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“How fortunate for me that you were available,” Stephen drawled.

“Indeed. And how fortunate for me that you weren’t.” Victoria gave him a smile that conveyed all the insults that no lady should know.

His jaw clenched, and she blinked slowly, enjoying her victory. Not that there was a competition, of course. That would be ridiculous and childish.

“It is a wonder you’ve survived in polite society this long,” Stephen bit out. “The ton is unforgiving of behavior such as this.”

If he meant it as an insult, Victoria picked up the gauntlet, took a good look at it, and tossed it aside. Her lips quirked up as she inclined her head toward him in fake politeness that seemed to be her chosen mood for the day.

“Your Grace, this is where you are mistaken,” she declared and leaned in with a wicked smile. “You should be wondering how polite society survivedmethis long.”

Annabelle, his sister, was quiet, shy, reserved—aproperlady. How in Heaven’s name did she come across such an exasperating woman? And why would she admit her into her inner circle? How did luck have it that out of all the eligible, soft-spoken ladies of the ton, his sister had to befriend this menace?

“You think you can survive on this ill-timed candor?”

“To each his own, I guess. I mean, you seem to exist on a steady diet of rules and disapproval.”

The way she looked at him—strong, defiant, bold…

Stephen felt his blood boil, but instead of being directed to his head, it redirected to another part of his anatomy. He longed to throw her on the table and shut that running mouth of hers, make her sorry she ever challenged him.

What?

He had never let such a dark thought consume him before.

He was this close to snapping. Victoria sat across from him, entirely at ease, sipping her tea as if she hadn’t just reduced him to a barely civilized man contemplating all manner of scandalous actions. Yet, he saw the tension in the way she bit her lip and swallowed.

“There he is!” Dorothy barged back in with some kind of creature in tow.

Something large, powerful, undeniablycaninetrotted beside her skirts with the kind of effortless confidence that suggested it had never once questioned its right to be inside the house.

It was a mongrel.Not some fine, pedigreed hunting hound. Not the sort of sleek greyhound or obedient spaniel that respectable families kept. It was big, lean but solid, with thick dark brown fur. Its ears were slightly uneven, one standing high, the other lazily folded, giving it a rakish, almost roguish look.

He seemed to have been surviving off wit and sheer force of will. Stephen would have respected the animal if it weren’t currently sitting insidehisdining room.

“Euclid!” Victoria jumped up and hugged the beast.

The beast pressed its head into her lap. She stroked its fur, her fingers running through it in slow, rhythmic motions.

For one horrifying second, Stephen wondered what it would feel like to have her hands onhim.

Stephen!

“What,” he asked, his voice strained as if he was holding onto his patience by its very last thread, “is that?”

“Victoria and I found him on the road a few months back, the poor dear! He was shivering, the sweetest thing. And he followed us home!”

“I cannot imagine why,” Stephen muttered, glaring at the beast. “Why is itstillhere?”

“Oh, he lives here now,” Dorothy announced, as if this was already decided.

Stephen turned sharply to his mother. “He what?”

“Well, naturally, we couldn’t leave him.”

“Yes, naturally,” Stephen repeated blankly. “I wonder whose idea that was.”

That last phrase was directed at Victoria.