Page 7 of Never Dance with a Duke

Yes, Nicolette had experienced his gentleness, first-hand.

Jane slowly straightened, clutching Bella to her as if she feared Sampson would gobble her for a morning snack.

“So you say, but that—” She cast her disparaging gaze over him as if trying to summon an accurate description—“That oaf just knocked Miss Nicolette down.”

“He’s still a puppy and forgets his manners. He also has no concept of how large he is,” Westfall apologized.

He looked far too striking in his dark blue jacket for Nicolette’s peace of mind. The color accented his eyes to perfection and gave his jet-black hair beneath his chimney-style top hat a bluish tint.

She bit the inside of her cheek, all the while mentally chiding herself for noticing.

“Hmph.” Jane made a disbelieving noise and pinched her lips together.

“He escaped the footman walking him,” the duke said by way of an explanation.

Obviously.

Look away, Nicolette commanded herself.

She did so with a degree of disinclination that didn’t portend well. Focusing her attention on Sampson, she asked, “Is he yours? I thought your mother only kept Pomeranians as pets.”

She almost laughed at the absurdity of the question.

Here she lay indelicately on the pathway, several haut ton members gawping at her, and she casually chatted about his mother’s notoriously spoiled Pomeranians.

“I’m minding him for a friend,” Westfall elucidated, patting the dog’s oversized head.

In truth, he looked more bear-like than canine. “What breed is he?”

“He’s a Newfoundland. They were bred to be work and rescue dogs.”

“Are they all so large?” she asked.

Westfall lifted a shoulder. “More or less.”

Sampson stared longingly at Bella, who eyed him with cautious interest.

“Are you injured, Miss Twistleton?” Westfall inquired solicitously again. “Do you require a physician?”

Do I?

No, nothing felt broken.

However, Nicolette’s shoulder and ankle ached like the very devil, her hip not quite as much.

“That will not be necessary,” she said, shaking her head.

Ouch.

She winced slightly, sorer than she’d at first realized. She didn’t relish the walk home on her tender ankle or the speculation her soiled gown was bound to produce, however. Mama might forbid her to walk out alone, henceforth.

“Hmm.” Westfall made a low sound in his throat, but Nicolette couldn’t discern its meaning. For as long as she’d known him, he’d done that.

The crowd continued to increase around them, and she still lay splayed indecorously on the footpath. Before she had a chance to adjust her pale pink walking gown, Westfall gently hauled her into a sitting position.

“Your gown,” he murmured beneath his breath, his gaze politely averted from her legs.

Her face burning, she shoved her skirts down. As she did so, her bonnet slid off, and several strands of dark hair tumbled loose over her shoulders and breast.