Olivia didn’t want to think that at that very moment, Jack Dodger was in her dressing room…bathing. How would she climb into the tub and sink beneath the water knowing that his bare person had touched the same copper as hers? She should share a dressing room only with someone she knew well. While they wouldn’t be in the tub at the same time, it still seemed rather intimate and decadent.
And thinking about Jack Dodger’s bareness was not what she needed to be concentrating on. She needed to focus on finding Henry a new nanny.
Henry was nestled against her side as they sat on a settee beside the window in the day nursery. He’d tucked his thumb inside his hand and curled his fingers around it, as though determined not to suck on it. Yet if ever a time was right for sucking it, this morning seemed to be it.
She knew he needed to break his habit, but she could hardly fathom that Helen had used so cruel a means to try to stop him from slipping his thumb into his mouth. But as unsettled as she was by Helen’s actions, she was even more amazed by Dodger’s. Her opinion of him had shifted during those tense moments, shifted in his favor. She’d been on the receiving end of his blistering glare, but it had never burned as hotly as it had when he’d directed it at Helen. Olivia was surprised the young lady hadn’t burst into flames.
Olivia had feared Dodger would be as cutting with Henry as he was with her. She’d expected him to give no care to her son’s feelings. She’d expected him to be as harsh and unforgiving as he seemed to be with all things. He’d surprised her.
She’d judged Jack Dodger based on conversations she’d had with other ladies. They’d spoken of men coming home in the early hours reeking of drink and women—and Olivia had assumed Jack Dodger drank heavily and fornicated often. One lady had mentioned that her husband had sold her jewelry to acquire funds for his gambling habit—and Olivia had assumed Dodger spent an abundance of time at the gaming tables. He lounged while sitting, and she considered him slovenly. But he dressed impeccably and even now he was bathing.
She’d considered him mean-spirited, and yet he’d not fought back when she’d struck him with the poker. He’d simply moved beyond her reach, when she had little doubt he could have effectively wrestled her to the ground. As bluntly as he’d spoken to Henry to get to the root of the problem, he’d somehow managed to elicit the child’s confidence, and he had confessed everything.
She’d considered him unlikable, but the woman last night—Frannie Darling—had teased and cajoled and even slapped his shoulder playfully. She’d chastised him and he’d not retaliated. He’d taken it as his due.
She’d considered him a man who would do anything for a coin. Her son’s finances were now in his hands and he could surely divest him of everything—yet he’d indicated he wouldn’t. A ploy perhaps, to cause her to lower her guard. If she trusted him, then he could get away with a good deal more. If she trusted him, might she find herself enjoying his presence? No, never. The only thing they had in common was her son, and they disagreed on every aspect concerning him.
Well, almost every aspect. She did agree with Dodger that Helen had to be dismissed. It was an appalling bit of behavior on her part to use Dodger to frighten her son into behaving. How had she missed that Helen was capable of doing such a thing? Had she made other veiled threats to Henry?
He was such a quiet, good boy. Shy, to be sure, but Olivia had always assumed his stammering was responsible because it embarrassed him. Lovingdon hadn’t been concerned by it. “It’s the Lovingdon curse. He’ll grow out of it. I did.”
So Olivia tried not to worry about it. He was like his father in so many ways. He had his blond hair, but her amber eyes. He had long limbs and she knew eventually he would grow into his father’s height. But with Dodger as his guardian, she didn’t see how he would acquire his father’s dignity.
The door burst open, startling both her and Henry, and Dodger strode in with a confidence she didn’t think even Lovingdon had possessed.
“Henry, let’s go,” he said.
Henry started to ease away from her, but she drew him back. “Where are you taking him?”
“As I’m his guardian, I don’t have to explain my actions to you, but as you’re his mother and no doubt concerned about his welfare, I shall tell you. I’m taking him for a ride in my brougham.”
“I thought you were going to sleep.” After hearing something shatter, she’d had a quick word with Stiles after he’d left Dodger’s room to make certain everything was all right. He was going to have the remnants of a vase cleared away after Dodger awoke.
He narrowed his eyes at her. “I was, but I decided I needed to see to this matter instead.”
“What matter is that?”
She heard a deep purr like that of a large cat contemplating its next victim. “Olivia, you do try my patience. Come on, boy.”
Olivia could feel the tremor that went through Henry before he pulled away from her and got to his feet.
“I can’t let you take him anywhere without me,” she said as she rose. “I’ll come with you.”
“Shouldn’t you be interviewing nannies?”
“I’m going to have one of the chambermaids assume the role until I can gather some recommendations.”
He gave her an impatient glare. “I’ve had the brougham readied. I’m on a schedule today. I don’t have time to wait for the coach, and as you so kindly pointed out, my vehicle is more suited to two.”
“Henry can sit on my lap. I will fight you tooth and nail if need be, but I will not let you take him without me.”
Something shifted in his eyes as though he’d welcome the challenge. She wasn’t altogether certain it would end in fisticuffs, but the thought of them wrestling—
“All right, let’s go, then. Be quick about it. I haven’t all day.”
Grabbing Henry’s hand, Olivia wondered what she was getting herself into.
Henry sat on his mother’s lap. He’d always liked riding in the brougham with his father because the front of it was a window that made it very easy to see everything. He could observe the world and it was all so fascinating.
Although the carriage did seem very small with Mr. Dodger sitting in it. He wondered if his mother had realized how much room Mr. Dodger would take up and how crowded they’d be. He could feel the tension in his mother. She was barely breathing. It was what Henry did when he got frightened at night—he lay in bed, barely breathing, as though somehow bad things couldn’t find him if he didn’t breathe.
He wondered if his mother was afraid of Mr. Dodger. He wondered if he should be afraid of him. Mr. Dodger had told him he wouldn’t burn him, had told Miss Tuppin he didn’t care if Henry sucked on his thumb. That had made Henry feel better, but it had also made him want to stop sucking on his thumb, so he was keeping it tucked tightly behind his fingers to prevent his putting it in his mouth.
Mr. Dodger didn’t wear a top hat like Henry’s father had done. But he wore a nice black jacket. And his waistcoat was a dark green with gold buttons, not the purple one he’d worn yesterday.
He looked tired. Once he yawned without covering his mouth, which had made Henry’s mother sniff. Even Henry knew a gentleman was supposed to put his hand over his mouth when he yawned. After his mother made her sound of displeasure, Mr. Dodger had winked at Henry as though they were sharing a secret. It made Henry think that Mr. Dodger knew the rule about yawning, too, but thought it would be more fun to make Henry’s mother sniff. While he didn’t think his mother liked Mr. Dodger, he thought maybe Mr. Dodger liked her.
The carriage pulled into a cobbled drive, and Henry could see a large residence looming before them.
“That’s Lord Chesney’s residence,” his mother said. “It’s far too early in the day for a social call.”
“We’re not here for a social call,” Mr. Dodger said.
“Why are we here?” his mother asked.
“Because the young duke needs to see him.”
“Whatever for?”
Mr. Dodger wa
s looking forward, but it seemed to Henry that he was suddenly happy. He noticed just the smallest shift in the shape of his mouth as though he might have the tiniest of smiles.
“Because the earl’s bitch recently had a litter of puppies.”
Henry thought his heart was going to leap out of his chest. “Puppies?”
Mr. Dodger looked at him and winked again. “Promised you one, didn’t I?”
Henry didn’t see his hand move, but suddenly he was extending a card toward Henry. “Your calling card.”
“That’s the duke’s,” his mother said.
“Yes, I found them in a desk drawer. They rightfully belong to your son now, as he’s the duke.”
Henry’s mother blinked several times, the way she did when she was trying not to cry.
The carriage came to a stop. The footman hopped down, opened the door, and unfolded the steps. Mr. Dodger climbed out. Henry scrambled out after him. Mr. Dodger looked back into the carriage and extended his hand. “Coming, Duchess?”
She looked at Mr. Dodger, then looked at Henry and gave him a sad smile. “I’m in mourning. It wouldn’t be proper. Be a gentleman, Henry.”
Henry nodded and looked up at Mr. Dodger. He was a little afraid and wanted to take Mr. Dodger’s hand, but Mr. Dodger didn’t look at all frightened. He patted Henry’s shoulder, which was almost as comforting as taking his hand. “Come along, lad.”
Henry followed Mr. Dodger up the steps and into the house. A butler approached.
“Show him your card,” Mr. Dodger said.
Henry did as he was told. The butler put it on a silver plate and walked away. Henry fought very hard to stand perfectly still, as still as Mr. Dodger. He wanted to hop and jump around and clap his hands. He was getting a puppy.
It seemed forever before a fellow with a large, round belly appeared. “Ah, Your Grace. Mr. Dodger here informed me that you’re in want of a puppy.”
“Yes, s-sir.”
He smiled. “I’m Chesney. Sorry about your father. Good man. Very good man.”
Henry was sure he was supposed to say something—
“Thank you, Lord Chesney,” Mr. Dodger said. “The duke appreciates your sentiments.”
“But you’re more interested in my dogs, aren’t you, lad?”
Henry nodded quickly.
“Come on, then, I have a special room for my collies. I treat them royally…”
As he led them through the house, Lord Chesney continued to talk, telling Henry all about the dogs’ history, but Henry barely paid attention. All he cared about was the fact that he was going to have a dog.
Finally, they came to a small room. In a corner on a mound of pillows and blankets was a large white-and-brown dog. Around her three puppies tumbled.
“Go ahead, Your Grace, play with them. See which one suits you.”
Henry sat on the floor and the puppies bounded over to him. He laughed. Lord Chesney crouched beside him. “Which one do you want?”
Henry looked up at Mr. Dodger.
“Don’t look to me, lad, look to yourself.”
Henry studied the puppies. It was so difficult to decide. What if he made a mistake?
“There’s no wrong answer, lad,” Mr. Dodger said quietly.
Henry snatched up the first puppy that had landed in his lap and hugged him close. “This one!”
“That one, it is,” Lord Chesney said with a laugh, standing up, his knees creaking as he went.
Henry glanced back at Mr. Dodger, who handed Lord Chesney a small pouch that jingled when it landed in his palm. As they were walking back to the carriage, holding his puppy close, Henry said, “He c-cost a lot.”
“Not really. I suspect in the end he’ll make me money.”
“How?”
“Can you hold a confidence?”
Henry nodded even though he didn’t know what a confidence was.
Mr. Dodger grinned broadly. “When his pockets are full, Lord Chesney plays very loosely at the gaming tables. Tonight he’ll spend what I just gave him and then some, so it comes back into my coffers.”
Henry wasn’t exactly sure what Mr. Dodger was talking about. “Will he t-take the dog back then?”
“Hell no. The dog is yours.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You’re welcome, lad.”
He knew his mother wouldn’t agree, but Henry thought Mr. Dodger was a very good guardian.
Chapter 10
Olivia stood outside the library door waiting for her courage to return.
Henry adored his new puppy. He’d named it Pippin. She didn’t know where he’d gotten the name. But he already loved the animal so much, that it was as though they’d been made for each other.
She had one of the chambermaids watching Henry while she offered an olive branch—or in her situation, a meal.
As soon as they’d returned home, Dodger had gone to the library, no doubt to study the books further. He’d asked for no refreshments nor called for any of the servants.
It was early afternoon. As she thought of his assortment of bottles, she tried not to wonder if he’d indulged, if no one had heard from him because he was lying on the floor in a drunken stupor. She seemed unable to think about him without expecting the worst, and to her shame, she had to acknowledge her low opinion of him was unfounded.
Regardless of her trepidation it was time to confront him, time to put matters to right. She nodded at the footman. He opened the door. Taking a deep breath, she walked in, carrying the tray. Her heart thudded with the closing of the door. She’d expected Dodger to make some scathing comment and was surprised to find he wasn’t sitting at his desk but in a chair near the window.
Although sitting wasn’t the correct word. He was fairly sprawled in it, with one leg stretched out, the open ledger in his lap, his head at an awkward angle, his eyes closed. Yet even in slumber, he didn’t appear innocent.
As quietly as possible, she walked over the carpet and set the tray on the desk. Curiosity getting the better of her, she cautiously approached the man whom Lovingdon had deemed worthy of guarding his son. She was not yet ready to proclaim that he was the best selection, but she was willing to reluctantly admit he might not be the worst.
He really was in dire need of having his hair trimmed. She considered what it might be like to thread her fingers through his unruly curls. The disheveled strands should have given him the appearance of a child—but nothing about him reflected the innocence of youth. She suspected he hadn’t been innocent even when he was born.
His face contained a cragginess that remained, even in sleep, as though the harshness of his life never left him at peace. She wanted to reach out and ease the furrow between his brows. A strange thing to desire.
She felt a trifle wicked standing there, watching him without his knowing.
His hand flicked, and she almost screeched. It was resting on an open page of his ledger. Curled slightly, it revealed that horrible burn. She’d not given any thought to how much it had to have hurt, but had focused on what it represented. She couldn’t imagine him willingly holding out his hand to accept a brand. He would have fought. They would have had to hold him down. Her stomach roiled. Even if he’d stolen, did he deserve to be burned? Did anyone?
She lifted her gaze back to the welt on his cheek. It was red, inflamed. He hadn’t deserved that, either. He hadn’t deserved her wrath or mistrust.
What he did deserve, she decided, was undisturbed rest. She remembered how he’d expressed concern she’d wake up stiff if he’d left her in Henry’s bed. He was going to do the same, but she certainly couldn’t carry him to bed. Although she thought she could make him a bit more comfortable. If she just eased the ledger…
Iron clamped around her wrist, jerking her forward—
Releasing the tiniest of screeches, she halted her progress by shoving her hand against something hard—Jack Dodger’s chest. Her face was uncomfortably close to his, and for a moment she knew sheer terror, because in his eyes she
saw reflected a savagery that she suspected existed only on battlefields. His breathing was harsh, his chest moving up and down beneath her fingers. Her knees had hit the chair, and to her mortification, she realized she’d somehow become wedged between his thighs.
She was afraid to move, afraid not to. He was looking at her as though he’d never seen her before, as though he was trying to determine how every aspect of her features had been formed.
“What are you doing?” he rasped.
She swallowed the tight ball suddenly lodged in her throat. “You-you were sleeping. I thought to make you more comfortable.”
He lowered his gaze to her mouth and she realized it had been so very long since she’d been this close to a man, so very, very long since her lips had been so near to being kissed. She recognized the passion flaring in his eyes. Her heart thudded, her knees weakened, and she thought she was in danger of finding herself sprawled in his lap. She fully expected him to draw her nearer, to place that perfectly shaped mouth, those full lips on hers—
Lifting his free hand, he cradled her cheek. His palm was much rougher than Lovingdon’s had been. Rougher and larger. He skimmed his thumb over her lips, before lifting his gaze back to hers. “Careful, Duchess,” he said in a gruff voice. “I’m not a man who settles for only a kiss.”
Humiliation slammed into her, and she feared he saw in her eyes what she saw reflected in his. Desire. Desire that must go unsatisfied, that must be left to burn itself out, lest she find herself burning for all eternity. She had too much pride to admit he’d accurately guessed what she wanted and was too cowardly to reach for. To protect herself, she chose to be stern. “Unhand me, sir.”
Abruptly he released her. Her balance was off. She started to fall and he grabbed her waist with both hands. With great difficulty in retaining her dignity, she righted herself and stepped back, brushing her hands over her skirt.
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