Page 11 of The Recluse of Wolfeton House (Ladies of Devon 4)

They skirted the edge of the woods, Daisy and Rosie dodging in and out of the trees, chasing a small bird and then returning. Sometimes Hattie wished she’d been born a dog, too, for they had nothing to concern themselves with besides their own happiness.

That would certainly be preferable to managing Society’s expectations.

The dogs slipped ahead, barking rapidly. Their tone shifted from playful to something far more earnest, and the hair on the back of Hattie’s neck stood on end in warning. This was not the joyful sound of cheeky dogs chasing a bird. This was dangerous.

Lifting the hem of her gown, Hattie broke into a run, slipping into the trees and chasing the sound of her dogs barking. “Rosie! Daisy!” Her calls went unheard against a volley of angry barking and she quickened her speed.

Oh, goodness. What had they found? Likely a poor, unsuspecting fox.

She couldn’t hide a smile at the thought. She was on a fox hunt herself, but of a different nature. If only Lucy knew the truth of that situation, she would likely give Hattie more space. But given her desire for matchmaking schemes, Hattie didn’t feel like her sister-in-law needed to know.

Trees blocked most of the sun, the spotted light around her highlighting a foreign part of the duke’s woods. She’d never ventured so deep in them before. Now that she’d met the man—Bentley, as she thought of him in her mind—she felt uncomfortable being on his property. Not exactly the best feeling when it seemed as though her dogs’ barking was retreating deeper into the woods, though now the sounds were growing louder.

She needed to find them before Wolfeton House and its inhabitants took notice.

A deep voice called out angrily, and one of her dogs whimpered, stopping Hattie in her tracks. She spun, gripping her skirts and trying to determine the direction the sounds had come from. She was surrounded, encircled with tall trees, covered overhead by branches and what few leaves remained this far into Autumn. But the dogs weren’t anywhere in sight.

“Off that, you mongrel!” a man yelled.

Hattie took off in a run, nearly positive the sound came from her left, and weaved through the forest until she broke through the treeline. A short lawn spanned before her, leading up to a stone house covered in ivy. The house was something out of a fairytale, and she would have spent time admiring it if her attention wasn’t stolen by a stout man in grungy trousers standing a few yards away, clutching a nervous chicken and glaring at two snarling hound dogs. Her hounds.

He lifted his leg as though he meant to kick Rosie, and Hattie leapt forward. “Stop at once!”

She frightened the man, and the chicken leapt from his arms, flapping its wings angrily as it charged the dogs. Rosie and Daisy jumped away before circling back. Their erratic motions and barking were similar to how they played with one another when they were restless. Only now they were attempting to play with an irritable fowl.

Hattie immediately took measure of the situation and knew the best way to put an end to it was to remove the chicken. The poor thing was looking for a fight and didn’t realize how willing these dogs were to playfully oblige her.

“Retrieve your chicken!” she yelled to the man, for he remained dumbstruck, his rounded chin tucked against his neck. He glanced up at Hattie, eyebrows raised, and she wanted to groan.

Must she do everything herself?

“Down, Rosie,” she said, gently shoving the dog aside. “Daisy, no.” She reached for the chicken as she’d learned to do when she was younger, with lightning-fast motions, tucking the talons beneath her and holding the bird tightly against her chest. Her dogs barked, jumping up against her legs, and she admonished them.

“Daisy, Rosie, enough. This behavior is not befitting young ladies.”

“But catching chickens is?” a deep, familiar voice said just behind her.

Hattie spun, her hold on the chicken slipping in the face of Bentley’s wit. A talon broke free, and the bird kicked, slicing through her sleeve and across the underside of her forearm, tearing the flesh. She gritted her teeth, sucking in a breath and tightened her hold on the fowl again.

Bentley stood in shirtsleeves and a waistcoat, his cravat and coat missing, and his house looming behind him. She forced her eyes up from the exposed portion of his neck and swallowed down the sudden attraction that rose within her.

Her arm stung, but she did her best to turn her grimace into a smug smile. “No, it is not. So I should be glad I am not a young lady, shan’t I?”

He studied her for a moment before his gaze flicked over her shoulder. “Will you take the chicken from Miss Green and put it away, Devlin? And lock the thing up, would you? I’ve half a mind to order her for my dinner.”

Hattie sucked in a breath, tightening her hold on the bird. Surely he could not be in earnest.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Devlin said, approaching her.

Hattie refused to release the fowl. “You will not eat her simply because my dogs wished to play.”

“She will not be punished for that alone, no,” Bentley assured her, though his amusement was not comforting.

“She has done nothing wrong,” Hattie pressed.

“That chicken is a menace,” Bentley argued, resting a fist against his waist and throwing out his other arm in exasperation. “She’s terrorized more animals than just your dogs this week, and I’m certain they won’t be the last.”

Hattie squared her shoulders. “My dogs take equal blame in this situation, yet I have not ordered them to be put on a platter.”

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