by Mary Balogh
It was not.
“Sit, Beauty,” a slightly querulous voice said without any conviction that it was going to be obeyed. And apparently it was not.
By the time Gil was close enough to see what was happening, Beauty had Miss Westcott backed against the trunk of a large old oak. The dog was in the process of setting her big front paws on the woman’s shoulders while wiggling her broad rump inelegantly and waving her tail in ecstatic greeting. Miss Westcott turned her head with a muffled shriek as the dog proceeded to lick her face.
Good God! Did he not have her trained not to jump up on people?
“Beauty, down. Sit.” Gil was the speaker this time, and Beauty obeyed both commands instantly. But the damage had been done, damn it all. Thank God at least for the tree behind the woman. She would have been bowled over had it not been there. Why had the stupid dog decided to take a fancy to this particular female? Only an excessive fancy would cause her to forget her training.
“She prances about most people but does not actually touch them,” he said. “She jumps up only on people to whom she has taken a liking.”
“That is enormously flattering,” Miss Westcott said, her cheeks flushed, her eyes flashing as she rubbed the thin sleeve of her dress over her ear. “I am honored.”
Gil strode forward, drawing a clean handkerchief out of his pocket to hand her. She took it almost vengefully and scrubbed the dog’s saliva from her neck and ear and one cheek while he stood watching. She looked delicate and lovely in her muslin dress, her fair hair styled more simply than it had been last evening. But she also seemed very angry and very hostile—both of which emotions appeared to be directed at him rather than at his dog.
“I owe you an apology, Miss Westcott,” he said.
She scrunched the handkerchief into a ball in one fist and looked him over before handing it back to him. He supposed he appeared as intimidating as his dog, with his dark-complexioned face and almost black hair and eyes and ugly facial scar. Not to mention his size. It was not fear he saw in her eyes, though. It was . . . disdain?
“No real harm has been done,” she said curtly. “At least the tree trunk stopped me from falling over.”
“I mean for not immediately identifying myself yesterday,” he said, “or pulling my shirt back on. For causing you some humiliation last evening when you realized your mistake.”
Her nostrils flared. “I was not humiliated,” she said.
“My apology stands,” he told her, and watched the color deepen in her cheeks.
“I was not the one who lied by omission,” she said.
Which was exactly what he was apologizing for, of course. Well, he had done what he could. If she chose to bear a grudge, that was her business.
Beauty was sitting exactly where she had landed after removing her forepaws from Miss Westcott’s shoulders. She was very erect, panting, head high, trying to look intelligent.
He nodded curtly. “Beauty,” he said, “heel.” The dog scrambled to her feet and came to his side, looking up at him eagerly for further instructions. He gestured ahead and took a few steps away from the woman.
“What breed is that dog, anyway?” she asked, sounding more irritated than curious.
He stopped and turned back to her. She was still leaning against the tree trunk, her hands on the bark on either side of her, her head turned his way. “I had no idea when I found her as a puppy,” he told her, “and I have no idea now. I suspect there has been crossbreeding down so many generations that if one looked hard enough one would find traces in her of every dog breed there ever was and even a few there never were.”
“Except pug,” she said.
He looked at his dog and back at her. “I would not rule out even that,” he said. “What she resembles most these days is a vastly overweight greyhound wearing someone’s ratty old cast-off fur coat or else an unshorn sheep on stilts. But either one would be an oversimplification. Ultimately she is herself.” Just the way he liked her.
Miss Westcott was gazing steadily at him, and for a moment there was a flash of something in her eyes—some sparkle, some warmth—and he almost expected her to laugh. She did not do so, however.
“Where did you find her?” she asked.
“On the battlefield at Waterloo after the fighting was over,” he said. “I suspect she belonged on one of the farms, but no one came to claim her. She looked hungry but not starving. For some reason that I have never understood, she attached herself to me and refused to go away even when I shooed her and cursed her. Then I made the mistake of feeding her some stale scraps I had in my pack. One word of advice, Miss Westcott. If you ever want not to adopt a stray dog, do not on any account feed it.”
Actually he did not believe the dog’s advent into his life to be inexplicable. But he could not share his theory with anyone else without being pronounced raving mad. It seemed to him that some fate with a bizarre sense of humor or compassion had sent him Beauty at almost the exact moment the real beauty of his life was being taken from him back in England—still unknown to him at the time.
“So she found you rather than the other way around,” Miss Westcott said almost as though she had read his thoughts.
“Meaning that I am her man more than she is my dog?” he said. “It sounds pathetic, does it not? But no one else wanted her. Even as a puppy she was a scrawny thing with no promise of better looks to come. I have suffered ridicule over this dog.”
She continued to gaze at him, her expression inscrutable. He made to turn away again.
“Apology accepted,” she said curtly.
He raised one eyebrow.
“I was humiliated,” she admitted. “I felt foolish and was very angry.”
“Yes,” he said. “I know.”
They stood looking at each other for a few moments. She rubbed her hands lightly over the bark on either side of her, and he looked down at them. Slender fingered. Caressing. There was something unconsciously erotic about the movement. She must have realized it or at least felt uncomfortable at his scrutiny. She curled her hands into fists in a closed, defensive gesture.
He turned decisively away then to stride off through the trees in the direction of the house. But something made him stop and look back.
“Are you on your way to the house?” he asked.
For a moment he thought she was going to say no and willed her to do so. Damn his impulsivity. Then she shrugged her shoulders slightly, pushed herself away from the tree with her hands, and stepped toward him.
“Yes, I suppose I am,” she said.
Beauty wagged her tail.
* * *
• • •
Abigail was aware that she had no reason to dislike him any longer. He had apologized for yesterday. And directly after the Battle of Waterloo he had taken pity on an ugly, half-starved puppy. He had some sense of humor—what she resembles most these days is a vastly overweight greyhound wearing someone’s ratty old cast-off fur coat or else an unshorn sheep on stilts.
Perversely she wished he had not apologized, that he had not explained how he found his dog, that he did not have any sense of humor at all. Something about him gave her the shivers. Oh, she was not afraid of him despite his size, those well-remembered muscles beneath his coat and shirt, and his morose, scarred face. She did not fear he would do her physical harm. She just . . . It was the way he looked at her. Those very dark eyes of his seemed to see all of her, including her hands spread over the tree on either side of her just now, and left her feeling uncomfortable and breathless and . . . exposed.
Yet here she was walking along beside him and his dog, on the way back to the house when she had been intending to go to the lake. But there had been no point in continuing with that plan. Her peace had been shattered.
He was very tall. The top of her head must reach no higher than his chin. And he had a long stride. She was aware of
him shortening it to accommodate her shorter one and almost felt his irritation.
That was unfair. How could one almost feel what someone else was feeling but not saying? He was not saying anything. Neither was she. He exuded masculinity. But whatever did she mean by that? Well, what she meant was that he made her feel hot and bothered and self-conscious and tongue-tied and she did not like any of it.
She did not like him.
Her only comfort was that he would soon be gone. He had accompanied Harry home, which was undeniably kind of him, though it had been unnecessary in light of the fact that Avery and Alexander had gone to Paris for that express purpose. Having arrived here, he had stayed a few days. That was kind of him too, for if he had rushed away he might have left Harry fearing that it had been a nuisance to come all the way to Hinsford with a semi-invalid.
But surely he would go soon now. He must feel the awkwardness of being the only nonfamily member here—and there were more to come. Did he not have a home and family of his own to go to? He must surely be eager to be on his way. He had been away from England for at least a year and a bit, had he not, first on St. Helena and then in Paris? She almost asked him when he planned to leave, but the question seemed impertinent.
She said nothing. So did he.
They walked on in silence. When he did speak, it was to his dog.
“Beauty,” he said, “stay close to heel.”
Abigail immediately saw the reason. They were drawing clear of the trees to find that the lawn was rather crowded. Anna and Wren had come outside with the children. Rebecca, Anna’s two-year-old, was trying to catch up with Wren’s three-year-old Nathan, who was presumably pretending to be a kite or perhaps a bird as he ran in a wide circle, his outstretched arms dipping from one side to the other. Nathan’s brother, Richard, one year old, was toddling in a straight line toward the stables, where his father was in conversation with Avery and Marcel. Avery was holding Jonah, the baby. Little Josephine was at his side.
Josephine was the first to spot them. She came dashing toward Abigail, jabbering excitedly about her ride on Cousin Bertrand’s horse.
Oh, family was a wonderful thing, Abigail thought, blinking away unexpected tears. She had taken hers so much for granted during her growing years—until she thought she had lost it forever. Her father’s side of it, that was. The Westcott side.
“I saw you,” she told Josephine. “You were up before Papa. You have a splendid seat.”
But Josephine had spotted Beauty and stopped in her tracks when she was still several feet away. Nathan’s human kite was headed their way too before he dropped his arms to his sides and froze, also staring at the dog. Rebecca came after him, shrieking with mingled excitement and fright.
“Doggie,” she said, pointing.
Abigail was suddenly terrified for them. But Beauty stood quietly at the lieutenant colonel’s side, panting and waving her tail in greeting—just as though she had never in her life even dreamed of dashing at a human and pinning her to a tree with giant paws on her shoulders and doggie breath in her face and tongue licking her ear and neck.
The children stood in a row a short distance away, gazing in fascination and trepidation at the dog. Beauty woofed.
“Does he bite?” Nathan asked.
Lieutenant Colonel Bennington went down on one knee and set a hand on the dog’s back.
“She does not,” he said. “She likes children. She likes to shake hands with them. She likes them to pat her head and rub her back. Come.” He beckoned to Josephine, who shrank back for a moment before stepping gingerly forward and setting a small hand in his large one.
And Abigail watched incredulously as he showed Josephine how to let the dog sniff the back of her hand before turning it over and letting the dog lick her palm. She giggled as the dog lifted a paw and the lieutenant colonel suggested that she shake it. She moved closer then in order to pat Beauty’s head and run her hand down the dog’s neck and along her back.
“Let me,” Nathan cried, jumping up and down on the spot. “Let me.”
The getting-acquainted ritual was repeated, the man speaking quietly and unhurriedly, the child laughing and finally flinging his arms about the dog’s neck and giggling outright when Beauty licked his ear.
Rebecca was sucking her thumb and holding her distance.
“Come,” Lieutenant Colonel Bennington said, beckoning with his fingers and lifting the child to sit on his knee when she took a few steps closer. Beauty dipped her head for Rebecca to pat.
“Doggie,” she said before turning her head and fixing her gaze on the lieutenant colonel’s facial scar.
“What is her name?” Wren asked. She had come across the lawn with Anna.
“Beauty,” he said, and Josephine laughed gleefully.
“She is not beautiful,” she protested.
“Maybe not,” he told her. “But she is beauty.”
And Abigail had the strange feeling that he meant beauty with a small b, rather than just the dog’s name.
Rebecca sat quietly on his knee until the other men drew close. Then she held up her arms to Avery, and he took her after handing the baby to Anna.
Nathan and Josephine were on either side of the dog, smoothing her sides.
“I think it must be almost time for luncheon,” Abigail said to no one in particular, and she continued on her way to the house.
For some reason she felt horribly discomposed.
Because she had at first refused to accept his apology?
Because he ought to have made it much sooner?
Because he was good with children?
Because he was a man and . . . ?
Well, that made no sense whatsoever.
She went in search of Jessica and Estelle in the morning room.
Five
Several times during the course of the following week Gil wondered if he ought after all to have taken himself off as soon as Harry’s family started to gather to celebrate his homecoming and fuss and plan for his future. Or if he should do it even after they came. He was keenly aware that he did not belong here with them. None of them knew who he was, apart from his name and military rank. To say they would be horrified if they did know would surely have been to understate the case quite severely.
Harry’s grandmother, the Dowager Countess of Riverdale, arrived on the second day with her unmarried daughter, Lady Matilda Westcott, and another daughter, Lady Molenor, who was accompanied by her husband. The three ladies, along with the Dowager Duchess of Netherby and Harry’s mother, spent a good deal of time after that either worrying over Harry or endlessly discussing what ought to be done about his future care after they left.
The men for their part seemed just as intent upon protecting Harry from being overfussed and often surrounded him, talking determinedly upon topics that had nothing to do with health or nurses or attendant physicians.
The younger people enjoyed one another’s company and occasionally, when they had the chance, gathered about Harry. They chattered about everything that had happened in their lives since they last saw him. They even managed to coax a few stories out of him about the time he had been away.
The children played, for the most part either upstairs in the nursery or out on the grass, though young Richard, suddenly discovered to be missing one morning, was found inexplicably on Harry’s lap in the library. Both of them were sound asleep.
And then on the third day two more carriages arrived, from Bath this time. The family had been half expecting Harry’s elder sister, Mrs. Cunningham. But they had not expected that her husband and all their children would accompany her or that they would bring with them Mrs. Kingsley, Harry’s maternal grandmother.
All the children meant thirteen-year-old Winifred, a plain-faced, serious-minded girl who was as straight as a rod, not yet having begun to bud into womanhood; seven-year-old Robbie, a glowering
child who seemed as though he fully expected everyone to look upon him with hostility; four-year-old Sarah, a blond, pretty, sunny-natured little girl; four-year-old Andrew, who Gil soon realized was deaf and mute; three-year-old Jacob; two-year-old Alice; and baby Samuel. It took Gil a while to sort them all out and identify which of them were adopted—Winifred, Robbie, Sarah, and Andrew—and which had been born to the Cunninghams.
Mrs. Cunningham was a handsome, generously—even lusciously—proportioned lady. She appeared dressed for comfort rather than elegance and seemed quite undisturbed by the demands of her large brood. She explained after they had been borne off to the nursery to greet their cousins why they had all come.
“I had to bring Sam,” she explained, “for obvious reasons. He is four months old. Then Andrew was in a panic when it was made clear to him that I was going to be gone for a while, so I decided to bring him too. But that necessitated bringing Winifred, because she is the one who invented the system of signs we use to communicate with him and she is still sometimes needed to remind us which sign means what. Then Robbie had a tantrum about being left behind because no one cared about him and Sarah wept over him and looked reproachfully at me. One never wants to be the object of Sarah’s reproachful looks or one invariably ends up in tears. So—Robbie and Sarah were coming. And then Jacob asked if Papa could go too so that he would not be sad before realizing that that would mean he would be left at home without a parent in sight. Alice thereupon climbed onto Joel’s lap and hid her face against his waistcoat as though she thought he was being cruelly abandoned. Then everyone except Sam switched camps and decided to stay home with poor, sad Papa, who then proceeded to annoy everyone, me included, by laughing at us all and refusing to stop. And . . . well, to add an abrupt ending to a ridiculously long story, here we all are, every last one of us. And since we had to bring two carriages and a nurse if we were to retain our sanity, we persuaded Grandmama to come with us, though she does not like to go too far from home these days.”