Free Saved by Scandal by Bárbara Metzger Page B

came to lead him off. The footman and his length of rope faded into the shrubbery.
    Staring over his lordship’s shoulder, the butler courteously inquired as to their evening.
    “Delightful, thank you, Fenning.” Galen handed over his hat and gloves and Margot’s wrap.
    “Here, too, milord. The canine attacked your valet whilst Mr. Clegg was polishing your boots. The beast won. Your boots lost. Then he chased the housekeeper’s cat into the orangery.”
    “Clegg?”
    “No, milord, her ladyship’s animal. I fear we shall not be serving oranges soon. The housekeeper is no longer on our payroll.”
    “Well, I never cared much for her sour puss anyway.”
    “The cat, milord?”
    “No, the housekeeper. But her ladyship is tired. We’ll deal with all of this in the morning, Fenning. Ah, you will be here in the morning, won’t you?”
    The butler sniffed at the viscount’s levity and stalked off. He’d been majordomo to the Dukes of Woburton since taking over the position from his father, who’d replaced his father before him. No mongrel was going to force him to desert his post. Why, the family would never manage without a Fenning in charge.
    Galen led Margot—and the dog—up the stairs and down the corridor to her bedroom. He opened the door and nudged the dog inside with his knee so that he might properly say good night to his bride. This was not how he’d imagined spending his wedding night, on the other side of his wife’s bedroom door while a scruffy, overgrown sack of bones got to share her bed, if the blasted dog did not eat her bed. He’d worry about that in the morning, too. Right now, all he could think of was how good Margot felt in his arms, how sweet her perfume—before the dog licked her face—and how much he wanted to kiss her. But did that count as intimacy, which he’d promised to delay? He hesitated, until Margot stood on tiptoe and shyly placed a gentle kiss on his lips. “Thank you. For everything, my lord.”
    Confound it, he did not want to be her benefactor; he wanted to be her lover. Galen wrapped her in his arms and gave her a real kiss, a senses-stealing, toe-tingling, tongue-touching kiss. He might not be the man of her dreams, dash it, but, by George, he’d be the man in her dreams tonight.

Chapter Nine
    Whoever said, first, let’s kill all the lawyers, should have started with Samuel Hemmerdinger, Esquire. The prosy old pettifogger was provoking Galen into wishing he had a pistol to hand.
    Lord Woodbridge had gone to see the family solicitor shortly after breakfast, which consisted of yesterday’s rolls and scorched eggs and tepid coffee, since the second cook, who would have taken over from the departed chef, had not stepped out of the dog’s way fast enough this morning when the coal wagon had arrived. Luckily, they would not be needing another delivery soon, Fenning reported, with the weather so clement. Luckily the second cook’s leg was merely bruised, not broken. Luckily there were a great many employment agencies in London. Fenning would call on one where the family was not known, which circumstance, he sniffed, would doubtless soon change.
    After the meal, and a stop at a coffee house for another, Galen had escorted Margot to the theater for her rehearsal. He’d left her with Ella, two footmen, and the dog, to Fenning’s relief. The actors were used to Ruff; they used him to discourage bill collectors. Galen thought she’d be safe from any insult, but he could not like Margot out of his sight.
    He was already in a foul temper before he reached Hemmerdinger’s offices. He had hardly slept a wink last night, after that kiss. What the devil was he about, rousing passions he was promised to postpone? And how was he supposed to rest easily, knowing his beautiful wife was just on the other side of the connecting door? His mind joined his body in protest that the blasted dog was keeping her company, not her besotted husband. It was hard not to batter the confounded