“Miss Nicolette!” Jane shrieked again. “Oh, you wretched, wretched animal.”
Fear and horror pitched her maid’s voice an octave higher.
Nicolette landed hard on her left shoulder, and a grunt escaped between her clenched teeth. Lord, she might’ve cracked a tooth. Or her shoulder. Or perhaps her hip, as well.
Bella released a terrified yelp and frantically struggled to free herself from Nicolette’s vise-like grip, her little claws tearing at her spencer and gloves.
“Shh. Calm down, Bella,” she soothed, struggling to retain her hold on the frightened dog. “You’re all right. I’ll keep you safe, darling.”
Who would keep her safe?
By George, Nicolette hadn’t suffered a humiliating fall and inevitable bruising to have that monster attack sweet Bella now. Eyes closed as she attempted to ignore the pain lancing her shoulder and side, she lashed her feet out to keep the dog away.
“Go. Away. Shoo.”
Bella renewed her struggles to be free of Nicolette’s arms.
“Git,” Jane demanded, her voice cracking with emotion. “Git. Oh, I’m going to ring someone a peal,” she promised hotly. “Where is your owner?”
“Stay, Sampson,” came a melodic male voice, a great deal of concern inflecting the man’s timbre.
Nicolette went perfectly still, a fresh wave of chagrin winging through her.
Really, God?
Him?
It had to be him?
Damnation, she groaned inwardly, for she knew that baritone voice well.
Hadn’t she heard it often enough these past two years and knew full well who it belonged to? The incorrigible, dashing, perpetually cheerful and charming, Mathias Pembroke, Duke of Westfall.
As luck would have it, he was a good friend to her friends’ husbands. Their graces seemed to run in a ducal pack. So wherever Sutcliffe and the other dukes were, so was Westfall. Usually with a cheeky grin on his devilishly handsome face and a seductive glint in his blue eyes.
At practically every assembly, she and her closest friends attended in Colechester and in London. Not that she’d been keeping track. After all, she wasn’t interested in any particular man.
Except, if she were honest with herself, at the Christmastide house party hosted by the Duke and Duchess of Sutcliffe last December, she had noticed Westfall’s attentiveness to her.
What was more telling—troubling in the extreme—was that Nicolette hadn’t rebuffed him, as she possibly should have.
Possibly?
Well, of course, she should have. At once. Immediately. Without hesitation or preamble.
Westfall was the single man to pique her interest one iota—a very, very tiny iota—since Kilbourne had thrown her over. And therefore, the duke was the most dangerous of men for her to associate with. Never again would she trust her instincts when it came to a man or believe a blasted thing that came from his mouth.
“Damnation, Sampson,” Westfall breathed beneath his breath. “See what you’ve done?”
He sounded exasperated, as if he reprimanded an intractable child who’d but broken a treasured vase, rather than knocked a lady off her feet in Hyde Park.
Nicolette supposed it was too much to pray Westfall wouldn’t recognize her or that he’d just collect the mongrel and go away.
Nay, he was much too much of a gentleman to do any such thing.
She refused to open her eyes just yet, however. She required a moment longer to regain her equanimity. To erect her battlements, take up her arms, and gird her loins, metaphorically speaking.
He would not rattle her composure.
She would not permit it.
Bella tried to wriggle free of her embrace, but Nicolette still feared the huge dog would make a snack of the pup.
A heartbeat later, a large, warm hand settled upon Nicolette’s uninjured shoulder, and the most provocative of searing tingles radiated up her arm. And these were not painful in nature, but rather extremely arousing.
Good Lord.
“Miss Twistleton?” he inquired ever so gently in a purring voice that could melt butter. Or bones. How was she, a mere mortal, to resist such a force of nature?
I will resist.
“Can you hear me?” he asked, genuine concern coloring his words. “Are you hurt?”
Mayhap if she pretended to have swooned…
Bella whined her frustration at still being held captive.
Yes, indeed, in a dead faint and still retaining a steely grip upon her puppy. Wholly believable.
“Well, of course, she is hurt,” Jane snapped between watery sniffles, evidently her concerns for Nicolette, making her temporarily forget her place. “That lummox knocked her right off her feet, he did. Is that thing even a dog?” she demanded suspiciously. “He’s the size of a small pony. Indeed, he might’ve killed her. What do you think you're doing, letting him run amuck—”
“That’s quite enough, Jane,” Nicolette managed in a surprisingly modulated voice. While she appreciated the girl’s fervor, the maid had overstepped the mark, straight into insolence. “I assure you, both Bella and I shall survive this mishap.”
One of us considerably more bruised and with a jot less dignity.
“Allow me to deliver the puppy’s care into your maid’s capable hands so that I may assist you,” Westfall cordially suggested.
Ever the gallant gentleman.
Where was his white steed?
His blindingly polished suit of armor?
Speculative whispers carried to Nicolette, and she forced her eyelids open. Her attention lit upon a wholly unwelcome threesome, and her stomach tightened as wings battered her insides.
Perfectly, bloody wonderful.
Cursing to herself, and even out loud on occasion, was another thing she now indulged in.
After all, what did it matter?
How quickly her lovely day had been spoiled, and now a dank, gray shroud of gossip fodder hovered over her.
Ladies Crustworth, Darumple, and Clutterbuck chatted fervently behind their hands, their keen attention riveted on the tableau before them. Three hell-cats whose viperish tongues could make Satan blush.
Not considered good ton themselves, they were nevertheless, connected to many who were. Many who enjoyed bandying about anything that might earn them attention and disparage another in the process.
This was not good.
Not good at all.
The trio would surely embellish the incident, construing an innocent accident into a lurid clandestine meeting or something equally as preposterous.
Mama would not be pleased.
Ansley assuredly would not, either.
It was only then that Nicolette realized her lower legs, complete with her newly purchased embroidered stockings, were exposed for all to see. Another whim she’d indulged in since stepping onto the dubious path of spinsterhood.
And as luck would have it—damn it all—at this moment, two—no—four men unabashedly stared appreciatively at the scandalous expanse.
She couldn’t conceive that they merely admired the exquisite floral stitchery.
Silent expletives and unfashionably garish stockings were one thing—well, two. But permitting gentlemen to ogle her legs? Even Nicolette could not allow that.
At once, she handed Bella to Westfall. And Bella, the traitorous little hussy, licked his face most enthusiastically, her hind end wriggling in bliss.
“Well, hello to you, too.” He chuckled, that rich rumble that sent Nicolette’s insides to cavorting before he passed the puppy to Jane.