Horace took up his cue, yapping softly, and there was a greater menace to that bark.

Undeterred, Lady Myrtle McQuoid resumed her march.

She reached his side and angled her head left and then right, peering at Val’s dog. “I . . . He has the fur and mannerisms of a dog.”

Apparently, she was as good at detecting a rhetorical question as she was at spotting sarcasm.

He’d opened his mouth to regale her with pretend tales of the dog’s vicious past when she suddenly dropped to a knee and reached inside the pocket of her cloak.

The lady held out her palm, revealing a Queen’s Cake . . .

“He doesn’t like strangers or treats.” Val bit out each syllable of those words.

Except damned if his loyal dog didn’t suddenly turn traitor and trot over, making a liar of Val.

“Nonsense.” Lady Myrtle cooed that pronouncement more for Horace than Val himself. “Who wouldn’t wish to have a Queen’s Cake?” She praised the beast, who looked all the more enormous next to her diminutive form.

“I wouldn’t,” Val snapped.

“Well, that is just fine, as that means there’s all the more for . . .” She paused and looked to Val. “What is his name?”

Val stared confusedly at her.

Surprise filled the lady’s saucer-size brown eyes. “Never tell me he doesn’t have a name.”

“Of course he has a name,” he mumbled.

“Then what would it be? I don’t think he can tell me.” She instantly switched her attention back to Horace, who’d devoured the whole cake and now licked at the crumbs on the side of his mouth. “Not that you aren’t the most clever of creatures,” she praised, taking the dog gently by his enormous head and touching her tiny, slightly too-pointy nose to the dog’s large black one.

Val rocked back on his heels. My god, the McQuoids’ latest daughter is mad. Along with “stupid,” “bold,” and “damned naive,” he’d throw “mad” into the proverbial mix.

Horace panted, his large, pink tongue coming out as he lapped at the young woman’s cheek.

And Val went motionless, the tableau of lady and dog freezing him more than the frigid cold of the winter day could.

Horace’s affections and loyalties had always and only been reserved for Val. Nay, that wasn’t quite true.

There’d been just one with whom the wolf dog had been playful: the same woman who’d picked him out as a pup and gifted him to Val their first Christmas as a married couple.

And Horace had shown his affections and loyalties to only his mistress and Val. Never any others.

“My sister was adamant he was a wolf,” Lady Myrtle was saying, snapping Val from his stupor.

“And you are of a different opinion,” he said, not knowing where that retort came from. Confused as to why he engaged with her still.