The Duke's Hound Hated Every Woman He Courted — Until a Young Lady Walked Through the Gate
Chapter 3
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"Miss, you are cold and frightened. Give that to me, and we shall see you fed and sent on your way."Sovereign turned his head. The whine in his throat died, and something lower took its place. Isolde felt it through her cloak—a vibration like distant thunder—and saw the hound's amber eyes fix on the gentleman's face with an intensity that was almost human.Lord Percival's hand dropped to his side. It was a small movement, quickly done, but Isolde was watching, and she saw his smile hold half a second too long, the way a painted smile does."No," said the Duke.Every head swung toward him. He stood in his ruined coat with mud to the knees, and the old authority had come back into his face, though not quite the same authority; it had a crack in it."The lady will come into the house. Hobbs, Lady Vance's party is to be given refreshment in the blue drawing room. The rain is about to break, and I will not have my guests stand in it." He looked down at the hound, who had not moved from Isolde's side. "Sovereign, with me."And Sovereign went.No one on that drive had ever seen the dog obey anything but his own temper. Now he walked beside the stranger up the long gravel sweep, so close that his flank brushed her skirts, while behind them 40 guests stood silent with their mouths open, and the first fat drops of rain began to fall.Lord Percival remained where he was, watching them go with his glove still in his hand. For one moment, his face held no expression at all.The Duke's study was a long brown room that smelled of leather and cold ashes. He had not allowed a fire to be lit in it for three years, and Isolde noticed at once, as she noticed everything: a man who does not light his own fire has stopped believing anyone will come to sit beside it.He closed the door. He did not offer her a chair. She took one anyway, and the hound folded himself onto the carpet at her feet with a groan, his great chin resting on her muddy boot."Now," said the Duke, "what are you carrying?""Your pardon, Your Grace, but the letter first." She drew a folded paper from inside her cloak. "It is from my father, Baron Marlowe. He died in February in a rented room in Bristol. He made me promise to put this in your hand and in no other."