Love With the Perfect Scoundrel

by Sophia Nash

  “You don’t appear sorry at all.” She covered her breasts with her slim hands.

  “I am sorry, sweetheart. But all men are scoundrels. Didn’t the earl warn you?”

  Her eyes flared again but this time with uncertainty. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “No,” she replied. “The person wearing the clothes should have to answer first.”

  He dragged a hand through his hair. “Hold off. I should see to a new bandage.” Perhaps there would be something on the shelves. That would buy him a few moments to gather his wits.

  With little thought, he ripped a frayed sheet he found into long strips. “All right then, let’s get this out of the way. Can you sit up? Here, let me help you.”

  Before she could reply, he gritted his teeth and dug his arm under her tiny waist and dragged her into a sitting position. Her head fell into the crook of his arm, and she was forced to drop her hands from her breasts as he draped her lower body with a blanket. He knelt in front of her and found himself inches away from her heavenly, creamy flesh.

  A little trickle of blood slipped past her ribs, and he grabbed the cloth to stop the flow.

  “I can do that,” she said.

  “Good.” His voice sounded hoarse to his own ears.

  He anchored the bandage on her lowest rib, and continued to wind the white flannel upwards. “Raise your arms now,” he gritted out.

  She inhaled, and God help him, she followed his directions. The faintest note of her heady, expensive scent reached his nose and resonated in his sensually starved mind. The lovely tips of her breasts tightened right in front of him and his groin followed suit to a painful degree.

  Michael placed an extra bit of padding over the wound and continued binding the injury, inadvertently brushing one breast in his haste.

  She made a sound of distress.

  “Sorry,” he bit out.

  The moment he tucked in the end of the cloth, she dropped her arms and wrapped one of her shawls about herself.

  “Thank you,” she said with a small degree of desolation in her words.

  An awkward silence filled the room as he stood and moved the basin.

  “I shall leave you to your rest,” he said.

  “No.”

  He turned back from the doorway. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said, no.”

  He returned to her bedside.

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “And which one was that, sweetheart?” He had a sinking feeling.

  “Why did you say all men are scoundrels?”

  Hell. “Sorry, Countess, I should’ve held my tongue.”

  “As long as it wasn’t about pity, I don’t really care what you meant.”

  “Pity?” He looked at her amazed. “Why would I pity you? Certainly, you’re hurt. But you’ll heal. And the snow will melt and you’ll be on your way soon enough.”

  She was scrutinizing his face as if she doubted his words. “I’m something of an expert at recognizing that expression. I saw little else in London. And when you looked at me before, I read it all over your face.”

  “And why is pity so very bad, sweetheart? There were some times in my life when I would have welcomed compassion.”

  “Well, I loathe it.” Her voice hissed with tamped-down emotion.

  He waited for her to continue.

  “I’ve found pity is always tinged with hidden glee in the other person’s misfortunes.”

  He raised a brow. “And what great misfortune have you suffered, Countess? Your husband’s death, is it? I find it hard to believe that anyone would be so cold-hearted as to take pleasure in that.”

  “No, of course not. But you have quite cleverly changed the subject, Mr. Ranier. We were talking about you, not me.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. If you were not looking at me with pity then what was it?”

  “You know, if you cannot figure it out, Blue Eyes, I think it would be best for both of us if we just forget all about it.”

  “It’s all right, Mr. Ranier. You can tell me. I already know there is something about me that deters gentlemen when it comes to the point.” She had looked away from his face. “But actually, you would do me a great favor if you could explain it fully to me. I mean, as you said, the snow will soon melt and I will take my leave of you. And I doubt I’ll have such an opportunity again for brutal honesty, and a full assessment of my flaws.”

  What on earth? Her flaws? He looked at her exquisite profile for long moments, dumbstruck. He shook his head slowly, but knew without question that this bizarre query had come from somewhere far beyond the elegant countenance she presented to the world. She had forced the words into the air, exposing a great vulnerability. But it was just plain ludicrous…“Your faults, eh?” He scratched his jaw. “Well, darling, if you’re looking for brutal honesty, the only one I can see is perhaps, just perhaps, mind you, you could learn a thing or two about cooking.”

  She raised her eyes to his slowly. “Do not patronize me.” Her gaze held such pain he nearly fell back.

  “What happened to you, Countess? Who put the idea in that pretty head of yours that there was the slightest thing wrong with you? If it was the earl, I’d be happy to dig up his carcass and brand an S on his forehead for stupidity.”

  She gaped at him. “Do you know the Duke of Helston?”

  That was not what he was expecting. “Who in hell is he? Blacksmiths don’t exactly rub along with nobs. Is he the blackguard who put these ideas in your head?”

  “No, it’s just that the duke and his friends often like to describe inventive methods of torture.”

  “Now look who’s changing the subject,” he said after a long silence.

  She plucked at the twisted sheet. “Look, you don’t have to be kind. I just want your opinion. It would also help if you would give me a blunt perspective on the qualities gentlemen are most attracted to in a lady.”

  “How can I give you my perspective without knowing what we’re talking about?”

  She rolled her eyes. “You are worse than the Duke of Helston’s grandmother, and she’s something of an expert when it comes to evading questions.”

  “If you want an honest assessment, sweetheart, then I’ll give it to you. But fair is fair. I want to know what has happened to make you come to these”—asinine—“uh, interesting conclusions.” He disengaged her small hand from the material.

  She seemed to have come to some sort of decision as she took a deep breath and began to speak quickly.

  “Two gentlemen cried off from marrying me in the last twelve months. Both fell in love with other ladies—both good friends of mine—actually, the best of friends. I’m very happy for them, really. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. It was for the best, I know. I’m much better off the way it is. It’s just that these gentlemen…”

  “Go on,” he encouraged, while the word idiots took up residence in his mind.

  “It’s just that they were very different from each other. One was a brilliant, powerful duke, a former commander in the Royal Navy with a fiery temper. And the other was a cool-headed diplomat…”

  “And?”

  “And I thought they’d be attracted to very different ladies. But they were not. Actually…”

  He waited.

  “Actually, I had thought I was similar to my friends. But, recently…very recently, I’ve come to realize I am very different from them.”

  “The difference being?” That you are the most beautiful, gentle, good-hearted angel on this godforsaken earth.

  “I don’t want to say. I don’t want to influence your opinion. I, I want to know if you can sense it.”

  “You know, I’m no good at flowery compliments. I can tell you the good points on a ewe or a mare but probably not on a woman. But that doesn’t matter. I don’t think compliments will drive out whatever it is that makes you think there’s something wrong with you, w
ill they?”

  “No.”

  “All right, then I’ll tell you what I think.”

  She looked at him expectantly.

  “All females base their worth on their desirability to the other sex.”

  She pondered the thought. “Yes, for the most part, you’re probably right.”

  “But men base their worth on what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Yes, you do. Think about it. They base it on their fortune and station in life, which is more realistic.”

  “So?”

  “So, perhaps you should start thinking like a man, sweetheart.”

  Her face drained of all color. “Are you telling me my desirability lies solely in my fortune?”

  “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.

  Chapter 5

  Grace 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 Ellesm
ere, 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.