She kept her chin high, unwilling to admit she was utterly baffled. “Like... bandy?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know what that is.”
“When it’s cold enough in winter, sometimes men hit balls on the ice for fun. They call the game bandy.”
“I mean, maybe that’s somewhat close,” he replied, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know.”
Her curiosity was piqued. “And you can make a living doing this hockey?”
A small smile played on his lips. “I do all right.”
“Because you stop a disc from going in a net. Fascinating.”
“Hey now.” His ears tinged pink. “There’s a lot more to it, all right? The plays, the arenas, the crowd, the lights. It’s physical. It’s aggressive. It’s a highly structured competition.”
“How positively gladiatorial.” It wasn’t difficult to picture Mr.Taylor in the midst of the Colosseum. Those big corded muscles slick with sweat. His chest heaving. A wild sort of primitive bloodlust in his eyes. She swallowed nervously.
“Sure. Whatever you say.” A beat passed.
She stared.
He stared back.
She held her breath, wondering if he could hear her wildly pounding heart. Here she was, Elizabeth H. Wooddash, poised to have an adventure. The very notion sent a frisson of excitement through her. She trembled with barely suppressed anticipation. For the first time in her life, she didn’t have the faintest idea what was going to happen next.
A muscle feathered in his jaw, and he abruptly turned away. “There’s something ahead.”
Fortunately, the trees thinned, revealing the outline of a well-appointed two-story home with all the necessary outbuildings and gardens needed to run a small estate. Five chimneys punctuated the pitched tile roof, and four gabled windows faced the forest view that bestowed the property with its name.
“There it is! That’s the Woodlands,” she said with a sigh of relief, her legs going weak with a sudden bone-deep weariness. Uncertainty was equal parts exciting and exhausting. “We made it.”
He gave a low whistle. “Heck of a house.”
“My cousin married a gentleman, Mr.Edward Gardiner, who died of typhoid fever the better part of a decade ago. Before his demise, he settled a generous jointure on her. He had no debts, so she’s been allowed to enjoy a life of considerable independence and—”
A long, resounding howl reverberated through the yard, shattering the silence as the echoes bounced off tree trunks.
“Oh, Goliath.” She rolled her eyes. “Do give it a rest.”
“What the hell was that?” Tuck halted. “Your cousin doesn’t raise wolves, does she?”
“Ah.” Lizzy raised a finger. “I forgot to mention. You don’t have an issue with large dogs, do you?” She leaned in, catching his scent—a subtle woody undertone, despite having marinated inthe pond. Suppressing the urge to take a second, longer sniff, she added, “‘Large’ doesn’t quite capture his size.”
“I’m fine.” He turned back toward the deep baying. “Your cousin’s a dog person, I take it?”
“That’s a modest description. Georgie is engrossed in the world of breeding mastiffs; it defines her entire persona. If you happen to mention anything related to the breed, prepare to devote hours to the conversation. And I’m not overstating—I mean hours.”
“Noted.”
A few servants bustled by in gray dresses and white caps; one used a stick to herd a large pig into its sty while the other was stooped, carrying two buckets of water.
“Are you sure your cousin is going to be okay having me here?” Mr.Taylor glanced at his clothing. “I must not look like your usual visitors.”
Lizzy mashed her lips at his understatement. “She’ll be fine. But she won’t act like it. Her bark is far worse than her bite. Just don’t talk too much. She detests overbearing men.”
Turning the corner around the home to access the inconspicuous back door, they nearly collided with Georgie, who was setting down a bowl filled with what appeared to be a robust meat stew for two enormous whining dogs. Her frizzy blond waves were pulled back with a brown ribbon, resembling a horse’s tail.
“Oh, all right,” she crooned. “That’s enough of all that fuss. Here’s your supper, my loves. Keep your petticoats on.” Stepping back, she affectionately stroked Goliath’s apricot-colored fur. He maintained a single-minded focus on the bowl’s contents, while his mate, Daisy, gulped some down beside him, ensuring she got her due.
