Maybe, like an attentive hound, Will Dorning could discern truth beneath human babble.
“I have two older sisters in Kent, both recently spoken for by worthy men,” Susannah said. “Both quite happy with their choices. I, on the other hand, attached the interest of a local squire. I should have consulted his dogs, perhaps, because Squire Nash was interested in my settlements, not me. I found this out rather later than I wish I had.”
Three times later than Susannah wished she had: once in the saddle room, once in Edward’s parlor, and once in his library, though how a room without a single copy of the Shakespeare sonnets could aspire to the name library defied explanation.
Susannah should have heeded that evidence.
“I’m sorry,” Will said. “The man was an idiot and your brothers should not have let him near you.”
“You’re a brother. Brothers do the best they can, Mr. Dorning. So do sisters. Will you help me?”
For Susannah did not want to return to Kent. Wedded bliss for a sister was a fine, fine objective, in theory. Having one’s face rubbed in that objective happily achieved twice over was purgatory.
“You’d tuck tail and scurry back to Kent?”
“I’d leave the field so Della’s future is not jeopardized. The Bard and I have become excellent friends.”
“Shakespeare is dead, Susannah.”
“That is often a point in his favor, Willow Dorning.”
This time, he kissed her knuckles, which helped a little, though he didn’t try to keep hold of her hand.
“I can’t make you like dogs,” he said, “but there’s hope, and I can work with that hope. You spend a great deal of time with books, and dogs like the smell of books, especially old books. That, among other factors, is in your favor.”
“How refreshing, to have something in my favor besides a title and some settlements.” Susannah ought not to have said that, for Will’s smile was pained, and she would not for the world see him hurt.
“You’re sensible, my lady. Also logical, not given to dramatic displays, you’re persistent and orderly. You have many fine qualities that domestic animals appreciate.”
Will was again offering backhanded compliments, though he couldn’t know that. “To be found agreeable by the animals for the very qualities people find tiresome in me is a bit lowering, Mr. Dorning.”
He rose, right when Susannah might have again reached for his hand.
Willow Dorning had excellent instincts.
“You are not tiresome, my lady, but Polite Society certainly can be. I don’t expect everybody to like dogs, cats, horses, or nightingales, but you have an advantage many others don’t, and for that reason I expect you will achieve your goal.”
Susannah rose too. They’d been closeted for too long, and not nearly long enough. “What is my advantage, Mr. Dorning? I can’t see that an affinity for Shakespeare will gain me much notice among the canines.”
Among anybody who counted. The occasional quote was entirely acceptable, but not entire memorized plays.
“The advantage you have, my lady, is that the dogs like you. They are discerning, and while tolerant of many, their affections are reserved for a few. If my own Georgette finds your company agreeable, then you may not be a dog lover, but the dogs apparently love you.”
Susannah didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at that pronouncement, so instead, she kissed Willow Dorning on the cheek—another simple, enjoyable gesture of affection between friends—and took his arm.
“We’re probably in time for the supper waltz, Mr. Dorning. You may use that exercise in tedium to begin my instruction. I can think of no better use for time spent on the dance floor.”
Six
“I come bearing excuses,” Ash Dorning said, flourishing a bow before Della. “Also an invitation. Casriel had to take Sycamore home. Something on the buffet didn’t agree with Cam, and thus I was deputed to tend to your good-night waltz—if you’ll have me?”
Della wished Susannah hadn’t stood up with the Duke of Quimbey, because Susannah enjoyed a puzzle, which this invitation assuredly was. Why hadn’t Casriel simply sent Sycamore home in Ash’s company? Or in Willow’s?
“You’re wondering if Casriel abandoned you because of Effington’s little drama earlier,” Mr. Dorning said, setting aside the glass of punch Della had been holding for the last half hour. “You’re thinking the innocuous younger brother has been sent to handle the waltzing, so as to avoid antagonizing your guard dog.”
“Lord Effington is not my guard dog, Mr. Dorning.” Not yet, though Della was supposed to consider herself fortunate to have his lordship’s notice.
“Effington wants to be your loyal hound, but he’s off to his club where the play is more interesting than in Lady Holderby’s card room. I’m here. Will you dance with me?”
Not even Della’s older brothers talked to her like this, half dare, half in confidence. “Effington gambles?”