Page 6 of The Earl’s Hoyden

“We have funded your pursuit for three seasons now without result,” Lord Westwich continued. “Not even one suitor has called upon me.”

The cat was going to slip if Hannah didn’t do something. Being so little, surely, the tumble would be an awfully long way down.

“Hannah, are you listening?” her mother demanded, her voice sharp with dwindling patience.

“I am undesirable.” Hannah finally turned her attention to her parents. “I’m too much of too many things and not enough of others. I’ve made my peace with being a spinster. Perhaps you ought to as well.”

A glance toward the window showed the cat now clinging on by only one scrawny front leg. Her heart jumped into her throat, and she lurched to her feet.

“Please do excuse me.” With that, she tore from the room in a most unladylike manner that sent her skirts whipping up around her knees and her slippers skidding over the silk carpets.

Her mother called out behind her, that blasted octave on the last part of Hannah’s name trailing after her as she raced to save the poor defenseless cat from certain death. Thankfully, the butler was used to Hannah’s impetuous behavior and effortlessly darted from her path as she flew by.

“Mind the carpet, Miss Bexley,” he said in his bored drawl. “It slips.”

“Thank you, Jones,” she called out as she bounded like a dancer over the confounded thing.

If he replied, she didn’t hear as she was already pushing through the door, out into the bright sunshine, ice-cold and crisp with the earthy fragrance of nature. The chill did not touch her despite lacking a coat, not with such urgency forcing her onward.

She rounded the corner with precision as the tree came into view and picked up her pace.

The cat squirmed, the little limb no longer strong enough to support its weight, and it dropped. Hannah screamed and held out her skirt in a final bid to save the poor thing.

It landed with a plop that tugged at her dress, but she caught it. There was a moment where their eyes met in mutual surprise, her in shock that she had actually managed to secure it in the drape of her skirt, and it to be in such a peculiar situation as a lady’s skirts.

Before Hannah could even register that she was standing in the middle of the lawn with her hem pulled to her knees, the cat hopped from the hammock of her skirt and darted off. A small smear of blood remained on the white muslin of her day dress.

It was hurt.

“Wait,” she shouted, as if the creature would listen.

It didn’t and continued to bound through the high, straw-like winter grass with fervor. But Hannah was not so easily deterred.

She dashed after the little beast, amazed at its haste with an apparent injury. Time in the country always did her considerable good—the fresh air and long walks helpful for building her stamina in anticipation of long nights of dancing through the season—but as she ran and ran and ran, her energy began to wane.

It was only the thought of an injured animal left to the cruelties of nature that spurred her faster.

A fence appeared in the distance. It was simple, with horizontal slats framed by thick wooden posts. Of course, the kitten darted toward it, ducking underneath while Hannah was left to scale the structure. As she neared, she discovered it was taller than anticipated. There would be nothing for it but to climb.

With her gaze locked on the dot of gray fur racing from her, she placed one foot on the lower beam, her hands clutching the wood that splintered against her palms. Then she clambered higher to the next. It was on the third slat, as she was throwing her leg over the other side, when the support beneath her gave a definitive and ominous crack.

All at once, her footing disappeared, and she pitched forward, arms spiraling helplessly into the air as she flopped on the other side of the fence with a forceful oof.

Lucien Lambert, the fifth Earl of Brightstone, sought solace resting against the rough bark of an old elm tree, lost in the teachings of Aristotle where they were best appreciated—in nature. The afternoon thus far had been as Lucien anticipated, bringing an appreciation of the world around him. What he had not expected was a startling crack or a massive rat propelling itself toward his chest.

The thing landed with a resounding thud and made him jerk away hard enough that he slammed the back of his head against the aged bark. His shock quickly ebbed when he realized the animal was no rodent but instead a small gray cat. Wide blue eyes stared up at him, its tiny claws embedded into Lucien’s plain brown waistcoat.

“Where the devil have you dropped in from?” Lucien remarked.

The beast scrabbled up his jacket and issued a quiet meow. He cupped the thing against his chest, mindful of those little talons. The cat’s heart thumped a frantic beat against his palm. Lucien stood and looked around the tree to see what had frightened the poor animal.

There, lying beneath a newly broken slat in the fence, was a woman. Well, a rather splayed-out woman, as it were.

Her white dress was tossed up past her knees, and one woolen stocking had fallen low, revealing a slender calf. The other was stained bright red at the knee. Delicate slippers, meant more for the carpeted interior of a home rather than a dash through the country, jutted up from the grass with the blue silk toes pointed toward the sky.

Lucien rushed to her as she pushed onto her elbows, her expression bewildered beneath a tangle of lovely red curls, revealing her to be his neighbor, Miss Bexley. They had briefly met when they were children, a lifetime ago, and he’d seen her at several social events through the years.

But this was the first time he’d been so close to her as an adult. She was rather becoming, with a generous mouth that quirked up at the corners and dark-lashed, sparkling blue eyes.