Page 22 of The Duke Says I Do
She couldn’t wait to kiss him again. His lips had been soft and warm. And they’d provided the most exciting experience that she’d ever had in all her twenty-five years. She probably should hold it against him that he’d kissed Juliet, but she believed him when he said he’d done that purely to seal the contract between them.
For the first time, she understood why Juliet and Viola had abandoned common sense and thrown themselves into the arms of unsuitable men. What did propriety matter compared to passion? Portia struggled to hide a shiver of anticipation and look as if she and the duke had been discussing the weather instead of lessons in kissing.
Phipps put down the two large buckets he carried. A tall, rather cadaverous-looking man followed him inside, also carrying two steaming buckets. “Your Grace, I’m at your service.”
Granville’s smile conveyed affection. “I knew you’d help us, Sheriff. This is Lady Portia Frain, who is making sure that we treat our guest right.”
Sheriff set down his buckets and bowed with an impassive expression, as if finding unchaperoned young ladies in his employer’s stable was an everyday occurrence. “My lady.”
Granville gestured to Jupiter, who as usual pressed as close as he could get. “This is Jupiter, who’s in dire need of a wash.”
“Yes, sir.” More impassivity, but she couldn’t imagine the man approving of a mongrel dog in the household.
“Did you find a tub, Your Grace?” Phipps asked.
The tub? That was right. She and Granville were meant to search for one while Phipps fetched Sheriff.
Portia was completely charmed when Granville looked as if he’d been caught raiding the larder. Before today, she’d never imagined the duke as a boy. If anyone had asked her, she’d have said he was born middle-aged. But the hunted expression on features that she’d once found magisterial made her want to hug him.
“I couldn’t see it,” he said with such obvious discomfort that it was difficult not to roll her eyes again. It turned out that he was competent with most things, except lying.
“I’ll have a look.” Phipps disappeared into the room where Granville had found her apron. Within seconds, he returned bearing a tin bathtub.
Heat prickled her cheeks, although neither by word nor gesture did Phipps indicate any criticism of his employer’s eyesight. To hide her fluster, Portia fell to her knees beside Jupiter and ran her hands over his dirty, matted coat. “It’s all right, boy.”
By the time she stood to unclip his collar, she’d recovered her composure. The men had filled the tub and fetched soap andbrushes and towels. She stepped forward to lift Jupiter, when the duke brushed past. “Let me.”
Once Jupiter hit the water, he made his displeasure felt – and heard. They’d hear that howl of outrage in Birmingham.
She rushed forward to hold him down, noting that even offended, he didn’t snap. That was a good sign. Sometimes her rescues were so affected by their experiences, they turned savage.
Portia fell to her knees on the wet slate floor. “Shh, boy. It’s fine. You’re safe.” She struggled to sound authoritative above all the splashing.
He howled again. Equine disapproval resounded from the stalls and hooves kicked against wood. On the other side of the tub, Sheriff stepped beyond the range of flying water.
“Stop it,” Granville said.
To Portia’s astonishment, the dog went still, although he quivered under her hands. Granville kneeled beside her, and she thrilled to the rub of his hip against hers.
“You’ll get wet, Your Grace,” Phipps protested, barely able to suppress his horror at the sight of his aristocratic employer performing such a humble task.
The smile that had such an intoxicating effect on Portia’s pulse appeared. “I’m not made of icing sugar. I won’t melt.”
“Your Grace, I’ll take the liberty of returning to the kitchens for more towels,” Sheriff said, picking up two empty buckets.
“Grand idea.” Granville stroked Jupiter’s head with a notably calming effect. “We need more hot water, too.”
“Very good, sir.”
Portia missed Sheriff’s departure because Jupiter began to wriggle, despite his idol’s touch. “Let’s do this quickly before he loses his temper.”
Phipps passed her a brush and some soap. She took a deep breath, sharp with the odor of wet dog, and worked up a lather on Jupiter’s coat.
“Shall I help?” Granville asked.
“Just keep talking. Your voice calms him.” Hardly surprising. That deep voice stirred all sorts of forbidden longings inside her. Not that she’d describe the result as calming.
“It’s all right, old man. Nobody’s going to hurt you. You’re safe. Good boy. You’re such a good boy,” Granville crooned over and over.
