Hugh grinned, and gave chase, barking madly, wheezing laughs in between each bark.

The screeches of the children turned to mad giggles, and when one of the girls had the ingenious idea to try petting the rabid dog, Hugh immediately rolled to his back and began panting and kicking his left leg, just as his father’s dog always did when petted.

Tickling the dog then became the game and seeing which of them could make him howl in the silliest manner.

It turned out that Hugh actually possessed the ability to howl in a desperately silly manner, and with some variety.

He’d never figured that out before. He really couldn’t remember barking on hands and knees or rolling about on the floor panting, so perhaps that followed.

Following silly howling, they hunted for grouse, which the canine Hugh was most adept at fetching accordingly, though he really was quite miserable at getting the grouse out of their hiding places in order to be shot.

At least according to the hunters, he was. He thought he had performed the task admirably, but he was, it seemed, quite mistaken.

Ah, well, he had never been a sportsman.

“I want to play in the snow!” one of the girls suddenly whined, sinking to the ground with a dramatic flick of her skirts.

Phoebe, if he recollected correctly, was the youngest of the party, and seemed to bore easily. He sat up and gave her a kind, pitying smile.

“A bit bored with the silly dog, Phoebe?”

The girl nodded, jutting her lower lip out in an impressive pout. “It snowed more last night. I want to play in the snow!”

One of her cousins sighed and plopped down beside her on the floor. “Pheebs, it’s too cold. The mamas said we’ll freeze, so we must stay inside. We aren’t even going to go for a sleigh ride today. Uncle Dough says maybe tomorrow.”

“Uncle Dough?” Hugh repeated, leaning on one elbow. “Which one is that?”

The tallest boy leaned against a bookcase with a sigh. “He’s nearly as round as he is tall.”

“He is not!” one of the girls snickered, snorting softly into a chubby hand.

“Fairly,” came a response from the only boy whose name Hugh could remember.

“Well, I know who he means, at any rate, Tommy,” Hugh said with a laugh. “So, whose father is Uncle Dough, hmm?”

All of the children looked at him as though he had sprouted three additional heads. “No one,” the majority said at once.

Even little Phoebe laughed. “Uncle Dough isn’t a papa!”

Of course not. Silly Hugh, what an idea.

He shook his head, laughing even as the children continue to giggle at his apparent idiocy. This family, he would easily admit, was peculiar.

Warm and generous, but peculiar.

“What if Mr. Sterling takes us outside?” Little Phoebe asked, brightening pointedly, her white-blond curls bouncing in the light of the room.

Hugh raised a brow. “I’m not brave enough to stand up to all the mothers in the house, poppet.” He looked over both shoulders pointedly, then back at her before whispering, “There’s a fair few of them, you know.”