His Convenient Marchioness. Elizabeth Rolls

at once. ‘Yes. We do. And we like dogs. Especially dogs in the park.’

      ‘Oh. Well.’ While not looking offended by this very unsubtle hint, Huntercombe seemed somewhat taken aback.

      ‘Would you like to come with us, sir?’ Harry asked, as though inviting a marquess for a walk in the park was the sort of thing one did.

      Emma plastered a placating smile on her face. ‘Harry, I’m sure his lordship has—’

      ‘That’s very kind of you, Harry,’ Huntercombe said.

      At least he’s letting him down gently.

      Huntercombe continued. ‘Fergus is definitely looking forward to his run and I’m sure he would enjoy it more if he had some young legs to run with him. Ma’am, if you permit?’

      Shock held Emma silent long enough to see Harry’s shining eyes. Both children loved dogs, as she did. Yet having one was simply impossible—a dog needed more meat than she could afford.

      ‘May we, Mama?’

      Georgie tugged at her hand. ‘Please, Mama?’

      Oh, devil take it! What harm could there be walking through the park with an acquaintance of her father’s for goodness sake? A few more smears on her reputation were neither here nor there. And she knew Huntercombe’s reputation. He was a gentleman and married to boot. He could view her as nothing more than an acquaintance’s impoverished daughter.

      She glanced up to see the man across the street walking away east along Piccadilly. Probably he had been put off by Huntercombe’s presence. Her tension eased.

      ‘Thank you, sir. Your company will be most welcome.’

      For a short while she would enjoy the company of someone from her own world who viewed her as neither an embarrassing acquaintance, nor a potentially convenient widow. What possible harm could it do?

      * * *

      By the time they reached the park Hunt had concluded that Lady Emma Lacy was a conundrum. He discovered that she read the newspapers and was well informed, but unlike most ladies she was uninterested in the doings of society. She deftly kept the conversation general, avoiding anything that verged on the personal. In short, she held him at bay.

      The moment they left the more populated areas of the park he took a well-chewed old cricket ball from his pocket—something his valet and tailor shuddered over—and hurled it. Fergus, ever reliable, had hurtled after it and brought it back to drop at his feet. Seeing Harry’s delighted face, Hunt at once suggested that he and his sister might share the task. Harry having promptly handed Hunt the box of books, the children raced off, the dog leaping about them.

      ‘How far do you wish to go before turning back?’ he asked eventually. Fergus would run all day given the chance.

      She frowned. ‘Turn back?’

      ‘Home.’ He gestured back towards Mayfair.

      ‘Oh.’ She flushed. ‘I live in Chelsea. We walked in.’

      He wasn’t sure why that brought colour to her cheeks. Quite a number of well-to-do people lived in Chelsea. Far better for the children than living right in town. ‘Are you near the river?’

      ‘Not particularly. But nowhere in Chelsea is very far from the river.’ Her gaze followed the children and dog. ‘Thank you, sir. They are enjoying themselves very much.’

      ‘Every boy should have a dog,’ he said.

      Her brows lifted. ‘I can assure you that Georgie would object heartily to the limitations of that statement. She would love to have a dog.’

      He watched as Fergus, tongue hanging out, tail spinning, dropped the ball at the child’s feet. Georgie picked up the by now probably revolting ball between finger and thumb, managing to throw it about ten feet.

      ‘But you don’t have one?’

      ‘No.’ Her gaze followed Fergus’s pounce on the ball.

      ‘Why ever not?’ He could have bitten his tongue out as her mouth flattened and the colour rose in her cheeks again.

      ‘Because, my lord, I cannot afford to feed a dog.’

      ‘Cannot—?’ He broke off and several things registered properly. She was neatly dressed, but not in anything approaching the first stare of fashion. Furthermore, now he looked properly, beyond those tired blue eyes, he noticed that her pelisse was worn and rubbed, her hat a very plain straw chip trimmed with a simple black ribbon. And Harry had said something about Georgie being sick and the medicine costing too much for them to buy a kite as well.

      ‘We must start for home,’ she said. ‘I’d better call the children.’

      ‘May I escort you?’ Why the devil had he asked that? Of course it was the polite thing to do, but she had clearly consented to his accompanying them for the children’s sake. And wasn’t that his motivation? Admittedly, he liked the children. Excellent manners, but not so regimented they couldn’t engage in a good squabble. And he liked that they were so deeply smitten with a dog.

      Her chin came up and she stiffened. ‘There is no need, sir. It was very kind of you to bring Fergus this far for them.’

      He raised his brows. ‘Who said I came this far just so the children could enjoy Fergus?’ Hadn’t he?

      ‘If you are suggesting, sir—’

      ‘That I enjoyed your company? I did. And I should very much like—’

      ‘No.’

      He blinked. ‘No?’

      Her mouth, that lovely soft mouth, flattened. ‘No, as in “no, thank you, I am not interested”.’

      Not interested? Not interested in what, precisely? What on earth had set up her bristles?

      ‘Harry! Georgie!’ She stepped away, beckoning to the children.

      ‘Mama!’

      Hunt cleared his throat. ‘Permit me—’ He stuck two fingers in his mouth—a skill his mother had deplored and his sisters still did—and let out an ear-splitting whistle.

      Fergus, the ball in his mouth, bounded back, the children racing behind. Hunt made a grab for the dog, but Fergus danced out of reach, grinning around the ball. Hunt laughed. Fergus knew perfectly well it was time for home, but Hunt played his silly game for a moment while the children shrieked encouragement to the dog. At last, slightly out of breath, Hunt said firmly, ‘Sit.’ Fergus sat at once, the expression on his face saying very clearly cheat. He spat the ball out at Hunt’s feet.

      ‘Good boy.’ He bent to pick up the now completely revolting ball between thumb and forefinger.

      ‘Are you putting it in your pocket?’ Georgie demanded. ‘Like that? Eeeww!’ She fished in the little embroidered pocket hanging from her waist and brought out a handkerchief. ‘Here.’ She held it out. ‘You can wrap it in that, sir.’

      ‘That’s very kind, Georgie,’ he said gravely, not meeting Lady Emma’s eyes. ‘But your mama will not wish you to lose your handkerchief.’

      Georgie’s expression took on an air of wholly spurious innocence. ‘You could bring it back if you walked Fergus to Chelsea. We live on Symons Street, in the row behind the stone yard.’

      If not for the frozen expression on Lady Emma’s face, he might have laughed.

      ‘Georgie.’ Lady Emma’s voice was very firm. ‘His lordship does not have the time to walk all the way to Chelsea. You have other handkerchiefs.’

      Georgie’s face fell. ‘Oh. It’s all right, sir. I do have lots of hankies.’ But her gaze lingered on the dog.

      ‘One should never contradict a lady, of course.’ Hunt accepted the handkerchief, wrapped the ball carefully and dropped it in his pocket.