Artemis extended her fingers. “Are you three by your lonesome, then?”
At her voice the spaniel sniffed interestedly at her fingertips, his mouth hanging open as if he were grinning. She fondled his silky ears and then the greyhounds bounded forward to give their approval.
A corner of her mouth curved up and she stepped out, continuing her own walk. The dogs ranged in front of her and to the sides, loping ahead before circling back to snuffle her fingers or butt against her hand as if to receive permission before trotting off again.
Artemis meandered for a bit, not worrying about their destination, she and the dogs, and then, suddenly, the trees parted. Ahead was a pond, the morning sun shining off the dappled water. At the far side of the pond was a clever rustic bridge that led to a small, artfully tumbling tower at the other end.
The two greyhounds went immediately to the pond’s edge to drink while the spaniel decided simply to wade in until he could lap the water without bending his head.
Artemis stood at the tree line, watching the dogs, tilting her face to scent the woods.
A shrill whistle broke the tranquility.
All three dogs lifted their heads. The taller greyhound—a brindled brown-and-gold female—took off toward the bridge, the other greyhound—a red female—right behind. The spaniel bounded to shore in a shower of water, shaking vigorously before barking and following.
There was a figure on the other side of the bridge, drawing closer. A man in worn boots and an aged coat that once had been of exquisite cut. He was tall, with broad shoulders, and he moved like a great cat. A floppy hat covered his head, obscuring his features. For a moment Artemis inhaled in shocked recognition.
But then he stepped into the light and she saw that she’d been mistaken.
It was the Duke of Wakefield.
MAXIMUS SAW MISS Greaves standing at the edge of the woods like a suspicious dryad and thought, Naturally. What other lady would be up and about so scandalously early? What other lady would make his dogs desert him?
Those same dogs ran to him as if to share with him their new friend. Belle and Starling milled around his feet while Percy planted muddy paws on his thigh and drooled upon his coat.
“Traitors,” Maximus murmured to the greyhounds, not bothering to reprimand the disheveled spaniel. He glanced across the pond, half expecting Miss Greaves to have disappeared, but she was still watching him.
“Good morning,” he called.
He approached her as he would a wild, woodland creature: gingerly and with an attempt to appear harmless, but she didn’t start. He amended the analogy as he drew closer: a wild animal would show fear.
Miss Greaves merely looked a little curious. “Your Grace.”
Percy, who had been investigating the tall reeds by the edge of the pond, lifted his head at the sound of her voice and appeared to take it as invitation to run to her and attempt to hurl himself against her legs.
Miss Greaves gave the dog a stern look before he’d even reached her, and said simply, “Off.”
Percy collapsed at her feet, his tongue hanging out the side of his jaws, ears back as he gazed up at her adoringly.
Maximus shot the dog an irritated look as he turned and began walking back around the ornamental pond. Miss Greaves fell into step beside him.
“I trust that you rested well last night, Miss Greaves?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” she replied.
“Good.”
He nodded, unable to think of anything else to say. Usually he disliked company on his morning walk, but for some reason, Miss Greaves’s presence was almost… soothing. He glanced sideways at her and noticed for the first time that her feet were bare. Long, elegant toes flexed against the ground as she walked. They were quite dirty from the forest floor and the sight, if anything, should’ve filled him with disgust for such a shocking display of impropriety.
Yet disgust was the exact opposite of his reaction.
“Did you build this?” Her voice was low and rather pleasing as she gestured to the tower folly they were approaching.
He shook his head. “My father. My mother saw something similar on a trip to Italy and was quite taken with the idea of a romantic ruin. Father had a tendency to indulge her.”
She glanced curiously at him, but continued walking.
He cleared his throat. “We spent a great deal of time here at Pelham House when they were alive.”
“But not afterward?”
His jaw tightened. “No. Cousin Bathilda preferred London for raising my sisters, and I thought I should remain with them as the head of the family.”
He caught her odd look out of the corner of his eye. “But… forgive me, but weren’t you a boy when the duke and duchess died?”
“Murdered.” He couldn’t quite keep the rasp from his voice.
She stopped. “What?”
Her naked toes were curled into the loam, white and soft and strangely erotic. He raised his eyes, looking at her plainly. It was useless to try and avoid pain. “My parents were murdered in St. Giles nineteen years ago, Miss Greaves.”
She didn’t give him any useless platitudes. “How old were you?”
“Fourteen.”
“That’s hardly old enough to become the head of a family.” Her gentleness made something bleed inside of him.
“It is when one is the Duke of Wakefield,” he said curtly. Odd that she bothered arguing with him over this now. No one had at the time—not after he’d started talking again—not even Cousin Bathilda.
“You must’ve been a very determined boy,” was all she said.
There was nothing to say to that, and for a minute they tramped through the woods companionably.
The greyhounds bounded ahead, while Percy flushed a frog and began a rather comical chase.
“What are their names?” she asked, nodding at the dogs.
“That’s Belle”—he pointed to the slightly taller greyhound bitch, her coat a lovely gold and russet—“and that’s Starling, Belle’s daughter. The spaniel is Percy.”
She nodded seriously. “Those are good dog names.”
He shrugged. “Phoebe names them for me.”
Her odd little half smile appeared at the mention of his sister. “I was glad to see she was here. She does so enjoy social events.”
He glanced at her swiftly. Her tone was neutral, but he felt the implied disapproval in her words. “She’s blind—or as near to as to make no difference. I’ll not see Phoebe hurt—either physically or emotionally. She’s vulnerable.”