But unlike the dresses worn by the maidservants, Miss Hartwright’s skirts were full, standing wide over layers of petticoats and crinoline.

“The housemaids don’t…” Neville faltered. “They…” He tried and failed to get the words out. It was impossible when his thoughts kept drifting to the sensation of Miss Hartwright’s slim hand clasped so snugly in his.

“Their skirts aren’t quite like mine? I daresay they aren’t. It wouldn’t be very practical.”

“N-no.”

She stepped down after him, clutching tight to his hand.

It was two flights before they reached the kitchen. A line of evenly spaced gas wall sconces lit the way into a cavernous room with a stone floor and a long wooden table and chairs. A footman was seated there, absorbed in polishing the Abbey’s collection of silver. Nearby, Cook stood in front of a steaming pot on the stove, talking loudly to one of the kitchen maids.

At the opposite end of the room, a fire roared in the hearth. Bertie was asleep in front of it, along with Paul and Jonesy.

Miss Hartwright dropped Neville’s hand as she crossed the floor to her dog. Her steps were brisk and purposeful. Though small, she wasn’t weak or timid, he didn’t think. Not in the normal course of things. And if she required assistance—as she had on the stairs—she seemed to have no qualms about asking for it.

Neville flexed his fingers. He could still feel the delicate curve of her hand cradled in his. The sweet, uneasy warmth of it. As if she’d branded herself on his skin, leaving an indelible mark.

Jonesy chose that moment to lift his head and growl.

Miss Hartwright stopped short.

Neville strode to her side. “No,” he said to Jonesy.

The mastiff obeyed, though he continued to watch Miss Hartwright with a hostile eye.

“That’s Jonesy,” Neville said. The older mastiff was crochety at the best of times, downright aggressive at the worst. “And that’s Paul. Paul is… He’s younger.”

Paul lifted his head at the sound of his name, his tail thumping.

“He doesn’t look half so fearsome.” Miss Hartwright reached out to pet him. “May I?”

Neville nodded.

She stroked Paul’s head before crouching down in a pool of skirts to give a pet to Bertie. The pug continued to snore. “He’s sound asleep.”

“He’s old.”

“Should I leave him here? I’d intended to bring him to my rooms, but…” She frowned. “I wonder if he’s happier to be with the other dogs?”

“It’s the fire,” Neville said. “He wants to be warm.”

“There’s a fire in my bedroom. Perhaps I’d better take him there. He’ll have a soft carpet to sleep on. And no servants coming and going to trouble him.” She scooped the little pug up in her arms.

Bertie woke, blinking his bulging eyes up at her. His tongue lolled.

“There you are, Bertie,” she whispered. “Good boy.” She moved to rise.

Neville stepped forward and offered her his hand. She took it gratefully, permitting him to help her to her feet.