Kettering’s schooling yet continued, however.
Kettering fed the dog her treat, stroking her head. “Well done, Meda. We’ll be ready for the park soon, and then won’t Jacaranda be proud of us?”
Will was not proud of himself. Last night, he’d delivered his stirring, correct speech to Lady Susannah, the oration that ensured she’d develop no marital designs on him. He’d thought himself very gentlemanly, to spare the lady embarrassment, when all he could think about was kissing her witless.
He, trainer to the Regent’s puppies, had got the situation all wrong. Responded to the wrong command, read the signal incorrectly. Will had earned no treats for his honorable efforts. Lady Susannah’s set-down had been a rolled-up newspaper smacked across the nose of his conceit. Cam and Ash would have howled themselves to flinders if they’d known.
Though Will felt rotten for having presumed to reject a woman who’d been rejected enough. If he’d had a tail, he would have tucked it between his legs.
“How are the other dogs doing?” Kettering asked when Andromeda lay panting at their feet.
“Comus is coming along. Had I known Lord Harold would suffer an apoplexy, I’d have placed the dog elsewhere. Quimbey understands leadership, though, and has a reluctant affection for his late brother’s dog. They’ll manage.”
“Quimbey is a puzzle,” Kettering said, snapping off a sprig of lavender and twirling it under his nose. He had a good nose, worthy of a Dorning even. Jacaranda was similarly endowed, and Will had wondered what their puppies—God help him—their children would look like. One child had recently arrived, with a darling baby nose and blue, blue eyes Kettering claimed were his contribution to the equation.
“Quimbey is a genial, wealthy duke,” Will said. “He can be any damned thing he wants to be given those particulars.”
Kettering brushed the lavender with his fingers, then held it down for Meda to sniff.
“You could have offered to take the dog back, Will, to find another home for it, but you knew the old boy would be lonely. You gave him a young, rambunctious dog when he was grieving for his only brother.”
Kettering could be very attentive when motivated. His courtship of Jacaranda had been a blazing display of focus, though Will was uncomfortable being the object of Sir Worth’s notice.
“I found a patient, even-tempered owner for a young dog who’d known much hardship,” Will said. “Of the four of them, Comus was in the worst physical shape, but he’s resilient and fair-minded by nature.”
The poor brute had likely been beaten for the hell of it in an effort to teach him who was the superior species. Will had learned not to swear and curse, for it upset his dogs, but after Comus’s wounds had been tended to, Will had taken Georgette out for two straight hours of fetch the stick.
“What about Hector?” Kettering asked. He rolled the lavender between his palms, then crushed it to dust and brushed his hands together. The terrace was perfumed accordingly, a soothing scent that put Will in mind of Lady Susannah.
“Hector will take a special owner,” Will said, though every dog required a special owner, for every dog was special. “Somebody with a tender heart, who’s fierce when the moment calls for it. His own man, but willing to laugh, even at himself.”
Kettering propped his boots on the low table before them and crossed his ankles. He was like a long, lean purebred hunting dog who had the knack of looking elegant and appropriate wherever he was and whatever mood he was in. Jacaranda had chosen well.
Or Kettering and Jacaranda had.
“What about the fourth one?” Kettering asked. “I forget his name. Something heroic. Am I allowed to pet my dog now?”
“Yes, you may pet your dog. It’s like business hours, Kettering. If you accosted your clerks at their breakfasts with some pressing memorandum, then failed to discuss business with them all morning, but talked only about the weather at your business meetings, you’d have very confused clerks.” Will suspected Kettering did have frequently confused clerks, but they were loyal and hardworking too. “Meda needs to know when the training session starts and when it stops.”
“Right,” Kettering said. “When I wear my old plaid waistcoat, we’re to learn doggy tricks. Always in the morning, always after our doggy prayers among the hapless bushes. Next you’ll have poor Meda reciting vespers, matins, and lauds.”
“Next, we’ll have Meda behaving like a perfect lady in the park, despite all temptation to the contrary. Recall your own efforts to learn decorum, Kettering. The project wanted time and considerable effort, and has yet to reach its conclusion, though you’re an exponent of a supposedly intelligent species.”