Clarice, did the man bring a pony with him, or perhaps a monkey on a chain?”
Her new friend looked crestfallen for a moment. “No, neither of those.” Just as quickly, she brightened once more. “But very nearly as wonderful.”
Sadie patted at her hair as she did a quick inventory of her appearance in the mirror—she must have looked into the mirror more often since arriving at the cottage than she had done in her entire life—picked up her borrowed cloak and bonnet and followed Clarice out into the hallway. “Then we must settle for very nearly as wonderful. I will do my utmost to hide my disappointment.”
“Oh, he didn’t bring anything for you, silly. He brought it for Marley.”
Sadie found herself tipping her head slightly and smiling. The viscount had brought a gift—a very nearly as wonderful as a pony or a monkey gift—for his new ward? Wasn’t that sweet. And thoughtful. Perhaps she’d been judging him too harshly, and he was more delighted to have a ward thrust upon him than he was interested in asking questions.
No, she doubted that. He had probably brought the gift just so that she would relax, feel in charity with him, and then he’d start in on the questions once more.
Oh, he was a tricky sort. And not above using Marley to get to her, soothe her into lowering her guard, even liking him. She’d thought he’d assign the ladies the mission of asking penetrating questions, assuming she would tell women things she would not tell him. They’d gathered around like mother hens over Marley, and taken Sadie into their circle without a blink. She had never much cared for the company of women, truth be told, but these ladies were so open, so sincere and definitely unique that Sadie probably would have confided in them if they’d asked.
Yet none of them had, not in five whole days.
“You’ve been lulled into feeling comfortable, Sadie Grace. This unexpected gift to Marley is probably the man’s coup de grâce, and he’ll expect you to spout the truth now like a garden fountain.”
“You said something, Sadie?” Clarice asked from behind her.
“Just cudgeling my brain as to what this gift could be,” she answered, realizing she still had her hand on the newel post, and had not begun a descent to the lower floor.
“There’s only one way to find out, you know, and dragging your feet like some silly looby isn’t one of them. Come on now, it doesn’t bite. Well, at least it hasn’t yet. Follow me.”
Clarice brushed past her, leaving Sadie to follow. But slowly. She was girding her loins, or stiffening her upper lip, or whatever anyone could hope to do when faced with a worthy adversary.
But she possessed her own measure of intelligence. She had long ago cultivated a rather admirable backbone. She had to remember that; she was not without defenses of her own. The viscount was no match for her, not when she didn’t allow herself to be distracted by anything. Not by this so-called gift. Not by the generous inclusion offered by the ladies. Not by the soft bed, nor the more than ample meals. Not the new gowns she and Marley would soon have hanging in their wardrobes.
And most certainly not the smiling, one-eyed viscount who was much too attractive for her to think about him the way she had been these last days, just as if she’d never before encountered anyone quite like him.
Even if she hadn’t.
Sadie approached the drawing room slowly, listening to the voices coming from the interior, and paused in the doorway to see the duchess, Clarice and Mrs. Townsend all leaning forward in their seats, looking at something on the floor.
Someone on the floor.
The viscount, clad in his impeccable London finery, was actually sitting cross-legged on the carpet, watching as Marley sat there, as well, attempting to hold on to a squiggly tan puppy with long drooping ears and a tongue currently employed in placing slobbering kisses all over her niece’s face.
“Oh, stop, puppy, stop!” Marley exclaimed, still holding on tightly. “That tickles!”
“Perhaps if you let him go he’d stop,” the viscount suggested, his smile easy and relaxed.
He looks younger again, the way he did with the pillow marks on his cheek. And he genuinely seems to be enjoying himself.
Marley tightened her grip on the puppy, and Sadie quickly recognized a now-familiar panic rising in the child. She would have gone to her, but wanted to see how His Lordship reacted to this new problem. Besides, the shin-kicking episode was still fresh in her mind. With her aunt by her side, Marley might just feel protected enough to say or do something that would ruin the lovely scene.
“Go on, sweetheart,” Clarice soothed as she settled into a chair. “He really seems to want to roam now.”
“You won’t take him away, will you? He gets to stay with me forever and ever, doesn’t he? Auntie Vivien,” she implored, looking to the duchess, “he’s my puppy now, isn’t he? He won’t go away?”
Even as the duchess and the other women all spoke at once, fervently agreeing the puppy would stay (Clarice adding, “Even if he pids on the carpets”), the viscount inched closer to Marley, patting the dog’s golden head.
“Marley, look at me, please,” he said quietly.
The child sniffled, but then did as she was told.
Sadie held her breath.
“I told you the puppy is yours, didn’t I? I wouldn’t lie to you, on my word as a gentleman. I realize you don’t know me well, but I trust the good ladies here will vouch for me.”
As one, the ladies “vouched.”
“Thank you, ladies. Do you believe me now?”
Marley bit her bottom lip, but then nodded. “I suppose so, Darby.”
Dear Lord, he had the child calling him Darby? Against her wishes to the contrary? First the puppy, and now the unseemly informality. What next from this unpredictable man? Would he bounce her niece on his knee while reciting nursery rhymes?
The viscount held out his arms and the child released her death grip so that he could deposit the fuzzy and undoubtedly relieved little thing on the carpet, where, as if fulfilling a prophecy, he immediately sniffed the carpet and then piddled.
He was a small puppy, so it was a small piddle, and nobody commented.
“Good. And now that that’s settled, perhaps you’d feel even better if you gave this scamp here a name. We can’t keep calling him ‘puppy,’ now can we? Do you have a name in mind? Reginald, perhaps?”
Once again the ladies spoke in near-unison:
“George, after our beloved king.”
“Bouncer. See how he bounces when he walks?”
“Major. Look at those paws. He may be small now, but he’ll grow. He needs a name worthy of the man—that is, the dog he will become.”
“I shall name him Max,” Marley announced above the friendly argument.
There was an immediate chorus of agreement.
