quite so handsome as a man with a collection of kittens in a fine gleaming barouche!”
“You say no such thing, and I shall tell Mama you are being vulgar,” Kitty hissed. She stuck her tongue out at Lydia and retreated to the milliner’s shop.
“Miss Lydia,” said Wickham, sliding his fingers gracefully along the barouche’s leather upholstery, “I have it from your sister Elizabeth that soon you shall be removed to Brighton as a guest of Mrs. Foster’s. Is this mere rumor, or dare I hope to see you at the Assembly Rooms of that fine town?”
Lydia noticed his hand softly caressing the bright red seats of the barouche and felt her pulse begin to pound. Surely, all this talk of kittens and barouches could not be distracting her so! Why, just recently Lydia had actually taken the time to read a book—well, perhaps not really read, but skim over—and had found herself having to loosen her stays while perusing the description of a carriage being plundered by highwaymen. Why, just the memory of the word
plunder
made Lydia catch her breath a bit and feel somewhat tingly in parts of her body of which a lady never spoke.
Recollecting where she was, Lydia blushed prettily and regained her composure. “If my sister Lizzie tells you I am to go to Brighton, then it must be true, Mr. Wickham. I will indeed be in Brighton very soon.”
Wickham stepped back, noticing a tiny speck of dust on the side of the barouche, marring the vehicle’s perfect appearance. “Oh dear. A spot. It cannot be borne, Miss Lydia. Do excuse me a moment.” He leaned in close to the side of the barouche, opened his mouth, and exhaled warmly onto the speck. The gleaming wood, polished within an inch of its life, fogged at the heat of his breath, and when Wickham pressed his thumb to the warm spot and rubbed it gently, Lydia thought that she might faint right there on the street.
“Wickham,” she gasped, a catch in her throat. “Will you come find me in Brighton?”
He glanced up at her, licking his lips gently. “Would you like that, Miss Bennet?”
She nodded, barely able to speak. “We could perhaps take a ride in your barouche.”
“Indeed we could,” he murmured, rising to his feet so that he could look down at her. “And perhaps, Miss Bennet, we could pay a visit to the kitten shelter.”
Lydia closed her eyes and sighed, nearly weeping with joy. She knew that any resolve she might have had before this day would be lost, along with her virtue, the moment Wickham came for her in his barouche and took her to visit a houseful of kittens.
I n a M ore C anine- L ike M anner
T AMARA H ANSON
Miss Basset was suddenly roused by the sound of the doorbell, and her spirits were a little shaken when after only two barks who should enter but Mr. Tabby. Her tail lay straight and still beside her, demonstrating the annoyance she felt to see him only sit and stare at nothing on the wall. She couldn’t help but be curious at his behaviour. Just as she tilted her head and raised her eyebrows at him, he began:
“In vain have I tussled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must have noticed the uncontrolled purring, the gazing at you, the slow blinks I have given you. When I greet you nose to nose, I have a strong urge to rub my face against yours and curl up beside you. Miss Basset, I must urge you to ease my suffering and consent to being my napping partner and mate.”
Miss Basset’s bewilderment was beyond expression. She had noticed him blankly staring at her before, but she had been taught that it was the way of his kind. Indeed, she was truly astonished. She paced in a circle, nipped at her sides, and made a low growling whine. She felt none of the great good luck he supposed she would be feeling to be addressed by one with such a pedigree.
She did not bark or snap at him, so he continued: “You must see the aversion I have had to come to this conclusion. In doing so I know I am insulting myself, alienating my
“You say no such thing, and I shall tell Mama you are being vulgar,” Kitty hissed. She stuck her tongue out at Lydia and retreated to the milliner’s shop.
“Miss Lydia,” said Wickham, sliding his fingers gracefully along the barouche’s leather upholstery, “I have it from your sister Elizabeth that soon you shall be removed to Brighton as a guest of Mrs. Foster’s. Is this mere rumor, or dare I hope to see you at the Assembly Rooms of that fine town?”
Lydia noticed his hand softly caressing the bright red seats of the barouche and felt her pulse begin to pound. Surely, all this talk of kittens and barouches could not be distracting her so! Why, just recently Lydia had actually taken the time to read a book—well, perhaps not really read, but skim over—and had found herself having to loosen her stays while perusing the description of a carriage being plundered by highwaymen. Why, just the memory of the word
plunder
made Lydia catch her breath a bit and feel somewhat tingly in parts of her body of which a lady never spoke.
Recollecting where she was, Lydia blushed prettily and regained her composure. “If my sister Lizzie tells you I am to go to Brighton, then it must be true, Mr. Wickham. I will indeed be in Brighton very soon.”
Wickham stepped back, noticing a tiny speck of dust on the side of the barouche, marring the vehicle’s perfect appearance. “Oh dear. A spot. It cannot be borne, Miss Lydia. Do excuse me a moment.” He leaned in close to the side of the barouche, opened his mouth, and exhaled warmly onto the speck. The gleaming wood, polished within an inch of its life, fogged at the heat of his breath, and when Wickham pressed his thumb to the warm spot and rubbed it gently, Lydia thought that she might faint right there on the street.
“Wickham,” she gasped, a catch in her throat. “Will you come find me in Brighton?”
He glanced up at her, licking his lips gently. “Would you like that, Miss Bennet?”
She nodded, barely able to speak. “We could perhaps take a ride in your barouche.”
“Indeed we could,” he murmured, rising to his feet so that he could look down at her. “And perhaps, Miss Bennet, we could pay a visit to the kitten shelter.”
Lydia closed her eyes and sighed, nearly weeping with joy. She knew that any resolve she might have had before this day would be lost, along with her virtue, the moment Wickham came for her in his barouche and took her to visit a houseful of kittens.
I n a M ore C anine- L ike M anner
T AMARA H ANSON
Miss Basset was suddenly roused by the sound of the doorbell, and her spirits were a little shaken when after only two barks who should enter but Mr. Tabby. Her tail lay straight and still beside her, demonstrating the annoyance she felt to see him only sit and stare at nothing on the wall. She couldn’t help but be curious at his behaviour. Just as she tilted her head and raised her eyebrows at him, he began:
“In vain have I tussled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must have noticed the uncontrolled purring, the gazing at you, the slow blinks I have given you. When I greet you nose to nose, I have a strong urge to rub my face against yours and curl up beside you. Miss Basset, I must urge you to ease my suffering and consent to being my napping partner and mate.”
Miss Basset’s bewilderment was beyond expression. She had noticed him blankly staring at her before, but she had been taught that it was the way of his kind. Indeed, she was truly astonished. She paced in a circle, nipped at her sides, and made a low growling whine. She felt none of the great good luck he supposed she would be feeling to be addressed by one with such a pedigree.
She did not bark or snap at him, so he continued: “You must see the aversion I have had to come to this conclusion. In doing so I know I am insulting myself, alienating my
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