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Felicity stretched and patted her hands around her. She blinked and stared at Bates, O’Mara, and Jupiter looming over her.
“His Grace, has he gone?”
“His Grace?” croaked Bates.
“The gigantic dog.”
“Dog?” O’Mara whispered. “A dog, Your Grace? All the dogs we have at the Hall have jobs and belong to the tenant farmers and shepherds, so it is possible you are mistaken or it was a dream, perhaps, only a dream—”
“Miss O’Mara, desist.” O’Mara desisted. “He must have gone. The large dog? Looks to be only slightly smaller than Jupiter here? I named him Your Grace. Well, Alfie. I prefer Alfie.”
“Alfie?” O’Mara squeaked.
Felicity rose, and Bates belatedly moved to lend her a hand. “I cannot imagine who had his breeding. Mr. Bates, I am shocked that you allow such a noble creature to roam willy-nilly over the duke’s lands. What if harm should befall him? The dog, not the duke? I am concerned, should he come across someone intimidated by his size, he will be shot. And if he is unknown to you, then who has his care? He cannot be expected to look after his own needs, not a beast of his size. And when I say beast, I cast no aspersions, his shoulder was well-nigh up to my shoulder. I cannot allow that any living being go unattended, for their own safety and welfare. Well, Mr. Bates?” She crossed her arms and stared him down.
“Your Grace.” He went down on one knee before her. “I will do my utmost to ensure the welfare of this creature, and all our creatures. It is my joy and my duty to do so, at your command.”
“Ah. Excellent.” Felicity glanced at O’Mara, whose head was also bowed, and whose eyes seemed to shine with unshed tears. “Well. That’s sorted. If you would give me a leg up, Mr. Bates?”
Mounted once more, she looked down at His Grace’s closest associates. “Shall I send a groom with mounts for you?”
“No, Your Grace,” said Bates. “We will make our way back on, er, foot.”
“Well, then.” She nodded her thanks, turned her horse, and galloped back across the meadow. Something had passed between the three of them; she didn’t know what it was, but she felt it deeply, deeply, in the very center of her heart.
Eleven
Early the next morning, Felicity jogged down the stairs in her gentleman’s attire. She greeted Mr. Coburn in passing and headed for the main part of the house.
“Your Grace…?” Coburn called.
“Off to beard the lion in his den, Mr. Coburn,” she called back.
“His Grace is breaking his fast,” the butler said, scampering after her. “He asks that you join him, if you will.”
“Oh.” She stopped. “Thank you. If you would show me the way?”
The breakfast parlor was all one hoped for in such a room: sunny, thanks to yet more French doors, decorated with bright yet tasteful appointments, and featuring a sideboard full of a variety of delicious offerings. His Grace rose and scowled at her trousers. “Good morning, Miss Templeton.”
“Your Grace.” She fought the instinctive urge to curtsy; it was not a gesture to be performed in men’s clothing.
He had been absent from the meal last night and therefore not available for kissing over cups of tea. Even in less formal clothing—a simple hacking jacket, breeches, and high boots—the duke was still devastatingly handsome; she thrust her hands in her pockets, as if to prevent herself from reaching for him. He stopped frowning at her garments and sent her a lambent look, as if he could read her mind. Which she wished he would, and dismiss the servants, and, and…kiss her over these tea cups. She lowered her gaze and glanced up at him through her lashes, picturing him sweeping the contents of the breakfast table to the floor, hauling her up against him, pushing her down onto the tabletop, his hands touching her in places she’d only touched herself. She squirmed as she dampened behind her falls, and he let out a long, low sound, much like the one she’d thought she heard during her bath the first day. His eyes flared, and he took a step forward, and she—she must not let her fanciful thoughts run away with her.
She made to seat herself, but Mr. Coburn did not allow it. The chair the butler drew out for her was from the Bassett Room, and this observance was accompanied by a little pulse of satisfaction that her edict had been fulfilled.
Footmen ringed the room; Felicity counted nine. They stood at attention, stiff and staring straight ahead, but all were smiling, not the done thing in a footman. Nor did any of them adhere to the tall, muscular, handsome pattern: they ranged in height and varied in coloring—two were gingers!—and were as unalike one another as fish were to fowl. She sat and accepted a napkin from one of them; as she reached for the teapot, Coburn fussed until she allowed him to pour.
“Shall I make you a plate, ma’am?” Coburn asked.
“I’ll do it.” The duke rose and went to the sideboard. “May I tempt you with eggs and ham, toasted bread, scones, kippers, or beefsteak?”
“Eggs, please, and two slices of toast, thank you.” She smiled up at the attendants. “His Grace would leave you idle.”
“A more idle lot is unknown to man,” said the duke, “or beast.” The lads laughed.
“You may like to take on some of the ducal duties, perhaps,” Felicity joked.
“Oh, no, madam,” said one of the gingers. “We know our places.”
