A young lady stood inside the doorway. A shapeless woolen cloak billowed about her small frame, the hood shielding her face from view. As Neville approached, she pushed it back with one gloved hand.

He stopped where he stood, his mouth suddenly dry.

“I’m looking for Mr. Cross.” Her chocolate brown eyes were large and luminous, with a peculiar sheen to them. “Neville Cross.”

On a good day, the words Neville formed in his mind could be translated into short phrases with minimal difficulty. He’d learned over the years how to keep things from getting muddled. How to say what he intended with the least fuss, even if that meant he must occasionally sound like a child.

Today wasn’t one of those days.

Not when the young lady standing before him had a face that made his heart beat faster.

It was a perfect oval, with a finely molded nose, a damask rosebud of a mouth, and wideset eyes framed by thick, gracefully arching brows that were several shades darker than the flaxen blond of her hair.

His thoughts, which were usually clear, proceeded to tangle themselves into a Gordian knot. With his brain in such a state, his speech didn’t stand a chance.

“Are you Mr. Cross?” She stepped forward, a wash of pale pink tinting the sculpted curve of her cheekbones. “Mrs. Archer said I should speak with you about Bertie.”

He stared down at her, fully aware that he must look as dumbfounded as he felt.

“Oh, I beg your pardon. I should have explained straightaway. This is Bertie.” She opened the front of her cloak, throwing it back over her shoulders to reveal a black pug dog.

A very old pug dog, by the look of it. The little creature was cradled in her left arm, its face and body liberally peppered with gray.

Neville swallowed hard. His voice, when it emerged, was many steps behind the workings of his brain. “I’m Neville.”

He could have groaned aloud in frustration. It wasn’t what he’d meant to say. Not now.

But the young lady appeared unfazed by his inarticulateness. She extended her hand. “I’m Clara Hartwright, Mrs. Bainbridge’s companion.”

He hesitated an instant before shaking her hand, all the while conscious of how much smaller it was than his own. Every part of her was smaller. Good lord, her head scarcely reached his chest. He felt a veritable goliath looming over her. A clumsy giant who could crush her as easily as breathing. “Mrs. Hartwright.”

“Miss Hartwright,” she corrected. “Mrs. Archer said to speak to you about finding a place for Bertie in the stable. He must be kept warm, you see. And I haven’t yet received permission to keep him in the house.”

Neville reached out to brush his hand over the little dog’s head. Bertie blinked up at him with rheumy eyes. A smile tugged at Neville’s mouth. He was often shy around people, but he understood animals. He’d always had a way with them, long before his childhood accident on the cliffs and the head injury that, even now, affected his speech. It’s why he preferred to work in the stables. Being around dogs and horses settled him. Helped to put his mind at ease. It helped his speech, as well.