“You may not be taking him with you, but he is coming with me. Aren’t you, Loftus?” In response, the dog thumped his tail, and his tongue lolled out of his mouth. “Come, Loftus!” She began walking, and the dog followed, giving Stratford a wide berth.
“I agree to find him something to eat and have the surgeon look at his wounds. But a dog like that is not safe. Those dogs are trained to fight.” Stratford soon caught up, walking on the side opposite the dog.
“Then we should punish the trainers, not the dog.” There she went again. She could not seem to stop her Very Bad Habit of being Impertinent. But how could she agree with something she did not believe?
“Emmeline.” His voice was tight.
She could see the road just through the bushes ahead, and she continued walking.
“Emmeline.” Stratford grasped her arm. Emmeline heard Loftus growl, and Stratford released her again.
“Sit,” she told Loftus. She smiled at Stratford. “He is already protecting me.”
“Only because you promised him dinner.”
“I know the way to tame savage beasts.” She winked at Stratford, and he furrowed his brow.
“In all seriousness, you cannot keep it. You can bring it back to Nash’s, but we can’t take it back in the coach with us.” He was giving a little more each minute that passed.
Emmeline put her hands on her hips. “Two things, Stratford. One, we do not have a carriage at the moment. Two, Loftus is not an it. He is Loftus.”
Stratford closed his eyes and made a sound like someone was strangling him. Emmeline left him to it and headed back toward the road. He caught up soon enough and then overtook her. She had to lengthen her strides to keep up, but she did not ask him to slow down. They had wasted precious minutes helping the dog, and they were both in a hurry to return to the injured Scot.
When they had walked for a few more minutes, Stratford looked back at her. “Why Loftus?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
“The name. Why that name?”
“I like it. I’ve always wanted a dog named Loftus.”
“Of course, you have.” He shook his head, but he didn’t seem quite prepared to let it go. “But that’s a man’s name, not a dog’s name.”
She pressed a hand to her side, which was developing a cramp from walking so quickly. “Are there rules for naming dogs?”
“I don’t know.” He slowed slightly, obviously to accommodate her. She would have walked more quickly just to prove that she did not need accommodating, but she worried Loftus needed to take a slower pace. He really did not seem well.
Stratford glanced at the dog. “I’ve never named a dog before.”
“But you’ve always had dogs. Those little brown ones your mother likes to adorn with bows and such.”
“And my mother has always named them.”
“Well, what are their names?”
“Not human names. One was Trumpet because he had a bark like a trumpet. Another was Floppy because of her ears.”
“How on earth did you end up with the name Stratford if that is her naming protocol for dogs?”
“It was her mother’s maiden name,” Stratford said, looking back at the road and then ahead toward where Emmeline hoped a village would soon appear. Her feet were beginning to hurt.
“I never knew that. I always thought you were named after the village.”
“That’s what everyone thinks. But I suppose my parents used all the names they really liked on my siblings. The baron has told me more than once that he had nothing to do with naming me.”
Emmeline stopped. She stopped so abruptly that both Stratford and Loftus continued a few paces before realizing she had stopped. Loftus realized first and loped back to her. She scratched his ears. When Stratford looked back at her, she said, “I have a confession to make.”
“Oh, God.” Stratford looked pained.
“Not that sort of confession. My confession is that I have never liked your father.”
“What a coincidence. Neither have I.” He put his hands on his hips. “Why don’t you like the baron?”
“Honestly, I never liked the way he treated you.”
He scowled. “Is this more of how you feel sorry for me?”
“No.”
He arched a brow.
“Maybe?” She shrugged. “It always seemed you tried so hard to please him, and nothing you did was ever good enough.” She raised her hands to ward off the dark look he gave her. “Perhaps I am mistaken. I only spend a few weeks a year with your family.”
“You are not mistaken.” His voice was low, and she thought she detected a note of anguish.
“I never understood why,” she said quietly.
Stratford’s head jerked up. “It’s no matter.” He spoke quickly now. “This journey has already taken too long. We had better hurry before Nash wakes.” He started away. Emmeline watched him for a moment, then hurried to catch up. She didn’t speak. She could tell by the set of his shoulders the topic was closed. Emmeline did not know how to reopen it or if she even should. What did she know about fathers? Her own had died when she was thirteen. He had always been kind to her and her sisters, but he had been distant, preferring to allow her mother to deal with the little girls.
As Emmeline trailed Stratford, she tried to remember if her father had ever shown any preference for one sister over another. Marjorie and Hester were the most conventionally attractive. Abigail had been only five when her father had died, and she had been an adorable baby and toddler. It was only Emmeline who had been made to feel as though she did not quite measure up.
But that was all her mother’s doing. Her father had always seemed to love each of his children the same. He hadn’t cared that Emmeline was plump. In fact, when her mother had forbidden her from having the sweets the other girls ate on special occasions, her father usually sneaked her a slice of cake or a candied almond. He’d told her she was his beautiful Emmie. And Emmeline had believed him. Why should she starve and suffer in too-tight underclothing because her mother wanted her to look a certain way? Emmeline liked her body as it was.
Once she finally reached her grandmother, she would write to her mother and tell her she’d endured her last Season. Then she would eat what she liked, wear what she liked, and no one would tell her she had the body of a strumpet and had better take care not to look like one. She almost laughed. Some strumpet she was, considering she spent most of her evenings standing or sitting by a wall while other ladies danced or mingled.
Now Emmeline looked at Stratford again. Perhaps they had more in common than she’d thought. He too must know something about feeling left out and not measuring up. Not in the same ways as she. He was very handsome with that blond hair and those piercing blue eyes that seemed to look right through you. Ladies were always pretending to be Emmeline’s friend so they could have an introduction to Stratford Fortescue. It annoyed her to no end when he flirted with them. But she never saw him do more than that. He wasn’t a rake or womanizer. He never tried to seduce innocents or made promises he wouldn’t keep.
Not that he was a saint. She did not believe that, but he was an honorable man—a man forced to follow her around the countryside and try to persuade her to go home. He must know she would never agree.