You May Kiss the Bride(52)
But she didn’t. In what felt like a defensive, cowardly way, she’d taken on the Penhallow Mask for herself. Pride kept her from grabbing him, pride kept her from taking the risk of revealing her own thoughts and emotions. There was, she’d found, an odd sort of comfort in staying hidden behind this impenetrable mask.
Her single reprieve from this frozen world of rigid decorum was a clandestine visit to the kitchen where, the moment she stepped into it, she was greeted by friendly yips, and a small white dynamo—snowy white and clean-smelling—hurtled joyously toward her.
Livia knelt on the floor and couldn’t help but laugh as she petted the little dog whose behind wiggled furiously, his funny curling tail thumping wildly back and forth. He could not be called a handsome creature, with his short skinny legs and oversized paws and pointy ears that looked far too big for his head, but there was something so engaging about those bright black eyes, which seemed to sparkle with alert intelligence, and about his small furry frame which almost vibrated with exuberance.
“There now, Miss Livia,” Cook said comfortably, “it’s plain as a pikestaff he knows who he’s to thank for his deliverance!”
“Oh, Cook, he’s adorable. I hope he hasn’t been a trouble to you?”
“Not a bit of it! He’s ever so smart and obedient.”
“I’m so glad! Is he a good ratter?”
Cook looked surprised. “Ratter, Miss Livia? We haven’t a rat anywhere in the house, that I can promise you! As for him, I shouldn’t think he’d be a ratter, for he’s never happier than when he’s in someone’s lap.” She laughed. “Truth be told, there’s terrible competition among the staff to grab him up. He’s become quite the favorite among us.”
“I can see why.” So Gabriel, Livia thought, had pulled the wool over Grandmama’s eyes! The little dog was trying with great earnestness to scale her knees and establish himself among the folds of her skirt. Livia picked him up and with flattering promptitude he snuggled against her. “Not only does he smell better, Cook, he’s quite a bit plumper.”
“As to that, miss, so am I—if we’re to talk of deliverance!”
Livia looked up and saw with pleasure that Cook had indeed lost her distressing gauntness. “You’ve Mr. Gabriel to thank for that, and for intervening on behalf of this little fellow, too. Have you given him a name yet?”
“He has a hearty appetite, miss, but he does seem to favor my muffins, so we’ve all fallen into the habit of calling him that—Muffin.”
“I like it. It suits him.” As if in agreement, the little dog vigorously licked her chin.
“Lordy, where are my manners? Can I offer you some muffins, Miss Livia, and a nice cup of tea?”
“I’d like that very much, Cook, but I’m afraid I have to go. Thank you for taking care of Muffin so beautifully.” Livia put him down on the floor, where he capered gaily around her feet. “Sit,” she told him, and without hesitation he did so, gazing meltingly up at her as if his sole desire in life was to obey her every command, large or small.
With lagging steps Livia left the kitchen and went up to her bedchamber. Soon she’d have to dress for the evening’s dinner-party. While she waited for Flye, she sat in an armchair near the window which overlooked the walled garden below; she stared out at the rain that fell in heavy drops, matching her darkening mood completely.
Dogs were so simple. You loved them, and they loved you back. If she could, she’d bring Muffin upstairs and keep him with her. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to feel so adored, to bask in such unconditional affection?
It was hard to imagine.
Gabriel acted if he didn’t care if she lived or died. And she’d allowed herself to sink into a stupid melancholy.
What a fool she was.
Flye tapped on the door then, and listlessly Livia stood up. Time to get ready for another dull dinner-party.
A few hours later, there she was, sitting next to Sir Edward Brinkley, recently arrived from London. He’d been pointed out to her in the Pump Room as a widower, just out of his blacks, whose wife had died without issue. He’d come to Bath, according to report, for the sake of his sister—a sallow, middle-aged dame with the look about her of a scared rabbit—as well as to cast about for a new wife. No one doubted that he’d have an easy time of it, for Sir Edward had an enormous fortune as well as considerable estates in Lincolnshire.
He was also thought to be exceedingly handsome. He was trim, elegant, with blond hair, neatly arranged à la Brutus, and light-blue eyes. Though his expression was pleasant, friendly, there was something about him—something about those rather red and fleshy lips that smiled too frequently—that made Livia wish her hostess had placed her elsewhere.