A Reckless Promise. Kasey Michaels

so many that he forgot we already had a Punjab. Extremely common name, Punjab. Well, at least in some areas. I believe we were in—but that doesn’t matter at the moment, does it, Minerva, so you can stop worrying that I’m about to launch into a story not fit for young ears.”

      “I know I’ll hear it later,” the lady grumbled, and sat back on her chair, clearly finished with the subject. “Just don’t linger on the birds and leave out the good parts.”

      Marley, seemingly oblivious to everything save the duchess’s first question, shook her head, her newly trimmed blond curls swinging about her cheeks. “Max was so big I could ride on him. Papa said he looked like a horse, so that was all right, at least until I grew.”

      Sadie backed up another step, turned her head to judge how far she was from the hallway, the stairs.

      The dratted man couldn’t have brought her a kitten, could he? Or even a monkey.

      The viscount scooped up the puppy and returned it to Marley’s arms. “I’ve recently purchased a very handsome black horse. Was he perhaps black, this horse of yours?”

      Marley began petting the puppy. “No, Max was brown, but much browner than this. And he had little ears that stood up, and white feet like the grocer’s wagon horse, and some white on his face even though a lot of it was black. Papa called him sleek. He was so handsome.”

      “Brown—clearly dark brown,” Clarice said, apparently enjoying a puzzle. “White feet, black muzzle—oh, and small ears. Do you know what I think? I think Marley means the dog was a boxer. My cousin Lester had a pair of them for hunting. Handsome things, when they weren’t slobbering all over my shoes.”

      Sadie had resumed covertly backing up when the viscount asked the color of the dog.

      She’d turned toward the foyer at the words even though a lot of it was black.

      And she had tossed both cloak and bonnet in the general direction of one of the duke’s footmen before she’d hitched up her skirts and was already halfway up the stairs as Clarice had clapped her hands and asked, “Do you know what I think?”

      By the time she reached the landing she could hear the viscount’s Hessians on the marble stairs, and increased her pace, praying there was a key on her side of the bedchamber door.

      Skirts still above her ankles, she ran down the hallway, sliding around a corner thanks to a small rug on the floor that apparently wanted to travel along with her.

      “Whoa there, Sadie. In a rush, are you?”

      She skidded to a halt. “Your Grace,” she gasped, dropping into a curtsy as she came face-to-face with the Duke of Cranbrook. “I’m so sorry. I forgot something in my room. Please excuse me.”

      “Yes, yes, run along. I’m only sorry to have impeded your progress.”

      “Oh, no, Your Grace, you haven’t—” The footsteps were getting closer. “Yes, thank you.”

      As she picked up her pace she could hear the viscount’s voice, but not his words. His tone was light, even friendly. He was probably attempting to talk his way around the duke, which certainly wouldn’t happen. She stopped, leaning her back against the wall, her chest heaving after her effort, sure the duke would turn the man around and send him about his business, for he certainly had no business in this private area of the mansion.

      “Sadie? Why, yes, son, she just blew past me as if shot out of a cannon, matter of fact. You two up to some mischief? A little hide-then-seek, eh? I remember those days with my Viv like it was yesterday. Come to think of it, it was last week, when Clarice and her Rigby were out for a drive. Don’t worry, son, I’ll keep mum. Us men have to stick together, don’t we? Just go to the end of the hall and turn to your right—mind the carpet, it slips—and then the third door down.”

      Shock that the duke would aid and abet, as it were, seemed to have stuck Sadie’s shoes to the floor. Admittedly, she wasn’t as shocked as she would have been five days ago, since the duke and duchess were quite open with their affection (“randy as a pair of old goats,” Clarice had called them, winking).

      Then she was off again, realizing for the first time how long the hallway was and how defenseless she seemed to be. She hadn’t heard any of the ladies following, calling after the viscount, and now the duke had as well as given the dratted man carte blanche.

      Her original plan of hiding behind the locked door of her bedchamber seemed ridiculous now, if the viscount had dared come this far. He’d probably just bellow through the door and everyone would know what she had done.

      So thinking, she left the door open behind her and hastily flung herself into a pink-and-white flowered slipper chair, folding her hands in front of her as she attempted to catch her breath.

      She heard his footsteps, the hunter carefully approaching his prey.

      He did in fact stop just in front of the opening, very nearly posing there, drat him, and then so unnecessarily knocked on the wooden door before stepping inside and closing the thing behind him.

      Now she knew how the mouse felt when the cat had it cornered.

      “With your kind permission, Mrs. Boxer,” he drawled before dragging the desk chair into the center of the large room and sitting down, his long legs crossed at the ankle, his arms folded against his chest.

      “Let me think for a moment. You are without a husband. And, in almost the very next breath, you told me Maxwell died two years ago,” he said.

      He had a memory as good as Marley’s, drat him!

      “Both truthful statements, yes. Um, taken separately, that is.”

      “So you didn’t lie to me. Precisely.”

      “No, I did not. Not precisely.” Her heart was pounding half out of her chest. If the man became any more relaxed he might slide right out of the chair!

      “Pardon me if I don’t figuratively shower you in rose petals in reward for your selective honesty.”

      He had every right to be angry. Incensed. And yet he seemed somehow pleased. What was wrong with the man?

      “I had a reason.”

      “Oh, I’m certain you did, and a prodigiously good one at that. Please share it with me. I’m all agog to know.”

      “Not if you continue to be so facetious. And...and smug. I would have told you. Eventually. Someday. If left with no other—and now you’re grinning. How dare you!”

      “I dare, madam, because you’re not married, have never been married and are definitely not a widow. You certainly aren’t a Boxer. So what do I call you now?”

      “I don’t believe we have a choice, unless you want to tell those kind ladies downstairs that they’ve been lied to, which I sincerely do not wish to do. Especially after the duchess and Clarice, believing me widowed, insisted on sharing some rather, um, pointed jokes about the joys of...”

      He was sitting forward now. “Yes? The joys of what, Sadie? I’ve settled on informality, you’ll notice.”

      “They considered me equally...experienced. And I won’t say any more than that because it would only make you happy. I just thank heaven I spent enough time in my brother’s surgery to understand what they were referring to much of the time.”

      “Pertaining to the male anatomy, I’ll assume. When you dig a hole, Sadie Grace Whomever, you dig it deep, don’t you? I suppose we should both thank your lucky stars that Maxwell wasn’t a Pomeranian.”

      Sadie’s mouth twitched upward at the corners, but only for a second. There was much more to come, and she knew it. He was being entirely too congenial for a man who’d been tricked into thinking of her as Mrs. Boxer, addressing her as Mrs. Boxer in conversation, introducing her to his friends as Mrs. Boxer. In fact, he should be hopping mad!

      So why wasn’t he?

      “I