Axel (43 page)

“She seemed a friendly enough dog,” Della replied, taking a seat on the sofa. Della was the Haddonfield changeling, small and dark compared to her tall, blond siblings, and she made a pretty picture on the red velvet sofa, her green skirts arranged about her.

“She’s an ill-mannered canine,” Susannah said, “if my parasol’s fate is any indication.”

Though the dog was a fair judge of character. Lord Effington fawned over all dogs and occasionally over Della, but Susannah found him tedious. The Dornings’ mastiff had lifted her leg upon Lord Effington’s knee, and Susannah’s parasol had been sacrificed in defense of his lordship’s tailoring.

Barrisford tapped on the open door. One never heard Barrisford coming or going, and he seemed to be everywhere in the household at once.

“My ladies, a gentleman has come to call and claims acquaintance with the family.”

The butler passed Susannah a card, plain black ink on cream stock, though Della snatched it away before Susannah could read the print.

“Shall I say your ladyships are not at home?” Barrisford asked.

“We’re at home,” Della said, just as Susannah murmured, “That will suit, Barrisford.”

She was coming up on the seventy-third sonnet, her favorite.

“We can receive him together,” Della said. “If Nicholas knows the Earl of Casriel, he very likely knows the spares, and Effington fancied that dog most rapturously.”

“Effington fancies all dogs.” The viscount fancied himself most of all. “You’ll give me no peace if I turn our caller away, so show him up, Barrisford, and send along the requisite tray.”

“I’ve never drunk so much tea in all my life as I have this spring,” Della said. “No wonder people waltz until all hours and stay up half the night gossiping.”

Gossiping, when they might instead be reading. Was any trial on earth more tedious than a London Season?

“Mr. Will Dorning, and Georgette,” Barrisford said a moment later. He stepped aside from the parlor door to reveal a large gentleman and an equally outsized dog. Susannah hadn’t taken much note of the dog in the park, for she’d been too busy trying not to laugh at Effington. The viscount prided himself on his love of canines, though he was apparently fonder of his riding breeches, for he’d smacked the dog more than once with Susannah’s abused parasol.

Barrisford’s introduction registered only as the visitor bowed to Susannah.

Will Dorning
, not the Earl of Casriel, not one of the younger brothers. Willow Grove Dorning himself. Susannah had both looked for and avoided him for years.

“My Lady Susannah, good day,” he said. “A pleasure to see you again. Won’t you introduce me to your sister?”

Barrisford melted away, while Della rose from the sofa on a rustle of velvet skirts. “Please do introduce us, Suze.”

Della’s expression said she’d introduce herself if Susannah failed to oblige. The dog had more decorum than Della, at least for the moment.

“Lady Delilah Haddonfield,” Susannah began, “may I make known to you Mr. Will Dorning, late of Dorset?” Susannah was not about to make introductions for the mastiff. “Mr. Dorning, my sister, Lady Delilah, though she prefers Lady Della.”

“My lady.” Mr. Dorning bowed correctly over Della’s hand, while the dog sat panting at his feet. Like most men, he’d probably be smitten with Della before he took a seat beside her on the sofa. Only Effington’s interest had survived the rumors of Della’s modest settlements, however.

“Your dog wants something, Mr. Dorning,” Susannah said, retreating to her seat by the window.

Mr. Dorning peered at his beast, who was gazing at Della and holding up a large paw.

“Oh, she wants to shake,” Della said, taking that paw in her hand and shaking gently. “Good doggy, Georgette. Very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Georgette, behave,” Mr. Dorning muttered, before Susannah was faced with the riddle of whether manners required her to shake the dog’s paw.

Georgette turned an innocent expression on her owner, crossed the room, and took a seat at Susannah’s knee.

Presuming beast, though Georgette at least didn’t stink of dog. Effington’s endless canine adornments were the smelliest little creatures.

“My ladies, I’m here to apologize,” Mr. Dorning said. “Georgette was in want of manners earlier today. We’ve come to make restitution for her bad behavior and pass along my brother Sycamore’s note of apology.”

“Do have a seat, Mr. Dorning,” Della said, accepting a sealed missive from their guest. “At least you haven’t come to blather on about the weather or to compliment our bonnets.”

Bless Della and her gift for small talk, because Susannah was having difficulty thinking.

This was not the version of Will Dorning she’d endured dances with in her adolescence. He’d filled out and settled down, like a horse rising seven. Where a handsome colt had been, a war horse had emerged. Mr. Dorning’s boots gleamed, the lace of his cravat fell in soft, tasteful abundance from his throat. His clothing
fit
him, in the sense of being appropriate to his demeanor, accentuating abundant height, muscle, and self-possession.

Even as he sat on the delicate red velvet sofa with a frilly purple parasol across his knees.

“This is for you, my lady,” he said, passing Susannah the parasol. “We didn’t get the color exactly right, but I hope this will suffice to replace the article that came to grief in the park.”

Susannah’s parasol had been blue, a stupid confection that had done little to shield a lady’s complexion. That parasol hadn’t made a very effective bludgeon when turned on the dog.

“The color is lovely,” Susannah said, “and the design very similar to the one I carried earlier.”

Susannah made the mistake of looking up at that moment, of gazing fully into eyes of such an unusual color, poetry had been written about them. Mr. Dorning’s eyes were the purest form of the Dorning heritage, nearly the color of the parasol Susannah accepted from his gloved hands.

Willow Dorning’s eyes were not pretty, though. His eyes were the hue of a sunset that had given up the battle with night, such that angry reds and passionate oranges had faded to indigo memories and violet dreams. Seven years ago, his violet eyes had been merely different, part of the Dorning legacy, and he’d been another tall fellow forced to bear his friend’s sisters company. In those seven years, his voice had acquired night-sky depths, his grace was now bounded with self-possession.

Though he still apparently loved dogs.

“My thanks for the parasol,” Susannah said, possibly repeating herself. “You really need not have bothered. Ah, and here’s the tea tray. Della, will you pour?”

Della was effortlessly social. Not the reserved paragon their old sister Nita was, and not as politically astute as their sister Kirsten. Both of those ladies yet bided in Kent, either recently married or anticipating that happy state.

Leaving Susannah unmarried and abandoned as the Season gathered momentum.

Exactly as she’d felt seven years ago.

“Georgette likes you, Susannah,” Della said, pouring Mr. Dorning’s tea. “Or she likes that parasol.”

The dog had not moved from Susannah’s knee, though she was ignoring the parasol and sniffing at the sonnets on the side table.

“Georgette is shy,” Mr. Dorning said, “and she’s usually well mannered, save for occasionally snacking on an old book. Her mischief in the park was an aberration, I assure you. Lady Della, are you enjoying your first London Season?”

For the requisite fifteen minutes, Della and Mr. Dorning made idle talk, while Susannah discreetly nudged the sonnets away from the dog, sipped tea, and felt agreeably ancient. Without Nita or Kirsten on hand, Susannah had become the older sister suited to serving as a chaperone at a social call.

And upon reflection, she didn’t feel abandoned by her older sisters. She was simply taking her turn as the spinster in training before becoming a spinster in earnest.

Thank God.

“I’ll bid you ladies good day,” Mr. Dorning said, rising.

“I’ll see you out,” Susannah replied, because that was her role, as quasi-chaperone, and having Barrisford tend to that task would have been marginally unfriendly. Mr. Dorning, as the son of an earl, was her social equal, after all.

“Georgette, come.” Mr. Dorning did not snap his fingers, though Effington, the only other dog lover in Susannah’s acquaintance, snapped his fingers constantly—at dogs and at servants. He’d snapped his fingers at Della once, and Susannah had treated Effington to a glower worthy of her late papa in a taking.

Georgette padded over to her master’s side, and Susannah quit the parlor with them, leaving Della to attack the biscuits remaining on the tea tray.

“You didn’t used to like dogs,” Mr. Dorning observed.

“I still don’t like dogs,” Susannah replied, though she didn’t
dislike
them. Neither did she like cats, birds, silly bonnets, London Seasons, or most people. Horses were at least useful, and sisters could be very dear. Brothers fell somewhere between horses and sisters.

“Georgette begs to differ,” Mr. Dorning said as they reached the bottom of the steps. “Or perhaps she was making amends for her trespasses against your parasol by allowing you to pat her for fifteen straight minutes.”

Susannah took Mr. Dorning’s top hat from the sideboard. “Georgette ignored the new parasol. I think my wardrobe is safe from her lapses in manners, though the day your dog snacks on one of my books will be a sorry day for Georgette, Mr. Dorning.”

Despite Susannah’s stern words, she and Mr. Dorning were
managing
, getting through the awkwardness of being more or less alone together.

“You’re still fond of Shakespeare?” Mr. Dorning asked as he tapped his hat onto his head.

A glancing reference to the past, also to the present. “Of all good literature. You’re still waiting for your brother to produce an heir?”

Another reference to their past, for Mr. Dorning had confided this much to Susannah during one of their interminable turns about Lady March’s music parlor. Until the Earl of Casriel had an heir in the nursery, Will Dorning’s self-appointed lot in life was to be his brother’s second-in-command.

“Casriel is as yet unmarried,” Mr. Dorning said, “and now my younger brothers strain at the leash to conquer London.”

He exchanged his social gloves for riding gloves, giving Susannah a glimpse of masculine hands. Those hands could be kind, she hadn’t forgotten that. They’d also apparently learned how to give the dog silent commands, for at Mr. Dorning’s gesture, Georgette seated herself near the front door.

“I’m much absorbed keeping Cam and Ash out of trouble,” he went on, “while allowing them the latitude to learn self-restraint. Apparently, I must add my loyal hound to the list of parties in need of supervision.”

The dog thumped her tail.

Did Will Dorning allow himself any latitude? Any unrestrained moments? He’d been a serious young man. He was formidable now.

“We’ll doubtless cross paths with your brothers, then,” Susannah said, “for Della is also determined to storm the social citadels.” Once Della was safely wed, Susannah could luxuriate in literary projects, a consummation devoutly to be wished, indeed.

“You have ever had the most intriguing smile,” Mr. Dorning observed, apropos of nothing Susannah could divine. “Thank you for accepting my apology, my lady. I look forward to renewing our acquaintance further under happier circumstances.”

Having dispensed such effusions as the situation required, he bowed over Susannah’s hand and was out the door, his dog trotting at his heels.

An
intriguing
smile? Susannah regarded herself in the mirror over the sideboard. Her reflection was tall, blond, blue-eyed, as unremarkable as an earl’s daughter could be amid London’s spring crop of beauties. She
was
smiling, though…

And her hands smelled faintly of Georgette. Perhaps she
had
stroked the dog’s silky ears a time or two. Or three.

“Though I don’t even
like
dogs.”