Major Augustus Kellborn was uncomfortable in Eleanor’s little sitting room. Not that his stern compelling face showed any emotion at all. Nor did his posture betray him. He sat straight and still, his dark eyes alert.
Nonetheless, his very tension betrayed a desire to be elsewhere. Anywhere else, perhaps.
The dog took his cue from his master, sitting to attention at Kellborn’s feet, watching every movement of Eleanor’s hands as she poured a cup of tea to Major Kellborn’s specifications. She gave it to the waiting maid to carry to the guest. Thankfully, Hattie was not nervous around dogs.
Sir Sancho, as the small beast was named, had not been invited, though he had been at Major Kellborn’s heel when Eleanor met him, visiting some his former command in the hospital for returned soldiers that was one of Eleanor’s charitable interests.
“I knew your mother, Kellborn,” she had told him. And invited him to afternoon tea.
The brindled terrier had arrived today three minutes after Kellborn, prompting the gentleman’s first display of emotion—alarm, quickly subdued, and a slight flush of embarrassment. “I apologise, Your Grace. I will return him to my carriage to wait.”
Eleanor examined the beast, who sat staring adoringly up at Kellborn. Clearly, the brindled terrier could not countenance a separation. “He is welcome to stay, major. He appears to understand proper deportment in a lady’s parlour.”
To draw the major out, she asked about the origins of the animal. Slowly, he relaxed, and even smiled a time or two as he told her about some of Sir Sancho’s adventures since he had insisted on adopting Kellborn. Eleanor imagined her guest had been an exemplary officer.
“What are your plans now that you have left the army, if I may enquire?” Eleanor asked, after a while.
“I have inherited Whitlaw Grange, an estate in Cumberland,” Kellborn explained. “I am told it is a fine manor, though I’ve not yet seen it. I will be heading north later in the week.”
Eleanor nodded with approval. “Wise to arrive before the winter sets in.”
“That is what I thought.” His brow creased momentarily with the first indecision he had shown. “From the books, it seems well run, though my relative has been gone for over a year.”
“No children, I take it?” Eleanor asked.
“Never married.”
Eleanor thought about Cumberland—parts of it were very remote, and all of it was too far from London for easy travel. Would Major Kellborn appreciate advice? Perhaps not, but he could always ignore it. “Marriage is not for everyone, I know, but if you do plan to seek a wife, you might consider looking in the north. York, perhaps, or even Edinburgh. Someone who won’t be intimidated by the weather, and who prefers country living.”
His eyes crinkled and his lips curved in a smile. “Excellent advice, Your Grace. I have not thought that far ahead, but I know sense when I hear it.
Gus Kellborn is the hero of “Lady Twisden’s Picture Perfect Match”, a story in Desperate Daughters. On preorder now. Only 99c until publication.
“When I viewed Turner’s work in London, I didn’t…well, I’m a literalist, I suppose. When one is outlining a plan of assault, precision is helpful. I’ve always been drawn to portraits, or paintings of horses.” He laughed. “Or dogs. Yes, forgive me. I enjoy George Stubbs’s work. And I like restful landscapes.”
