silence.
She shook her head, returning her gaze to the room. “No, thank you.”
“I should have waited to tell you about the dog until we were through dancing,” he said, drawing her attention once more. Color rose on his cheeks.
She did not like the idea that he was embarrassed. He did not deserve it. “No!” she protested, grateful for the return of the topic. It was easy to talk about dogs. “She sounds lovely. What do you call her?”
He smiled, bright and honest. He did that a lot. It was another good quality. “I thought perhaps you would have an idea.”
The words set her back. It would never occur to her to ask Castleton for his opinion on such a thing. She’d simply name the hound and announce her as part of the family. Her surprise must have shown on her face, because he added, “After all, we are to be married. She will be our hound.”
Our hound.
The hound was Castleton’s ruby ring. A living, breathing chromium-filled crystal.
Suddenly, it all seemed very serious.
They were to be married. They were to have a hound. And she was to name it.
A hound was much more than betrothal balls and trousseaus and wedding plans—all things that seemed utterly inconsequential when it came right down to it.
A hound made the future real.
A hound meant a home, and seasons passing and visits from neighbors and Sunday masses and harvest festivals. A hound meant a family. Children. His children.
She looked up into the kind, smiling eyes of her fiancé. He was waiting, eager for her to speak.
“I—” She stopped, not knowing what to say. “I haven’t any good ideas.”
He chuckled. “Well, she doesn’t know the difference. You are welcome to think about it.” He leaned low, one blond lock falling over his brow. “You should meet her first. Perhaps that would help.”
She forced a smile. “Perhaps it would.”
Perhaps it would make her want to marry him more.
She liked dogs. They had that in common.
The thought reminded her of her conversation with Mr. Cross, during which she’d told him the same as proof of her compatibility with the earl. He’d scoffed at her, and she’d ignored it.
It was all they’d said of the earl . . . until Mr. Cross had refused her request and sent her home, with a comment that echoed through her now, as she stood awkwardly beside her future husband. I suggest you query another. Perhaps your fiancé?
Perhaps she should query her fiancé. Surely he knew more than he revealed about the . . . intricacies of marriage. It did not matter that he’d never once given her even the slightest suggestion that he cared a bit for those intricacies.
Gentlemen knew about them. Far more than ladies did.
That this was a horrendously unequal truth was not the point, currently.
She peered up at Castleton, who was not looking at her. Instead, he appeared to be looking anywhere but her. She took the moment to consider her next step. He was close, after all—close enough to touch. Perhaps she ought to touch him.
He looked down at her, surprise flaring in his warm brown gaze when he discovered her notice. He smiled.
It was now or never.
She reached out and touched him, letting her silk-clad fingers slide over his kid-clad hand. His smile did not waver. Instead, he lifted his other arm and patted her hand twice, as he might do a hound’s head. It was the least carnal touch she could imagine. Not at all reminiscent of the wedding vows. Indeed, it indicated that he had no trouble with the bit about not entering into marriage like a brute beast.
She extricated her hand.
“All right?” he asked, already returning his attention to the room at large.
It did not take a woman of great experience to know that her touch had had no effect on him. Which she supposed was only fair, as his touch was absent an effect on her.
A lady laughed nearby, and Pippa turned toward the sound, light and airy and false. It was the kind of laugh she’d never perfected—her laughs were always too
She shook her head, returning her gaze to the room. “No, thank you.”
“I should have waited to tell you about the dog until we were through dancing,” he said, drawing her attention once more. Color rose on his cheeks.
She did not like the idea that he was embarrassed. He did not deserve it. “No!” she protested, grateful for the return of the topic. It was easy to talk about dogs. “She sounds lovely. What do you call her?”
He smiled, bright and honest. He did that a lot. It was another good quality. “I thought perhaps you would have an idea.”
The words set her back. It would never occur to her to ask Castleton for his opinion on such a thing. She’d simply name the hound and announce her as part of the family. Her surprise must have shown on her face, because he added, “After all, we are to be married. She will be our hound.”
Our hound.
The hound was Castleton’s ruby ring. A living, breathing chromium-filled crystal.
Suddenly, it all seemed very serious.
They were to be married. They were to have a hound. And she was to name it.
A hound was much more than betrothal balls and trousseaus and wedding plans—all things that seemed utterly inconsequential when it came right down to it.
A hound made the future real.
A hound meant a home, and seasons passing and visits from neighbors and Sunday masses and harvest festivals. A hound meant a family. Children. His children.
She looked up into the kind, smiling eyes of her fiancé. He was waiting, eager for her to speak.
“I—” She stopped, not knowing what to say. “I haven’t any good ideas.”
He chuckled. “Well, she doesn’t know the difference. You are welcome to think about it.” He leaned low, one blond lock falling over his brow. “You should meet her first. Perhaps that would help.”
She forced a smile. “Perhaps it would.”
Perhaps it would make her want to marry him more.
She liked dogs. They had that in common.
The thought reminded her of her conversation with Mr. Cross, during which she’d told him the same as proof of her compatibility with the earl. He’d scoffed at her, and she’d ignored it.
It was all they’d said of the earl . . . until Mr. Cross had refused her request and sent her home, with a comment that echoed through her now, as she stood awkwardly beside her future husband. I suggest you query another. Perhaps your fiancé?
Perhaps she should query her fiancé. Surely he knew more than he revealed about the . . . intricacies of marriage. It did not matter that he’d never once given her even the slightest suggestion that he cared a bit for those intricacies.
Gentlemen knew about them. Far more than ladies did.
That this was a horrendously unequal truth was not the point, currently.
She peered up at Castleton, who was not looking at her. Instead, he appeared to be looking anywhere but her. She took the moment to consider her next step. He was close, after all—close enough to touch. Perhaps she ought to touch him.
He looked down at her, surprise flaring in his warm brown gaze when he discovered her notice. He smiled.
It was now or never.
She reached out and touched him, letting her silk-clad fingers slide over his kid-clad hand. His smile did not waver. Instead, he lifted his other arm and patted her hand twice, as he might do a hound’s head. It was the least carnal touch she could imagine. Not at all reminiscent of the wedding vows. Indeed, it indicated that he had no trouble with the bit about not entering into marriage like a brute beast.
She extricated her hand.
“All right?” he asked, already returning his attention to the room at large.
It did not take a woman of great experience to know that her touch had had no effect on him. Which she supposed was only fair, as his touch was absent an effect on her.
A lady laughed nearby, and Pippa turned toward the sound, light and airy and false. It was the kind of laugh she’d never perfected—her laughs were always too