Regency: Rakes & Reputations (Mills & Boon M&B)

by Gail Ranstrom

  ‘Really, gentlemen!’ Sophie admonished the pair. ‘One would have thought that you had sufficient wit between you to have reached some sort of reasonable compromise. It seems to me that you have more than enough bedding to accommodate the pair of you. Why not simply divide it in half and each of you roll yourselves up into a separate little cocoon? It’s a method that has always served its purpose perfectly well in military circles, I’ve found, and since it appears that we are to suffer one another’s company for a good deal longer than was originally supposed, you might well consider putting it into practice without further delay!’

  For a long moment neither of the two men moved nor uttered a word, but then, giving a slow, appreciative nod, the Captain let go of the quilt.

  ‘T’lass is quite right,’ he said, with a hoarse chuckle. ‘Makes no sense two grown men argifyin’ over a set of bedclothes—you take hold of this, sir, and I’ll make do with what’s left. What say we bed down for another couple of hours before we brave the chill below?’

  ‘Whilst I am perfectly agreeable to that suggestion, my dear fellow,’ returned Palfrey, with an acquiescent bow, ‘I must insist that you retain the quilt. I am more than content to avail myself of the remaining blankets.’

  ‘Not at all, sir!’ exclaimed Gibbons. ‘The quilt is yours—these fine blankets will do me just proud!’

  Seeing that another argument between the disparate pair seemed about to ensue, Sophie, throwing up her hands in despair at their ludicrous behaviour, turned on her heel and hurriedly left the room, having come to the conclusion that any further intervention on her part would be pointless.

  Just as she was closing the door behind her, however, she came upon Mrs Webster, who was just on the point of exiting the Lucans’ room.

  ‘Any further progress in that direction?’ she enquired of the landlady, in a low voice.

  ‘Slow goin’, I’m afraid,’ whispered Mrs Webster, with a pensive shake of her head. ‘My guess is that the poor lass will be some little while yet—not that I’ve any great experience in these matters, only havin’ had the one myself, you understand.’

  ‘Then we must just hope and pray that this appalling weather improves sufficiently for us to summon the local midwife to help us out,’ declared Sophie bracingly, as she followed her elderly hostess down the stairs. ‘How is Mr Webster faring, after that nasty fall?’

  ‘Well enough in the circumstances, thank you, miss,’ replied Mrs Webster, pushing open the kitchen door. ‘Although how on earth we are going to manage without his help, I can’t begin to—great heavens above!’

  The landlady having stopped dead in her tracks at the doorway, Sophie found herself obliged to peer over the woman’s shoulder in order to discover the cause of her astonishment—only to find herself equally taken aback at the extraordinary scene that met her eyes.

  There at the kitchen table stood Marcus Wolfe, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows and minus his neckcloth, unconcernedly ladling milk out of a wooden pail into a large blue-and-white-striped pottery jug. A quick look across at the cheery flames leaping up between the bars of the range’s firebox soon ascertained that he had fulfilled his pledge to replenish the supply of logs. Hesitating for only the barest moment, Sophie, her eyes agleam with amusement, raised her hand and, whipping off the lace cap, stuffed the offending article into her apron pocket before following Mrs Webster into the room.

  At the sound of their entry, Helstone looked up and smiled, his lips curving to an even greater extent as he registered the lack of covering on Sophie’s now slightly tousled chestnut tresses.

  ‘Mrs Webster, I presume?’ he said, laying aside the ladle and sketching the landlady a brief bow. ‘Marcus Wolfe, at your service. No doubt your husband has already informed you that he was obliged to offer me shelter last evening. I trust that he has not suffered serious hurt from his unfortunate fall?’

  ‘Just twisted his back slightly, sir,’ returned the woman, staring at the milk pail in some confusion. ‘You’ve been out and milked our Daisy, sir? How very good of you to put yourself to so much bother!’

  Helstone raised a disaffected shoulder and indicated the jug of freshly made coffee simmering gently on the top of the kitchen range. ‘Had to be done, if we were to have milk in our coffee.’

  It having been a good many years since he had been anywhere near a cow, let alone milked one, Marcus’s initial attempts at the activity had met with little success. Daisy had greeted his nervous fumblings with considerable mistrust, jostling him off the stool and kicking away the pail in her impatience to rid herself of his decidedly amateur ministrations. It had taken sheer bloody-mindedness—along with the virtual ruination of a perfectly good pair of leather riding breeches—to finally persuade the recalcitrant animal to succumb to his advances, but once he had managed to get back into the swing of things the old memories had come quickly flooding back.

  Milking cows, collecting eggs, haymaking, picking apples and chopping logs—there had been very few activities in which the Viscount had not involved himself during his boyhood on the family estate. Sadly, his ongoing feud with his father had brought about an instant demise of any undertaking that smacked even vaguely of husbandry, in whatever shape or form it might have appeared. Indeed, for the past six years or so he had resolutely refused to involve himself in all matters that had to do with the running of the family estate—to his own detriment, more often than not, as his recent unexpectedly pleasurable activities were now starting to bring home to him.

  It had been while he was splitting the logs into a more convenient size that it had begun to occur to him that he actually enjoyed involving himself in this sort of manual labour. Even as the snow had continued to fall in gusting billows all around him, its icy wetness gradually penetrating the fine wool of his expensive riding jacket, he had not been able to help but feel that there was something infinitely wholesome about expending one’s energy for the benefit of others—a feeling of healthy satisfaction that even several hours spent in Gentleman Jackson’s salon or at the fencing parlour failed to emulate. Sophie’s unspoken message that the entire well-being of a handful of total strangers might well devolve upon his being able to keep the house supplied with firewood had brought about the first real sense of purpose that he had experienced for many years. Indeed, just the thought of finding himself the recipient of another of her devastatingly captivating smiles was more than enough incentive to have him attacking even the largest of logs with considerable relish.

  And as to the milking! It was beyond thought that he was ever going to allow a mere animal to get the better of him! Aside from which, he was quite determined not to set a foot back inside that blessed kitchen without bearing a reasonable quantity of milk—he’d have that confounded cap off the saucy little madam’s head if it was the last thing he did!

  His dark eyes gleaming with satisfaction, he now considered Sophie’s greatly improved appearance. Freed from the constriction of the cap, several strands of her hair—the colour of which he could only liken to that of ripe chestnuts—fell about her neck in a teasing tangle, instilling in him a sudden urge to rip out the confining pins of the remains of her bundled chignon just to see if the total effect was truly as glorious as his alcohol-fuelled fantasy of the previous night had imagined it to be.

  Drawing in a deep breath, in order to steady his rapidly increasing pulse rate, he turned his attention back to the landlady, who had been marvelling at the huge pile of logs stacked beside the chimneypiece.

  ‘There’s a good bit more just inside the door of the taproom, ma’am,’ he said, jerking his head in the direction of the saloon bar. ‘I took the liberty of piling it there, since I doubt that any of your regular clients will be likely to pay us a visit during the next couple of days or so.’

  ‘Still no sign of a let-up, then?’ queried Sophie, as she collected three bowls from the dresser and doled out a healthy serving of porridge into each of them.

  ‘Sadly not,’ he replied, taking
a seat at the table. ‘That driver of yours seems to be of the opinion that we’re stuck here for the duration. Having very sensibly taken the precaution of pulling the carriage into the barn as soon as they arrived, he and the guard have made themselves up a couple of very comfortable looking beds on the squabs. Organised themselves quite a cosy little set-up out there, they have—even got a brazier burning in the middle of the barn.’

  ‘It sounds as though they must have been soldiers at one time.’ Sophie laughed. ‘Many’s the time my little brother and I were obliged to bed down in such a manner.’ Then, stealing an impish look at him, she went on, ‘I dare say you must quite envy the pair of them, given your own rather Spartan accommodation.’

  Mrs Webster gave a quick nod. ‘Yes, we must see if we can’t do something about that, young man,’ she declared. ‘There are a couple of cushioned settles in the tap room—not ideal, certainly, but a sight better than what you had to put up with last night, I feel sure!’

  ‘Oh, I’ve known worse, I assure you!’ he said, flashing a mischievous smile at the now somewhat rosy-cheeked Sophie. ‘Nevertheless, I daresay another cushion or two would be most welcome—I’ll bring them into the parlour after I’ve eaten, if I may—although I rather fear that my being obliged to commandeer the room for my own personal use will disadvantage your other guests to some extent.’

  ‘Can’t be helped,’ retorted Mrs Webster, getting to her feet and moving towards the pantry. ‘Needs must, as they say—now, what do the pair of you say to a nice dish of bacon and scrambled eggs?’

  ‘I say yes, please, and thank you very much,’ replied Marcus with a quick nod of his head, as he spooned the last of his porridge into his mouth. ‘Best porridge I’ve tasted in years,’ he then averred, fixing Sophie with another of his slightly lopsided grins and causing her to experience all sorts of problems with her breathing processes. ‘Although I feel bound to confess that I haven’t touched the stuff since I was in leading-reins!’

  ‘It’s amazing what one will eat if one is hungry!’ she returned somewhat distractedly, gripping her hands tightly together under the table in an effort to still the frightening rapidity of her heartbeat. ‘My brother and I were often obliged to eat all manner of strange concoctions during our years with the military—but it certainly taught us to appreciate good food when it was offered to us.’

  ‘I appreciated every mouthful, I promise you,’ he assured her quickly, his sharp eyes not having missed the rather forlorn look that had suddenly crept across her face as she spoke of her past. ‘However, I cannot help but wonder about these strange concoctions of which you spoke. Pray enlighten me.’

  Pushing back her chair, she stood up, affecting an airy little laugh. ‘Best not to describe such delicacies in detail, I assure you, and certainly not while you are about to eat Mrs Webster’s delicious breakfast!’ she said, determinedly busying herself with the collecting up of the empty bowls before carrying them over to the kitchen sink.

  His eyes following her progress across the room, Marcus’s lips curved in appreciative recall of the softly rounded curves that dwelt beneath the ill-fitting grey gown she wore, the memory of which brought about the all too familiar clenching of his gut followed by the usual pulsating throb of his loins. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to concentrate his attention on the very appetising-looking meal that Mrs Webster had placed before him, ruefully reflecting that any sort of casual dalliance with the comely governess in these present conditions looked to be very much against the odds. Not only had it transpired that Miss Flint was sharing her room with her young charge, but—even given that his chances of persuading her to venture there a second time were probably a hundred to one against—his own accommodation hardly lent itself to the sort of activity he had in mind.

  Heaving back a sigh of regret, he did his best to dismiss the several enticing images that were beginning to crowd his brain and, reaching for his knife and fork, endeavoured to apply his concentration to the heaped platter of eggs and bacon in front of him, being very careful to avoid looking directly at the object of his lustful thoughts when she returned to the table and took her place opposite him.

  ‘At least the pump hasn’t frozen,’ she remarked cheerfully, as she reached across the table and helped herself to one of Mrs Webster’s hastily cooked griddle scones. ‘I was afraid that we might have to resort to melting buckets of snow for our water!’

  ‘Lor’ bless you, no, Miss!’ chortled the landlady. ‘That’s one thing we won’t have to worry about, thanks to the fellow who built this place originally. Comes up from the well right next to the back wall, the water does. We have to wrap the outside pipe with a bit of sheepskin every winter to be on the safe side, of course, but apart from that we’ve never had a hap’orth of trouble.’

  ‘I dare say you’ve been obliged to do that as well,’ remarked the Viscount, chancing a quick look at Sophie.

  She looked puzzled. ‘Wrap pipes with sheepskin, you mean?’

  He shook his head and a reluctant grin crept across his face. ‘No, I was referring to your reference to the melting of buckets full of snow—I assumed that you must have been involved in such an activity during your days with the military.’

  ‘Once or twice.’ She nodded, her face clearing. ‘It can get very cold in the mountain areas of Spain and Portugal.’ She paused, as a little furrow creased her brow. ‘I take it that you chose not to volunteer your own services?’

  There was a moment’s silence, then, ‘I had my reasons,’ returned Marcus curtly, as he pushed back his chair and rose from the table, his meal scarcely half finished. ‘If you will excuse me? I really ought to go and check my horse over.’

  ‘Touched a sore nerve there, it seems,’ murmured Mrs Webster, after he had exited the room. ‘Yon driver told me he’d fed and watered all the horses first thing, before him and his mate cleared the yard. Our Mr Wolfe looks to be sufferin’ from a bit of a guilty conscience, if you want my opinion.’

  ‘Probably just not cut out for that sort of life, Mrs Webster,’ said Sophie. ‘Judging from the quality of his boots and the cut of his jacket, I should imagine that Mr Wolfe spends most of his time lounging in the high-class drawing rooms of the rich and famous—although I feel bound to admit that his undoubted expertise with the axe did come as somewhat of a surprise to me.’

  ‘And may the heavens be thanked for it,’ returned the landlady, with a slight shake of her head. ‘Where we would have been without the lad, the Lord only knows. Your old driver and his mate have been workin’ nineteen to the dozen keepin’ the yard clear of snow, as well as seein’ to the horses, but I doubt if either of them could chop up a log to save his life. Even my Walter would be hard put to it these days—our potboy usually deals with the likes of that sort of thing!’

  ‘Well, we definitely shan’t go cold, at any rate,’ said Sophie, rising to her feet and beginning to gather up the dirty dishes. ‘And, thanks to your excellent housekeeping, it seems unlikely that any of us will starve. Shall we take a peek into your larder and see what we can conjure up for dinner between us?’

  ‘I’ve a nice leg of ham hanging there,’ began Mrs Webster, as she made her way across the room towards the storeroom. ‘I had thought of keepin’ it for …’

  The rest of her sentence was cut off as the sound of running footsteps on the stairs heralded the arrival of a white-faced Mr Lucan, who burst into the kitchen, calling out for immediate assistance.

  ‘My wife!’ he gasped, as he clutched at the doorjamb to steady himself. ‘She thinks the babe is on its way! Somebody help her, I beg of you! Please!’

  Whipping off her soiled apron, Sophie started for the door, only to find herself being pulled back by Mrs Webster.

  ‘Not you, my dear,’ cautioned the landlady. ‘This sort of thing is not at all suitable for a young unmarried lady such as yourself. I’m not exactly up to the mark myself, but I shall do what I can. You stay here and see to the dinner.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ averred
Sophie cheerfully. ‘I’ve helped deliver dozens of babies—midwives were few and far between on the Peninsula, I assure you!’

  Turning to Lucan, she bade him to calm down and then instructed him to make himself useful by filling all the pots he could find with water and putting them on to boil.

  ‘Why ever ‘ave you set ‘im to doing that?’ whispered the mystified Mrs Webster, as the two of them hastened up the stairs in the direction of the plaintive wails issuing from within the Lucans’ bedroom. ‘I disremember anyone doin’ any such thing when my Jamie was born.’

  ‘Just gives the poor fellow something to occupy his mind,’ replied Sophie, with a slight chuckle. ‘Expectant fathers are known to become somewhat beside themselves at such times—we always found it better to keep them well out of the way until the worst of the business was over and done with. Speaking of which—do you have some old sheets we could use?’

  Chapter Four

  Having spent the best part of the past hour exchanging ribald jokes and anecdotes with Driver Lapworthy and his guard, Marcus was in a far better frame of mind when he eventually returned to the kitchen, only to find himself confronted by the sight of a white-faced Jack Lucan, anxiously pacing the floor of the room, quite oblivious to the argument going on between the Reverend Palfrey and Captain Gibbons who, having finally ousted themselves from their bed, had come down to the kitchen in the expectation of finding a meal waiting for them. Finding no one available to serve their needs, they had raided the larder and were now noisily debating the merits of frying eggs as opposed to scrambling them.

  ‘Do you actually have any idea how to scramble eggs?’ demanded Gibbons scathingly, as he attempted to extricate the skillet from the parson’s hands. ‘At least I’ve fried a good few in my time!’

  ‘And nasty greasy things they were too, I’ll be bound,’ retorted Palfrey, determinedly clinging to the pan. ‘A lightly scrambled egg is far better for a delicate stomach.’