The Trouble With Misbehaving. Victoria Hanlen

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      The third dog scrambled onto the maid’s knee, refused to sit and watched Beau with bright, beady little eyes.

      When Beau moved his hat on the seat next to him, C.C.’s little hound began barking.

      “Hush, Plutarch.” C.C. gave the dog a scratch. “Don’t mind him, Captain, he’s a little blind in his left eye. Probably mistook your hat for a strange animal.”

      Plutarch? Interesting. Quite a bluestocking name for a little yapper. The dog continued to growl while Beau looked him over. “How old is he?”

      “Ten.”

      “I haven’t seen an animal like him since Canton. An ancient breed, I was told. The Chinese are loath to let those dogs leave their country.”

      She cast him a sideways glance. “Very good, Captain. No one seems to know what to make of him. Are you acquainted with Canton?”

      “I spent a few years in the South China Sea with the Royal Navy.” Was it possible she didn’t know that about him? She seemed to know everything else. He couldn’t resist asking. “How does a Chinese Lion Dog end up named after a Greek philosopher?”

      She regarded him for a moment before quietly answering, “At the time I was reading Plutarch’s Animine an corporis affectiones sint peiores.”

      Now that put a different light on things. So she was a bluestocking. If she read Latin well enough to understand Greek philosophers, it indicated a certain studiousness and level of education he would not have expected.

      Maybe it was because his first impression persisted of her as a lovely, ardent shopgirl. He gazed at her soft lips and idly scratched Jossette’s ears. The memory of how C.C.’s mouth felt under his made him long for another taste.

      He cleared his throat and smiled. “Latin? I used to be quite good at Latin. Let me see if I can remember how to translate.” He took a moment to get the words straight in his mind. “Which are Worse: Diseases of the Soul or of the Body? Did you come to any conclusion on such a weighty subject?”

      C.C. pursed her lips as she studied his face. “Yes. I learned…we are an imperfect lot and sometimes good friends are the best cure. Her brow furrowed slightly, and she seemed to withdraw into herself.

      Her evasiveness nettled him. He gazed at her lips again. Good Lord, stop. Playing lackey to a beautiful, wealthy woman—one suspected of missing a few spokes in her paddlewheel—didn’t sit well. He was used to giving the orders and having his questions answered.

      If she read the book ten years ago, that was about the time of her scandal and deep depression. “Sooo, did these good friends help with the melancholy?”

      C.C.’s head jerked up. With a quick twitch of her eyes she shot a wary glance toward her maid and then back to him.

      Ah, she didn’t want to talk in front of her maid. “And how about your friend—Sarah, was it? Could she also read Plutarch?”

      She gave him a steady, questioning stare as she slowly scratched Plutarch’s ears. “Sarah did not read Latin. If she had, she might have avoided—” C.C.’s shoulders sagged and her gaze turned inward. A sheen of moisture added bleakness to her eyes. “She didn’t deserve what Falgate did.” Her words came out a whisper, and she quickly glanced out the window, as if something caught her attention.

      Clearly, she grieved for Sarah. Thomas had said they were good friends and that Falgate had been implicated in Sarah’s death. It seemed a stretch to imagine C.C. had led the viscount on, but perhaps she saw an opportunity when he pursued her into the library, and exacted a measure of revenge.

      “And what is this one?” Beau leaned toward dog number three on the maid’s knee and extended his hand for the dog to sniff.

      The cur shot forward and bit him.

      “Blast!” Beau yanked his hand away.

      “Fosco! Down!” both C.C. and the maid chided together.

      While the maid grabbed the snarling little bugger and held him tighter in her lap, C.C. continued her scold. “Fosco, you bad, bad boy! We do not bite our guests! I’m very sorry, Captain.” Her gaze dropped to the hand he was rubbing. “Oh, dear. Did he break the skin?” She set Plutarch on the seat next to her and scooted forward. May I see where he bit you?” She extended an ungloved hand over the legroom between the seats.

      Beau eyed the dogs. He doubted either fur ball could jump that far for another bite. Still, he took his time before he laid his hand in her palm.

      She closed her fingers around his.

      He hissed in air through his teeth, as if it pained him.

      “Oh! I’m sorry, Captain.” Concern filled her voice. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

      Her hands were warm and soft, and her touch so gentle. No wonder her little hounds quieted right down when she ran her fingers through their fur. She slowly turned his hand over.

      He made another little hissing sound.

      Her gaze shot to his, and this time he allowed himself to fall into her beautiful, dark eyes.

      “Did he bite you here?” She pointed to a slight redness on the top of his hand—the scrape caused by his trunk latch.

      The dog had only nipped his finger, but Beau liked how her soft fingers smoothed over his skin. The sensation of her gentle prodding sent a tingle up his arm. His pulse jumped as well. He was enjoying this too much to give her any reason to stop.

      “The top of your hand is a little red. It doesn’t look like he broke the skin,” she said, turning his hand gently in both of hers. “I’m so sorry for his bad behavior.”

      Beau gazed about her face as she continued to gently rub her thumb over his hand. “Fosco would need sharper teeth to get through my tough hide.” He could see when it registered in her mind that the dog hadn’t really done any damage.

      A nostril flared. “You are a scoundrel, Captain.” She dropped his hand, sat back rigidly against the seat, plopped Plutarch back on her lap and gazed out the window.

      She obviously knew he’d taken advantage of the situation, but Beau was just getting warmed up. He glared at the cantankerous little mongrel on the maid’s lap.

      The dog growled back.

      “I say, he rather looks like a Lion Dog mix. How did that happen?”

      C.C. gazed coolly at Beau. “He’s Plutarch’s moment of indiscretion with Lady Whiting’s saucy terrier.” Turning Plutarch around, she smoothed the fur out of his large black eyes and whispered, “You were a bad, bad boy, weren’t you? Lady Whiting no longer receives us because of you.”

      “A clandestine mating? It is said dogs often resemble their owners.”

      Her eyes widened, and made another twitch toward the maid.

      He’d not intended to hint at her visit to his bed at Grancliffe, but sometimes his tongue worked things out СКАЧАТЬ