Dot had not yet been to the Pump Room during the three weeks they had resided in this watering city. She knew from reading the Bath Chronicle that the fashionable gathered there daily, and she was well aware of how exceedingly unfashionable she was in her wardrobe, which consisted of worn sprigged muslin gowns that had served her well since she’d left the school room several years previously.
Not only did she lack fashionable attire, she also was void of social graces. How could she possibly know how to mingle with young gentlemen and ladies when she’d spent her entire life buried in remote Lincolnshire with only her father and her kitties for companionship?
She did not in the least miss the comforting familiarity of the only home she’d ever known. The vibrancy of Bath invigorated her. The beauty of the city’s graceful, uniform architecture of golden stone mesmerized her. She’d actually crossed the River Avon on a bridge that resembled a street with shops on either side and nary a view of the river below.
Even the hawkers on the pavement attempting to entice passersby with posies and ill-dressed men selling penny pamphlets fascinated her.
As they drew nearer the pit of roasting chestnuts, she was tempted by the pleasant aroma. “Have you ever tasted roasted chestnuts?” she asked her father.
Fur Blossom, whom Dot carried in her arms, must also have been attracted by the smell because she launched herself from her mistress’s arms, leaping toward the steaming chestnut pit—just as a huge dog of indeterminate breed had the same notion.
Dot’s scream pierced the air as she surged after her cat. Terrified, she feared the dog would devour the fleet Fur Blossom before Dot could reach her.
The dog’s attention quickly shifted from the hot nuts to the cat leaping toward the pit. The dog growled viciously and lunged toward Fur Blossom.
Just as the dog’s open mouth was about to clamp down on the unfortunate cat, a man’s hand swooped down and lifted the hissing cat away.
But not without injury to himself. Scarlet trickled from the man’s wrist.
Dot’s mouth gaped open as she beheld the brave hero who had snatched Fur Blossom from the teeth of a horrid death. It was as if this man had stepped from the pages of a tale of knights of yore. She’d never seen such a magnificent specimen of manhood.
The woman beside him shouted. “You’ve hurt yourself!” She tried to examine the flesh wound.
The man, who Dot judged to be around thirty, brushed her aside. “Pray, don’t make such a fuss.”
Dot raced to retrieve her frightened cat from the man. “My dear sir, I am wholeheartedly in your debt for saving the life of my precious kitty.” She took Fur Blossom and held her close while eyeing the handsome man. He needed but a suit of armor to be a gallant knight. “I feel wretched you’ve been hurt.”
The man’s mossy-coloured eyes drilled her.
He had every right to be angry with her. After all, her cat had put him into jeopardy. That vicious dog could have dealt him serious injury. It could even have killed him.
He began to address her. “You must be . . .”
Mr. Pankhurst walked up and shook hands with Fur Blossom’s savior. “I’m Westmoreland Pankhurst, and this is my daughter, Dorothea. We are, indeed, in your debt, my good man.”
The man’s eyes flashed with mirth.
How could he act so amused when his wrist must be stinging like the devil?
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” the man said to her father. “I’m Lord Appleton, and this is my sister, Annie Appleton.”
Lord Appleton! Dot had read about the rake in the Bath Chronicle! The man was a profligate. He was known to hang about Mrs. Starr’s gaming establishment, and it was even hinted that he kept a mistress! She could not remove her gaze from him. In her three-and-twenty years she had never had the opportunity to see what a profligate looked like.
She hadn’t expected one to be so fine looking. Though she was no arbiter of taste, she believed Lord Appleton was possessed of an unerring sense of fashion, as was his sister. He wasn’t exceedingly tall, but he was taller than average. Both siblings shared the same cork brown hair and green eyes, and both were fair.
She had never felt so dowdy. It wasn’t just her clothing. Miss Appleton was fashionably fair and even though it was an overcast day, she wore the mandatory bonnet. Dot never wore bonnets. Because she had never made the effort to protect her skin from the sun, it was unfashionably bronzed. She was quite certain the skin on her face resembled a well-worn saddle. It was not creamy and smooth like Miss Appleton’s.
“It’s lovely to meet you,” Miss Appleton said, moving closer and reaching to pet Fur Blossom. “What a beautiful cat! Do tell me, what is his name?”
“Her name is Fur Blossom.” Dot looked up at his lordship. “I do apologize for my cat’s actions, for endangering you.” Then without thinking and completely forgetting that she was addressing a profligate who was also an aristocrat. “You were very brave. I’m incredibly indebted to you, my lord.” As she spoke, she noticed the blood had saturated the snowy white of his shirt cuff.
She handed her cat to her father, keeping the little cat blanket she’d wrapped Fur Blossom in, and raced to Lord Appleton’s side. She tenderly lifted his forearm and wrapped it in the miniature blanket and attempted to staunch the flow of blood. “My father will insist on replacing your shirt, my lord, and I beg that you see an apothecary.”
He shook his head. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing.”
His gaze softened. “All will be well, Miss Pankhurst, if you and your father will do me the goodness of accompanying my sister and me to the Pump Room this morning.”
She stiffened. She did not want to be inhospitable, especially after
