The Historical Collection. Stephanie Laurens
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wounds were infected. Infested, too. He could have perished from the fly-strike alone. That man was stupid, indeed. The only thing he got right was his choice of calf. Angus is exceedingly adorable.”
Adorable?
Gabe eyed the beast. The animal stood as tall as Gabe’s shoulder, and it smelled … the way cattle smell. Shaggy red fur covered its eyes like a blindfold, and its black, spongy nose glistened.
“He’s the best Highland steer in the world,” she said. “Come meet him.”
“That’s not necessary.”
She didn’t give him a choice about it, leading him by the arm until they stood before the giant, shaggy beast.
“He loves being scratched between the ears.” She stroked Angus’s forelock. “There aren’t many creatures who don’t enjoy a scratch about the ears. Go on. Have a turn.”
“I don’t want to pet the cow.”
“He’s a steer.”
“I don’t want to pet the st—”
She reached for his hand and placed it atop Angus’s flat head, guiding his hand back and forth. As if he were a child who needed to be taught.
“See? He’s softer than he looks.”
Gabe was less interested in the texture of Angus’s hide than he was in the texture of Lady Penelope’s skin. Her hand was small and graceful atop his, but it was not the soft, delicate hand he would expect of a fine lady. Her skin was crossed here and there with lines and scars—some faded, some still pink. They were healed bites and scratches, accumulated over years. She had a lifelong habit of extending care to animals too wild or frightened to accept it—which made her the bravest kind of fool.
Gabe wanted to kiss each and every one of those healed wounds—which made him just an ordinary fool.
Angus snuffled and bobbed his head.
She smiled. “I think he likes you.”
Gabe stepped away, brushing his hand on his trousers. “I didn’t invent a farm and hire those actors out of complete heartlessness. It’s a practical matter. Settling the animals one by one will mean we’d be spending a great deal of time together. That’s a bad idea.”
“If you’re worried about my reputation, don’t. It won’t be noticed. No one pays much attention to me.”
The injustice in that statement confounded him. How could no one be paying attention to her? Over the past few days, he’d been unable to concentrate on anyone or anything but her.
“We’re adults,” she said. “Surely we can behave ourselves. I promise not to kiss you again.”
“It’s not a mere kiss that should worry you.”
“What else are you worried could happen?”
Good Lord. What wasn’t he worried could happen. He’d been up half the night inventing possibilities.
“Look at your goat,” he said. “You weren’t paying attention to her, and now she’s breeding.”
“Marigold is not pregnant.”
“See? You’re too trusting. That’s why this is dangerous. If we’re spending all that time together unchaperoned, there’s too much chance of—”
“Too much chance of what?”
He moved closer, letting the tension build between their bodies. “Of this.”
Her golden eyelashes kissed her flushed cheeks. “You’re worried for nothing. My animals are incompatible with attraction, courtship, romance, or marriage. I’ve been reminded of that regularly for years. They’re exceptionally talented in discouraging gentlemen.”
“I’m not a gentleman. And if I could be discouraged, I’d never have amassed the fortune I have now. When I set my mind on something, a herd of elephants won’t stand in my way.”
A beam of sunlight caught the swirling dust motes and turned them into a glittering halo about her head. Those sparks invaded his body, coursing through his veins until every inch of him was sharply aware of her beauty.
He bent his head to kiss her.
She stretched to meet him halfway.
And Angus sneezed, spraying him with whatever wet, sticky substances comprised the contents of a bovine nose. Gabe wasn’t willing to contemplate specifics. He merely stood there, sputtering with horror, and—
And dripping.
Wiping his face with his sleeve, he cursed cattle, the Highlands, and the world in general.
Lady Penelope laughed. Of course she did.
She unknotted the fichu from about her neck and dabbed at his shirt, oblivious to the amount of cleavage she’d exposed to his view. Her lips curved in a fetching smile. “I think Angus has made my case for me.”
He shook his head. “From now on, we communicate in writing.”
“We live next door to each other. That’s absurd.”
“It’s necessary. This will be the last time we find ourselves alone. Animals don’t count as chaperones. Not even phlegmy ones. Do you understand me?”
“You’re vastly underestimating my pets’ ability to prevent scandal.”
Swearing under his breath, he caught her chin and tipped her face to his. “Your Ladyship, you are vastly underestimating yourself.”
Two days later, and Gabe’s plans had already gone to hell.
The lady was impossible. When he’d written her about the otter, he’d given explicit instructions in his note. Be ready to leave at half-seven, sharp. Dress for the weather. Most importantly, bring a companion.
She brought the parrot.
The parrot.
They were miles beyond London’s borders already, and Gabe still couldn’t believe it. Look at him. Trapped in a barouche with a lady, a parrot, and an otter. He’d landed in the center of an absurd joke. One certain to end in uproarious laughter—at his expense.
He shifted unhappily on the carriage seat. “Did you really have to bring that bird?”
“Yes.” She stroked the otter’s sleek brown coat. “I think Alexandra and Chase will take her in. Their two girls love to play pirates. But as you pointed out, Delilah’s vocabulary needs a bit of reformation, so I’m trying to instill some wholesome phrases in her repertoire. Considering that I’ve only a fortnight, I can’t afford to waste a day.” She leaned in close to the birdcage and brightly cooed—as she had no fewer than a hundred times since they’d departed Bloom Square—“I love you.”
The bird whistled. “Pretty girl.”
“I love you.”
“Fancy a fuck, love?”
“I love you.”
The bird ruffled its garish plumage. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”
She was undaunted. “I love y—“
“It’s pointless,” he interjected. “A waste of time. Even if you succeed in teaching the bird a new phrase or two, it’s never going to forget the old ones. Years of filth won’t simply wash off with one good rain. That’s like saying you’d lose your finishing school airs with a single”—soul-stirring, passionate kiss—“act of mild rebellion.”
She