Page 33 of Reforming Lord Neil

Chapter Fourteen

Muttering to himself as he tromped through the wet, drippy trees, Neil roundly cursed every aspect of his homeland’s weather. The mud sucked at his boots, too, and there would be no valet to clean them. If Neil wanted them restored, he’d be the one to work out how to scrape off the dirt clods without damaging the leather.

The worst thing was, of course, that he had brought the entire situation upon himself by leaving the long-handled saw out in the weather rather than bringing it in with him.

Why had he even attempted the chore? What did he know about pruning trees? The only associations he had ever had with that particular bit of flora had been when he climbed them as a boy or lounged beneath them as an indolent youth.

The mistake certainly had not been made due to distraction. Not at all. Kissing the enchanting Teresa Clapham had not addled his wits. He was too sophisticated. Too worldly—

And obviously too starved of companionship, to go about kissing a woman who did not want to be kissed.

It was like what had happened with Lady Inglewood all over again. Except Teresa’s loyalty was to her home and family, not an absent husband.

Or maybe it was. Lack of mourning attire after a year did not mean anything.

Neil found the spot where he’d fallen from the cursed cherry tree, easily recognizable by the man-sized dent in the soft earth. But he didn’t see the saw upon the ground. He muttered to himself and looked upward. There the instrument waited for him, still halfway through the branch, and now perilously out of reach given the damp branches.

Would one night in the rain ruin the tool?

Neil debated whether the tool or his safety might be of more importance to Mrs. Clapham.

Most certainly, it would be the saw.

He would need to go all the way back to the barn to get the ladder if he hoped to reach the saw without breaking his head open. Defeat pulled him downward. He dropped his head and relaxed his shoulders, feeling the raindrops hit him upon the back of his neck. Without a fine collar and cravat, without a stylish hat or warm greatcoat, the elements could further testify as to how low he had fallen.

A soft whine reached his ears. A pathetic, hopeless sound. The very sound his soul would make, were he to lose the last shred of pride. But the noise had not come from him. Not yet.

Then where—?

Neil turned toward the hedgerow. On the other side of it was a lane, commonly used by the farmers in the area. He went that way, eyes searching through the brush for whatever creature might be concealed inside.

Another whine, softer and longer, made him hasten his steps.

A dog. It had to be a dog.

Neil came to the hedges and bent, trying to peer closer to the ground. But an overcast sky and overgrown bushes made it difficult to see anything. He gave one glance to the heavens, wondering when he might be showed any mercy at all, before dropping to his knees upon a pile of wet, dead leaves. Then he crouched lower, on all fours, searching deep in the branches.

A pair of eyes stared back, from above a long snout and in a fur-covered face. The animal had blue eyes, gray tufts of fur, and the thinnest belly Neil had ever seen on a dog.

“Oh, you poor devil.” Neil kept his voice soft, unwilling to cause the animal further distress. The bedraggled creature was likely frightened. He whistled quietly and held his hand out in invitation. The dog pushed itself deeper into the hedge and turned its head away from him.

An animal trained as a guard dog would react defensively. Most of the hunters he’d raised would’ve wagged a tail and come out, head ducked down. But this creature behaved as though it hoped to be ignored and forgotten. A gentle animal, then, likely with reason to distrust a man.

Neil considered the animal. If he pretended he had never seen the dog, walked away, it would likely be gone as soon as the rain let up. Which might occur sooner rather than later.

Neil slowly backed away from the blackberry brambles, rose to his feet, and walked calmly back toward the house. When he was several yards away from the dog, he picked up the pace, almost running toward the cottage. When he arrived at the back door, he nearly ran directly through, but remembered his boots before stepping on the kitchen floor.

That likely saved him from a rebuke from Mrs. Godwin. He cleared his throat and looked inside.

Caroline sat at the worktable, holding a biscuit. Her eyebrows went clear up to her black curls.

“Caroline,” he said, grinning widely at her. “I need a few of those biscuits. Would you get them for me?”

The sweet child did not even ask a question. She beamed back at him, likely pleased because he finally needed something from her. She slid off the bench and ran to the pantry. When she came out again, both hands were full of ginger and shortbread biscuits. She held them out to him, her grin wide. “Here you are, Mr. Duncan.”

“Thank you.” He bowed deeply as he accepted the abundance of treats. “I’ll have a story to tell you later.” He winked, then hurried back into the rain.

It didn’t take him long to return to the bushes, pockets full of sweets. He found where he had kneeled before and resumed the position. The dog was still there. It made eye contact with him a moment and then tried to ignore him again.