A Countess by Christmas by Annie Burrows Page A

‘Esau regards you as a friend. The moment he heard your voice he made straight for you to make his presence known.’
    ‘Straight, yes,’ she agreed. ‘Straight through the hedge,’ she amended, a bubble of mirth welling up insideher as she recalled the consternation he had caused. Then with a perfectly straight face she reached up and plucked a yew twig from the front of Lord Bridgemere’s waistcoat. ‘And you came straight after him,’ she observed, tossing the twig to the ground.
    ‘He frightens some females,’ he countered. ‘He is so large and…’
    ‘So sadly out of control.’ She shook her head in mock reproof.
    His brows drew down into a scowl. ‘No, that is not the case at all. He is very well trained…’
    Abruptly she averted her face, as though glancing towards the dog, who was now sniffing away at the foot of the hedge. But not quite quickly enough to hide the laughter brimming.
    He caught at her chin and turned her face towards him, studying it in perplexity. Then suddenly comprehension dawned.
    ‘You…you are teasing me!’
    For a moment she felt as though her fate hung in the balance. It was the height of impertinence for one of her station to treat a man of his rank with such lack of respect.
    But then he smiled.
    Really smiled—as though she had just handed him some immensely rare and unexpected gift.
    Her stomach swooped and soared—just as it had done when, as a little girl, she had taken a turn on her garden swing.
    She had thought him attractive, in a dangerous sort of way, when she had believed he was merely a footman. Had imagined maidservants queuing up to kiss thatmouth when it had been hard and cynical. But the intensity of that smile was downright lethal. As she gazed, transfixed, at those happily curved lips, with his hand still cupping her chin gently, she wished that he would pull her closer, slant that mouth across her own…
    With a gasp, she pulled away from him.
    His smile faded. He looked down at the hand that had been cupping her chin as though its behaviour confused him.
    ‘E…Esau?’ she stammered, determined to break the intensity of the mood. ‘You called him that because he is so hairy, I take it?’
    ‘And he has a somewhat reddish tinge to his coat,’ he agreed mechanically. Then, as though searching for something to say to prolong their odd little conversation, ‘Under the mud which unfortunately he chose to roll in this morning.’ He looked down at her attire ruefully. ‘And which is now liberally smeared all over your coat.’
    For the first time Helen took stock of the damage the encounter with his dog had wrought upon her clothing. Helen had wrapped a shawl over her bonnet before setting out. It had slithered to the ground when Esau had jumped up, and the other ladies had trodden it into the ground. Her gloves and cuffs were shiny with the aftermath of Esau’s affectionate greeting, and her shoulders bore the imprints of his enormous muddy paws. And, worst of all, when he had dropped to the ground his claws had torn a rent in her skirt.
    ‘You must allow me to replace it.’
    ‘Must?’ Taking exception to his high-handed attitudetowards her, she took a step back. ‘I must do no such thing!’
    ‘Do not be ridiculous,’ he snapped, his own brief foray into good humour coming to an abrupt end. ‘I saw the way my sister used you as a human shield to protect her own clothing from Esau’s unfortunate tendency to jump up on people he likes. And she can easily afford to replace any gowns his paws might ruin. I suspect that you cannot. I have just heard you declare you have not a penny to your name! And I doubt if you have more than two changes of clothing in that meagre amount of luggage my staff carried up to your room.’
    Helen stiffened further. ‘Mud brushes off when it dries. And I am quite capable of darning this little tear,’ she said, indicating her skirts. ‘Any competent needlewoman could do it! And, contrary to your opinion, I do