A Gentleman Never Tells(58)

She looked down to see if Brutus was settled, and her breath stalled in her lungs. The dog’s mouth was poised over Lord Brentwood’s feet. Brutus’s drool and slobber from his exertion of getting into the carriage was dripping onto the toe of one of Lord Brentwood’s highly polished boots.

As she tried to decide if she should tell the viscount to move his feet, or simply try to shift the big body of the dog, Lord Brentwood asked, “Is everything all right?”

Gabrielle turned and looked up at the same time Lord Brentwood bent his head to glance down. The edge of her parasol hit the brim of his hat and knocked it off his head. The strong wind caught the top hat and sent it flying like a kite through the air and over the curricle behind them. He pulled hard on the ribbons to stop the horses. She and Lord Brentwood looked back in time to see his hat land crown-up in a wide mud puddle on the other side of the road. He set the brake and turned to jump down but stopped as a shiny painted barouche passed by, the wheels splashing black muddy water all over the hat.

“Oh, no!” Gabrielle gasped. “I’m so sorry, my lord.”

She expected him to start yelling at her how it was his favorite hat, or how expensive it would be to replace it, as her father would have done, but that didn’t happen. Instead of anger, Lord Brentwood was merely looking with detachment at the soiled hat floating in the puddle.

“I’ll get it for you,” she said, starting to remove the blanket covering her legs.

“No,” he said, placing his hand on top of hers to still her.

She looked down at his black gloved hand lying over hers. There was no shake or quiver of fury in his touch. No anger. Her father would have been furious at her.

“But, my lord, I can see it was an exceptional hat. Perhaps I can have it cleaned.”

“It’s no matter, Lady Gabrielle. Look over there.” He pointed to a street urchin not far away who was wistfully eyeing the hat. “Let him have it. Maybe he can salvage it and make a shilling or two off it. I have others.”

“That’s very kind of you.”

Lord Brentwood turned away and released the brake, picked up the ribbons, and started the horses to moving again. She hadn’t wanted to ruin his hat, but with any luck, he’d add it to the growing list of things that would one day make him realize she was not the wife for him.

They were both quiet the rest of the short ride to the park. She had no idea what the viscount was thinking, but she knew she was quickly counting up all the things that made Lord Brentwood different from her father.

There were only a few people in the park as they entered from the east side. That was to be expected, since it was windy, cold, and a weekday. Lord Brentwood took his time and searched for just the right place to stop, which was a level stretch of land not too far from the Serpentine. There was a crop of trees to break the wind but still sunny enough to help keep them warm.

He set the brake on the curricle and jumped down. He first helped Brutus make it down the two steps and then reached back to help Gabrielle.

She closed her parasol and laid it on the seat before taking his hand. “I don’t think I’ll need this.”

He grinned. “And I might be safer if you don’t have it with you.”

Gabrielle laughed as she took his hand and stepped down.

Lord Brentwood took the blanket that had covered her legs and spread it on the ground, and then he walked back to the carriage to get the food basket from underneath the seat. “I hope you like what my cook prepared for us. Warm—” He stopped mid-sentence when he glanced back and saw that Brutus had staked out his claim right in the middle of the small blanket and was making himself comfortable.

But without missing another beat, Lord Brentwood looked at her and said, “Warm chocolate, bread, cheese, and fig preserves.”

Gabrielle started to tell Brutus to move and would have, except on second thought, she knew her dog’s antics were working right into her plan to make the viscount see how unsuitable she was to be his wife. It was best he know that wherever she went Brutus went, and the dog always got special treatment.

“It all sounds wonderful to me,” she said to him and walked over to the blanket.

She gave Lord Brentwood her hand, and he helped her to sit on a corner. He lowered himself on the opposite side of her, leaving the food basket as a barrier between them. She slipped her reticule off her wrist and pretended not to see him looking curiously at the toe of his boot that Brutus had christened with his slobber.