Will's True Wish

by Grace Burrowes

Seven

  Sheer animal delight coursed through Will, from his toes to the top of his head. Lady Susannah Haddonfield had plastered herself to him at most points in between, her lovely feminine weight pressing gratifyingly over Will’s falls.

  And by God, the woman could kiss. No chaste friendly peck, this; no polite gesture of regret. She was playing a serious game of fetch, determined on her objective, plundering and seeking, and oblivious to all else.

  Will gave her what she wanted, kissed her back like a man who’d lost what mattered to him most, because twining through his delight was regret.

  He and Susannah ought not to be kissing like this. Ought not to be kissing at all, but God in heaven, Susannah Haddonfield’s tongue could steal a man’s very prayers. She asked, she entreated, she demanded—she tasted like peppermint and sunshine and hope.

  “Something’s digging—” Susannah shifted, which tightened the leash wrapped around Will’s wrist. “Dammit, Will Dorning.”

  “Susannah, settle.”

  He used the same command on the dogs, and it didn’t work any better on her than it did on Will’s cock.

  “I don’t want to dratted settle, Willow. I want to avail myself of your charms, and you will think me a strumpet.”

  She tried to raise herself up on her arms, but just as a dog tipping its nose up will naturally lower its quarters, this only pressed her closer below.

  “I think you—” Will began as Georgette decided to have a seat right near his head. “I can’t think. Samson, sit.”

  Now the daft dog turned up biddable.

  “Susannah, if you don’t get off of me, I will soon be trying to get under your skirts, and we are in Hyde Park, with two dogs looking on, and my hat sitting on a bench nearby signaling to all that somebody has gone arse over teakettle into the bracken—are you laughing at me?”

  “Yes,” she said, climbing off of him to sit beside him. “I do believe we’ve found the comedic forest.”

  Georgette licked Will’s ear. Samson looked like that might be a fun game to join so Will sat up.

  “Perhaps you’ve learned enough about dogs that you can appease Effington’s worries,” Will said, yanking Georgette’s leash from under his fundament. “Stay, Georgette.”

  He fished through the leaves and weeds for Samson’s leash and instead found Lady Susannah’s hand.

  “Willow Dorning, I want to ruin you. Thoroughly and repeatedly.”

  “A fellow can’t be ruined, but I do appreciate the sentiment. The problem is, I want you to succeed in your folly.”

  Leaning back on her hands amid the ferns and leaves, Susannah smiled—not a smile Will had seen from her before.

  “Progress,” she said. “What must I do to get you to take the treat, Willow?”

  She had to marry him, or the next thing to it, and that meant Will had to find a way to support her. He brushed a green oak leaf from her hair.

  “Stop smiling at me like that,” he said as she winnowed her fingers through his hair, though he was smiling back. Besottedly, unreservedly, adoringly.

  “No, Will Dorning. I will not stop smiling. I like you exceedingly, and I like kissing you. You cannot scold me or ignore me out of my sentiments.”

  A rock made itself known beneath Will’s backside, and Georgette was watching him with a look he couldn’t decipher. Pitying, perhaps. Georgette was the mother of seventeen, having had three litters.

  “I think we’re setting a bad example for the dogs,” Will said. Or perhaps Georgette was laughing at him. Samson simply looked bewildered, as if to remind Will that kissing in the undergrowth was not what came after looking for a stout, stiff—

  God help me. “We can’t tarry here in the hedges without inviting scandal, my lady.”

  Though Will couldn’t exactly parade about the park in his present condition, either, riding breeches leaving little to the imagination.

  “Let’s sit on the bench and discuss literature,” Lady Susannah said. “That might cool your blood.”

  She scooted around and kissed him again, her hand settling on his falls and squeezing gently. Twice, as if to assure Will her actions were intentional.

  Then she rose and picked up Samson’s leash. “Samson, heel. Georgette, stay. Mr. Dorning, I will await you on the bench.”

  Away her ladyship strolled, grinning like a fiend, Samson trotting obediently at her side.

  * * *

  “Three rewards now,” Mannering marveled, scooping Yorick up, and stroking his head. “Great, fat, generous rewards. Lady March said she loved her little bowwow at least as much as the Duchess of Ambrose loved hers, and so must post an equal reward. The third is more modest, from some baron or other.”

  Effington disliked the look of Yorick, cradled trustingly against a waistcoat that had probably cost as much as an entire winter’s coal expenses for Effington House. Neither did his lordship like the look of Mannering, lounging in his finery on the library sofa.

  “Put the dog down, Mannering, or he’ll piss on your expensive tailoring, and then I won’t let you accompany me on my calls.”

  Effington would pay a visit to Lady March and the poor duchess too, for appearances’ sake, of course. Dog fanciers were a close-knit group, after all.

  “Little Yorick is a consummate gentleman,” Mannering said. “If he did have an accident, and piddle a bit where he oughtn’t to, well, that’s what laundresses are for.”

  Laundresses were for tupping on Monday mornings out in the mews. A merry lot, and clean, not coincidentally.

  “If you’re so enamored of the dog, then you hold the leash,” Effington said, tossing the length of leather at Mannering’s chest. “What do you hear regarding my intended?”

  “I have other matters to manage besides assassinating the character of your beloved,” Mannering said, affixing the leash to Yorick’s collar. “M’sisters are forever plaguing me, and then Mama starts in. All very vexing.”

  “Get a wife. She’ll bring wealth to the family coffers and manage your womenfolk, if you choose wisely.” Effington was looking forward to the clashes between Lady Della and his own mother. Too bad he couldn’t take bets, the way bets were taken in the bear gardens and cockpits.

  Lucrative places, both. Thank heavens.

  “I shall get a wife,” Mannering said, setting Yorick on the carpet and rising. “I look forward to it, in fact. This business of playing cards at all hours, waltzing with the wallflowers, and pretending politics interests me more than the ladies do is tedious. Yorick agrees with me.”

  Yorick agreed with anybody whose boots were within dog-kicking range.

  “Let’s start with the Duchess of Ambrose,” Effington said. “She’s always glad to see me.”

  She was always glad to see Yorick. Fed the little beast tea cakes and held him in her lap.

  “I like Her Grace,” Mannering said. “Plainspoken, doesn’t suffer fools. Always a fine quality. She’s nice.”

  Her Grace had a nasty streak to go with her weakness for dumb animals.

  Effington headed for the door. “Yorick, come.” He snapped his fingers, but the stupid dog remained sitting at Mannering’s feet.

  “I don’t suffer fools either,” Effington said, snapping his fingers again. “Mannering, come. When I’m done trotting you around Mayfair on a leash, we’ll pop down to the cockfights in Kensington. I can always use a bit of the ready, and I have an instinct for which bird is likely to win.”

  Lady Della, alas, would be left without an escort for her afternoon stroll in the park. Such a pity.

  Mannering made a face. “Cockfights. Don’t care for ’em. Not the best company. Bloody lot of noise, bloody lot of bloody feathers.”

  Bloody lot of money changing hands too. That thought kept Effington smiling as he endured the snappish and trying company of the Duchess of Ambrose, who appeared to have no idea what might have become of her dear Caesar.

  Yet another great pity. Effington consoled her effusively, as did Mannering. She served excell
ent cakes, and made delicate mention of the reward she was offering for her missing darling.

  Effington pulled Mannering away from the tea tray after half an hour of that tripe, and steeled himself for more of same from Lady March. Her Grace’s butler escorted them to the front door and waited, nose in the air, while the footman found their hats and walking sticks.

  “One feels sorry for the duchess,” Mannering said. “Who would have thought she set such store by a dog?”

  “Many do,” Effington murmured, tapping his hat onto his head, then tilting it a half inch to the left. He scratched Yorick’s ears, mindful of the butler. “I certainly value my canine friends. Always have. People are fickle, but a dog’s loyalty is the genuine article.”

  Before the butler could open the door for them, a knock sounded. The gentleman admitted was tall, broad shouldered, and dressed with about as much style as an impoverished Quaker, though he looked familiar.

  He took off his hat and passed a card to the butler. “Her Grace should be expecting me, Pinkney. Mannering, Effington, greetings.”

  The gentleman bowed, and Yorick’s little tail wagged furiously.

  “Dorning,” Mannering said, extending a hand. “A pleasure. Is Her Grace already on the hunt for another dog?”

  Dorning. One of the Dorset Dornings. The troublesome lot who’d made it their mission to dance Della Haddonfield off her feet.

  “I doubt anybody will replace Caesar in Her Grace’s affections,” Dorning said. “I flatter myself Her Grace won’t mind me occasionally stopping by until Caesar is found.”

  Dorning’s face was not friendly, though he wasn’t exactly bad looking. Serious, certainly, and his eyes were an odd color.

  “We must be on our way, sir,” Effington said. If Mannering had worn a leash, a stout tug would have been in order. “Come, Mannering. Our next destination lies five streets over, and time is flying.”

  After the requisite bowing and farewelling, Mannering came along, Yorick at his heels.

  “Why would a Dorning be calling on a duchess?” Effington asked. “They’re sheep farmers, aren’t they? Not much blunt, and even less consequence.” Which was why Casriel’s attentions to Lady Della were not worth fretting over—much.

  “Effington, for a fellow who professes to adore dogs, you surprise me,” Mannering said, stopping so Yorick could lift his leg on a lamppost. “Willow Dorning does magic with dogs. His collies are famous throughout the realm for working with sheep. He’s trained the Regent’s spaniels, and he’s the fellow who matched Caesar up with the duchess.”

  “He’s an earl’s spare and he trains dogs—himself?” Effington didn’t know whether to be amused or appalled.

  Yorick finished watering the lamppost, and Mannering picked him up. “Wellington said if his troops had been as well trained as Will Dorning’s dogs, then Waterloo would have been an afternoon’s romp.”

  Messy business, Waterloo. Had Effington’s title not limited his options, he would have been in the thick of it, surely.

  “Dorning trains the animals himself, in person?”

  “Every one. Some are strays. The collies, he breeds in Dorset. Worth a pretty penny too, but he’s very particular about who he’ll sell them to.”

  Ah, well then. No need to fret at all. “He’s an earl’s spare, and he not only trains dogs, he sells them for coin. I suppose his brothers trade in chickens, geese, and cheeses. How splendid. Mannering, you have quite made my day. You will please ensure Lady Della understands the caliber of swain she’ll have slobbering at her heels should I quit the field.”

  * * *

  “I don’t think his lordship’s coming, milady.”

  Jeffers twirled the parasol Della had appropriated from Susannah for this visit to the park. Susannah herself had taken to spending most mornings reading in the fresh air, and thus Della had brought a maid with her to wait for Lord Effington near Park Lane.

  All of Polite Society was assembling for the farce that was the fashionable hour, and Effington was nowhere to be seen.

  “We’ll give his lordship five more minutes,” Della said. “Perhaps he came down with a megrim, or his horse threw a shoe.”

  Jeffers’s sigh spoke volumes, about earls’ daughters who’d become smitten with the dubious charms of sunshine, large trees, and green grass; about the pleasure of strolling around town when a maid’s highest ambition was to get off her feet for five minutes.

  “Horses do lose shoes, my lady. At least hold the parasol. A woman can’t be too careful with her complexion.”

  “What is the point of avoiding freckles if my doting swain has decided to avoid me?” Della asked.

  Jeffers was several years Della’s senior, and worlds more experienced with what mattered. Hard work. Holding one’s tongue. Men. She did not deserve to be the object of Della’s exasperation.

  “Gentlemen are a trial,” Jeffers said. “This is your first Season, milady, so the frustrations of dealing with the gentlemen are new to you, but the parasol is ever so pretty, and with that green dress, it’s quite fetching.”

  The green dress would have looked better on a woman with blond hair. The lacy purple parasol was intended to be eye-catching, to make sure all and sundry knew that Lady Della Haddonfield was enjoying the park on the arm of Viscount Effington, and that a match was said to be in the offing.

  “I hate that parasol,” Della muttered.

  Diplomatic silence greeted her admission.

  “I hate London, I hate the Season, I hate every—”

  And there he was, the man Della had been discreetly inquiring after and searching for from ballroom to bookshop to bridle path. Jeffers must have seen him too, lounging against a sturdy oak, his regard neither subtle nor particularly respectful.

  He touched one gloved finger to his hat brim.

  “We should go, my lady,” Jeffers muttered. “I do believe it feels like rain. I’m sure of it, in fact. The London weather can be so fickle, don’t you know? Wouldn’t want Lady Susannah’s parasol to get a soaking, now would we?”

  In the middle of a sunny afternoon, thunder and lightning threatened from the dark-haired fellow beneath that oak. He was exquisitely attired in dark gray breeches, a silver waistcoat, and black riding coat. His boots were polished and well fitted, his top hat brushed to a shine.

  He was intimidatingly magnificent, exactly as a ducal heir should be.

  “Take these bread crumbs,” Della said, shoving the bag at Jeffers. “Feed the fowl on the Serpentine, and take the parasol with you. I’ll stay here in the shade, so you needn’t fret about my complexion.”

  Jeffers made a noise of exasperation and defeat, snatched the bag, and stomped off toward the grassy bank of the Serpentine.

  The gentleman pushed away from the oak and sauntered toward Della, or maybe he was swaggering. Had he been waiting for her, and what would Della do if Effington decided to belatedly keep his appointment to stroll at the fashionable hour?

  “Lady Della Haddonfield,” the man said, tipping his hat. “How easily you divest yourself of the only protection on hand to shield your good name. Shall I muster a mutual acquaintance to make a proper introduction, or can we dispense with that farce?”

  He had eyes the blue of a winter sky over a deserted churchyard, and a voice that blended the erudition of an Oxford don with the dissipation of a royal prince. Della estimated his age near thirty, and the wealth he came from at nearly immeasurable.

  She had been raised with five brothers, else she might not have known what to do with a man who was as handsome as every debutante’s dream, unmarried, exquisitely attired, and very much in need of a set-down.

  If Della had had the infernal purple parasol, she would have smacked him with it. Instead, she rose and walked away.

  * * *

  Will could spot one of his brothers from a great distance, knew each one from his walk, his posture, the gestures used in conversation. Will could also identify his brothers from the clothes they wore, for those clothes
often belonged to him.

  “Lovely jacket, Cam,” Will remarked as he came even with Ash and Cam on Brook Street. “Surely, that’s a new acquisition. No unraveling seams, no stains, no thin patches on the elbows. The style is severe for you and the cut somewhat loose, but sober. I like it.”

  “Ash took my best coat,” Cam said, twirling slowly on the walkway. “I look more like a banker in your clothing, Will. Thanks for the loan.”

  They’d steal Will’s horse except nobody else could ride the mare when she was in a mood. They’d steal Will’s boots, except he was usually wearing them.

  “Clean, understated, well-tailored attire really does flatter you,” Will said, mostly in hopes of making Cam feel guilty. “You might try asking before you appropriate it, though.”

  “Cam is your brother, and you don’t lock your wardrobe,” Ash said. “That’s an invitation to borrow. Be glad I at least made him surrender the contents of your pockets.” Ash passed over a folded document that Will stashed out of sight before Cam could snatch at it.

  “What inspired you both to stir before sunset?” Will asked.

  “I’m hunting for my dog,” Cam said, gaze roaming over the nearby square. “A great brute with a gash over one eye. Smooth brindle coat, not quite full grown.”

  “You haven’t a dog, Sycamore,” Will said. “If you want a dog, I can find you one that will bring some manners to the equation, not a street mongrel that snacks on rats and garbage all day.”

  Though the street mongrels often had good sense and enjoyed reliable health.

  “My boy isn’t a mongrel,” Cam said. “He’s a bloody great mastiff, and some fool was stealing him and making a bad job of it.”

  Ash’s gaze was resolutely to the fore. In the square across the street, children played with balls, housemaids flirted with footmen, young swells lounged about talking in groups, looking smart and useless.

  While Will’s responsibilities never seemed to end.

  Sainted gamboling puppies. “I am on my way to pay calls, you two,” he said. “I do not have time to deliver the appropriate lecture on England’s property laws, which are quite strict. You are the one stealing the dog if you assume possession in the absence of legitimate ownership.”