The dog had not moved from Susannah’s knee, though she was ignoring the parasol and sniffing at the sonnets on the side table.
“Georgette is shy,” Mr. Dorning said, “and she’s usually well mannered, save for occasionally snacking on an old book. Her mischief in the park was an aberration, I assure you. Lady Della, are you enjoying your first London Season?”
For the requisite fifteen minutes, Della and Mr. Dorning made idle talk, while Susannah discreetly nudged the sonnets away from the dog, sipped tea, and felt agreeably ancient. Without Nita or Kirsten on hand, Susannah had become the older sister suited to serving as a chaperone at a social call.
And upon reflection, she didn’t feel abandoned by her older sisters. She was simply taking her turn as the spinster in training before becoming a spinster in earnest.
Thank God.
“I’ll bid you ladies good day,” Mr. Dorning said, rising.
“I’ll see you out,” Susannah replied, because that was her role, as quasi-chaperone, and having Barrisford tend to that task would have been marginally unfriendly. Mr. Dorning, as the son of an earl, was her social equal, after all.
“Georgette, come.” Mr. Dorning did not snap his fingers, though Effington, the only other dog lover in Susannah’s acquaintance, snapped his fingers constantly—at dogs and at servants. He’d snapped his fingers at Della once, and Susannah had treated Effington to a glower worthy of her late papa in a taking.
Georgette padded over to her master’s side, and Susannah quit the parlor with them, leaving Della to attack the biscuits remaining on the tea tray.
“You didn’t used to like dogs,” Mr. Dorning observed.
“I still don’t like dogs,” Susannah replied, though she didn’t dislike them. Neither did she like cats, birds, silly bonnets, London Seasons, or most people. Horses were at least useful, and sisters could be very dear. Brothers fell somewhere between horses and sisters.
“Georgette begs to differ,” Mr. Dorning said as they reached the bottom of the steps. “Or perhaps she was making amends for her trespasses against your parasol by allowing you to pat her for fifteen straight minutes.”
Susannah took Mr. Dorning’s top hat from the sideboard. “Georgette ignored the new parasol. I think my wardrobe is safe from her lapses in manners, though the day your dog snacks on one of my books will be a sorry day for Georgette, Mr. Dorning.”
Despite Susannah’s stern words, she and Mr. Dorning were managing, getting through the awkwardness of being more or less alone together.
“You’re still fond of Shakespeare?” Mr. Dorning asked as he tapped his hat onto his head.
A glancing reference to the past, also to the present. “Of all good literature. You’re still waiting for your brother to produce an heir?”
Another reference to their past, for Mr. Dorning had confided this much to Susannah during one of their interminable turns about Lady March’s music parlor. Until the Earl of Casriel had an heir in the nursery, Will Dorning’s self-appointed lot in life was to be his brother’s second-in-command.
“Casriel is as yet unmarried,” Mr. Dorning said, “and now my younger brothers strain at the leash to conquer London.”
He exchanged his social gloves for riding gloves, giving Susannah a glimpse of masculine hands. Those hands could be kind, she hadn’t forgotten that. They’d also apparently learned how to give the dog silent commands, for at Mr. Dorning’s gesture, Georgette seated herself near the front door.
“I’m much absorbed keeping Cam and Ash out of trouble,” he went on, “while allowing them the latitude to learn self-restraint. Apparently, I must add my loyal hound to the list of parties in need of supervision.”
The dog thumped her tail.
Did Will Dorning allow himself any latitude? Any unrestrained moments? He’d been a serious young man. He was formidable now.
“We’ll doubtless cross paths with your brothers, then,” Susannah said, “for Della is also determined to storm the social citadels.” Once Della was safely wed, Susannah could luxuriate in literary projects, a consummation devoutly to be wished, indeed.
“You have ever had the most intriguing smile,” Mr. Dorning observed, apropos of nothing Susannah could divine. “Thank you for accepting my apology, my lady. I look forward to renewing our acquaintance further under happier circumstances.”
Having dispensed such effusions as the situation required, he bowed over Susannah’s hand and was out the door, his dog trotting at his heels.
An intriguing smile? Susannah regarded herself in the mirror over the sideboard. Her reflection was tall, blond, blue-eyed, as unremarkable as an earl’s daughter could be amid London’s spring crop of beauties. She was smiling, though…
And her hands smelled faintly of Georgette. Perhaps she had stroked the dog’s silky ears a time or two. Or three.
“Though I don’t even like dogs.”