Free Bething's Folly by Bárbara Metzger

call you out, you ... you...”
    “Miss Bitsy!” The third man cut her off before she could find a terrible enough word, which only redirected her anger at himself.
    “If you ever call me that again, Robbie Jackson, I’ll have you turned out of here, so help me I—”
    “Down, sir, down!” Ferddie was shouting at the spaniel leaving muddy footprints on his pants, and “Grab his collar, you fool,” at the footman gingerly trying to corner the delighted animal. The pug was in such a state its eyes looked about to pop out of its head, and the butler was no better off. Carleton could feel the laughter bubbling up and fought to keep the urge contained. With only the slightest bit of humour in his voice he took command of the situation, issuing orders like a general deploying his forces: “Taylor is it? Please fetch Lady Burke’s woman and someone to pick up the mess here. Milbrooke, Mr. Jackson here could relieve you of that beast if you would follow him to the stables. And you,” he said to the footman, bending down to lift up the asthmatic old pug and holding it out at arm’s length, “kindly remove this creature. I believe cold milk is what my aunt gave hers in this condition... They will know in the kitchen.”
    When they were all gone, Carleton turned to Miss Bethingame, now fanning her aunt with a newspaper. He took another, better look at her appearance—the loose brown braid hanging down her back, the dirt smudges on her face, and most of all the britches—and one corner of his mouth twitched up. No wonder her aunt was so addlepated, raising such a madcap; but, yes, she was as adorable as he remembered, even mad and messy. He could not help it but a low chuckle broke the silence after the pandemonium, and, finally, uncontrollable laughter. Miss Bethingame was ready to make a furious rejoinder to this last insult when something in his laughter stopped her. He was not exactly laughing at her, her instincts told her—he was much too well-bred for that—only at the hopelessly absurd situation. Her own good-humoured sense of the ridiculous took over and she joined him in genuine amusement until her aunt groaned again on the sofa.
    “It is fine to laugh, my Lord, but look at all the trouble I am in now,” she said seriously. “Would you please leave before my aunt regains her senses?”
    “My leaving would only make things worse, I should think. If you will change to, ah, more suitable attire we may all reassemble and pass the incident off as nothing exceptional. As you said last night, if we do not discuss it, it never happened. At least we will delay your aunt’s scolding.”
    Miss Bethingame had to acknowledge the wisdom of his advice. There was no other choice besides, for he was making no effort to depart and here was the maid with the smelling salts and vinaigrette. It would be too cruel to make Aunt Claudia face Carleton alone again, so she told the maid to stay until her return and hurried past the Marquis, who nodded reassuringly and approvingly.
    There followed a frenzy of activity in her bedroom upstairs as Miss Bethingame’s own maid rushed to help her wash and change into a simple morning gown. There was also a turmoil in the young lady’s mind. Why couldn’t the Marquis of Carlyle simply be the overbearing, conceited Tulip she had imagined? Why did he have to have such a beguiling smile, such easy confidence? No, she told herself firmly, she was not going to fall for his well-practiced charm like every other girl in the neighbourhood. Let him play his games or whatever he was doing here, she had already told him that she had no wish to marry. In any event, he would soon tire of country ways and return to London, she was convinced, to seek his wife among the sophisticates there, leaving her to face her furious uncle. Well, at least he would not leave her with an aching heart!
    Ferddie had returned to the drawing room to find Carleton pouring a glass of Madeira for Lady Burke, blithely