Page 12 of The Recluse of Wolfeton House (Ladies of Devon 4)

“Well you wouldn’t, would you? They’re dogs.” The ease in which he stated his logic was too much for Hattie, and she barked an unladylike laugh at the absurdity of their argument.

“Will you allow my man to take the chicken now, Miss Green?” he asked.

How could she argue? It wasn’t her bird. She handed the fowl into Devlin’s waiting arms and pulled back, but not before Bentley noticed the red line staining her cream spencer jacket. He deftly took hold of her wrist as the servant walked away, twisting it to expose her forearm. Bentley’s gentle grip seared through the fabric and heated her skin.

His voice was steady and deep. “That chicken did this, didn’t she?”

“No.”

Bentley looked up, his fingers still wrapped around her wrist, but his gaze fixed on her. “No? You mean you came by it before stepping onto my lawn and stopping the fight?”

He’d seen her do that? She swallowed, searching for an answer. She didn’t want this bird’s life on her conscience—but neither did she want to press her lie.

His gray eyes held hers. “If I promise not to eat the chicken, will you be honest with me?”

“Yes,” she said. “But only because I expect a duke to keep his word.”

A shadow of emotion passed over his face, and he dropped her wrist. Clearing his throat, he placed a hand over his heart. “I vow to not eat that particular chicken, despite how horribly she terrorizes the other animals.”

Hattie bit back her curiosity and the temptation to ask why he’d been bothered by what she said. She had a feeling he would not welcome further questioning on the matter. “Thank you, Your Grace. Then yes, it cut me with its talon.”

“Will you come inside and allow my housekeeper to look at your arm? She has a knack for cleaning wounds.”

“That is an interesting skill. Did she gain it because of your knack for obtaining wounds?”

His lips did not so much as flicker. Had she been impertinent? Well, Hattie’s cut wasn’t too deep, but it continued to bleed over her cream-colored sleeve. She could certainly make it home and allow Agnes to tend to it, but she would likely never have another opportunity to see the interior of Wolfeton House. After the duke’s reclusive behavior, hiding here for so many years, she couldn’t deny how wildly curious she was about his house. She badly wanted to see it.

When he did not respond to her jest, she swallowed her pride. “That would be very kind of your housekeeper, Your Grace. Thank you.”

He looked surprised. Had he expected that he would need to convince her further? He gestured toward the house. “This way, then.”

Stepping alongside him, Hattie motioned to her dogs to follow. Daisy and Rosie calmly walked beside them as they made their way across the lawn. When they reached the door, she turned and put a hand on each of their heads. “You stay right here. Understand?”

Their dark eyes blinked up at her. It would be an utter miracle if they obeyed, but it was worth trying.

Bentley opened the door for her, and she paused, turning back to where her dogs sat, their tails wagging behind them on the gravel. “And no more chasing chickens.” Rosie lowered her head, laying down, and Daisy barked once.

If only Lucy could have watched that interaction, she would have been hard-pressed to argue her point further. The dogs could clearly understand Hattie.

“You have quite a way with animals,” Bentley said, following her inside.

She shrugged. “I think you mean I have respect for animals.”

“It’s the same thing?”

“It ought to be.”

The small entryway opened up to a dark, wood-paneled corridor. It appeared exactly like she imagined it would. The interior was tasteful but masculine, with navy window coverings and a long, burgundy rug lining the floor. Doors blended into the mahogany-paneled walls, and it was impossible to tell just how many there were. A man had clearly designed this home, and it smelled faintly of roasted meat and wood polish.

Bentley passed her, opening the door to his left as a tall, white-haired man appeared from another room.

“Egerton,” Bentley said, “our neighbor has sustained an injury to her arm. Would you send for Mrs. Notley and whatever supplies she might need to clean this up?”

Egerton glanced at her arm and nodded before turning away.

“Right this way.” Bentley led Hattie into what appeared to be a parlor. Light streamed in through open windows and fell on the blue carpet in the center of the wood-planked floor. A seating area before the fire contained a brown sofa opposite leather armchairs, and Bentley directed Hattie toward one of the chairs.

She paused on the carpet, her attention stolen by the magnificent painting hanging above the mantel, its simple gilded frame encompassing a lovely seaside image. A sheer white cliffside curved around the top corner and dropped into a tumultuous ocean, pale sand spreading forward from the shoreline and out of sight. The detail of the light reflecting on the waves was magnificent; one lone, black-headed gull perched on the sand, its faint footprints erased by a receding wave. Hattie noted the detail in the white-capped waves and the bird’s charcoal shadow with awe. Such expertise was beyond her. Some could practice and hone their skill until greatness was achieved, and others were gifted their ability from heaven. She had a feeling the artist of this painting was the latter.

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