Page 25 of Fair as a Star

She’d never looked at Henry that way either, had she? Mark had seen them holding hands on the day their betrothal was announced, and Henry had often taken Beryl driving or for strolls in the garden. But the two of them hadn’t evinced any level of passionate affection for each other. There had been no long looks. No lingering touches. None that Mark had observed.

“Mrs. Witherspoon told me you’d come to call,” Beryl said. “Why didn’t you wait in the drawing room?”

Beside him, Ernest jumped to his feet and started barking.

“Ah, I see.” She smiled. “Is that Mrs. Arbuthnot’s dog?”

“Ernest,” Mark said. “Do you remember him?”

“Of course I do.” Beryl sank down in front of the little dog and offered him her hand. She wasn’t wearing gloves. Her bare fingers were slim and elegant. Unbearably feminine. Mark recalled how they’d felt, resting on his chest. How he’d wanted to cover them with his own hand. To hold them safe.

Ernest immediately ceased barking. He sniffed at her hand before cautiously approaching and permitting her to stroke his head. His plumed tail wagged slowly, looking rather like a bedraggled black ostrich feather swaying in the breeze.

“Ernest,” she said, scratching his chin. “What a handsome fellow you are.” She glanced up at Mark. Her hair was caught up in a plaited roll at her nape. A few golden strands had come loose to curl alongside her cheek and temple. “Why do you have him?”

“Mrs. Arbuthnot left this morning. She’s gone to live with her daughter and son-in-law.”

“And Ernest wasn’t welcome, is that it?” She scooped the little dog up in her arms. He made no protest. “Poor thing. What shall become of you?”

“As to that…” Mark cleared his throat. Suddenly, it no longer seemed like such a good idea. Seeing Beryl with Ernest—she with her fine dress and her golden beauty, and he with his snaggled teeth and less than appealing pedigree—was eye-opening, to say the least. Could a pair have ever appeared more ill-suited?

But beauty had little to do with happiness. And, after all, handsome or ugly, Ernest still had something Beryl needed.

“I thought you might take him,” Mark said.

Beryl sank down onto the bench. “Me?”

Mark took a seat at her side, closer than he’d intended. So close that her skirts bunched against his leg. “You haven’t any pets. And I know you’re fond of animals. He would be good for you, I think. And you… Well, it’s no exaggeration to say that you’d be saving his life.” He explained about Ernest’s impending appointment with Mrs. Doolittle and her chloroform.

Beryl looked appalled. “How horrid. You wouldn’t let her destroy him, would you?”

“There’s little I can do on his behalf, save try to find him a home. I’d take him myself, but he can’t stand the sight of me.”

“He’s afraid of gentlemen.” Beryl settled Ernest on her lap. “Didn’t Mrs. Arbuthnot explain?”

Mark’s brows knit. “Afraid? Why should he be?”

“Many little dogs are. I daresay it’s because you’re all so big and threatening. He only needs to learn that you won’t hurt him.” She reached out. “Here. Give me your hand.” She didn’t wait for permission. Her fingers closed around his, drawing his hand across her lap.

A jolt of heat went through him. He had to remind himself to keep breathing as she clasped his bare hand in hers and very gently maneuvered his fingers to pet Ernest’s back.

“There,” she murmured to Ernest. “You see? Mark won’t hurt you. He’s your friend.”

Mark swallowed hard. Until that moment, he hadn’t fully registered the privacy of their location. Climbing roses swathed the back of the arbor and drooped down the sides, enveloping them in soft perfume, and partially shielding them from view. It gave their meeting a feeling of romance. As if they were a courting couple who had stolen away for a secret embrace.

But they weren’t a couple, courting or otherwise.

He reminded himself of that fact, even as Beryl’s touch sent a minor earthquake through his heart. “Precisely what I’ve been telling him.”

Ernest gave him a doubtful look. His bewhiskered lips twitched as if he was contemplating another snarl, but no snarl was forthcoming.

Mark lifted his gaze from the little dog to say something to Beryl. Some careless remark to disguise the warmth in his blood and the erratic rhythm of his pulse. He expected her to appear as oblivious to the effect she had on him as always. But she didn’t.

She wasn’t.

A flush of pink, as delicate as a damask rose petal, had crept up her pale throat and into her cheeks.

His heart slammed against his ribs. It was all he could do to keep his countenance. Good lord. She was blushing.