Master and pup made their way down the snow-slicked steps as Val headed in the direction he’d last seen the lady go.

She was probably already indoors.

She was—

He caught sight of her.

Appearing completely oblivious as to his presence, she craned her head around the corner of her family’s townhouse and peered off in the distance.

Val stopped, and Horace immediately followed suit.

She’d sneaked off that morning; that was what accounted for her lack of escort.

He should have expected as much from the troublesome minx.

And even as he’d reiterated in his mind again and again that she was not his problem, he still found himself striding down the length of the courtyard cobblestones.

“You do know,” he began as he reached her side, “that it—”

The lady emitted a sharp shriek and spun swiftly on her heel.

She swung her wicker basket hard against his arm and then, without missing a beat, brought it down on his head.

He grunted as several apples rained down around him, followed by several flaky pastries.

Yes, he should have known better.

The lady gasped. “Your Grace, you startled me. You really shouldn’t go sneaking about on a lady.”

“On a lady who is sneaking about on her own?” he asked dryly.

“Especially that.” She nodded, desperately hopeless when it came to detecting sarcasm. She turned and stole another peek around the corner. “They’re gone,” she murmured.

“Who is?” he asked, despite himself.

Muttering to herself, giving no indication she’d heard Val’s question, Myrtle dropped to a knee and proceeded to gather up the gleaming red apples.

And the situation was better for it. Engaging this one in any way was a mistake. As it was, having sought her out was the pinnacle of folly.

She stuffed the fruit into her basket and then turned to the two pastries resting forlornly in the snow. “Do you think they’re ruined?”

Did he . . . ?

It took a moment to process that she spoke about the pastries. But then, she had retrieved the tarts and held them up for Val’s inspection.

“I’d say you’d be better off with your family’s cook baking you fresh ones that hadn’t hit the ground,” he said dryly. “Yes.”

With a forlorn, little sigh, she looked at the cherry and apple tarts. “Here you are,” she said, holding them out, and Val froze briefly at that offering, reaching a hand out.

Horace bounded over, and with an enormous bite, he gobbled one of the treats whole, and then the other from the lady’s gloved hand.

Val’s cheeks fired hot, realizing belatedly she’d been offering those pastries to his dog. Which of course made more sense; he’d already declared them ruined. And there’d been the whole bit of him rejecting her gift yesterday.