Page 17 of Barbarous

“He did not.” She studied her half-filled glass of wine for a moment before looking up. “Likely my reaction was too violent by half.”

Hugh believed she was very proud of her reaction, and probably had every right to be.

“Perhaps I should tell him no in a way he might accept?” Hugh offered.

The same expression of near terror flickered across her face and her hand fluttered like a frantic bird before she lowered it to her lap. “No, please, that won’t be necessary. I daresay he understands me now. I beg you will not bestir yourself on the matter.”

Hugh was on the point of asking whether this was the first time Hastings had bothered her when Aunt Amelia and her dogs burst into the room, accompanied by the butler and three footmen. After many years’ service, Gates was familiar with Lady Amelia’s habits and quickly surrounded her with dishes of food, dispatching footmen for anything else she required.

Amelia had been a fixture at the Hall since Hugh was a boy. He could not recall a time when she’d not been surrounded by her pack of exuberant, deafening dogs.

“Good evening Hugh, Daphne,” Amelia said in her ringing voice, a necessity if she was to be heard over the commotion. She commenced to spoon soup into her mouth, either not realizing or caring she was the only one eating.

“I am pleased to see you have returned, Hugh. How long will you be staying with us this time?” She took a piece of food from one of the many plates before her and threw it to the barking animals, a feeble attempt to quiet them, which failed spectacularly. In addition to mad barking, the room was now filled with the sounds of snarling, and scrabbling toenails, as the animals competed for the scrap.

“I’m flattered you noted my absence, Aunt,” Hugh bellowed.

Irony was wasted on his Aunt Amelia. “Klemp tells me you’ve brought two unusual dogs with you.” Klemp was Lady Amelia’s aged maid, a woman as shrewd as her mistress was vague.

“I have brought two shar-pei, a breed particularly prized for their intelligence and loyalty.”

Lady Amelia sniffed. “I do hope they will not vex my pugs. It is only lately that Riot has learned to respect their delicate nerves.” She put her unfinished soup on the floor next to her chair and the din was deafening.

“Riot?” Hugh shouted.

His aunt ignored him.

“Riot was your uncle’s wedding gift to me,” Daphne explained, clearly skilled at pitching her voice to be heard above barking pugs without having to yell. “He is quite old now but still has the disconcerting habit of giving cry at any moment, a characteristic which made him unpopular on the hunt.”

Hugh could not have heard her correctly. “I’m sorry. Did you say my uncle gave you a dog?”

Daphne cut him a cool look—that superior, aloof stare that sent blood rushing south. What would she say if she knew how much that look aroused and enticed, rather than repressed, him? Could she be teasing him on purpose? Hugh doubted it; she did not strike him as a woman who was interested in flirtation.

“I agree that Riot is a most dreadful hound,” Amelia said, although Daphne had said nothing of the sort. She continued in her stentorian voice, “His distracting howling upsets the pugs. They are very sensitive, you know.” Hugh looked down at her sensitive pets, which had run out of food and were now querulously barking and nipping at one another.

Heedless of the racket occurring beneath her, Lady Amelia continued. “I cannot think what was in Thomas’s head to give you such an unsuitable beast. If he’d only asked me, I should have advised him to acquire a pug for you.”

A look of unholy amusement flashed across Daphne’s face but disappeared in half an instant.

Hugh stared, transfixed.

She noticed his rude ogling and raised her eyebrows. “Yes?”

“I don’t wish to belabor the matter, but back to the dog. My uncle thought you would appreciate a baying hound as a lapdog?”

“I teased him about Riot shortly before we were wed and he nursed a grudge on that score.”

Hugh’s eyes bulged. “You teased my uncle?”

She frowned but didn’t answer.

Hugh was too stunned to pursue the topic. This playful version of the grim, humorless Earl of Davenport bore no resemblance to the cold, emotionless man whose only interests had been mourning his dead wife, breeding his bloody orchids, and trying to bend his nephew to his will.

Daphne turned to discuss some matter with Lady Amelia, and Hugh studied her while he tried to absorb what she had said. So, his uncle had finally left behind his mourning to rescue the young girl, had he? Well, she possessed attractions enough to lure any man, even one as dour as his uncle. In fact, she was downright bewitching. One moment she appeared sophisticated and comfortable with the running of a formidable household like Lessing Hall, the next she was blushing at some innocuous comment he’d made.

She is your uncle’s widow, his suddenly ubiquitous conscience chided.

Oh, shut the hell up! Hugh refilled his own wineglass and gave himself up to brooding.