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The puppy was not large.
This, Sophie thought, was the only argument in its favor.
It was small and damp from the morning mist, with fur the indeterminate brown of well-trodden paths and ears far too large for its narrow head. One of those ears flopped forward as it regarded her with grave concentration, as though awaiting judgment.
Behind the small creature stood her husband looking entirely too pleased with himself.
“Benedict Bridgerton,” she said slowly, “what is that?”
“A dog,” he replied, beaming. As if it were perfectly reasonable that a small, fluffy creature was sitting in her drawing room gnawing on its own paw.
Sophie closed her eyes.
They had been married three months.
Three months, during which she had learned that Benedict’s definition of perfectly reasonable differed wildly from the rest of civilized society.
“I know it is a dog,” she clarified, opening her eyes. “I meant, why is it here?”
“Why are any of us here?”
“Specifically,” Sophie interrupted him, “on our very clean rug.”
“I imagine it is more comfortable than the wooden flooring.”
She sighed in exasperation.
“You have brought a dog into the house. Does Mrs. Crabtree know?”
“I informed her of my intentions,” he said. “She suggested I consult you first.”
Sensible woman.
“A dog,” Sophie began, “is a responsibility. It must be fed. Trained. Walked. Bathed. It will shed. It will chew.”
As if on cue, the puppy took three steps forward and sat.
Directly on her slipper.
It looked up at her with an expression of such profound trust that something traitorous in her chest tightened.
Benedict—the villain—raised one brow, making no effort to hide his grin. “He appears to have chosen you.”
“Then he has poor judgement in that case,” Sophie said faintly. “As I am not the one who brought him home.”
The puppy placed one muddy paw on the hem of her gown.
She lasted precisely half a second.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she murmured, immediately searching for a cloth. She wrapped up the small animal and scooped him in her arms before he could do further damage. He was warm. And made a small, satisfied sound as he tucked his nose beneath her chin, as though he had always resided there.
Benedict’s expression changed.
Not the bright mischief, although that was still there, but something softer threaded through it, something unguarded.
“We could manage it,” he said quietly. “Together.”
That was unfair.
That was extremely unfair.
“I refuse to be part of this ill-advised scheme,” Sophie insisted, handing the wrapped bundle back to her husband.
But as Benedict took the cloth-wrapped animal, it let out a low, soft whimper.
Her husband just raised a brow.
“He is not whining for me,” Sophie insisted, reading Benedict’s thoughts. “He’s hungry or afraid.”
“He wants you,” Benedict insisted.
The dog let out another whimper.
“He does not,” Sophie assured him. But then, as if to prove a point, she held her hands back out to him.
Once the dog was back in her arms, he let out a small, indignant huff and settled his head against her chest.
“You were saying?” Benedict asked smugly.
Sophie pressed her lips together, glaring at him as the dog reached up and placed a sloppy lick on her chin. “You fight very dishonorably, sir.”
“I’m not sure what you’re referencing.”
The puppy yawned, the rest of Sophie’s resistance melting away.
“Very well,” she exhaled. “We shall keep…the dog.”
Benedict smiled in victory.
“He will require a name.”
Her husband brightened immediately. This should have warned her.
“I have one,” he said nonchalantly.
“Of course you do.”
“My Dog.”
She stared at him.
“Your…dog?”
“No,” he said patiently. “My Dog. Imagine the efficiency. ‘I am walking My Dog.’ ‘Have you seen My Dog?’ ‘My Dog has impeccable manners.’”
“He does not,” Sophie said automatically, as the puppy attempted to chew her sleeve.
“But he will,” Benedict reassured her, stepping closer to scratch the small dog behind his ears. “My Dog will be exemplary.”
“Absolutely not.”
He looked genuinely wounded. “You dislike it?”
She had to withhold a chuckle at his hurt expression. “I despise it.”
Benedict looked down at the puppy. “She despises your name and you’re still going to choose her as your favorite?”
The dog just blinked back at him.
“Your naming privileges are hereby revoked. Permanently.”
Benedict considered this. “Permanently? What if we acquire another pet?”
Sophie choked. “Benedict Bridgerton, do not even consider it.”
The dog wiggled and Sophie took the opportunity to return him to the floor. He stopped next to Benedict’s boot and started nibbling on the laces.
“Future children then?” he grinned, letting the dog have his fun while pulling his wife closer.
“That depends,” Sophie replied, her resolve softening as it always did when her husband was involved. “Are you going to attempt to name them My Son or My Daughter?”
“You must admit it would be efficient.”
Sophie laughed, the sound softening into something more tender as she let her head rest against his chest.
“I suppose I shall simply have to fight that battle when the time comes. In the meantime,” she added, nodding toward the puppy chewing industriously on Benedict’s bootlace, “My Dog may stay.”
“My Dog?” he asked, one brow raised.
She huffed lightly. “It is ridiculous. And witty. And you are entirely too pleased with yourself about it.”
She glanced up at him.
“All qualities I apparently find irresistible.”
Benedict beamed and pulled her into a kiss, My Dog nestled securely between them.
“Well, My Dog and I are off to help Mr. Crabtree. One of the cows is in labor and I have several excellent names to suggest.”
Sophie rolled her eyes. “Heaven help us all.”