Page 7 of My Own True Duchess
Big dogs required room to roam, frequently, else big messes resulted and footmen grumbled endlessly. Thus Jonathan was in the park with his uncle’s pet, rather than at the ducal residence wrestling with long-neglected ledgers.
Comus trotted along, head up, stride brisk, like a nanny ignoring a querulous toddler. The park was showing to advantage on a glorious spring afternoon, and no self-respecting canine could fail to enjoy a walk beneath the maples.
Jonathan, unlike the dratted dog, was preoccupied with thoughts of the previous evening. He’d sent the basket and flowers to Mrs. Haviland on impulse—unlike him, though motivated by genuine gratitude. Far better to be ambling through the park today than procuring a special license at Doctors’ Commons.
“You want off the leash,” Jonathan said, taking a side path. “I want off the leash too.” His afternoon would be taken up with a board of governors’ meeting for a boys’ school, and the topic—the budget—was likely to be contentious.
How much nicer, if he’d been free to spend the afternoon reading in a back garden or pretending to read while stealing a nap.
When he and Comus had traveled enough distance to reach a secluded patch of grass far from the busier walkways and bridle paths, Jonathan unfastened the dog’s leash.
“Go,” he said, waving the leash. “Sniff and piss and roll, comport yourself like a dog, but don’t leave this clearing.”
Comus was already nose down in the grass and heading for the hedgerow ringing the clearing. Jonathan took the lone bench and considered a pretty widow whose quick thinking had averted disaster.
What sort of name was Theodosia?
Had she loved her late husband? She’d struck Jonathan as pragmatic, but not unfeeling. He liked to think of himself in the same regard, though his business associates would scoff at so soft a description.
Comus rooted around in the undergrowth beneath the maples, pushing through leaves and bracken on the scent of something interesting. Mid-snuffle, he stopped and raised his head, gazing up the path.
“Come,” Jonathan said, rising. “Comus, come.”
The dog padded over, and Jonathan was refastening the leash when a young girl pelted into the clearing.
“Hello,” she said, careening to a stop and swiping blond hair from her eyes. “You are very handsome. What’s your name?”
Forward little thing. And yet, for a child to consider Jonathan handsome was an honest assessment, rather than calculated flattery.
“Jonathan Tresham.”
“Not you, silly. This gorgeous fellow at your side.” She skipped up to Comus and stroked his head. “How lucky you are to have such a pet. I want a dog, but Mama says they are dear—everything is dear—and they need a lot of minding. I’m Diana.”
The huntress? “This is Comus. He’s not mine, but I’m tasked with exercising him.”
“Lucky, lucky you. Does he do tricks?”
This conversation was inane, but then, Jonathan’s whole purpose for being in London was inane. If he was successful in finding a spouse, children would doubtless result, and more such conversations would likely follow.
Pointless, inane, tedious… but then, Jonathan knew what it was to be a child for whom nobody had any time.
“He can shake hands. You stand in front of him and look him in the eye.”
The girl complied. One of her braids was coming unraveled. The ribbon on the other had slipped precariously low.
“Like this?”
“Yes, and don’t smile. He thinks showing your teeth means you’re trying to start an argument. Hold out your left hand and tell him to shake.”
She stuck out her hand. “Pleased to meet you, Comus. Shake.”
The dog looked at Jonathan. Translate that, please.
“He’s young,” Jonathan said. “Doesn’t have much confidence. You must be self-assured if you’re to convince him of your authority.”
The girl was giving Jonathan the same look the mastiff had. “What does that mean?”
Jonathan hunkered before the dog. “Shake, Comus.”
