“Lady Clara is quite—”
Another wave. Honora stilled.
“The duke is a gracious man. He honors me.”
Those eyes, a clear and lustrous brown, did not waver. “My son is a pompous fool, especially in London, but I am sure you already know that.”
Clara blinked. “I do not—”
“I can assure you he is quite different at home. The northern counties are a foreign country compared to London Society, far more open, less refined. Here he prances around as if he were a prince who had sat on a pinecone. There he is more somber. Relaxed. Less restricted by protocol. Less seduced by his own sense of power.”
Before Clara could think of a response, the dowager shifted on her settee and addressed the footman. “Please send in the tea at four.”
As the footman vanished, the dowager reached down to stroke the silver-gray fur next to her.
And it moved.
“Oh!” Clara reached out over the table between settees. “It’s a dog!”
The dowager’s eyes widened and her mouth tightened. “Of course it is a dog. Did you think I had a fur wrap at hand in this heat?”
“Truthfully, yes.”
The older woman chuckled, stroked the animal again, and a sweet face appeared amidst the silky fur. “You are refreshing, my dear. This is my precious Clementina. She is a Skye Terrier. And as you know, no duchess should be without her Skye when she is promenading in the Park.” She touched Clementina near the ears, her gaze at the dog fond and warm. “Although neither of us promenade much these days. Too hard on our old bones.”
“How old is she?” Clara could not take her eyes off the silky coat.
“Almost ten and five, old for a girl such as she.” The dowager’s eyes glanced at Clara. “Would you like to—”
“Oh, yes!” Clara was off her settee and sitting on the other side of the dog before Honora could finish clearing her throat.
“Clara—”
The dowager gestured again at Honora. “Oh, leave the girl be.” Her hand joined Clara’s on the dog’s back, her fingers entwining in Clementina’s fur with a grasp of pure affection. “Animals are one of the few pleasures allowed women such as us.”
Clara looked up at the dowager. “Us?”
“Duchesses. We have many duties, few pleasures, especially if we are not in love with our husbands.”
Clara’s hand stilled on Clementina’s hip.
The dowager fell silent as well, watching Clara. Suddenly, Clementina shifted, poking her nose into Clara’s thigh. The dog’s eyes brightened as she snuffled up and down Clara’s thigh, leaving moist nose prints in the silk.
“Clementina, what the devil are you doing?” The dowager tugged at the dog, who resisted mightily.
“Oh!” Clara almost laughed and cupped Clementina’s face, pulling it up to look at hers. “You smell Pockets, don’t you, my pretty girl.”
“Oh dear God,” muttered Honora.
“Pockets?”
Clara released Clementina, who pressed her nose against Clara’s thigh and held it there. Clara sighed, focusing on the dowager again. “My kitten. All my dresses are made with either pockets or slits for pocket bags.”
“What?” Honora said.
The dowager and Clara ignored her. Clara went on. “She is still quite small, so she spends a lot of time in my pockets. Which is how she got her name.”
“So you are fond of animals?”
