by Lori Foster
The screams and shouts of others caused her to turn moments before Lord Hairy Ashton discovered her location and eagerly bounded across the ballroom floor directly toward her.
“Ashton!” she shouted, waggling a finger to encourage him to sit.
It was no use. The dog enthusiastically stood on his hind legs and deposited his heavy forepaws on her shoulders. She crumbled beneath the dog’s benevolent assault and found herself on the floor with her skits trussed around her. This new position apparently pleased the animal as he could now lick her face to his massive heart’s content.
“Ashton! Get back!” she cried, trying to push his enormous head away from her face. Someone attempted to pull the dog away by the loose rope, but only managed to force Ashton’s head up so that she was no longer at the mercy of his tongue. A long thread of spittle, however, dangled from his mouth, threatening to fall on Hannah’s face. She frantically searched the floor for her fallen fan. Once her fingers found the handle, she spread the painted paper in front of her face for protection.
“Achtung!” an authoritative voice shouted across the ballroom.
Lord Hairy Ashton immediately planted his black rump near her chest, though his head still bobbed over her bodice.
The vibrations of feet dashing across the floor played along her back. The music had stopped. The dog had become the focus of the entire assembly, and by unfortunate proximity, so had she.
Mortification paralyzed her. Perhaps Lord Hairy Ashton truly is a hellhound. She certainly could not hide her humiliating predicament with this massive dog guarding her. However, one glance at his joyful face, ears perked forward in excitement, tongue slipped over his jaw, dismissed any thought that the dog was evil. Embarrassed as she was, Hannah was at odds at how to remedy the situation.
The bowed heads of her school chums all gazed at her with concern, except for Fanny Barnesworth whose fluttering fan barely hid a smile.
Suddenly, the circle parted, admitting a tall man, at least from her unique perspective, with intensely compassionate brown eyes. Rich black hair, not unlike that of Lord Hairy, slipped across his brow as he bent down on one knee beside her.
“Have you been injured? Can you stand?” He extended an arm to help her, but when she didn’t readily take it, he quickly glanced toward the dog. “I promise, he won’t bite you.”
“His tongue worries me more than his teeth,” Hannah replied, still hiding behind her fan. Dear heavens, the one time she draws a man’s attention and she has to be lying on the floor in disarray with a massive beast guarding her. Her cheeks began to warm. What must he think of her?
“Ashton, shoo!” She tried to encourage the dog’s exit with her free hand. “Go away.”
“You wish me to go away?” A crease appeared in the brow of the stranger. “I’m offering assistance.”
“I wasn’t referring to you, sir. I was referring to—”
Did he say ‘I’? Alarm robbed her of speech. This well-formed stranger? Could this be the Viscount Ashton that she imagined to rival old Dicken in age? Dear Heavens, not only was she about to insult the host of the dance, but also the very man—the only man—who had come to her aid. She closed her eyes. There was no hope for it. She must have slipped into an outer ring of Dante’s hell. Her cheeks certainly burned as if touched by the flames.
“Has she fainted?”
Hannah recognized Alice’s voice and the implied hint.
“The girl needs smelling salts!” That would be Mrs. Taylor. Hannah groaned. If Mrs. Taylor was near, her stepmother couldn’t be far behind.
There was no hope for it. She couldn’t pretend to have fainted away, although that held a certain appeal. She had no skill at dramatic arts and would most likely become an even greater laughingstock if she tried. She opened her eyes and turned her head toward the canine Ashton, afraid to see the reaction in the other. “I was referring to him.”
“The dog?”
Lord Hairy continued his toothy smile and turned his head toward each new voice as if he were watching lawn tennis, another game at which she did not excel. The ball, it seemed, remained in the stranger’s court.
“You named my dog after me?”
“Hannah Waverly!” Her stepmother pushed through the gathering crowd bristling with familiar disdain. “Why are you lying on that floor? I distinctly instructed you not to come to this dance.”
She pointed her finger at Lord Hairy. “And what is that vile mongrel creature doing here?”
Her host’s brow creased. He glanced over his shoulder at her stepmother. Charlotte gasped and clenched a fist to her mouth. Alice fluttered her fan in Hannah’s direction. But the resulting air current did little to alleviate the situation. What she really needed was for the floor to open beneath her and remove her from sight. She peered over the top of her fan up at her stepmother, who suddenly recognized her error in the hardened glances turned toward her. Her eyes widened.
“Because you’re so ill,” she protested, modifying her tone. “I thought we agreed, Hannah dear, that you were to stay home in bed.” Her stepmother had obviously mastered the acting skills that Hannah herself lacked.
“Is it fever?” a voice in the crowd asked. “If she’s flushed with the fever she should be in bed. Someone needs to take her to bed.”
Hannah glanced up into the handsome viscount’s eyes attempting to suppress the fleeting scandalous image that flitted through her thoughts. Sometimes a little education in the special class at Pettibone could indeed be a dangerous thing. She must end this awkward situation before it regressed further.
“Please, can you help me to my feet?” she asked the man on one knee beside her. “I assure you I can explain.”
“Are you sure you don’t wish me to carry you to a private room? If you are ill . . .”
“I’m not ill,” she replied, trying to decide if that was a wicked glint in his eye or just sympathy for her predicament. Deciding it must be the latter, she tried to sit on her own, though her stays objected to the abrupt change in position. “My pride has been laid low, but that won’t be aided by a scandalous removal.”
He helped to pull her upright, though she had the impression that he was sorry to see her so. Once she gained her feet, he squeezed her gloved hand briefly before releasing it to wave a signal to the orchestra. Music filled the room once more and the edges of the crowd began to drift off. He turned, exchanging a few words with those nearby. Her friends discreetly batted out her skirts and misaligned bustle.
He was indeed tall—at least taller than herself by a head—she hadn’t been mistaken about that. Nor was she mistaken about his eyes that repeatedly glanced her way with a strange sort of intensity that raised gooseflesh on her arms. If he was indeed the viscount, she’d been mistaken about his age. He looked to be perhaps five years her senior, but with more reserve than those years allowed. Already she wished his hands were still gripping hers and that she remained the focus of his attention.
“I demand an explanation,” her stepmother hissed in a low tone as the crowd began to dissipate. Lord Hairy Ashton rose to his feet, his tail wagging furiously, and in the process, banging into her stepmother’s gown.
“Yes.” The viscount turned, his gaze searching her face. “I believe an explanation is definitely in order.”
Though his lips were straight and his brows raised in innocent query, she thought she could discern a flash of humor about his eyes. Her pulse raced in response. His gaze swept the length of her before resting on her lips.
“Perhaps you should begin by explaining why you’ve stolen my dog.”
Her eyes widened. “Your dog?”
He glanced down at Lord Hairy Ashton, then retrieved the length of rope that had failed to keep him in place at the Waverly stable. He pulled the rope through his fingers, stopping at the intact loop that she’d seen secured around a fence post. She bit her lower lip. Either Dicken decided to set the devil free, or the fence post was currently in need of replacement.
�
�Thor has been missing for several weeks. I had feared someone had stolen him.” His gaze searched hers. “Someone apparently did.”
“Not so, my lord,” her stepmother interceded. “My daughter rescued the beast on the road.” She glanced at Hannah as if in warning. “We’ve taken good care of him. Why, Hannah even stayed with him through the night so he wouldn’t be alone.”
“She . . . stayed with him?”
There! She saw it again. A wicked glint that teased the corners of his eyes for a moment then disappeared. Heat flashed beneath her stays. She should have paid a bit more attention when the other girls discussed signs of a man’s interest in Mrs. Brimley’s special classes. But then she had never imagined she would have need of such information herself.
An insistent wet nose pushed the back of her hand. Without thought, she slipped her hand on top of Lord Hai . . . Thor’s head and scratched.
“Have no fear, madam,” he said. “I do not believe your daughter—”
“Stepdaughter,” Hannah corrected without shifting her gaze from the dog’s adoring eyes. Why hadn’t she thought of this possibility earlier? A magnificent animal such as this could only have come from a magnificent household.
“Stepdaughter . . .”
This time she definitely heard the tease of laughter in his tone. She peeked at her stepmother but noted only a fierce determination. Could it be that only she and the viscount saw humor in the situation?
“I do not believe she stole Thor from me. She hardly seems the sort,” he said. “I suspect she merely took pity on him when Thor escaped the true criminals. Now if you’ll both excuse me, I don’t think this is the proper place for Thor just now. I’ll take him to the groundskeeper. Please enjoy the entertainment, ladies.” He nodded to the both of them, then tugged on the rope for Thor to follow.
Instead, Thor plopped his bottom by Hannah’s feet and refused to budge.
“Ashton,” Hannah gently nudged him with her foot. “Go with him. This is your home now.”
Still the dog refused to follow direction. He glanced up at her, then looked about the room in total disregard for the man at the end of the rope.
Hannah glanced at the viscount, a soft smile on her lips. “He does like to eat. That’s how I came to find Ashto . . . Thor in the first place.” She glanced at the dog and scratched his head. “You ate all my dormers, didn’t you boy?”
“Dormers?” The viscount’s head tilted, reminding her of his dog. “What, on God’s green Earth, are dormers?”
Sweet Heavens above! Perhaps it was the way his lips pursed as they fashioned the words, or the adorable inclination of his voice, but something about the man gave life to illicit thoughts again. Her lips parted, while her gaze made a slow study of the distance from his capable lips to his captivating eyes. He must have noticed as the crinkles about his eyes deepened.
“If you had some food,” she said, caught in his gaze, “he might follow you.”
“Perhaps if I had you, he would follow me wherever I wish.”
The suggestive tone in his voice and mischief in his eyes ignited a small fire within her ribcage that rapidly spread to her extremities. She snapped her fan open in response.
“Accompany me to the groundskeeper so I may properly secure Ash . . . Thor.” He laughed, coiling the rope tighter in his fingers. “Now you have me confused. Perhaps as we walk, you can explain how you chose that particular name.”
His glance slid to her stepmother but lost some of the humor in the transition. “You are welcome to accompany us, madam. We shall only go as far as the kennel.”
“No.” She offered a slight smile toward Hannah. “I believe I shall remain here, but for propriety’s sake, perhaps one of her friends . . . ?”
“I’ll go.” Alice stepped forward from the group that hovered on the outskirts of the conversation. She glanced at Hannah. “If that’s all right?”
The three left through the terrace doors, the dog obediently at the viscount’s heel.
“What kind of a dog is he?” Alice asked.
“A Newfoundland,” the viscount answered, shrouded in darkness. “My cousin raises them in Germany as hunting dogs and presented me with one on my last visit. Perhaps you heard my failed attempt to call him to attention earlier?”
The combination of darkness and shared amity added a dimension of intimacy that fanned the spark warming her insides. She hadn’t paid attention to his words until he leaned close to her ear.
“I fear you may have broken my dog, Miss . . . Miss . . .”
“Waverly,” Alice supplied. “Forgive my manners, but I thought Hannah had been introduced on arrival.” She proceeded with the honors.
Hannah managed a slight curtsy in the dark. “On the contrary, I believe I saved your dog, Lord Ashton.”
The dog stopped his forward progress and sat down. The viscount’s laugh warmed the night. “My dog responds more promptly to my name than I do. You have not explained how you came upon that particular name.”
“Is it not obvious?” She patted her thigh as a signal and the black dog continued to accompany them. Hoping a confident tone would forestall questions, she explained, “It’s his coat you see. It’s the color of soot and ash. So the thought came to me that I might name him Ashton.”
She decided it best to keep the “Lord Hairy” part of the dog’s name out of the conversation. The viscount himself had remarkably thick black hair, and thus might feel she had named the dog as a jest to him, which in a sense, she had. “He seemed to respond to the name,” she added, “so I thought it would suit.”
The viscount did not appear convinced but as they had arrived at their destination, the topic was not continued.
The kennel stood adjacent to the groundskeeper’s house. The viscount summoned him with a rap on the door. When the groundskeeper responded, he glanced at the party on his doorstep and blanched.
“My prodigal dog has returned, Mr. Fowler. Please make sure he gets a good meal and fresh water before you lock him in the kennel.” The viscount extended the rope, but the man seemed loathe to take it.
“He’s come back?” The snarl in his voice suggested that this was not a wished for occurrence.
“Is this a problem?”
“No, sir, I mean I hadn’t expected him to return, sir. After he got out and all.”
A tenseness simmered in the air. Hannah glanced at Alice to see if she felt it as well.
“I had thought you said the dog was stolen,” the viscount said, very slow and very even. “You suggest now that he merely escaped the kennel? Was it not locked?”
The groundskeeper twisted the hem of his shirt in his hands. “I don’t want no trouble, sir. It was your mother, sir. She’s the one that told me to leave the kennel open. I didn’t want to do it. Even if he is big and black and all.” He glanced nervously at the dog.
“My mother?” the viscount’s voice raised in surprise. “What has my mother to do with this?”
“She said she didn’t want the big dog in the house. She said he was too clumsy around her things. His tail knocked something that broke into a number of pieces. She was fit to be tied, sir.”
Hannah fought an inner smile. It seemed she and the viscount had more in common than the affection of a big, black dog.
“She told me to leave the gate open and let him loose in the woods where he belonged. I didn’t want to do it, sir. But she insisted.”
The viscount glanced at the dog and then the groundskeeper. He placed the rope in his hands. “You take care of Thor. I’ll take care of my mother on the morrow.”
He turned from the door muttering something beneath his breath.
Hannah glanced back at the dog, her heart pained at the thought of leaving him. She called after the viscount, “Lord Ashton?”
Thor instantly sat on the doorstep. The viscount turned, equally attentive.
“I wonder if I could have your permission to look in upon Thor on occasion.” She scratched the fur between his ears. “I�
�m going to miss him.”
A smile eased onto his face. He advanced toward the women, offering his arms to escort them back.
“Miss Waverly, both you and Miss Darlington have my permission to look upon him whenever you desire. In fact, I believe Thor and I would like to become better acquainted with both of you ladies.”
A thrill slipped down Hannah’s spine. Although the viscount had properly addressed the both of them, as well he should, she had the distinct impression his words were meant particularly for her.
“However, I do foresee one difficulty, Miss Waverly.”
“What is that, sir?”
“Given the way my dog responds to Lord Ashton, I believe you shall have to address me in a different manner.”
She remembered how the dog sat at her feet whenever she mentioned the viscount’s name and imagined the man responding similarly. She suppressed a giggle. “Did you have a suggestion, sir?” she asked.
He stopped and turned expressly toward her. “I thought perhaps you could address me using my Christian name. I know that implies a familiarity that may be premature in nature.”
She could feel the warmth of his breath on her face and prayed that his request was not premature at all. On impulse she moistened her lips and tilted her face toward his. “And what, sir, might that be?”
“Harry,” he responded. “Lord Harry Ashton.”
To read more about the special classes at the Pettibone School for Young Ladies, see The Education Of Mrs. Brimley, published by Berkley Sensation, October 2007, ISBN #978-0-425-21830-3.
DANNY’S DOG
Sarah McCarty
CHAPTER ONE
“No one dies today.”
Two or three shelter volunteers looked at Kathy askance, before immediately going back to what they were doing, sorting the living from the dead, the healthy animals from the terminal. The stench of urine, feces, and rotting flesh burned through the mask Kathy held over her face as she surveyed the house. So clean on the outside with its blue siding and cream shutters, so much suffering inside.