Chapter Six #2
‘Now I am imagining things,’ he muttered.
It was true he hadn’t slept much after the dance at the Casino.
He’d sat there in the dark, but his thoughts had been full of light, images of dancing looping through his mind.
There’d been no music, but he’d still felt the weight of her hand in his, the way her eyes had met his in one unguarded second.
When sleep finally had come, it had been full of dreams, visions of Jane held in his arms, smiling up at him.
He started to walk on and heard it again, louder, more desperate, a shrill cry.
‘Hello?’ he called, and there came a yelp in return, coming from between two of the rocks.
Benedict clambered over them, slipping a little, the spray dampening his shoes and trouser hems. Down in the shadows, he glimpsed a pair of dark, shining eyes and a flash of a sodden, pale little face.
A puppy was stuck there between the rocks, cold, wet, afraid and alone. It didn’t move. It stared at him with dark eyes, its little body tense, as if not sure whether to hope or fear. Its white coat was dirty and damp, and it was very thin.
‘Don’t worry, little one, I’ll get you out of there,’ he said, ripping off his coat and tossing it atop the rocks.
He scrambled down, his boots slipping on the boulders, until he could reach out and grab it by the scruff of the neck and pull it back up with him.
It went very, very still, shaking a bit in his arms until they were on solid land again.
He wrapped his coat around the shivering little dog, whispering nonsense words as he scrambled back up to safety on the path.
It was a girl, some sort of terrier, matted and shaking, a rope mark on her pale fur as if she had desperately escaped from somewhere.
She huddled against him, shaking and sighing.
‘You’re safe,’ he said gently. When he’d been lonely as a child, he would imagine what it would be like to have a quiet, doggy presence beside him, something that didn’t need explanations or care who he was.
He’d wanted the warm weight of a body curled against him in the silent nights.
He’d meant to get one, now that he was the duke and could do as he liked there, but there had been no time to find one yet. Now here was a pup who needed him.
He glanced around, and didn’t see anyone nearby. The pup needed water and food, a place to warm up and sleep, and Aunt Louisa’s rented house was far behind him.
But he knew who would help. Jane would never stop to consider if she should help. She would never turn away from anything lost or hurting.
‘Don’t worry,’ he told the dog. ‘We will soon have you warm and safe.’
Jane glimpsed the duke making his way up the garden path from where it sloped down to the seashore, but not as she’d expected him.
She had imagined he would arrive in a fine carriage through the gates and up the gravelled drive, specifically designed to impress by Mrs Farrand, the garden architect, through the sweeping vistas of trees, with the summerhouse in the distance, the rose beds overflowing with colour.
The duke would alight at the front doors to be greeted by May and Connor, and thus led to the scones.
Instead, he surprised her by appearing from the path winding up from the short walk that only she usually took.
And he was—she gasped!—in his shirtsleeves.
His hair was darkened with sea-spray, falling over his brow, and his shirt and waistcoat were streaked with dirt.
Sunlight caught on his golden skin, on his hair, and there was a hint of exertion in the rise and fall of his chest from his walk.
Without the polished veneer of fashionable clothes, he looked startlingly real. And somehow more dangerous for that.
For a moment, she could hardly breathe. Then she noticed details: those damp clothes; that dirt. Had it been a fountain again? He held a bundle in his arms, clutched close to his chest. A wriggling bundle, wrapped in a damp, sand-streaked scrap of fine blue wool that must have been his coat.
He glanced up and saw her there. His shoulders seemed to drop a little, as if in relief. ‘I need your help, Jane,’ he said simply, and she didn’t think. She just ran to him.
‘Whatever happened? Are you hurt?’ A tiny, bedraggled face popped up from between the folds of his coat, dark eyes and trembling white ears: a dog.
‘Oh,’ she whispered. It caught her off guard, the sight of something so small and vulnerable in his arms. The dog’s eyes were wide with confusion and something older than fear.
It looked up at her with a fragile kind of hope, as if it hadn’t yet decided whether the world was cruel or kind.
But surely, with Benedict, it was kinder than usual?
And something inside her cracked wide open.
‘I found her on the shore, caught between some rocks,’ he said. ‘I am sure she’s tired and scared, poor thing.’
‘Well, you brought her to the right place.’ She gathered the dog up against her, not caring about her gown, and led them towards the house. Surely a man who rescued a lost puppy could not be all bad, could not be so cold? Even if he was a duke…
Jane sat by the window, and fed the now clean and dry puppy a crumb of scone.
She peeked over at Benedict who, also dry and cleaned up now, was talking with Connor about yachts.
He looked more like the duke of ballrooms and drawing rooms now, not the man who fell into fountains and snatched dogs from rocks.
He was distant again, polite. Yet he had saved the dog!
Oh, how she wished she could read him. That he could be simple, her feelings for him straightforward and easy.
But she feared nothing about him could ever be straightforward.
He was utterly maddening! One minute she thought she glimpsed him, the real him, behind the title and those handsome blue eyes.
Then in the next second he was the duke again: distant, chilly, correct, unreadable.
He slid away between her fingers, beyond her understanding, like a silk scarf drifting away.
It only made her more curious about him, more intrigued. What was he hiding?
The puppy leaped up suddenly, making her laugh.
Benedict glanced towards them at the sound, and for an instant he looked entirely unguarded.
It happened suddenly—no caution, no performance, just his eyes filled with warmth.
His lips curved in a smile, not the polite kind of smile, but a wide, instinctive flash of light.
‘What a wee stoirin,’ Jane’s mother said with a soft smile.
Jane remembered how she used to feed stray cats in their old apartment, crooning to them as she did.
Jane wouldn’t be surprised if she started knitting the dog a little jumper.
How she longed to hold onto this moment when they were all happy! ‘What will you call her, then, Janey?’
Jane studied the dog’s little face, her bright-dark eyes, and remembered the tender moment when Benedict had handed the shivering bundle to her. Surely he couldn’t really be so cold as all that? ‘Oh, surely she is the duke’s dog? I shouldn’t name her…’
A little smile quirked his lips, making him look younger, like the Benedict she’d once met.
‘She looks entirely happy exactly where she is. I doubt my aunt would appreciate it if I brought a new dog to her house; her very spoiled old Pekingese would object. I would love you to have her, if you would like that.’ He glanced at Connor.
‘With your permission, of course, Mr O’Neill. ’
Connor reached out to stroke the dog’s little head and smiled. ‘It’s up to Jane. The two of them do look a most mischievous pair already.’
Jane held up the dog, who licked her nose and made everyone laugh.
‘Oh, yes, you must keep it, Jane,’ May urged. ‘It would be so lovely to have a pet around! Eddie already loves dogs.’
‘Then I certainly will, thank you, Your Grace.’ Jane cradled the dog close and peeked up at Benedict shyly, uncertainly. He was the only one who could ever make her feel that way. ‘It is very kind of you indeed.’
Benedict laughed, a deep and rich sound, making her want to laugh too.
It was a sound to reach out and pull everyone close.
A sound she was sure no one heard from him very often at all.
‘I’m not sure how kind it is to bring a living creature as a gift when you were so nice as to invite me to your home. ’
The dog cuddled close, melting Jane’s heart. ‘I’m sure it’s the nicest present ever,’ she whispered.
‘She does still need a name,’ May said.
Jane considered this. ‘What’s a good English sort of name, Your Grace? Like… Queen Elizabeth?’ The dog barked sharply. ‘But Elizabeth seems much too dignified for her!’
‘Maybe you have some family name, Your Grace?’ her mother said.
His eyes looked wistful as he studied the dog, as if he was looking not at what was in front of him, but at something far away, something unreachable. ‘Well, my mother’s name was Catherine—Kate.’
Jane remembered the whisper of some sort of scandal connected to his mother. Was that why he was so remote, so guarded? ‘Kate. Yes; I like that.’ Little Kate barked again, and leaped down to twirl in a circle. ‘I think she does too!’
‘Well, Janey, I think your first task as a dog owner should be to make sure she has a walk, don’t you agree?’ Connor said. He and May exchanged one of their long, speaking glances.
‘Oh, yes. Maybe our guest would like to go with you to see the new roses?’ May said quickly. ‘I’m sure they are nothing compared to the gardens at Rollston Court, Your Grace, as my garden here is so very young, but I think they are rather pretty.’
‘I would enjoy that very much, thank you, Mrs O’Neill,’ Benedict said, but he seemed rather uncertain. Did he really want to say yes, or was he ready to leave them? Was he just trying not to be rude?