the terrier started barking and tearing around, snapping at the earl’s scuffed boots.
“Hell and tarnation,” Carlinn swore. He bent down, grabbed the dog, and lifted Max to eye level. All four feet paddling in the air as if one of the dragons from the Chinese tapestry had come to life and was breathing fire at his nubby little tail, Max whined. Marisol was about to demand the dog’s release when Lord Kimbrough declared, “You, sir, are an embarrassment to the entire canine family. Now behave yourself or I shall lock you in one of those lacquered cabinets.”
He lowered the dog and Max ran to hide under Marisol’s skirts, trembling. “How dare you frighten my dog!” she exclaimed, forgetting for the moment that Max was actually Aunt Tess’s pet and a nuisance to boot.
“A real dog wouldn’t need to be frightened,” he snapped back, “but it’s all of a piece.” He waved his arm around at the exotic furnishings, as if they met his standards as poorly as Max or Marisol herself. Well, she’d had enough. Enough of some angry gentleman forcing himself into her presence and then doing his best to intimidate her. By heaven, she was not going to permit this…this ruffian to frighten her.
“Get out, sirrah! I did not invite you, and I do not wish to see you. I demand you leave at once!”
“Not until I’ve had my say, I won’t, so don’t you get on your high horse with me, Duchess. It won’t wash.”
“How dare you! You barge into a lady’s drawing room without permission—into a house of mourning, I might add—wearing mud and buckskins like some…some—”
“Country rustic? Gentleman farmer? Honest Berkshire landowner? I’m not surprised you cannot recognize the breed, ma’am.”
“And I am not surprised you stay away from Town if these are your manners! How dare you come to my own house and insult me!”
“And how dare you involve me in your sordid little scandals? My family has never been tainted with such filth before and wouldn’t be now, if not for you and the London rumor mills. Thank heaven my parents are not alive to see how low you and your kind have brought our good name. But what about my sister, Duchess? Have you considered anyone else in this? My sister will make her come-out next year, if her reputation is not already so besmirched by your scandal that no hostess will invite her anywhere and no man will offer for her.”
Outraged, Marisol sputtered. “My? My scandal? I involved you? My husband was murdered, and you were the last person known to have words with him! You threatened him. Scores of witnesses heard you.”
“Denning was a bounder.”
“He was my husband!”
“My regrets, ma’am.”
Marisol gasped. “Why, you—Here you are, spouting some fustian about finding your name in the muck, when you thrust yourself uninvited into the presence of an unchaperoned female. A recently unmarried female, I might add! For all I know you killed Arvid and you’ve come to continue your bloody path.”
“Don’t be absurd, Duchess. Not even gapeseeds from the hinterlands go around seducing or strangling pregnant women.”
He looked as though he might wish to do the latter, though, so Marisol demanded, “Then why in the name of all that’s holy
have
you come?”
Kimbrough drew a folded sheet of newsprint out of his inner pocket and tossed it down on the table beside Marisol. “I have come because of this,” he said with a snarl, “and a demand that you insist they print a retraction.”
The man was mad, Marisol decided, as she unfolded the paper. That was all there was for it; he was a Bedlamite. That he thought she could get a journal to issue an apology for a scandalous cartoon proved it. The drawing showed the interior of a coach where an
enceinte
woman and a large gentleman both held pistols on an entwined couple on the opposite seat. The caption read: “After you, my dear.”
“This?” Marisol asked in disbelief. “This is what has you so up in the
“Hell and tarnation,” Carlinn swore. He bent down, grabbed the dog, and lifted Max to eye level. All four feet paddling in the air as if one of the dragons from the Chinese tapestry had come to life and was breathing fire at his nubby little tail, Max whined. Marisol was about to demand the dog’s release when Lord Kimbrough declared, “You, sir, are an embarrassment to the entire canine family. Now behave yourself or I shall lock you in one of those lacquered cabinets.”
He lowered the dog and Max ran to hide under Marisol’s skirts, trembling. “How dare you frighten my dog!” she exclaimed, forgetting for the moment that Max was actually Aunt Tess’s pet and a nuisance to boot.
“A real dog wouldn’t need to be frightened,” he snapped back, “but it’s all of a piece.” He waved his arm around at the exotic furnishings, as if they met his standards as poorly as Max or Marisol herself. Well, she’d had enough. Enough of some angry gentleman forcing himself into her presence and then doing his best to intimidate her. By heaven, she was not going to permit this…this ruffian to frighten her.
“Get out, sirrah! I did not invite you, and I do not wish to see you. I demand you leave at once!”
“Not until I’ve had my say, I won’t, so don’t you get on your high horse with me, Duchess. It won’t wash.”
“How dare you! You barge into a lady’s drawing room without permission—into a house of mourning, I might add—wearing mud and buckskins like some…some—”
“Country rustic? Gentleman farmer? Honest Berkshire landowner? I’m not surprised you cannot recognize the breed, ma’am.”
“And I am not surprised you stay away from Town if these are your manners! How dare you come to my own house and insult me!”
“And how dare you involve me in your sordid little scandals? My family has never been tainted with such filth before and wouldn’t be now, if not for you and the London rumor mills. Thank heaven my parents are not alive to see how low you and your kind have brought our good name. But what about my sister, Duchess? Have you considered anyone else in this? My sister will make her come-out next year, if her reputation is not already so besmirched by your scandal that no hostess will invite her anywhere and no man will offer for her.”
Outraged, Marisol sputtered. “My? My scandal? I involved you? My husband was murdered, and you were the last person known to have words with him! You threatened him. Scores of witnesses heard you.”
“Denning was a bounder.”
“He was my husband!”
“My regrets, ma’am.”
Marisol gasped. “Why, you—Here you are, spouting some fustian about finding your name in the muck, when you thrust yourself uninvited into the presence of an unchaperoned female. A recently unmarried female, I might add! For all I know you killed Arvid and you’ve come to continue your bloody path.”
“Don’t be absurd, Duchess. Not even gapeseeds from the hinterlands go around seducing or strangling pregnant women.”
He looked as though he might wish to do the latter, though, so Marisol demanded, “Then why in the name of all that’s holy
have
you come?”
Kimbrough drew a folded sheet of newsprint out of his inner pocket and tossed it down on the table beside Marisol. “I have come because of this,” he said with a snarl, “and a demand that you insist they print a retraction.”
The man was mad, Marisol decided, as she unfolded the paper. That was all there was for it; he was a Bedlamite. That he thought she could get a journal to issue an apology for a scandalous cartoon proved it. The drawing showed the interior of a coach where an
enceinte
woman and a large gentleman both held pistols on an entwined couple on the opposite seat. The caption read: “After you, my dear.”
“This?” Marisol asked in disbelief. “This is what has you so up in the
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