suited its master perfectly, as did the two matching, fully grown mastiffs who approached her.
“You’ve no need to fear them,” he assured her. “They are quite gentle.”
“Well, hello,” she greeted, extending both hands. The massive fawn-colored beasts pressed their great muzzles into her palms and sniffed. Apparently finding her acceptable, they welcomed her with copious amounts of viscous drool. She glanced over her shoulder at the marquess. “What do you call them?”
“George and Edward.”
“Truly? How unusual.”
“They share their names with the two gentlemen who were with me when I purchased them as pups. Since both men felt the need to jest at length about salivating animals, I deemed them appropriate monikers.”
“Lovely!” Sophie laughed, pleasantly surprised by his sense of humor, which she did not remember ever seeing much of.
She watched him step behind the screen in the corner and when he returned, gratefully accepted the damp cloth he offered to wipe her hands. “They are beautiful dogs.”
“I think so,” he said easily, watching her with a stare that made her feel slightly breathless. His intensity had always frightened her a little, although she could not collect why. He would never hurt her; she knew that like she knew the sun would rise in the morn.
Moving to one of the two wingback chairs in front of the fire, Sophie sat and tugged a footstool closer so she could set her slippered feet upon it.
“Please, make yourself comfortable,” he teased, taking a seat opposite her. The way he filled the chair caught her attention. He did not sit with any sort of straightness to his spine, as she would expect. Fontaine lounged like a king of the jungle, his long legs stretched out and his back angled into the groove between the chair back and the wing. George and Edward studied him a moment, then shuffled over to the footstool and set their giant heads atop each of her feet.
“They like you,” he said.
“I like them.”
“I thought you hated dogs, or were afraid of them. Some such. You could not tolerate Lady Cardington’s pet. His name eludes me now…”
“Max, and he was a beast. I like dogs, truly. But Maximillian was not a dog; he was a demon. He chewed up my best shoes and lifted his leg on my bedpost at every opportunity.” She smiled suddenly. “But I am grateful for him now, because he works in our favor.”
“Oh? How so?”
“So you invented a fear of canines?” The chastising shaking of his head was tempered by obvious indulgence.
“The feigned phobia served its purpose,” she said. “And now it will be one of the many points of contention between you and me.”
He grinned, and she was riveted.
Tilting her head to the side, Sophie contemplated her old friend with new eyes. How dashing he looked in his inelegant sprawl with his throat revealed to her gaze. He had always been uncommonly handsome, but the intimate pose made him seem overwhelmingly so. Where once he had been lean and youthful, he was now large and mature. His features were more angular, his gaze more knowing. Sophie could not shake the feeling that she had just walked into a predator’s lair.
“So we are to be contentious.” His lips twisted wryly. “I am not certain how to feel about so much effort being expended to avoid marriage to me.”
“Relieved?” she suggested blithely. “If I left the matter to you, you would most likely pronounce that you’d never marry a woman such as me, and that would goad them to dig in their heels. I am saving you endless trouble.”
“You believe I would never wed you,” he repeated, frowning.
Sophie drummed her fingers restlessly against the end of the armrest. “Of course not. I would drive you to insanity.”
“Perhaps I would like that.”
“Stuff,” she scoffed.
“Hmm…”
“Hmm?”
“Never mind. So tell me, how are you faring, Sophie?” The low, intimate timbre of his voice was slightly distracted, as if part of his mind was occupied with other thoughts.
She offered a small smile. “As well as can be expected, my lord.”
“Justin,” he corrected.
“Justin.” Her gaze lowered to his throat, which she could not seem to resist looking at. “How are you? You look…well.”
He tilted his head in acknowledgment. “Thank you. I am.” There was a short pause, then, “How is your son?”
“Thomas is wonderful.” Sophie smiled at the thought of him. “He’s quite the loveliest thing in my life. But I shan’t bore you with the details.”
“If a topic interests you, it interests me. Does Thomas look like you?”
“No.” Sophie frowned, startled by the marquess’s words, which were delivered without inflection. “He looks like his father, thankfully. A blessing I appreciate immeasurably.”
Lifting her hand, she rubbed at the space between her brows where an ache was building. She had been plagued with megrims in the months after Langley’s passing, and the stress of her first outing and her unexpected reaction to Fontaine were bringing back echoes of that pain.
“I am sorry for your loss,” he murmured.
“Thank you.” Her hand dropped back into her lap. “But I have my son and I am tremendously grateful for him. He has been a brilliant light during a very dark time.”
She had been faced with people who intimated that it would have been better had she lost the babe. The very suggestion angered her in a way nothing else could. To propose that the loss of her child would have been preferable to the loss of social standing was so heinous she could not credit it.
“Where is the boy now?”
“With Langley’s younger brother-the current Lord Langley-and his family. Thomas visits with them often. He is a tangible piece of his father, and they cherish him.”
“You are very brave, Sophie.”
She studied Fontaine, attempting to discern if he was being facetious or not. She saw only sympathy. “No, I am not brave. Not at all. I have survived. That does not make me courageous; it is merely a testament of my stubbornness.”
His mouth curved. “Call it what you like. I admire you a great deal. I doubt I would have weathered the storm near as well.”
The combined effect of that smile and his praise left Sophie speechless. She was taken aback by how it affected her, warming her from the inside, loosening the tight knot of apprehension she had not known was there. When had his opinion become so important? Or…perhaps it had always been important.
“I would not have expected you to be supportive,” she admitted, her damp palms wrapping around the end of the armrests.
“Why not?”
“Because you were forever chastising me when we were children.”
The marquess’s eyes widened. “I was not.”
“Yes, you were. I remember the incidences quite clearly, especially that day in the garden when you shouted at me and I nearly fell. Scared me witless.”
“Are you referring to the time you were attempting to climb to the top of the pagoda?” He snorted. “It was you who scared the wits from me! I rounded the corner in search of you and there you were, hanging some distance from the ground by only your fingertips. My heart stopped beating altogether. You could have killed yourself.”
