Love Regency Style

by Samantha Holt

  Henry pondered what to do. What to do to appease Sarah as well as to honor the hairy beast. Give him a proper burial. Bury him in the family plot on the east side of the property. Order a headstone from the local mason. Allow Hannah her bereavement. Having recently been in mourning for her mother and sister, the woman must certainly knew how to grieve.

  “I am on my way to the Cavenaugh’s,” Henry finally spoke, his voice soft against her hair. “I mean to ask about the litter of puppies their bitch gave birth to before I left on my trip to London.”

  At the mention of the puppies, Sarah sniffled. Angling her head up a bit, she regarded her protector. “They are adorable, Henry. If I could afford to feed a dog as large as they will be in a year, I would have you select one for me, too,” she claimed, her face lighting up with the statement. She was furiously wip­ing away tears with a handkerchief she must have pulled from a pocket in her gown. Henry realized quite belatedly that he hadn’t offered his.

  If I could afford to feed … What did she mean by that? He supported her. He could certainly afford food for a dog! “I will see to it,” he stated with a quick nod. When he saw her sur­prised expression, he wondered again at her nice clothes and hair. “Were you about to go … on a call?” he asked then, an uncomfortable sensation suddenly creeping into his aware­ness. “Or is someone … about to call on you?”

  Her eyes closing for a moment, Sarah swallowed. She low­ered her head. “The latter. Mr. McDonald offered to take me to Bampton. To shop,” she added, hoping the arrangement didn’t sound as scandalous as she was suddenly thinking it would. “He has a very fast curricle, so I shouldn’t be gone long, and Nathan knows to go to Andrew’s house when he is done with his studies.”

  Henry had thought her slap quite painful, but now Sarah’s words were like a blow to his stomach. A man was calling on her. Another man. A man for whom she was dressed rather nicely. She looked … pretty, he thought. Certainly not like Hannah, for Hannah was far younger and more beautiful in her nymph-like, fairy tale princess way.

  But even though Sarah would turn heads today, she was still his. She would still require his permission to make the trip. It wasn’t as if McDonald was considering anything beyond being a driver for her. The man certainly knew Sarah was his. She was of an age that she no longer required a chaperone. And she wouldn’t think about taking a lover. She couldn’t. She was the mother of his child. “I take it Mr. McDonald is due at any moment,” Henry said, his ears detecting the sounds of horses coming up the lane. Sarah deserved an afternoon shopping, he realized. He could not begrudge her that simple delight. “Give him my regards, and enjoy your trip,” he added as he leaned over and kissed Sarah on the cheek. Surprised at his comment, Sarah kissed him, a quick peck meant as an acknowledgment of his blessing and perhaps as an apology for her having slapped him. She rarely kissed him.

  “Thank you, Henry, truly,” she spoke in a whisper, her eyes opening to meet his. He was sure he saw surprise there, per­haps even relief. He nodded and gave her a quick kiss on the forehead.

  Before he could change his mind, Henry departed the dower house. He nearly ran the length of the path to the lane, avoiding Tad McDonald’s curricle as it had taken the circular drive along the side of the house. The man owned a nearby posting inn and tavern, the profits of which made McDonald one of the wealthiest men in the Bampton area.

  Henry supposed if Sarah were seen in McDonald’s com­pany, there would be talk. But everyone within two miles of Gisborn Hall knew Sarah was his … his mistress. He grimaced. The word seemed so wrong for what they had shared. Sarah was more than a woman he bedded when he felt the need for release. He had loved her for … almost his entire life. She would have been his wife—his countess—had she not been so damned stubborn!

  He shook his head and remembered why he had set out on this trek to begin with. Why hadn’t he thought to ride Thun­der? The horse was probably still saddled next to the stable. He could have been at the Cavenaugh’s and back home by now.

  Reaching into his pocket, he felt for coins and pulled out several. How much would Cavenaugh want for a puppy, he wondered? The man was so proud of his brown and white long-haired beast, claiming it had been a gift of a friend who had returned from a Grand Tour of Europe. Apparently, the dog was pregnant when it arrived in Great Britain, although there was nothing said about the breed of the dog or if the puppies were fathered by a dog of the same breed or not.

  He wasn’t sure what to expect, exactly. He had only heard tales from his valet and Mrs. Batey that the pups were brown and white like their mother and made “adorable mewling sounds,” this last a comment made by Mrs. Batey, not Mr. Murphy.

  Had Mr. Murphy made such a claim, Henry thought he might have to dismiss him.

  At least six weeks had passed since the pups were born; perhaps he would be able to take one home to Hannah now.

  Approaching Cavenaugh’s small farm cottage, he heard the dogs well before he saw them. And when he did, he had to admit to being a bit shocked, for at least three of the beasts looked like miniature versions of Harold. Well, not so minia­ture, he realized when he got closer to the pen. Several were bounding about, grabbing at one another’s tails and jumping on each other’s backs. The “adorable mewling sounds” had been replaced with yips and yowls. The ‘woof ’ he heard had come from the bitch, who had pressed herself against one of the pen’s wooden posts and was watching the chaos with a dis­tinct look of annoyance. On closer inspection, Henry thought she looked enough like Harold to be of the same breed. If Cav­enaugh’s friend had taken the Grand Tour of Europe, he had no doubt included the Alps in his trek and come across the same monks that Henry’s fatherin-law had during his tour there ten years ago.

  “My lord!” Tom Cavenaugh called out from the edge of his field. He trotted up to the front of his property and gave the earl a bow before extending his right hand.

  “Mr. Cavenaugh. I see you are the proprietor of a rather large nursery,” Henry said with a grin as he nodded toward the pen filled with puppies. Were there four? Or five? They didn’t stand still long enough to be counted, and they were certainly larger than Henry expected for dogs that couldn’t be much more than six weeks old.

  The farmer rolled his eyes. “When ol’ MacLeod dropped off Maggie, here,” he pointed to the mother of the brood, “I thought she seemed a bit larger than she was supposed to be. He thought it quite the thing to bring a pregnant bitch from the Alps, the bounder. But the man has no place to keep such a beastie. And I’ve grown rather fond of her. She’s a good mouser,” he claimed with a proud nod.

  A mouser? Well, given how large the dogs were, he sup­posed they had to be able to eat anything. Perhaps one of the dogs would be good for something more than a companion for Hannah, Henry thought. “Are these … Alpenmastiffs?” he wondered as he waved to the pups.

  “Heard of ’em, have you?” Tom commented in surprise. “They’re rare, apparently. Some men in a mountain cave …”

  “St. Bernard monks,” Henry interrupted him.

  Tom’s eyebrows shot up. “You know the story then?” he questioned, impressed by the earl’s apparent worldliness.

  “Until he died yesterday, Lady Gisborn had one,” Henry explained quickly. “Harold MacDuff was ten years old. She is quite … bereft at his loss. I was hoping I could buy one or two of these off of you.” He knew just the one for Hannah, too—a male whose patches of light brown and white most closely matched Harold’s. Although he was fairly rambunc­tious, Henry thought perhaps the little monster would settle down a bit as it aged.

  He could only hope, at least.

  Tom Cavenaugh gave the earl a look of surprise. “Buy one?” he repeated, a look of wonder on his face. “Begging your pardon, my lord, but you can have your pick. Maggie is done feeding ’em, and I certainly can’t afford to keep ‘em all,” he countered, his expression suddenly very serious. “Could you give Lady Gisborn my sympathies? If she had him ten years, he was probably like a child to her. My w
ife, may she rest in peace, probably would have allowed Maggie to sleep in our bed—under the bed linens no less,” he added, his expression suddenly dour.

  Henry wondered if perhaps Maggie was already sleeping in Cavenaugh’s bed, if for no other reason than to get some peace and quiet from her noisy pups. He tossed Tom a coin. “I want that one,” he said as he pointed to the small version of Harold MacDuff. “And if Miss Inglenook wants one as she claims she does, I’ll have her come down and pick another.”

  Tom caught the coin, a look of surprise crossing his face when he took in the denomination. A sovereign! For a dog? He followed the direction of Henry’s finger. “Good choice. Wasn’t the first out, but he’s not the runt, either.” The farmer stepped into the pen and scooped up the fur ball. When Tom came to where Henry stood at the pen wall, he held the squirming mass out to the earl.

  Henry froze.

  He had never held a dog before.

  He owned dogs. Two of them. Spaniels for hunting. But he had never held them in his arms nor treated them as pets. Suddenly, he was holding a rather heavy, wiggling, warm bundle of brown and white fluff. Huge brown eyes stared at him before a yawn revealed a rather large mouth, a very long tongue, and rows of sharp, white teeth. Floppy ears, huge paws and a tail that swished from side to side … despite knowing what it would look like when full grown, Henry couldn’t help but find the little bugger cute. And before Henry had a chance to readjust how he held the pup, it fell asleep.

  “They do that,” Tom commented as he watched the earl try to position the dog for easy travel. “They’re busy as can be, and then they just … flop down and sleep for a few minutes.”

  Placing the sleeping beast so its head rested on his shoul­der, Henry held one hand under the dog’s bottom. He hoped he didn’t look too ridiculous. It was a long walk back to Gis­born Hall. “Thank you, Cavenaugh,” he said as he waved at the farmer.

  “I’ll save a good one for Miss Inglenook,” the farmer promised as he waved.

  The little dog didn’t stay asleep long, and when sharp claws had done their worst on his top coat, either in an attempt to climb onto his shoulder or get down from it, Henry finally let the dog down. The pup stared up at him and looked back from whence they came. “Come, Harold,” Henry commanded as he continued on his way to Gisborn Hall. Although the pup seemed unsure at first, he was soon running and walking along side Henry, occasionally giving his new master a ques­tioning look as they made their way down the dirt lane. Just before they reached the front doors to Gisborn Hall, Henry turned to regard the pup.

  He was pissing on one of Mrs. Batey’s rosebushes.

  Well, the bush was a long way from blooming, and if Aldenwood’s prediction about this year’s growing season turned out to be true, then there probably wouldn’t be any roses. Henry reached down and scooped up the pup from his perusal of a boxwood. “Come, Harold,” he stated, placing the dog back onto his shoulder. Harold squirmed a bit but seemed to realize the only way down was a long way down. Apparently deciding he liked being on the earl’s shoulder, Harold licked Henry’s ear.

  Stunned and not too pleased to have the pup licking him, Henry was about to put him back down. But he caught the look the little beast was giving him. A damned familiar look. It was as if they had already made each other’s acquaintance, and Harold was reminding him he had better not make a cake of what he was about to do.

  “I am making it right with my wife,” Henry said quite firmly, almost chastising himself when he realized he had spo­ken out loud to the dog. “You just better do your part. And no piddling on her.”

  Harold behaved as if he was listening to Henry, his eyes quite wide and attentive, so the earl continued. “You have to be a foot warmer, and a bed warmer, and a mouser, and you must guard Hannah and keep her safe when I cannot be there.”

  A pink tongue suddenly intersected his cheek, the abra­siveness against his afternoon beard a surprise. Closing his eyes, Henry couldn’t help but grin at the pup’s antics. Still, he looked about to be sure no one had seen his reaction.

  Henry rather hoped the front hall would be empty. He wanted to get Harold up and into Hannah’s room before any servants saw him carrying the little beastie in such a manner. He couldn’t begin to imagine the talk below stairs should that happen.

  Thank goodness Parkerhouse was not at his post. Henry took the stairs as quickly as possible and hurried to his wife’s door. He knocked once. When he didn’t hear a response, he peeked in. The bed was empty. Scanning the room, he saw Hannah where he had found her that morning, her arms rest­ing on the window sill as she looked out over his lands. At least she has a blanket around her shoulders, Henry thought sadly. And the fireplace was lit and warming that part of the room.

  Harold squirmed to the point that Henry lowered him to the floor. Even before the pup could get his traction on the wooden planks where there wasn’t Aubusson carpet, he was off and running awkwardly toward Hannah, his tail wagging so hard Henry thought he might knock over a piece of furni­ture. He hurried in the puppy’s wake, wanting to see Hannah’s reaction when she noticed him.

  He wasn’t disappointed. He was suddenly … in love.

  “Oh!” Hannah cried out, a sound so joyful he wanted to hear it again and again. Her face had changed instantly from one of infinite sadness to pure joy. The puppy had its front paws on Hannah’s knees, its tongue reaching out to lick whatever of Hannah he could reach. Hannah turned to find Henry gazing down at her, a hesitant smile on his face. “Where … how?” she wondered as she reached down to capture the puppy and bring it onto her lap. Now that he had full access to his mistress, Harold was licking her neck and chin as Hannah giggled in delight. Her hands were smoothing the fur on the sides of the dog as he continued to show his excitement and affection.

  “He piddles,” Henry warned her.

  “Oh, they do that,” Hannah replied with a shrug, appar­ently unconcerned that Harold might soil her beautiful night gown.

  “His mother lives about a mile from here. She has at least three others and appeared quite happy to give him up,” he said in answer to her earlier question. He really couldn’t be sure the expression on the dog’s face was that of happiness. Relief, perhaps. It was really hard to tell with dogs.

  “What is his name?” she wondered, cradling him so his tummy was turned up. She was rubbing it with a couple of fingers while the pup’s tail swished over her night gown.

  Surprised by the question, Henry bit his lower lip. “I called him Harold on the way home. He … followed me when I wasn’t carrying him,” he said with a shrug.

  “Harold,” she repeated, her face turning up to give her husband a brilliant smile. “He does look an awfully lot like him,” she murmured, scooping the puppy into her arms and placing it against her shoulder. “He’s perfect, Henry.’

  She stood up from the chair, the blanket falling from her shoulders. A pensive smile on her face, she reached up and kissed his cheek.

  Henry was briefly reminded of Sarah’s earlier kiss, but found he valued this one just a bit more.

  “Thank you, Henry,” she whispered. And then her free arm wrapped around his neck while she reached up to kiss him on the lips.

  Henry wrapped his arms about her waist, pulling her up and against the hard planes of his body. Despite the pup pre­venting him from hugging as hard as he wanted to hold his wife at that moment, the puppy’s squirming ceased when he returned the kiss. His tongue gently parted her lips until he was tasting her teeth and tongue. Her soft moan spurred him on so that he deepened the kiss. Through the thin fabric of her nightgown, he could feel the curves of her soft body as his hands pressed into the small of her back before moving down to cup her bottom and up to grasp one shoulder. The heat of his hands seared her back as he did so.

  Another soft moan escaped her when Henry tried to pull away. She had slipped her free hand between their bodies to press her palm against the growing bulge in his breeches. A growl emanated from Henry, but he recaptured
her lips and kissed her hard before pulling away with a gasp. Hannah was already undoing the buttons of his waistcoat, her deft fingers working their way down the garment before moving to the fastening of his breeches.

  “Hannah.” He barely got the word out as he noticed Har­old sleeping soundly on her shoulder. The sight seemed some­how … right, as if the pup was supposed to be sleeping on his wife’s shoulder at three o’clock in the afternoon. But not right given what she was doing to him at the moment.

  Hannah had slipped her hand down the loosened fall of his breeches and through his drawers. His engorged cock was suddenly in her hand, her thumb caressing the top of the wet bulb while her fingers gripped him. Cursing softly, he strug­gled to maintain his balance. Whatever is she doing? It was day­light, for God’s sake. Had he locked the door? She was lowering herself before him, and her hand left his cock for a moment only to return to grip and stroke it harder than before. Her other hand had slipped behind his buttocks to pull down his breeches and drawers.

  When he glanced down, he saw Harold sleeping on the carpet below, well away from where he stood. A shiver of pleasure shot up his body, forcing his attention back to what Hannah was doing. Her tongue was sliding along the length of his manhood! How did she know to even try such a thing? A mix of horror and admiration clouded his thoughts as he realized what was about to happen. “Hannah.” He spoke her name again in the hope she would pause or stop. When she did not, Henry stepped back suddenly. Her grip on him gone, he struggled to regain his breath as he watched Hannah strug­gle to regain her balance.

  Her face turned up to him, her body perched on her haunches, bare feet peeking out behind her night rail. “Did I … did I do it … wrong?” she whispered. She looked as if she might cry.

  “No,” Henry breathed, reaching down to hook his hands beneath her arms and pull her up. “Quite the contrary, actu­ally,” he managed to get out before stripping his waistcoat from his body. His shirt quickly followed, making him wonder when she’d had time to undo his cravat. Or had he even been wearing one? His boots made a thunking sound on the carpet before his arms wrapped around Hannah and moved her to the bed. She was pulling up on the fine lawn of the nightgown when he simply stripped it from her body. Her nipples were already hard pebbles, her skin flushed with desire, the pupils of her eyes so dilated her blue eyes were nearly black. Kiss­ing one nipple, he kneaded the other with an impatient thumb until he felt her body trembling. God, she is beautiful in day­light, he thought as his gaze swept over her slender frame.