Once Upon a Time in Bath (The Brides of Bath #7) - Cheryl Bolen Page 0,5

of Bath on so cool a morning surprised her. Even though the city was populated by many invalids, the chilly weather did not deter them on this gray November day.

A variety of conveyance, from milk carts to hackneys to young bucks showing off prized horseflesh, crowded the narrow streets, and the pavement was equally congested with throngs of pedestrians, some being pushed on the uneven pavement in invalid chairs and many of them in sedan chairs borne by sturdy men. The more robust were making their way toward the Pump Room for the obligatory drink of the nasty water said to have medicinal properties.

Dot had not yet been to the Pump Room during the three weeks they had resided in this watering city. She knew from reading the Bath Chronicle that the fashionable gathered there daily, and she was well aware of how exceedingly unfashionable she was in her wardrobe, which consisted of worn sprigged muslin gowns that had served her well since she’d left the school room several years previously.

Not only did she lack fashionable attire, she also was void of social graces. How could she possibly know how to mingle with young gentlemen and ladies when she’d spent her entire life buried in remote Lincolnshire with only her father and her kitties for companionship?

She did not in the least miss the comforting familiarity of the only home she’d ever known. The vibrancy of Bath invigorated her. The beauty of the city’s graceful, uniform architecture of golden stone mesmerized her. She’d actually crossed the River Avon on a bridge that resembled a street with shops on either side and nary a view of the river below.

Even the hawkers on the pavement attempting to entice passersby with posies and ill-dressed men selling penny pamphlets fascinated her.

As they drew nearer the pit of roasting chestnuts, she was tempted by the pleasant aroma. “Have you ever tasted roasted chestnuts?” she asked her father.

Fur Blossom, whom Dot carried in her arms, must also have been attracted by the smell because she launched herself from her mistress’s arms, leaping toward the steaming chestnut pit—just as a huge dog of indeterminate breed had the same notion.

Dot’s scream pierced the air as she surged after her cat. Terrified, she feared the dog would devour the fleet Fur Blossom before Dot could reach her.

The dog’s attention quickly shifted from the hot nuts to the cat leaping toward the pit. The dog growled viciously and lunged toward Fur Blossom.

Just as the dog’s open mouth was about to clamp down on the unfortunate cat, a man’s hand swooped down and lifted the hissing cat away.

But not without injury to himself. Scarlet trickled from the man’s wrist.

Dot’s mouth gaped open as she beheld the brave hero who had snatched Fur Blossom from the teeth of a horrid death. It was as if this man had stepped from the pages of a tale of knights of yore. She’d never seen such a magnificent specimen of manhood.

The woman beside him shouted. “You’ve hurt yourself!” She tried to examine the flesh wound.

The man, who Dot judged to be around thirty, brushed her aside. “Pray, don’t make such a fuss.”

Dot raced to retrieve her frightened cat from the man. “My dear sir, I am wholeheartedly in your debt for saving the life of my precious kitty.” She took Fur Blossom and held her close while eyeing the handsome man. He needed but a suit of armor to be a gallant knight. “I feel wretched you’ve been hurt.”

The man’s mossy-coloured eyes drilled her.

He had every right to be angry with her. After all, her cat had put him into jeopardy. That vicious dog could have dealt him serious injury. It could even have killed him.

He began to address her. “You must be . . .”

Mr. Pankhurst walked up and shook hands with Fur Blossom’s savior. “I’m Westmoreland Pankhurst, and this is my daughter, Dorothea. We are, indeed, in your debt, my good man.”

The man’s eyes flashed with mirth.

How could he act so amused when his wrist must be stinging like the devil?

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” the man said to her father. “I’m Lord Appleton, and this is my sister, Annie Appleton.”

Lord Appleton! Dot had read about the rake in the Bath Chronicle! The man was a profligate. He was known to hang about Mrs. Starr’s gaming establishment, and it was even hinted that he kept a mistress! She could not remove her gaze from him. In her three-and-twenty years she had never