She stole a glance in Harbury’s direction.
But she couldn’t fault him for sometimes being guarded and careful.
She was, too. After all, she hadn’t told him about her plan to rally the wives. And she’d also withheld the truth of her growing attachment.
He wanted her, that much was clear. She believed he liked her, too. Clearly, he had good intentions. So why were they both holding back?
She held the puppy close to her heart and, heedless of filth, pressedher lips lightly against the top of his head.
If only showing her affection to her spouse came as easily.
Chapter Nine
Harbury spent therest of the trip back to the hall avoiding the curious wet nose at the tip of a cone-faced creature of single-minded intent. Once they arrived, he thought Cassandra would relegate Mercy to the stables, but no. She marched the animal toward the laundry room.
Metaphorically throwing up his hands, he headed toward his study. Then, a cacophony of exclamations echoed through the corridors. He pivoted, intending to put a quick stop to the madness.
Gently but firmly, he was going to insist the dog be given into the gamekeeper’s care. A gamekeeper would know best how to care for wild things, would he not?
He reached the kitchens and searched the gaggle of cooing undermaids for his wife.
“The thing must go to the stables,” he said.
“Thing?” Cassandra’s gasp seemed to pass from maid to maid.
“That, your grace, is a spaniel,” Mrs. Pratt said with a regal sweep of her hand.
“Of the King Charles variety,” Cassandra added. “Or so Mrs. Pratt tells me.”
“That’s right.” The housekeeper beamed at Cassandra as one would an excellent pupil. “Just the same breed,” she furthered, “as the dog who stood loyally by Mary Queen of Scots and refused to leave her side when she was executed.”
On this pronouncement the women all turned worshipfully admiringgazes to the dog as if he had been the creature who’d shown such unwavering devotion. Mercy, in turn, propped himself up on his tiny front legs and lifted his chin, yipping and blinking as if in confirmation of his noble descent.
“You.” Harbury set his fists on his hips. “Are just a scraggly little mutt.”
“Harbury!” Cassandra stepped in front of the dog. “No!”
The maids fawned over his majesty, soothing the puppy’s wounded pride with a flurry of towels, treats, and brushes.
“We have things well in hand here,” Mrs. Pratt told him while unceremoniously shooing him from the room. “Your Grace, I believe, will be much more comfortable in his study.”
Huh.
With an ease that left Harbury more than a little envious, Mercy had established his court. How one creature little bigger than a teacup could send an entire household into an uproar, he’d no idea.
He gave up trying to reason with the crowd and went back to his study. There, he set his mind to other pressing problems. Mercy clearly had the household in his thrall.
First, Harbury penned a note instructing Anderson to provide the footman with the rest of the account books from Rose Cottage. Then he went back to reading his father’s filed correspondence.
Of the records he had on hand, he could find no evidence Anderson had ever acted against the prior duke’s interests or intentions. In fact, one letter his father had filed away indicated the old duke had, indeed, used a prior slump to evict smaller tenants.
He sat back in his chair, rubbing his finger along his bottom lip.
He was not inclined to take as hard a line on the issue. If he delayed rent collection, the estate’s finances would suffer a hit, but not an insurmountable one.
This drivel is what you suggest? Have you no understanding of how to lead? I cannot prevent you from taking my place—God help me, I wish Icould.
He sighed. Perhaps he was wrong to break with tradition, but optional expenses, since his father’s time, were down. Unlike his mother, Harbury was not fond of gambling, nor did he have his father’s profligate spending habits. But dare he implement untested methods?
