Page 10 of Marry in Scarlet
“Oh, you brave, brave girl, Lady Georgiana! I wonder you weren’t bitten—such a heroine you are! Thank you, thank you,” Mrs. Prescott exclaimed. “Oh dear, I’m all of a flutter! Those terrible brutes just appeared from nowhere and started attacking my poor little baby.”
George glanced at Emm and Aunt Dottie, who were trying not to smile.
“Um, they weren’t attacking her,” George said.
“They were, they were, didn’t you see? Oh, my poor little FooFoo, are you all right, my darling?” She examined the little dog anxiously, straightening her ribbons and murmuring, “Mummy’s here now, precious. Those nasty dogs won’t bother you again.”
“Actually they will,” George said. “Unless you keep FooFoo locked up for the next few weeks.” The dogs had retreated but were waiting, all eyes on little FooFoo, who wriggled and squirmed to get down.
“Locked up? Why ever should I do that? FooFoo loves her walkies in the park.”
“Yes, but she’s in season at the moment,” George explained. And when the lady didn’t seem to understand, she added, “She’s in heat. Those dogs know it. They can smell her.”
Mrs. Prescott pulled a horrified face. “Smellher? But she was bathed this morning with my own special soap. And why would that make them attack her? They didn’t attack me and I use the same soap.”
George couldn’t think how else to explain. Not in any polite way. She cast an appealing look at Emm, who stepped forward. “What my niece means, Mrs. Prescott, is that your dog has entered her breeding season.” Emm patted her own burgeoning belly in gentle emphasis.
Mrs. Prescott blinked at Emm’s belly, then gasped inunderstanding. “No, it cannot be! My little FooFoo is far too young for that! She’s still a puppy.”
“She’s not a puppy anymore, and those dogs know it,” George said bluntly. “So keep her away from all other dogs for the next few weeks.”
“I will, oh, I will. Thank you so much, dear, brave Lady Georgiana. Good day to you, Lady Ashendon, Lady Dorothea.” Mrs. Prescott hurried away, little FooFoo clamped firmly to her bosom, gazing wistfully back at her admirers, her feathery tail gently wagging.
“She was widowed last year,” Aunt Dottie explained. “She’s childless, and her husband was a cold, hard man who never let her keep a pet. FooFoo is her first.”
“The way those dogs were going at it,” George said frankly, “FooFoo might just present her with some more.”
Emm burst out laughing. “George, darling, you are such a breath of fresh air. Don’t ever change.”
“I agree,” Aunt Dottie said. “And now, ices.”
***
The following afternoon the duke’s front doorbell rang again. It had rung on and off all day—to no avail. Hart made a grimace of satisfaction and bent over his correspondence. The gossip-seeking vultures would get no joy here. Fleming had his instructions.
He stared down at the note he was trying to compose. It was more difficult than he imagined. The previous evening he’d sent a note around to the Earl of Ashendon, offering to buy the black stallion. He didn’t mention that he’d seen the horse being ridden by the earl’s niece, let alone that the young hoyden had been riding astride. He was sure Sinc was wrong, saying the horse belonged to the girl.
But a brief note had arrived this morning in which the earl informed him that the stallion belonged to Lady Georgiana and that he doubted she’d sell it. However, if Everingham was interested in breeding the stallion to one of his mares, she might consider that. Everingham should apply directly to her.
It was ridiculous. Ashendon had always seemed like a levelheaded fellow, but allowing his niece to be directly involved in the breeding of a valuable, blood stallion... A young, unmarried girl shouldn’t even know about the breeding of horses, let alone arrange it.
He finished the note, making her a generous offer for the horse—he would not even consider discussing stud arrangements with a lady—addressed and sealed it, then returned to his business correspondence. Much less complicated.
A short time later voices in the hall, one of them female, caused him to look up.What the devil?
His butler knocked discreetly and looked in. “Your grace, forgive the interruption but—”
“What part ofI am not at homedid you fail to understand, Fleming?”
“I’m sorry, your grace, but—” the butler began.
“Oh, what nonsense, as if my son meant you to denyme,” said a soft voice from the doorway.
His butler gave him an agonized look of apology. Hart waved him away. He might be irritated, but he understood. Most men were helpless before his mother.
The Duchess of Everingham brushed past the butler, all slender, helpless frailty and fluttering draperies. Pretty and still quite youthful looking—she did not admit to forty, although since he was eight-and-twenty she could hardly deny it—she cultivated an air of delicacy and fragility that brought out the protective instincts of a certain type of man.
Hart was not one of them.
