls. One would think you had previous practice.”

  “Some. My specialty was actually in dog kennels.” He smirked, and then leaned his head back against the stall wall. “It was a regular form of discipline, for me to clean my father’s kennels.”

  “Dear me. Regular.” Teresa kept combing, looking for more places where the teeth of the comb could not pass. “Were you a very ill-behaved boy?”

  “I must have been.” Mr. Duncan’s eyes closed, but he kept comforting the dog. “But the punishment hardly mattered to me. I was never happier than when I was with the dogs. They are good creatures, when they are not half-starved before a hunt. They are loyal. Affectionate without reserve.”

  Teresa heard something in his voice, something sad and lonely. She worked on the animal’s tail a moment before deciding to pursue her thought. “Not like people. People hold back their affection, they love conditionally.”

  Mr. Duncan lowered his head again, his eyes green in the lantern light. “Especially the people that I know. Yes.”

  “Even your sister?” Teresa asked, remembering his letter, and the odd relief that had come to her when she realized the lady was his relative. Only—she told herself—because that meant no one was calling him home right away.

  Mr. Duncan shrugged, adjusted his hold on the dog, who nuzzled her nose back into his coat to hide. “Even my sister. I thought she was different. Growing up, the two of us were quite close. But Livvy—” He swallowed. “Olivia changed after she entered Society. She liked the games too much. Playing with people’s reputations, their hearts, and flaunting her popularity. I suppose she only did as our mother trained her to do.”

  Teresa nodded a little. She had met women like that in the past. “Can we turn your dog to her other side, please?”

  Neil carefully rolled the dog, putting her back to his stomach. She did not seem to like it, but as soon as his hand resumed his gentle attentions, she stilled again.

  “Why do you suppose you are different? That you do not behave as your family does?” Teresa asked, taking him back to their conversation. When he did not immediately answer, she glanced up at him, wincing.
“I have overstepped.”

  “No.” His lips quirked upward, but his eyebrows had drawn together tightly. “I suppose I ought to confess to you that I am not different.”

  “Your sister does not sound like someone who would bother herself to help a poor woman on her farm,” Teresa said lightly, working gently through the dog’s fur.

  “I suppose not. But I am getting something out of our arrangement, do not forget.”

  “A roof overhead, and peasant food.” Teresa kept her words light, amused. She accepted the truth of her situation well enough. “And you have never once complained.”

  “Not out loud,” he corrected, though his smile had widened. “I have never heard you complain, either.”

  “That is different. This is my life. What would complaining do, except place more weight and drudgery upon my shoulders?”

  Mr. Duncan’s eyes softened, and he moved his arm to gently nudge her shoulder. “Come now, Mrs. Clapham. We both know there are people who complain about every facet of their lives. Even if there is no more wrong than a cushion misplaced upon their couch.”

  A giggle escaped her, as she had known several ladies who would bemoan such a small thing as though their worlds were ending. “Mr. Duncan, we cannot judge others so harshly. Perhaps a misplaced cushion is the only tragedy they have ever known. They have nothing greater to measure it against.”

  He raised his eyebrows and shook his head with a dramatic sigh. “There. You have proven again that you are a woman like none I have met before. Compassionate and merciful.”

  Teresa lowered her gaze to the dog again, her fingers having found another knot. Never mind that she also wished to hide a pleased smile. “I can attribute those same qualities to you, sir, in this very moment.”

  He spoke dismissively. “I am fond of dogs.”

  “And kind to kittens, talkative children, stubborn cattle—I saw the chase Abigail led you on yesterday, you know—and respectful to women who have fallen from Society’s rungs. You cannot fool me. Perhaps you know how to play Society’s games, as your sister does, but I believe you are more the man who lives in my loft than whomever you were in a ballroom.” Teresa’s hands stilled. She bit her lip. Somehow, her little speech had gotten away from her. She had not meant to sound so admiring.