Free Mistletoe and Mischief by Patricia Wynn

much too long,” he told her, guiding her to the door. “It's time for this business to be concluded and for you to come inside by the fire before you come down with a serious chill. Your nose is already red.”
    “It's not the cold,” Louisa said, allowing him to shepherd her inside, “it's the dog.” She thrust the puppy back into his arms again. “I shall be quite all right if you hold it from now on.”
    Halfway down the corridor, Charles halted and gaped at her. “The dog?”
    “Yes, Charles,” Louisa said lightly. “I do not know what it is, for I love animals. But every time I come too close to a dog or a cat I begin to sneeze.”
    On this surprising note, in which he detected no irony, Louisa hurried him into the private parlour and excused herself on the grounds that she must go up to her room to repair the damage the dog had done.
    Stunned by this revelation, and by Louisa's obstinacy in rescuing the dog in spite of her affliction, Charles fell into a chair by the fire. Sammy Spadger came into the room to heap the grate with coals, for it was plain to see that both its occupants would need a thorough drying out.
    Emerging from his reverie, Charles instructed him to have the bags he had brought from Lord Conisbrough's house taken up to Louisa.
    “Then yor lordship's servants wor there as tha said?”
    “ Huh? What? Oh, yes!”
    Since this latest episode, Charles had forgotten the story they had told the Spadgers. But Sammy sounded so relieved that his faith in the marquess and his cousin had not been misplaced that Charles turned to the matter once more. “My cousin's bags had been delivered,” he said. “She might prefer to change before coming down to dinner.”
    “Mrs. Spadger'll see to it reet away, sir. Would tha like me ta take t' dog?”
    Charles glanced down at the puppy in his lap.
    It had fallen asleep along the open palm of his hand, as if the past half hour's struggle had been far too much for its young body. It lay in an attitude of complete abandon, sprawled on its back as only a young animal can lie, its front paws flopped over his thumb, its hind paws splayed outwards exposing its pink underbelly. Charles noticed the creature was a female, though he might have suspected so by the length of its eyelashes–some sort of black-and-white spaniel with remarkably long lashes.
    Something stirred inside him, and he did not answer until Sammy repeated his question.
    “Sir?”
    “You may leave her here, “ Charles said. He cleared his throat and said in a firmer voice, “I shall have to see what my cousin intends to do with it. The dog is hers, after all.”
    “Aye, yor lordship. And reetly so, t' way she stood up ta that bully. If tha'll excuse me, I will say this. T' lass has got a good heart, that she has.”
    Sammy bowed himself out of the room, leaving Charles to reflect on how Louisa had managed to charm the last suspicions from the Spadgers' minds.
    He was determined, however, to show no more weakness, so he resisted the impulse to gaze at the dog. Of all things for Louisa to saddle him with, he fumed in order to rally himself. He had dogs, of course. Every gentleman had hunting dogs, but they were of his own choosing, carefully bred for the purpose. Charles had no need for a dog who could not pull its own weight.
    And this one, draped over his wrist like a lady's shawl, would undoubtedly prove to be a mixture of breeds, completely untrainable–as flighty, in fact, as Louisa herself.
    * * * *
    By the time Louisa arrived back downstairs, Charles had worked himself into a state of mild resentment, tempered by the cramp the puppy's weight had started in his wrist. He did not shift it, however. Looked at logically, his discomfort was due not to the puppy at all, but to Louisa, who had caused it to be there in the first place. No reason to take his temper out on a helpless creature when one so capable stood readily by.
    He looked up at her entry, planning to start the scold he had