Page 5 of Falling For The Dowager

“The whelping?” he asked, the frown not leaving his face, and he made a sort of diplomatic face as he collected the water and poured it into a large basin. “She is a little older than most bit –” he amended his language, “Dog mothers to breed.”

“I thought it was only women who were criticised for being older mothers.”

“What?” Mr. Dickon looked up from cleaning his hands in the basin, studying her so acutely that Helena wished she could dive into the basin to escape the closeness of his scrutiny.

“It does not matter,” she said and looked over at the dog. “What is her name?”

“Skye.” Suddenly, Mr. Dickon reached out, took her hands, and dunked them into the water, tangling with her fingers in the hot narrow basin. It was the last thing anyone would have called romantic, and yet it was more so than the countless times she’d danced with the lords and rakes in Almack's grand ballroom. No, the hard, strong reality of him beneath her fingers was more life-affirming than she could have ever imagined possible. “If you are to stay and help, you must have clean hands. And I will bring in some clean linens.”

Their hands were still touching in the water, and that awareness Helena had been conscious of previously redoubled as she stared up into his face. There was a dimple in his left cheek on such close inspection, and a handful of freckles were so densely packed over his nose that it darkened his skin. He was handsome but not in a way that she ever pictured being appealing, nor in the way that society stated should be attractive. He was too big, too broad shouldered, too rough around the edges.

“These aren’t Skye’s first pups,” he spoke in a low, soothing voice, barely above a whisper, “so she knows what she’s about. [AS1] But it’s the bastard Father Pine’s wild dog.” He sighed with a self-deprecating laugh. “Excuse me and my Scottish manners, my lady. I should not speak in such a way before you. It is just as well that I have never left this isle. Modern society would never approve of my behaviour.”

“I don’t mind, Mr. Dickon,” Helena said. To her surprise, she realised she would happily hear this man swear again. It seemed as if he had a gift for it, the way his Scots accent warmed and flavoured the words. “She would not be the first female to fall under the spell of a younger, charming rascal.”

Slowly, Helena drew her hands from the water. They were still warm, and she told herself it was only from the contents of the basin and had nothing to do with Mr. Dickon’s touch. It was the truth—Skye labouring after the briefest of dalliances—and despite her anger with the scandal she had left behind in London, a small fraction of sympathy stirred in her breast for Mrs. Lawe and the illegitimate child she carried. After all, it wasn't the infant’s fault. The papers had speculated she would wish the unborn child dead, but nothing could be further from the truth.

“There are linens over there,” Mr. Dickon said as he moved back towards Skye, his hand pointing behind him. Helena drew off her spencer and made her way to the cupboard, selecting the thick, clean linens for use. A great number of her previous company would have been shocked to see her thus, and this brought a smile to her lips at the idea. She was not merely a person who scandal happened to; she might even commit her own shocking acts.

“You must keep your movements and voice low.” Mr. Dickon moved closer as she approached him. “Drawing the curtains as well will create a darker environment, which suits a birthing female.” His voice was like velvet as he spoke, wrapping her close in his simple instructions. “A safe, quiet, snug place is what is required in these circumstances.”

“How long can it take?” Helena whispered as she gazed up at him.

“Her previous time was around ten hours, but there were fewer pups. She’s bigger this time.” His assurance made Helena feel certain of his words, even though it was impossible to be sure. Surely, there was always room for errors or accidents. He looked up through his dark eyelashes and flashed her a charming smile. “Do you like puppies?”

The devilment present brought a matching smile to Helena’s face. “I doubt there is a human alive who doesn’t.”

“It is not a simple task, truly looking after one.”

“You would not sell them?”

He shrugged. “We shall see how many she delivers and what the pups are like before we do that.”

“Why did Mrs. Fuller ask you—it is not, that is… normally stewards don’t gather flowers, they don’t deliver puppies, they don’t⁠—”

“I don’t like to match everything that is expected of me.”

“No?” Helena could not stop herself asking, a little of that devilment creeping into her voice as she pressed him.

“Mrs. Fuller probably asked me because I helped with her daughter’s birth last year.”

“You did?” She might sound like a shocked schoolchild, but she could not help herself. He was a marvel. “Is there anything you don’t do, Mr. Dickon?”

A brief, quizzical look passed over his strong face. Perhaps he leant a little too close when he whispered, “I don’t dance, madam.”

As Helena tried to muster up a suitable reply, Skye made another whining noise, and Dickon looked away from her and closed his eyes as he judged the sound. That done, he opened his eyes and moved over to the windows, drawing the curtains and darkening the room. “Won’t be long now. I might fetch a local beverage to mark this occasion.”

“A whisky?” Helena asked as he extracted two glasses and poured them a measure of the amber-sheened liquid.

“’Tis tradition.” He passed her a glass, and Helena lifted it up to smell the smoky, woodsy scent. It reminded her of her father, of old libraries, and of men’s conversation, of what was banned and what was not considered ladylike. She took a large sip and immediately coughed.

Mr. Dickon gave her a rueful look. “Slowly, savour it. It is not to be thrown down the throat in one great rush.”

“I see.” Helena’s response was throatier than she expected, but when she lifted the tumbler back up and sipped at the alcohol, it burnt in a more delightful way. Heating her blood, her throat, dancing through her body, and exciting her immensely.

“It isn’t drunk by fine womenfolk down in London?” Mr. Dickon asked as he grinned to see her reaction.

“Not that I’m aware of. The fashionable sort would be more likely to consume port or an occasional ratafia if we have a great deal of company,” she said. The idea of consuming a watery ratafia with its clinging blend of almonds and fruit held little appeal after the taste of this fine whisky.