Page 2 of Return to Satterthwaite Court

He may not be immune to the sight of a pretty face, but neither was he a green lad. He was nearly nine and twenty. A hardened sailor to the bone. He’d encountered plenty of beautiful women in his lifetime.

Though, admittedly, this female was something out of the common way.

And it wasn’t only the blue of her eyes, as rich and midnight-velvety as the fabric of her gown, it was the turn of her flawless ivory-and-damask-rose countenance.

But she was no milk-and-water miss, for all that. Not if her face was to judge.

There was an air of strength in the winged arch of her mink brows and the firm line of her jaw. It was softened only slightly by the voluptuous curve of her mouth and the fetching cleft in her chin. A cupid’s thumbprint, he’d sometimes heard it called. The sign of a bold and sensuous nature.

It took an effort not to stare. Not to privately catalogue every contour and lilt in her vivid expression.

If she noticed the effect she had on him, she gave no sign of it. Her gaze dropped at once to the growling dog attached to her hem. A bemused smile touched her lips.

“Naughty boy.” She stretched out an elegantly gloved hand to gently remove the beast. “You mustn’t worry my skirts.”

“Don’t touch him!” Charles commanded.

The taller young lady gasped at his tone.

And no wonder.

It was the same voice he’d often used on the deck of the HMS Intrepid. One perfectly pitched to reduce wayward underlings into quivering masses of compliance.

The blue-eyed young lady didn’t even flinch. “Nonsense.” She continued to reach for the dog. “He’s just a mischievous pup. He doesn’t mean any—”

The dog responded to her advances with vicious speed, sinking his teeth into her gloved fingers.

“Oh!” She jerked her hand back with a startled cry. The fine leather of her kid glove was torn open. A drop of blood welled from her exposed finger, bright as crimson against her skin.

Charles’s stomach tightened to see it. He shrugged off his greatcoat and, in one deft movement, threw it over the snarling dog. Using the coat as a blanket, he wrapped the little creature up and lifted him into his arms.

A good swaddle was known to work miracles on small animals who had run amok. This one was no different. The dog fought his captivity in vain for but a moment before ceasing his struggles in favor of muffled yips and grumbles.

Shoppers began to slow around them, some of them stopping to investigate the source of the commotion.

“He’s bitten me,” the blue-eyed young lady said in amazement.

“I told you not to touch him,” Charles shot back. “If you’d listened—”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” her tall friend interjected. “Can you not see that she’s hurt?”

The first woman the dog had accosted caught up with them through the growing crowd, her footman close at her heels. She waved her umbrella about like an angry queen brandishing her scepter. “Summon the constable! That dog is a menace.”

“He may have hydrophobia,” her footman volunteered unhelpfully. “And now he’s bitten this poor lady.”

“An unprovoked attack,” the older woman said. “A sure sign the beast is rabid!”

Charles muttered an oath under his breath. “He doesn’t have hydrophobia,” he said, holding tight to the still growling dog. “And if he does and she’s contracted it, she’d have no one to blame but herself.”

“She isn’t afraid of dogs,” the blue-eyed young lady retorted tartly. “Nor of trifling scratches.”

“Oh, Kate!” The taller young lady’s eyes welled with tears. “You’re bleeding!”

“It’s nothing,” the blue-eyed young lady said. Kate, presumably.

Charles’s heart gave a peculiar thump. Reaching into the pocket of his waistcoat, he withdrew a linen handkerchief. It was clean and pressed, thank heaven. He offered it to her, his voice gone gruff. “It is only a scratch, but perchance you should bind it.”

She accepted his handkerchief, using it to stop the trickle of blood. “You’re very obliging,” she remarked dryly.