Chapter Four
Clara tasted of music and summertime, of champagne and light. Her lips were soft, her mouth a place of heat.
Alden cupped her face, and Clara sank into him. He expected her to jerk from him, glare at him in horror, perhaps ball her fist and punch him in the nose. But no, she kissed him back, drawing a breath in wonder, daring to slide her tongue against his.
The sensation struck a spark, awakening Alden from the stupor in which he’d lingered for a year. Clara was a warm, lush woman with beautiful eyes and a spirited tongue that he was enjoying the taste of.
He deepened the kiss, hungry for her, as he slid his hands to her hair, which was as silken as he’d thought it would be. Her hat loosened and slipped from her head, falling at Harvey’s feet. Clara paid no attention, gripping the lapels of Alden’s wet coat with shaking but firm fingers.
Harvey growled again and then let out one of his squeaking barks. Alden felt a heavy paw, full of untrimmed claws, hook into the top of his boot.
He jerked, and the kiss broke. Clara sucked in a breath and skittered back from him, her lips red, her cheeks flaming.
Harvey snarled, showing Alden his pointed teeth. The dog had obviously decided Clara was his champion, and now he’d defend her from the world.
“It’s all right, Harvey,” Clara told him. “Alden is a good man. He wasn’t hurting me.”
Alden hid a scoff at being called good, but he carefully spread his arms, showing Harvey he no longer restrained Clara.
Harvey unhooked his claws from Alden’s boot, turned his back on him, and moved to Clara, tail waving.
“You really should go,” Alden said, his voice gruff.
He’d tried to push Clara away when she’d placed her compassionate hand on his arm, and had ended up offending her. But sending her off would be for her own good. He’d not be able to remain a gentleman if she stayed.
Clara finally seemed to understand this. Either that, or he’d disgusted her beyond redeeming with that unprovoked kiss.
She retrieved her hat and pressed it to her head. “I will be back in the morning to check on Harvey,” she said, voice unwavering. “I’ll leave the brushes, but you are right. He should be bathed first.”
She left the flask of tea as well, pointedly setting it on the bench where Alden had reposed. Then she brushed past him, invoking his need to kiss her again, and headed for the shed’s door.
Clara yanked it open, sailing out into the rain without pause. Alden grabbed the door before it could bang shut and hastened after her, closing it again to keep Harvey inside. He heard a whimper behind him, then a weak howl.
Clara swung to him. “You can’t leave him.”
“He’ll be all right for a few minutes. I’m not letting you walk home alone in the foul darkness.”
“My house is only three from yours.”
“Clara.” Alden grasped her arm and steered her through his gate and along the muddy path. “Do you ever cease arguing?”
“Not really.”
“Good.”
They walked past walls and back gates through the pelting rain in silence. When they reached the gate to the Griffin house—the crest on top of the iron gate was, in fact, a griffin—Alden pulled her to a halt.
“Why good?” Clara asked before Alden could begin the apology he’d been rehearsing.
“Pardon?” What the devil was she on about now?
“Why is it good that I never cease arguing?”
He plucked a sodden leaf from the top of her hat and dropped it from his glove. “Because no one will ride roughshod over you. And if they try, they will answer to me.”
Clara’s eyes widened in the faint light from the house beyond. “To you? I never thought you were such a friend to me.”
“You are wrong.” Alden shook his head as she drew a breath to answer. “No, do not argue with that. If you need me, you have only to call.”
“I see.”
Her answer was soft, and Alden couldn’t decide if she was pleased or annoyed by his declaration.
The rain had slackened somewhat, but the darkness was heavy in this lane. He touched Clara’s cheek, leaned down, and kissed her once more.
Her mouth shook, but Alden didn’t let the kiss lengthen. He eased away, brushing his fingers along her jaw. She returned his stare, unabashed, before Alden made himself leave.
“Good night, Clara,” he said quietly, and started for home.
“Alden.”
He swung back so quickly he startled even himself. “Yes?”
Clara hesitated, gripping the gate’s handle. “Make certain Harvey has a good breakfast.”
He cleared his throat. “I will. Good night.”
“Good night, Alden.”
He couldn’t turn away first this time. Alden waited until Clara opened her gate and slipped inside, then stood there a while longer until he heard a door to the house creak open and then click shut again.
Only then could he point his feet in the direction of his own house to hasten there through the rain.
He heard the dog’s howls long before he slipped into his own garden. The poor lad didn’t like being shut away, alone, and Alden couldn’t blame him.
He let out a long breath, entered his house, and made his way to his bedchamber, then gathered blankets and a pillow from the wardrobe where Milford stored spare ones and tramped back downstairs with them, out to the garden shed.
“She’ll be back in the morning,” he told Harvey when he entered.
Alden spread the blankets on the most even part of the shed’s floor, pried off his boots, and stretched out. Harvey immediately lay on the edge of the blankets, collapsing with a whuff.
He seemed resigned to the fact that he’d have to wait for Clara, as would Alden. But the idea that she’d return tomorrow, without fail, made the air in the cold shed somehow lighter and warmer.
*
At daybreak, Clara hurried down the path toward Alden’s garden. The rain of the previous night had gone, with actual sunshine peeking through tattered clouds.
She wasn’t certain whether to knock on the large wooden gate or simply walk inside.
If the gate was locked, she’d have to go around to the street and approach the house’s front door, something she did not wish to do.
It was highly inappropriate for a young lady to pay a call on a gentleman without a good reason.
While she hesitated, she heard frantic barking behind the wall and Alden’s loud voice.
“Hold still, confound you!”
Clara seized the gate’s handle and turned it, happy to find it unlocked. She pushed the gate open to behold the scene inside.
Harvey, who’d recovered some of his spirit, gamboled across the bare, flat grass of the garden. Alden, in shirt sleeves and a pair of trousers that had become very wet, chased him.
A slender man with a balding head stood near the garden shed next to a large wooden tub whose sides were dark with water. The man, whom Clara recognized as Milford, Alden’s valet, wore a prim suit that was quite dry.
Harvey spied Clara in the gateway and made for her, eyes lighting. Alden veered after him.
“Shut the gate!” he bellowed.
Clara did so quietly, then crouched down as Harvey ran at her. He was a changed dog from yesterday, still painfully thin, but with tail wagging and interest in his eyes. He was also sopping wet.
“Good morning, Harvey.” Clara smiled as Harvey skidded to a halt to stick his nose into her face. She pushed him gently aside and grasped his collar, rising to lead him back toward Milford and the washtub. “Good morning to you too, Lord Alden.”
Alden, hatless, his thick hair mussed by the breeze, grunted something, then accompanied her, limping, to the tub.
“In you go.” She half lifted, half tugged Harvey back into the water. “Alden will get you all clean.”
Milford silently handed Alden a sponge.
Alden sent him a sour look but took it up and bent to slosh water over Harvey’s coat. Before he could begin scrubbing with the sponge, Harvey shook himself, covering Alden from head to toe with muddy water.
Clara, who’d backed quickly from the deluge, laughed. Milford, a proper gentleman’s gentleman, betrayed amusement only with his eyes.
She unbuttoned her coat and slid it from her shoulders. Milford instantly stepped forward to take it from her.
“Thank you,” Clara said in true gratitude, and Milford nodded.
She’d donned an older frock, one she used to assist the housekeeper, muck about in the garden, or help Emily with her craft projects, which usually involved much sticky glue. She unbuttoned and rolled up her sleeves, then took the sponge from Alden as he ineffectually tried to use it on the dog.
He blinked at her but relinquished it. While Alden held Harvey still, Clara soaped up the sponge from the cake that lay on a stone next to the tub. Alden scooped more water over Harvey’s back, and she began to scrub.
It was a long, wet, messy process. Harvey’s coat must have had four layers of grime on it, and it came off little by little. The dog enjoyed himself grabbing for the sponge, trying to eat the soap, and shaking off every time they rinsed him.
Alden grumbled and cursed, while Clara continued to laugh. Eventually, Alden began to laugh as well. Harvey seemed determined to drive them to distraction, his antics growing bolder as his coat became cleaner.
“His fur is golden brown,” Clara said in surprise when Alden rinsed him a final time with a bucket of clean water. Milford had traveled back and forth to the pump many times during the procedure. “I wonder what sort of dog he is.”
“I think he’s just a dog dog,” Alden answered. “Mixed ancestry, as it were.”
Harvey shook again, hard. Alden leapt away to avoid the spray, stumbled, and went down on his back.
Clara surveyed him with glee. “You deserved that. He’s more than just a dog. Aren’t you, love?” She helped Harvey out of the tub, grabbed the towel Milford handed her, and began to rub the dog down.
“Retriever, my lady,” Milford said. “Possibly crossed with an Irish setter. A handsome dog, or will be when he’s back to health.”
Harvey seemed pleased with this assessment. Alden remained on the ground, propping himself on his elbows to watch Clara dry Harvey off. Harvey seemed to like the friction of towel on his fur and wriggled against it.