progressive of you, I’m sure. I am relieved.” He was also relieved he wasn’t a dog. That bit of jealousy over Miss Armstead’s affection toward her pets died aborning, along with any attraction he might have harbored for the frowsy female. “My word, look at the time. I have outstayed my fifteen minutes.” Angelina smiled, satisfied with her day’s work.
Chapter Seven
A Knowlton never backed down from a challenge. Usually they were wise enough to avoid lost causes and rarely bet on long odds, hence the family’s political and financial success throughout England’s varied history. Corin wasn’t ready to concede, but he was deuced glad he didn’t have money riding on his chances of dislodging Miss Armstead and her army. No, he only had his career at stake, that and his future engagement. Let Papa Wyte hear a word of Miss Armstead’s living unchaperoned on the viscount’s property, Corin knew, and he could kiss the heiress good-bye. No, he wouldn’t be allowed near enough to Lord Wyte’s daughter to shake her hand, much less ask for it. No matter that the companion dressed like a crow and had a tongue like an adder. Lord Wyte would not tolerate the least hint of impropriety to sully his chick’s innocence.
Midas Micah’s wealth came from trade, was why. There was no higher stickler than a man trying to prove himself and his offspring worthy of social acceptance. Wyte’s birth was respectable enough, if one respected genteel poverty. A third son of a cadet branch of an impoverished duchy, Wyte had married a mine owner’s daughter. Instead of living on his father-in-law’s largesse, however, Wyte took himself, his bride, and her settlements to India, to speculate and invest. He’d come home a widower with a purchased title, a fortune, and a stunningly beautiful daughter—and a set of morals that were as strong as his desire to see her accepted in Polite Society. Wyte wouldn’t entertain an offer from a fortune hunter, a wastrel, or a libertine. At least Corin would still have his wealth when his reputation was gone.
Gone. Corin was going to see some of those outcasts out of his cottage or die trying. While his aunt’s old groom, Jed, now turned dog walker, went to fetch his horse, the viscount surveyed the dogs in the yard. Some were behind fences, some tied to trees and stakes. Why the devil couldn’t his aunt have collected pressed flowers?
“I’m taking another of the dogs back with me, Jed,” he told the grizzled servant, and added at the other’s doubtful look, “Miss Armstead approves. Why don’t you untie that spotted chap’s lead for me? I’ll take him back to the castle at a walk, so you can tell Miss Armstead the dog won’t get tired.”
Jed spit tobacco juice through the gap in his front teeth as he handed the viscount his reins and watched him effortlessly mount the chestnut gelding. “Domino could run for miles without slowin’ to catch his breath, cap’n, but you hadn’t ought be takin’ him.”
“Nonsense, he’s the perfect coach dog. It’s all the fashion nowadays for aspiring young whips to set a spotted dog on the seat next to them. Just hand me his rope like a good fellow.”
Jed hooked his thumb in his belt. “Nay, I won’t be doing that, cap’n.”
Corin supposed such insolence came when the servants had no proper hand at the reins. “What, are you afraid for your pension, too, old man?” He waved his hand at the crowded yard. “There are enough animals here to keep you in ale for the rest of your days. Botheration, I’ve never seen a group of people so goosish over a bunch of dogs.” With that the viscount dismounted and tossed the reins over the gelding’s head, knowing his well-trained hunter would stand. He stomped over to the black-and-white dog and untied the dog’s tether from its stake. Domino wagged his tail and licked Corin’s hand. “At least you show some sense,” Corin said, patting the dog as they walked back to the
Chapter Seven
A Knowlton never backed down from a challenge. Usually they were wise enough to avoid lost causes and rarely bet on long odds, hence the family’s political and financial success throughout England’s varied history. Corin wasn’t ready to concede, but he was deuced glad he didn’t have money riding on his chances of dislodging Miss Armstead and her army. No, he only had his career at stake, that and his future engagement. Let Papa Wyte hear a word of Miss Armstead’s living unchaperoned on the viscount’s property, Corin knew, and he could kiss the heiress good-bye. No, he wouldn’t be allowed near enough to Lord Wyte’s daughter to shake her hand, much less ask for it. No matter that the companion dressed like a crow and had a tongue like an adder. Lord Wyte would not tolerate the least hint of impropriety to sully his chick’s innocence.
Midas Micah’s wealth came from trade, was why. There was no higher stickler than a man trying to prove himself and his offspring worthy of social acceptance. Wyte’s birth was respectable enough, if one respected genteel poverty. A third son of a cadet branch of an impoverished duchy, Wyte had married a mine owner’s daughter. Instead of living on his father-in-law’s largesse, however, Wyte took himself, his bride, and her settlements to India, to speculate and invest. He’d come home a widower with a purchased title, a fortune, and a stunningly beautiful daughter—and a set of morals that were as strong as his desire to see her accepted in Polite Society. Wyte wouldn’t entertain an offer from a fortune hunter, a wastrel, or a libertine. At least Corin would still have his wealth when his reputation was gone.
Gone. Corin was going to see some of those outcasts out of his cottage or die trying. While his aunt’s old groom, Jed, now turned dog walker, went to fetch his horse, the viscount surveyed the dogs in the yard. Some were behind fences, some tied to trees and stakes. Why the devil couldn’t his aunt have collected pressed flowers?
“I’m taking another of the dogs back with me, Jed,” he told the grizzled servant, and added at the other’s doubtful look, “Miss Armstead approves. Why don’t you untie that spotted chap’s lead for me? I’ll take him back to the castle at a walk, so you can tell Miss Armstead the dog won’t get tired.”
Jed spit tobacco juice through the gap in his front teeth as he handed the viscount his reins and watched him effortlessly mount the chestnut gelding. “Domino could run for miles without slowin’ to catch his breath, cap’n, but you hadn’t ought be takin’ him.”
“Nonsense, he’s the perfect coach dog. It’s all the fashion nowadays for aspiring young whips to set a spotted dog on the seat next to them. Just hand me his rope like a good fellow.”
Jed hooked his thumb in his belt. “Nay, I won’t be doing that, cap’n.”
Corin supposed such insolence came when the servants had no proper hand at the reins. “What, are you afraid for your pension, too, old man?” He waved his hand at the crowded yard. “There are enough animals here to keep you in ale for the rest of your days. Botheration, I’ve never seen a group of people so goosish over a bunch of dogs.” With that the viscount dismounted and tossed the reins over the gelding’s head, knowing his well-trained hunter would stand. He stomped over to the black-and-white dog and untied the dog’s tether from its stake. Domino wagged his tail and licked Corin’s hand. “At least you show some sense,” Corin said, patting the dog as they walked back to the
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