Love With the Perfect Scoundrel (8 page)

“No. I’m telling you that your true worth is not based on your ability to attract a gentleman. And by the by, you seem to draw in those lordly sorts well enough. You’ve had two offers in the last year and now there’s this damned Brown fellow, although he seems to be somewhat wanting in brains and good character, if you ask me.”

She pulled her hand from his.

“Well, I can see I haven’t helped you. But then again, you should know better than to trust anyone, sweetheart. The sooner you learn not to count on anyone, be it a gentleman or not—the sooner you’ll stop wasting your time with these confounded questions. It’s like I told you. All men are scoundrels.”

He had said it deliberately. He knew that no amount of sense would dispel the doubts she had about her allure. In fact, there was only one sort of man who could help her, and he didn’t have the gold lining his pockets to do it. Clear, rational thought ruled him, and the pronouncements of a blacksmith would not make a lick of difference in allaying her convictions.

The paleness of her face proved she had withdrawn from the conversation, and he was glad.

“Mr. Ranier, I want to know how long it will be before I can get word to my traveling companion. And no, I don’t want to hear that that isn’t the right question. I just require your best guess.”

Michael had a deep desire to darken the daylights out of Grace Sheffey’s companion, whoever the dog was. “Missing him, are you?”

“Do you always answer a question with one of your own?”

“Only when I’d prefer a different question,” he replied. “Sweetheart, I’m sorry the conditions are not what you’re used to, but we’re stuck until the roads are passable, so let’s make the best of it.”

“No, Mr. Ranier, you misunderstand…I appreciate—”

He didn’t hear the rest of her words for he had already left, bounding down the stairs, grabbing his coat to return to the life he knew…in the stables, surrounded by animals, the creatures who had brought him more comfort than any person ever would…

Until the following day, when he found the heart-wrenching efforts Grace Sheffey had expended on him.

G
race woke the following morning to find another steaming bowl of milk and porridge with honey on a tray beside her. Shame filled her. After a lifetime of repressing every last provocative thought, she was possessed with equal parts horror and embarrassment over what she had revealed last night to a man who was so purely masculine, so purely distilled capable male that he made her feel like an awkward young girl all the time.

She tried to be kind to herself. Surely, what could one expect after sustaining the death of a husband, two failed engagements, one carriage accident, an injury and nearly freezing to death under a hemlock tree?

Well. She could not stay in this bed all day with these morose thoughts. But she wouldn’t risk further injury, for she could not suffer more scrutiny by Mr. Ranier. She spied her torn fine lawn shift folded on the end of the bed, as well as her ruined corset. Thoughts of his large, capable hands washing these intimate garments brought only more mortification. It seemed she was to be stripped bare of every last dignity.

And then an idea came to her as she finished the porridge. A wonderful, calming idea. The former owner—or the housekeeper—must have some sort of sewing basket. A short search produced the well-stocked basket, and much more.

Six hours later, she was surrounded by stacks of mended goods, her own and those of the other occupant of the house. It was the only way she could think of to show her gratitude. Timmy Lattimer had interrupted twice, first with a delicious, simple dinner tray of roast mutton with potatoes and carrots, and the second time with a small hammered-copper hip bath and three pails of hot water.

“Mr. Ranier said ye might fancy this ma’am.” Timmy had blushed to the roots of his black hair.

She couldn’t think of anything she wanted more. “Thank you, Timmy. Thank you ever so much. And, ah, where is Mr. Ranier?” She couldn’t stop the question from tumbling from her lips.

Now the boy was adding more wood to the fire, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. “In the barn. One o’ the ewes has gone and started birthin’ early.”

“Really…”

“Yes, and he’s got his hands full of her now.” The boy’s face turned a shade of crimson when he realized what he had blurted out. “I mean, he’ll pull the young ’un out soon. It’s a good thing Mr. Ranier’s got so much experience with those animals he tended in the colonies.”

So that’s where Michael Ranier was from. That was the elusive accent she sometimes heard. “You’re very right, Timmy. So how does Mr. Ranier know the former owner of Brynlow?”

The boy gave her a measured glance before continuing quietly, “Well, the ways I understand it from me pa is that Mr. Bryn met Mr. Ranier in town.”

“So he was from London originally?” she tried to keep her voice light.

“Mr. Bryn was in a foundling home there afore ’e was taken in by that fancy furniture maker and his wife. That’s how ’e came by this place.” He swung a glance toward the door. “Mr. Bryn used to tell me how lucky I was to have me ma and pa like the ones he got late in life. Uh, ma’am? It’s been a long day. I think I’ll see to heatin’ Mr. Ranier’s bathwater now. I’ll fetch the tub in a half hour if that suits ye, ma’am.”

Well, she’d drawn more information from Timmy Lattimer than she would have extracted from a month of Sundays with Mr. Ranier. She wondered if Michael Ranier had been an orphan too and met Mr. Bryn at the foundling home. It would explain his reticence about revealing his past. All of it made her want to bury her head in shame. How dare she feel sorry for herself. She only wished she knew if her assumptions were true or not.

She pondered when and why he had gone to the colonies as she took advantage of the hip bath. True luxury, she decided a short time later, was hot water sluicing away the thick froth of country soap she had lathered over every square inch of her body, taking care with her injury. She’d even washed her hair, luxuriating in the simple, clean scent.

With a sigh, Grace combed the last of the tangles before the fire, and then gathered up the mended garments. She stood at the doorway, listening for any telltale sounds. When a rush of water echoed from the lower level of the house, Grace tiptoed down the hall to return Michael Ranier’s articles to his finely turned bureau, crafted by Mr. Bryn’s company, at first guess.

Grace returned to her room, now deliciously relaxed from the bath, and her fingers less stiff from the needlework. She was gloriously at peace, taking comfort in the industriousness of the day. She’d even forgiven herself for her lack of restraint the evening before.

She had but to face Mr. Ranier one time to beg his forgiveness for plaguing him with her outrageous questions, before she would put it all behind her. And now that the snow had stopped falling…Well, all would be right in her world soon. One long prayer of hope for Mr. Brown’s safety followed by one short one thankful of her blessings, and she fell asleep…blissfully asleep.

Grace woke three times that night. The first time, she was alone, shivering, the bedcovers lost in a deep puddle on the floor, where she had to retrieve them as usual. She was plagued by strange dreams of her last fiancé, the Marquis of Ellesmere, on one knee begging her forgiveness while her dear friend Georgiana, his bride, whispered something to their other friend, Rosamunde, beside her. The Duke of Helston made up the group, along with Ata and Mr. Brown. They all rushed toward her, a flood of pity unleashed on their faces, and she began to run. She ran so far and so fast that she was back on the Isle of Mann, running on the high cliffs, dangerously close to the edge and not really caring.

The second time she woke, Grace heard the door close and noticed the fire revived and crackling in the grate. She was freezing, but oddly enough the bedcovers surrounded her. She was so tired of always being cold.

The third time she was roused from her horrid dreams, she was hotter than the fires of Hades. A mountain of hard flesh surrounded one side of her, and all reason was lost.

There was not a chance of sleep now. And so she lay awake, drinking in the delicious heat of Mr. Ranier, and praying he would not wake up and initiate a conversation. Silence, indeed, was her consolation.

His heavy arm shifted under her, and suddenly, inexorably, he was turning and pulling her closer, face to face, into the cradle of his body. His lips pressed against her temple; the bristle of his bearded face sanding her cheek.

“Sweetheart…” he murmured on an exhale.

She stiffened.

And then he fell back into the grip of slumber. Grace knew this because she heard the long, slow catch in his breathing.

She was now trapped in his solid embrace, her mind spinning with that provocative male scent of his. Her one hand was caught between their two bodies, but her other had involuntarily come to rest on the long line of his hip when he had pulled her to him.

She had never touched a man’s naked body really. Each time John Sheffey had come to her chamber, he’d extinguished the candle, popped under the covers and raised her night rail to her hips before positioning himself between her limbs, taking care to touch her only where it was absolutely necessary. In the four months of her marriage, she’d never touched John’s bare body. She had always lain on her back, her arms at her sides, as she assumed other wives did.

Grace’s one hand, resting over Michael Ranier’s heart, rose and fell ever so slightly with the regular, strong pumping beat below the thick layers of muscle. His hard flesh was devoid of the patches of hair her husband had had. Mr. Ranier’s breathing continued, even and slow, and she finally relaxed. Relaxed so much that she tentatively circled one fingertip on his chest and realized the difference in texture was that she’d encountered a flat male nipple. His skin was softer there, and yet such power rested below in the sinuous network of muscles and bone.

A large brand of rigid flesh jerked against her hip and jarred her to her senses.
Oh God, oh God, oh God…Oh, please let him fall back asleep
.

“Darling,” he rasped, his voice filled with gravel, “are you trying to take advantage of me?”

“Pardon me?” She frantically tried to think of a plausible excuse.

“Perhaps that’s why those other idiots rejected you. You’re too fast by half. By God, Countess, I’ve only known you a day or so, and here you are trying to seduce me…Brazen is what you are.”

Dear Lord, he was laughing at her. “I’m nothing of the sort. You just pulled me into your arms, and—and I didn’t give you permission to enter this bed.”

“You’re making it damned difficult to keep the chill off you, sweetheart.”

“I’m perfectly capable of keeping myself warm.”

“Is that so? I beg to differ. You moan in your sleep and wake me every hour on the hour. And each time I come to look in on you, the blankets are on the floor. I was getting tired of being roused from my bed.”

“Don’t you ever wear a nightshirt?”

He chuckled. “No.”

She didn’t know what to do with her hands so she tried to lower the one that was trapped between them and he groaned.

“Look,” he said, putting more space between them, “since it appears I won’t get another lick of sleep, perhaps now would be a good time for you tell me more about your Mr. Brown or…”

“Or what?” she whispered.

He lowered his lips, leaving a whisper of space between them. “Or tell me exactly what you plan to do to me.”

She inhaled.

“I find detailing every touch in advance always heightens the pleasure, don’t you?”

She exhaled roughly and tried to pull away, which he would not allow. Grace prayed for rational thought. “Mr. Brown is—”

“Good,” he cut in, “I was afraid you wouldn’t come to your senses. Continue.”

“Mr. Brown is one of the most wonderful gentlemen in this world. He is witty, and kind, and—”

“Rich and handsome?”

She stifled nervous laughter at his assumptions. But if this thread of conversation could place a measure of decorum between them, she would grab it. “Not handsome in a conventional way, but I think that makes him even more interesting.”

He snorted. “Stop. I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to hear any more about Brown. He was a fool for leaving you defenseless and alone.”

She could not think of a single retort.

“I’m just pointing this out so you don’t travel another inch of road with this fellow without taking a brawny carriage driver who has more chivalry in his little finger than that gentleman fop has in his entire white-livered hide.”

She smiled to herself. “All right.”

“What, no argument? I hadn’t known you to be so biddable.”

“I have my good points.”

The bedcovers rustled again and she felt the warmth of his large hand brush past her shoulder to rest on her bandaged rib cage and then lower. His palm seemed to envelope her entire hip and she could barely breathe.

“By the by, Countess, I must thank you.”

“For what?” she whispered.

“For mending every last article of my clothing. I’m not fond of darning and have put it off for months. You did me a great favor, and I must say you are a fine seamstress.”

It had been so long since she had felt the warm glow of pride, and his simple words pleased her more than any of the false compliments she had heard over the years. “I’m so glad I could do something for you after everything you have done for me,” she whispered.

He rested his chin on the top of her brow, and his deep voice rumbled through her. “I’ve been dreaming of you.”

“An effect of the burnt stew, surely. Probably causes naught but nightmares,” she said nervously.

Grace was certain he would change the subject because he remained silent for a few moments.

“I dream I’m riding toward an apple orchard in paradise.”

She swallowed, unable to make her mouth work.

He brushed a wisp of hair from her face. “And you’re lying under one of the trees, a book in one hand, an apple in the other—lost in thought…but obviously waiting.”

“Stop. I’ve heard this story before.”