Page 2 of Impeccable
The dog squirmed, and Evie feared it would run away. “Don’t go,” she pleaded, not yet ready for this unexpected adventure to end.
Was that because of the dog or the gentleman?
The dog! She had no interest in gentlemen, even if they were handsome and vaguely familiar.
“Are you all right?” the man asked.
“Yes, just give us a moment. I think he—or she—is settling down.” Evie kept her gaze locked with the animal’s. “Aren’t you? This isn’t a bad place to be, is it? Certainly better than that nasty old hedgerow.”
“I would say so,” the man responded.
She resisted the urge to look toward him, thinking it was best if she maintained her attention on the dog. Doing so seemed to calm it.
“You’re doing wonderfully,” the man said. “You must have a great deal of experience with dogs. Or animals in general.”
It depended on the type of animal, but she was fairly certain he didn’t mean those of his own species. Those, she knew quite well. “Actually, no. I’ve never had a pet.” Or known anyone with a pet.
“Extraordinary. Well, I’d say you’re naturally inclined. I think you may have a pet now.”
“I can’t have a pet.” She said the words without thinking and immediately hoped the dog didn’t somehow understand and take offense. “But if I did, I would choose you,” she said, smiling at the dog.
The dog tipped its head, then nuzzled her chin. Oh, dear.
“I don’t think the dog agrees that you can’t have a pet.” The man chuckled softly. “Can I help you up?”
She couldn’t lie about in the damp grass. “What do I do with the dog?”
The man edged forward slowly and spoke softly to the dog, whispering encouragement and endearments. It really was quite sweet. Then he stroked the animal and gradually transferred it into his arms. Moving the dog, which did appear to be an older puppy, perhaps, to one arm, he rose, then gave his hand to Evie.
She clasped him, and her gaze immediately riveted to his. He helped her to stand, all while keeping the animal in his grip.
“Well done,” Evie said. “You are quite the hero.”
“No more than you. I am Gregory Blakemore.” He inclined his head, still holding her hand.
Now she knew him—they’d met last Season in London. “Don’t you meanLordGregory?”
The man’s father was a marquess. Or had been. Evie recalled that he’d passed away in the spring. Which meant Lord Gregory’s older brother was now the marquess.
“I suppose,” he responded. “Seems unnecessary here, in this moment,” he added. His brows knitted. “Have we met?”
Evie released him. Somewhat reluctantly, which she refused to credit. “Last Season. You were nearly courting a friend of mine—she is now Lady Overton.”
“Ah. Forgive me for not recalling you, Miss…”
“Mrs. Renshaw,” she said. “I am widowed.” Why had she felt the need to add that detail?
“So young,” he murmured. Not terribly young. Evie was twenty-five. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.” She always felt a small sting of discomfort when people said this. Because she wasn’t actually a widow. Evangeline Renshaw was a fabrication. Or, more accurately, a reinvention. “I’m sorry for yours—your father, I mean.”
“Thank you.”
She saw the flash of sorrow in his warm brown eyes. “Were you close?”
He nodded. “I miss him a great deal.”
Evie wondered if he still had a mother—she’d lost her parents long ago. It was just her and her older sister, Heloise. “At least you have your brother,” she said kindly.
