She frowned. ‘Turn back?’
‘Home.’ He gestured back towards Mayfair.
‘Oh.’ She flushed. ‘I live in Chelsea. We walked in.’
He wasn’t sure why that brought colour to her cheeks. Quite a number of well-to-do people lived in Chelsea. Far better for the children than living right in town. ‘Are you near the river?’
‘Not particularly. But nowhere in Chelsea is very far from the river.’ Her gaze followed the children and dog. ‘Thank you, sir. They are enjoying themselves very much.’
‘Every boy should have a dog,’ he said.
Her brows lifted. ‘I can assure you that Georgie would object heartily to the limitations of that statement. She would love to have a dog.’
He watched as Fergus, tongue hanging out, tail spinning, dropped the ball at the child’s feet. Georgie picked up the by now probably revolting ball between finger and thumb, managing to throw it about ten feet.
‘But you don’t have one?’
‘No.’ Her gaze followed Fergus’s pounce on the ball.
‘Why ever not?’ He could have bitten his tongue out as her mouth flattened and the colour rose in her cheeks again.
‘Because, my lord, I cannot afford to feed a dog.’
‘Cannot—?’ He broke off and several things registered properly. She was neatly dressed, but not in anything approaching the first stare of fashion. Furthermore, now he looked properly, beyond those tired blue eyes, he noticed that her pelisse was worn and rubbed, her hat a very plain straw chip trimmed with a simple black ribbon. And Harry had said something about Georgie being sick and the medicine costing too much for them to buy a kite as well.
‘We must start for home,’ she said. ‘I’d better call the children.’
‘May I escort you?’ Why the devil had he asked that? Of course it was the polite thing to do, but she had clearly consented to his accompanying them for the children’s sake. And wasn’t that his motivation? Admittedly, he liked the children. Excellent manners, but not so regimented they couldn’t engage in a good squabble. And he liked that they were so deeply smitten with a dog.
Her chin came up and she stiffened. ‘There is no need, sir. It was very kind of you to bring Fergus this far for them.’
He raised his brows. ‘Who said I came this far just so the children could enjoy Fergus?’ Hadn’t he?
‘If you are suggesting, sir—’
‘That I enjoyed your company? I did. And I should very much like—’
‘No.’
He blinked. ‘No?’
Her mouth, that lovely soft mouth, flattened. ‘No, as in “no, thank you, I am not interested”.’
Not interested? Not interested in what, precisely? What on earth had set up her bristles?
‘Harry! Georgie!’ She stepped away, beckoning to the children.
‘Mama!’
Hunt cleared his throat. ‘Permit me—’ He stuck two fingers in his mouth—a skill his mother had deplored and his sisters still did—and let out an ear-splitting whistle.
Fergus, the ball in his mouth, bounded back, the children racing behind. Hunt made a grab for the dog, but Fergus danced out of reach, grinning around the ball. Hunt laughed. Fergus knew perfectly well it was time for home, but Hunt played his silly game for a moment while the children shrieked encouragement to the dog. At last, slightly out of breath, Hunt said firmly, ‘Sit.’ Fergus sat at once, the expression on his face saying very clearly cheat. He spat the ball out at Hunt’s feet.
‘Good boy.’ He bent to pick up the now completely revolting ball between thumb and forefinger.
‘Are you putting it in your pocket?’ Georgie demanded. ‘Like that? Eeeww!’ She fished in the little embroidered pocket hanging from her waist and brought out a handkerchief. ‘Here.’ She held it out. ‘You can wrap it in that, sir.’
‘That’s very kind, Georgie,’ he said gravely, not meeting Lady Emma’s eyes. ‘But your mama will not wish you to lose your handkerchief.’
Georgie’s expression took on an air of wholly spurious innocence. ‘You could bring it back if you walked Fergus to Chelsea. We live on Symons Street, in the row behind the stone yard.’
If not for the frozen expression on Lady Emma’s face, he might have laughed.
‘Georgie.’ Lady Emma’s voice was very firm. ‘His lordship does not have the time to walk all the way to Chelsea. You have other handkerchiefs.’
Georgie’s face fell. ‘Oh. It’s all right, sir. I do have lots of hankies.’ But her gaze lingered on the dog.
‘One should never contradict a lady, of course.’ Hunt accepted the handkerchief, wrapped the ball carefully and dropped it in his pocket. ‘But I can always find time to walk Fergus and he very much enjoys Chelsea Common.’ He raised his hat. ‘Good day, ladies.’ He held out his hand. ‘Harry.’
Beaming, Harry shook hands. ‘It was very nice to meet you, sir.’
Yes, excellent manners. He smiled. ‘Au revoir.’
He turned and left them, Fergus trotting beside him.
Georgie’s clear voice followed them. ‘He said au revoir, Mama. That means until we see each other again! He’s going to come!’
Well, at least someone would be pleased to see him. But he still couldn’t think what the devil he had said to make Lady Emma poker up like that.
No, as in, No, thank you, I am not interested.
And he was damned if he could think why that annoyed him. It wasn’t as if he’d been planning to see her again, had he? Just return the child’s handkerchief, because she’d been so delightfully open about her desire to see Fergus again. That was all.
* * *
Hunt was turning into Upper Grosvenor Street when it dawned that a gentleman strolling with an impoverished widow might have less altruistic intentions than walking a dog and indulging two children...
‘Bloody hell, Fergus,’ he said. ‘She thought I was trolling for a mistress!’
Fergus looked up, interested. Hunt shook his head. At the very least he was going to clear up that misunderstanding, but—
A carriage halted beside him.
He recognised the carriage, horses and coachman even before Letty put her head out of the window. ‘Giles! How very convenient. If you stop in now I have that list.’
This list would be much more appropriate. Women of some maturity and dignity who would understand the advantages and convenience
