Before Arnaud could introduce the girls to his fellow crewmen, George shouted at Lydia, “Why did you let your friend do such a dunder-headed thing?”
“I don’t think we’ve been introduced,” Lydia shouted right back.
Sophie interrupted the building argument between her friend and the newcomer. “Lydia, we owe these gentlemen an apology for racing off after this poor little fellow without a thought to their concerns.”
Arnaud interceded in conciliatory tones. “Ladies, these are my men who will help guard the two of you through the Season. Lady Lydia Howick and Miss Sophia Brancelli, this is Captain George Neville, able leader of the Royal Marines aboard my ship, and his silent partner is First Lieutenant Richard Bourne. Arnaud let out a grateful sigh when his fiery lieutenant simply nodded and said, “Very pleased to make your acquaintances.”
George, however, was another matter. He continued to glower at Lydia who remained strangely quiet. At a sharp jab from Arnaud, he softened his demeanor. “I beg your pardon, milady, Miss Brancelli. It is a great pleasure to make your acquaintances.
“Now, can we leave this wooded disaster waiting to happen and make our way through the mob of carriages? I cannot see what the high and mighty get out of this endless parade of folks gawking and being gawked at.” Captain Neville turned on his heel without another word and led them back down the path at a quick trot.
Sophie moved close to Arnaud with her small ward held out in front of her in a futile effort to keep her dress away from the creature’s malodorous, waving paws.
“Give me the little beggar,” Arnaud said, reaching out and gathering the animal under one arm. The gruffness in his voice softened when he added, “Wouldn’t want him to soil your fine dress.”
Sophie handed over the small creature without a sound.
Lydia’s silence stretched out, her mouth slightly open and a look of confusion on her face, while they followed Captain Neville’s fast progress down the path. “Is he always like this?”
“Yes,” Arnaud said, “and please do not ask me to explain. He’s a rude swab who doesn’t care what anyone thinks.” After a few seconds, he added, “But there’s no one better to have by your side in a fight.”
Sophie reached out with her gloved hand and applied soothing strokes to the small dog’s sore paw. He peered out from the firm grip Arnaud held him in, but still shivered and shook from his close call with the horses’ hooves. He lifted his head and gave Sophie a look of pure devotion.
“I think I’m in love,” she said, and elicited a start from Arnaud. “I mean with the little dog,” she was quick to add. “Just look at those eyes. How could anyone be unkind to him?”
After giving the mongrel back to Sophie, Arnaud helped her up into the carriage and swung up to take the seat next to her. He asked Cullen to pull out a blanket from beneath the rear seat.
The coachman eased them back into traffic on the path.
Sophie took the blanket from Cullen and covered her lap. The dog came to her and curled up in the middle while she wrapped the ends around him. She looked down at the dried mud stains on her new wine-colored woolen carriage dress and decided she could brush off most of the damage that night with a brush. Any guilt she might have over marring one of her new dresses evaporated when she looked at the love emanating from the puppy’s eyes.
Arnaud shook his head. Cullen covered his mouth but still shook from laughter. Lydia leaned forward and tried to reach the dog for a few pats while he leaned back onto Sophie’s chest.
“What are you going to do with him?” Lydia cooed at the small beast and roughed up the soft fur beneath his chin while leaning over the carriage seat. “Grand can’t be around animals because of her breathing problems.”
Sophie had a sudden feeling of panic. What would she do with the little dog? “I’m not sure what I should do with him. Perhaps Mrs. Withers has suitable lodgings where he could stay.”
Arnaud grimaced. “My mother is the living, breathing version of St. Francis in our time. After all, she harbors an impossible cat. I’m sure she would be happy to welcome the scruffy creature. Her footman, young Charles, is very good at controlling the cat. I suppose he could take on a stray dog as well. A mongrel cannot be any more trouble than a tom who terrorizes the neighborhood.”
“But he needs me,” Sophie said, and the dog looked up with trusting eyes as if to emphasize the point. She turned her gaze toward Dr. MacCloud. “I suppose I could visit?”
“Of course,” Cullen said. “I’m sure you would always be welcome at Arnaud’s mother’s home.”
Arnaud checked both directions when they turned onto Park Lane and then kept a lookout behind them. He’d given the coachman directions to make several meandering turns along Brooks Street headed toward Hanover Square, rather than a direct route along Oxford. He gave Sophie a quick, furtive look before the carriage eased into traffic on the busy street. The dog eyed Arnaud with suspicion and raised his paws to cuddle closer onto Sophie’s chest.
“Crafty little dodger,” Arnaud mumbled in nearly a whisper, and the dog growled.
“What did you say?” Sophie asked.
“Nothing important.”
When they finally pulled up in front of his mother’s townhouse on Hanover Square, her footman came out with steps and stood by to offer assistance. Arnaud climbed down to help Sophie exit the carriage with her grimy little, growling charge. She’d covered most of his fur with the coach blanket and Arnaud had to admit the stray looked almost respectable with only his furry, spotted head showing.
“Charles,” Arnaud said, and pointed toward the now writhing blanket Sophie struggled to keep in her arms. The young footman approached Sophie and with an expert tug of the blanket took charge of the whining pup. She hesitated but finally gave over her small charge.
“You will be kind to him?” she asked, a hitch in her breath.
“Of course, Miss Brancelli. A bath first and then perhaps a meal and a bit of a sleep by the fire?”
“Bless you, young man.” Sophie turned away and allowed Arnaud to lead her into the front hall while her small charge was carried down the stairs to the kitchen area.
“So you see, Sophia, no one blinked an eye at your bringing a stray creature to my mother’s house.” Arnaud gave Cullen a wink over Sophie’s shoulder.
Arnaud’s mother Honore joined them in the family sitting room, ahead of a maid carrying a tea service. “I see you had a good time. Sophie and Lydia’s cheeks are pink from the crisp air.”
“I am so sorry about the little dog,” Sophie began.
Honore stopped her by extending a hand. “All small creatures are welcome here,” she assured Sophie. “When Arnaud is at sea, the house seems lonely and empty. Pets give us all something to do.” She paused and a mischievous smile curved at her mouth. “They give us something to talk about.”
She poured cups of tea and stopped when she came to Sophie. “Have you named him?”
Sophie took the cup and paused a few moments, a wrinkle in her brow just above her nose. “I suppose I should. When I was worried about him, I was afraid to name him. What if he belongs to someone?”
Arnaud interrupted. “Whoever owns him, and I doubt anyone does, they certainly don’t have a care letting him run loose in the park. And besides, all the dirt and grime on the little beggar would seem to bespeak an ownerless stray.” Arnaud had scarce lifted his cup to his lips when Sophie peered out Mrs. Bellingham’s windows overlooking Hanover Square’s park, she gave a little squeak. Putting down her cup and saucer with a clatter, she gathered up the skirts of her heavy wine-colored carriage dress, and raced out into the hallway.
Arnaud followed close behind, shouting, “Sophia—stop.”
As she raced onward, the butler made a hasty move forward and pulled open the front door. He stood back while the others followed in close pursuit.
Arnaud gave a start at the sight which probably had propelled Sophie out of the sitting room. A streak of black and caramel flew a
head of them, followed closely by a second streak of white. Damn that reprobate Vagabond. There must have been a kerfuffle between the two in the kitchen.
Sophie ran with her skirts held high, revealing low-cut, sensible walking boots, and well-shaped, stocking-clad ankles and calves. Gad! He tried to keep in close pursuit while not staring, but the going was difficult, not to mention the strain on another part of his anatomy.
“Stop,” he shouted again, giving his best version of a shipboard command in the midst of a gale. He doubted the tone of his voice made the slightest difference to Sophie, but the blasted cat seemed to take offense and shot up the nearest tree. Of course, that stopped the devil’s own demon disguised as a small white dog who raced around the trunk, yapping up an impossibly tall plane tree.
Sophie skidded to a halt just ahead of him and poked her right boot at various whorls and chunks in the bark, apparently looking for a toehold to join his mother’s asinine cat in perdition. From a sturdy branch several feet above the scene below, Vagabond waved his foul, six-toed paws and yowled what Arnaud supposed were threats and epithets at the dog below.
When Arnaud finally caught up to Sophie, she turned with a determined lift to her chin. He’d known this woman but a few weeks, but his heart knew her even better. Sophie would not be budged.
His heart also knew better than he what needed doing. The lift of her chin brought her soft, plump lips closer than was wise for his know-it-all heart. Just one greedy step brought her lips within firing range of his, and he took a tentative sip.
That small sip flooded his senses with the scent of rose petals and woman, which was his downfall. He pulled her closer and claimed a deep kiss. When her body stiffened, he made to step away as if singed by hot cannon metal. That was when she wound her arms around his neck and pulled him in. He was lost.
A shout from his surgeon broke through the haze clouding his brain, and he let go of Sophie. Pushing her away and seeing her lips wet and bruised from their kiss was like the thrust of a sword to his heart. He wanted to howl like Vagabond.
“I can’t,” was all he could manage to say before Lydia, Cullen, his mother, and her footman arrived.
Chapter Twelve
Outside the tall windows in Lady Howick’s sitting room, the trees across St. James Square’s park budded and blossomed. Their blazing pinks, whites, and greens would have made the dresses of all the women at the Harrisons’ musicale the night before seem shabby.
Sophie stretched her hands above her head and let the unfurling of late spring wash over her from the shelter of her favorite cushioned window seat. She only wished she could wind back time, like a spool of ribbon, for another chance to feel Arnaud’s kiss beneath the tree while his mother’s cat yowled above them. She should have proffered some sort of clever words. She should have protested. She should have protected her heart. But all she could do was sink into his kiss.
As soon as the others had arrived, Mrs. Bellingham’s indispensable footman had coaxed the cat from the tree with a bit of fish, calmed Sophie’s naughty dog with a biscuit, and retreated with the two pets back to the kitchen where their tussle apparently had begun - over a pillow by the fire, of all things.
Young Charles, the footman, had assured Sophie her dog would be fine as soon as the two animals had time to learn to get along. And she had decided on the spot the poor dog needed a name other than just “dog,” so she’d settled on Lancelot, hoping he’d live up to his valiant namesake.
Once everyone had become absorbed in watching Charles bribe the cat away from the tree, Arnaud had distanced himself as far as possible, putting his surgeon between them. He’d probably been appalled at her forward actions in returning his kiss.
She’d been ready to climb the tree to retrieve the poor cat when Arnaud had intervened. After all, Vagabond had been only a few branches off the ground. The kiss had been so unexpected, she’d responded without a thought for the consequences. Only luck had prevented them from being caught.
And now that she knew the feel of his lips, the feel of his body pressed close to hers, she doubted a suitable “gentleman of the ton” could ever make her feel that way.
Lydia leaned over and pulled away the book Sophie had been staring at without reading for at least the previous half hour and said, “What are you pondering so hard? That kiss under the tree?”
“Wh-what?” Sophie leapt to her feet. “Did you see, did everyone see?”
“No.” Lydia shook her head with a wry smile. “But when we got there, you looked like a woman who had just been kissed thoroughly out of her senses. And Captain Bellingham looked like someone who had stolen a nibble of a rich piece of cake he wasn’t supposed to have.”
Sophie hung her head. “I suppose everyone knows.”
“And what’s wrong with that? Why don’t you marry him? He’s an officer in the Royal Navy. That’s as proper as a gentleman gets. I’ll make Papa force him to come up to scratch. I’ll…”
“No, no, no.” Sophie waved her hands frantically. “Please, no. He doesn’t want me. Having to guard us from those awful people who want to ruin me has become an impediment to his enjoyment of his leave. I’m afraid your father gave him no choice.”
Lydia’s eyes widened and she shook her head. “We shall see about that, Miss Brancelli. We shall see.”
Lady Howick entered the room followed by a line of servants carrying lists, stacks of blank paper, and wonderful morning tea. Sophie thanked the gods for the interruption ending Lydia’s painful conversation.
After all of the servants, including Cook and the butler Hamish, sat at the long table in the middle of the room, Lady Howick clapped her hands. “Lydia, Sophia - come help finish the invitation list and menu for the ball. We have exactly one week to complete all the tasks and get gowns fitted for the two of you.”
When they hesitated a moment too long, she clapped again, this time louder. “Come. Sit. I’m not going to do this alone.” When they hurried to join her, Lady Howick softened her admonishment with a fond smile. “I haven’t had this much fun since Lydia came out a year ago.”
Arnaud and Cullen sipped on brandy while Richard lounged on the single settee in Arnaud’s sitting room and smoked a cigar. George frowned at no one in particular and leaned over sketches of the floor plans for Howick House.
Lady Howick had been nothing but gracious when she met with all of them to determine if they were the “right sort” and had plied them with the Howick cook’s ginger biscuits. When asked if they could make sketches of all the rooms surrounding the ballroom, she’d said, “Of course not,” and with a secretive smile had rung a bell for Hamish. She had him fetch the sketches used for the changes made to the house in 1790.
She’d given George a particularly enigmatic smile when she’d apologized effusively about her granddaughter Lydia’s flighty ways, which she said she hoped he could overlook. They’d all stared at George for an explanation, but he shrugged and raised his eyebrows. It was as much a mystery to him as his shipmates as to why she would assume he alone would be perturbed by Lydia’s behavior.
Arnaud said little during his men’s discussion of possible problems with entryway access to the ballroom, and outside entrances to the kitchen and service areas. Lady Howick had also supplied them with a list of the names of all the servants in the household and how long they’d been in the Howick’s employ.
Richard had given the list to a Bow Street runner of his acquaintance to make sure none of the servants had been involved in any suspicious activities. Considering Lord Howick’s thoroughness and political connections, they doubted they would find any problems. But Arnaud had insisted they leave no possibilities unexplored.
“I know I shouldn’t, but I have to ask, Captain,” Cullen finally said. “What exactly took place the other day in Hanover Square before we caught up to you and Miss Brancelli?”
“What? What are you talking about?” Arnaud’s tone turned defensive.
Both of his other officers turned toward them.
George abandoned the house plans, and Richard stubbed out his cigar in a pot of sand next to the settee before joining them.
Cullen leaned back into the comfortably stuffed chair and stretched out his long legs. “Miss Brancelli had naught to say, her lips were a wee bit red, and from what I know of the lasses, the blush on those cheeks came from more than just the wind.”
“It was that damnable dog.” Arnaud spread out his hands as if Sophie’s reddened lips had nothing to do with him.
“The dog?” George asked, puzzlement in his voice. “The one she rescued off Rotten Row?”
“Yes.”
His three shipmates exchanged knowing looks and broke into laughter.
“The Cap’n definitely has a woman.” Richard slapped his knee and laughed harder.
“Stop,” Arnaud said, his tone this time brooking no argument or laughter. “It was a mistake of the moment. I didn’t know any other way to stop her from climbing the tree to save my mother’s damned cat from the damned dog. So, I kissed her,” he ended a little apologetically. “I didn’t know what else to do.”
His men exchanged knowing looks and followed George back to the sketches scattered across Arnaud’s table.
“Lady Howick provided me with a final guest list,” Arnaud said, and laid the sheaf of papers down over the sketches. “Teddy is on the list, but he hasn’t been heard from in a while. His landlady’s son hasn’t sent word, so I assume he’s still at a country house party wenching with his friends.”
“Anyone else on the list for whom we should be especially alert?” Cullen tipped back the rest of the wine in his glass and poured himself another half-glass.
“There is one man I’m not familiar with.” Arnaud tapped the list on the table. “Barrister Sir Thomas James. Anyone know anything about him?”
“Very high flyer, and purveyor of the finest horse flesh in England.” Richard’s eyes widened when the rest of his companions turned his way. “What? Just because you sailors have no idea what goes on upon dry land, doesn’t mean I should remain ignorant.
Pride Of Honor: Men of the Squadron Series, Book 1 Page 11