Love With the Perfect Scoundrel

by Sophia Nash

  Sarah patted her hand. “Oh, but he will come after you. And he will come on bended knee, uttering a mound of apologies, too.”

  Before Grace could disagree, Elizabeth continued. “Sarah is correct. Gentlemen don’t easily forget.” Elizabeth twisted a corner of her plain white dressing gown. An unusual hint of fear glinted in her eyes. “Indeed, sometimes, they never forget.” Elizabeth Ashburton had never said a word about her past, and Grace was certain there was something much deeper to her words.

  Grace glanced at the earnest faces on either side of her. “I thank you for allowing me to confide in you, but you are both absolutely mistaken. In fact, given my rare history with gentlemen, I’d sooner expect to recklessly wager my fortune than to ever see the day Mr. Ranier came up to scratch. But I don’t want you to worry. I know precisely what to do now. We shall all go to London. Together…with our hearts united as we dance foolishly toward disaster.”

  A smile returned to Elizabeth’s pretty face. “Ummm, Grace?”

  “Yes?”

  “Could you please relate again exactly what happened between you and Mr. Ranier? You seem to have gained an unholy love of the ridiculous, something we’d not known you to possess before.”

  Grace hugged a pillow to her breast and smiled.

  Michael sat at a table in a room he had not previously occupied in Sam’s house, the small chamber fashioned for formal dining. It was the only room which was not fully furnished. For some odd reason, Michael had the distinct impression that Sam had halfheartedly gone about decorating it, only to give up when he’d decided it was an awkward chamber, too far from the kitchen, and too cold and dark.

  Michael toyed with the excellent roast beef and the boiled potatoes and carrots Timmy’s mother had prepared for him within hours of Mr. and Mrs. Lattimer’s return that afternoon.

  He would have given just about anything for a taste of burnt stew instead. Had it really only been three days?

  The gloomy chamber made Michael lonely, a sensibility with which he was not well acquainted. It was the only room he could tolerate this evening. Every other place in Brynlow held memories of Grace.

  He tossed his knife and fork onto the plate with a clatter.

  Michael rose from the table and fisted his hands. He’d been itching to punch a wall all day. That was certainly a first. He’d always taken pride in his even nature.

  Aside from two very specific events, he’d never regretted any action in the whole course of his life. Tonight, he did.

  He wasn’t sure how he could have accomplished it, but he should have severed his connection with her in a better fashion. He had counted too much on her desire to rejoin the fabulously rich Mr. Brown he’d concocted in his mind. And he’d been certain she would want to return to the luxuries of her life with her friends.

  He had guessed straightaway that all her talk of trotting off to Mann had been a desire for temporary sanctuary. If she had gone there, she wouldn’t have lasted a fortnight before becoming bored out of her mind on that desolate island.

  She was far too good and kindhearted for her friends to abandon her to a lifetime there. She was a lady who was meant to return to the dazzling amusements found only in town. And if he forced himself to guess, within a month or two at most, a slew of richer-than-Croesus swells would pluck her out of her roost, place a very tight jeweled ring on her finger, and install her in a Mayfair townhouse dipped in gold and swathed in servants who would answer to her every beck and call.

  He rubbed the ache between his brows. Ah, hell. Grace wasn’t like that at all. That was the crux of the problem. He would wager she would be willing to give up a good deal. He envisioned the cozy cocoon she would have created at Brynlow. He could even imagine her lovely voice falsely insisting each year that she wasn’t interested in spending the season in town with her friends.

  And all the time, she would think he refused to go to London because of stupid pride. And for years, he would have let her think that. And there would have been always…always, damnation, the risk of exposure.

  The risk of coming face-to-face with Rowland Manning’s vengeance and the utter ruination of anyone caught with him. It was not dancing in the air at the end of a hangman’s noose he feared so much as the stain it would leave on her name and his family’s name. He would be relegated to a footnote in history as a cowardly, lying murderer—true or not. He would be proclaimed the single failure among generations of heroic, illustrious Wallaces.

  He shook his head. And worst of all, Grace would be forever cast aside by society.

  And suddenly he was mortally tired of living this half life.

  A footfall echoed in the hall and he turned to find plump Mrs. Lattimer in the doorway. She glanced at the heaping remains on his plate and appeared crestfallen. “Shall I bring you somethin’ more to yer likin’, sir? Timmy tells me yer right fond of our cheese.”

  “No, no, Mrs. Lattimer. The roast beef was delicious. I, uh, I’m feeling a bit off, that’s all.”

  Concern lined her forehead and she plucked at the practical cap covering her tightly coiled hair. “Half the village is abed with a digestin’ complaint. A fine welcome to the North. I’m sorry, sir.”

  He waved away her concerns and rose from the table. “Never been ill a day in my life, ma’am. I’ll be as right as nine pins on the morrow.”

  She grinned, revealing an uneven but endearing smile. “Shall I bring you a drop o’ tea in the library, sir? I bought a bit in the village in case you liked it. Mr. Bryn never asked for it. But perhaps it would ease you. Mr. Lattimer built up the fire for you.”

  They were determined to coddle him, which amused Michael to no end. He’d never employed servants before and it was clearly going to take some getting used to. He realized, oddly enough, the luxury of poverty—of never having to put on a show of good humor. “Tea would be just the thing,” he lied.

  He urged her to enter the short hall before him, and she trundled ahead, stopping inside the library. “Oh, and Mr. Ranier? I took the liberty of going through the chest of drawers, as it be wash day tomorrow.” Her face colored and she couldn’t meet his eyes as she placed something on the edge of the desk. “Found this pretty shawl, and wasn’t sure if’n it be from the lady Timmy said you rescued. And, sir, it appears she knitted these mittens. She used a bit of the brown wool in the basket Mr. Bryn kept filled fer me.”

  He would not rush forward. “Thank you Mrs. Lattimer.”

  Blessedly, she departed and in two strides he was at the desk. Without thought he crushed the pink silk shawl to his face and breathed deeply. A rush of heaven sang in his mind and settled in his heavy bones. He gulped in the scent like a drunken fool. With each successive pull, images of Grace Sheffey floated in his consciousness. Her graceful hands, the arch of her back as she sat perched on a chair, the gold spun softness of her hair in the glow of firelight, her silken skin, and lush, tentative lips. And her eyes. Those blue, blue eyes of hers. Eyes that became lost in passion when he encouraged her to—God…he had to stop. He would lose his sanity from it.

  He dropped into the leather chair, clutching the shawl like a bloody infant and then noticed the huge mittens. What on earth…Good God. She’d knitted them for him. Her scent was even in these too. Perhaps they had been her way of thanking him for rescuing her. She would have done it for anyone. Or perhaps they were for something else. She had mentioned something about the approach of Christmas and Boxing Day when they had spoken freely in the darkness, wrapped in each other’s arms. He hadn’t had the heart to tell her that Christmases at the orphanage had brought only the paltry joy of an extra portion of coarse bread if they were lucky, which did little to dispel the sadness of life without a most beloved parent.

  God Almighty.

  And he had given her nothing. Had only taken.

  Staring into the leaping flames of the tidy fire in the library, flashes of her rooted around his mind again and again. It was a sign of weak character. Of pointless longing. He’d heard tell o
f it. Had thought it was something for idle, rich folk. Well, he’d no time for it. Surely, it was a temporary ailment, probably brought on by soft living—with servants, no less.

  Mrs. Lattimer bustled inside with a tray and after a flurry of inquiries after his morning hours and needs, disappeared. Damn temptation. She’d placed a bottle of brandy beside the teapot. He poured some tea, the delicate amber brown of the brew swirling in his cup. Belatedly, he realized he’d not used the strainer. He scratched his head. Ah, the joys of a civilized life.

  He added a lump of sugar and a splash of milk, and gulped the lot of it in one swallow. He wondered if he would make a habit of it. God, for five and twenty of his thirty-two years he’d considered clean water a luxury. He shook his head and almost reached for the brandy before coming to his senses.

  It was amazing how spirits could unlock the mysteries of all problems, given enough time and enough firewater. Indeed, the fumes seemed to burn through any complicating factor. The only drawbacks were that the answers were usually fraught with disaster when rational thought returned, with a headache of epic proportions on the side. Besides, he had done so much wrong in his life, he had sworn once he’d left England that he would renounce all manner of sin if only to atone in some small way for his past mistakes.

  Sprawled in the leather chair he’d last sat in with Grace, he tried to focus on the plans for winter and spring. He would order seed and then plant ten acres of wheat, barley, and corn aside from the hay fields. And he’d enlarge the flock of sheep. With any luck, within a few years he’d be able to realize his dream of training and breeding horses. Sam had left him three broodmares and a plough team. And then there was Sioux. She would be the first he would breed when he found an adequate stallion.

  Why had she been so afraid of horses? He would have enjoyed teasing and goading her into the horsemanship lessons he had suggested. They could have had such pleasure riding the property in the spring. One of the broodmares was docile and the perfect size for her. And during the hot days of summer, they could have ridden to the clutch of apple trees in the north corner near the pond. Or perhaps they would have enjoyed a late-evening stroll with the sparkle of glowworms all about them during the fruitful season.

  God, what sentimental drivel.

  His mind shuttled away to the cyclical nature of life on this new land of his. The ewes would be dropping young more and more in the coming two months. As would the cows and the two broodmares. He wondered with a heavy heart if, despite his efforts, Grace would grow round with child. With his child. And all of a sudden he quite desperately wanted it. He cursed and reached for the brandy, praying for sweet oblivion amid the madness of everything that was Grace Sheffey.

  When Michael awoke with a head that felt twice as large as it should, he rubbed his bleary eyes only to find he was wearing brown mittens. His throat cottony, he looked around and his brains sloshed about the inside of his head.

  Christ. He had violated the two cardinal rules. The candle was aflame and he was three sheets to the wind. He was bloody well going to the dogs.

  Yes, indeed, he was as good as gone.

  Chapter 9

  “Do make an effort, Quinn,” Grace insisted quietly. The carriage wheel caught a rut and both Grace and Quinn swayed inside the vehicle.

  His face was white with tension. “I do not expect you to accept my apology. Indeed, it seems almost an insult to offer one, as I don’t want to ask anything of you. I don’t even have the comfort of being able to offer any sort of appeasement.”

  Grace was in a perverse frame of mind. She’d begged a private word with him at the last posting inn, where the entire party of three carriages had stopped to change horses before they continued on the last leg of the three-day journey to London. Now she wished she hadn’t bothered. Gentlemen had no idea how tiresome it was to listen to them blather on about the preservation of their honor.

  “I told you, there’s no need to apologize. I’m only grateful you and Georgiana admitted your mutual affection before you and I left for the Duchess of Kendale’s house party. Before we married. Yes, the gossip in town is fevered due to the duchess’s tales, but we shall overcome it by standing together. So please, Quinn, do me the great favor of putting your guilt aside. Otherwise we’re doomed to forever feeling awkward.”

  Across the carriage bench Quinn sat studying her face with care. She watched his Adam’s apple bob. “What did he do to you?”

  She sighed with exasperation. “If you don’t stop this, I’ll cut your acquaintance in town after I play the farce of a mammoth ball in your honor and Georgiana’s.”

  He rubbed his brow. “I don’t know which is worse—what I did, or what that—that blacksmith did to you. He did offer for you, did he not? And you turned him down?” He continued without waiting for an answer. “Well, at least no one else will ever know of the encounter.”

  Finally, Grace snapped. Michael’s words echoed in her brain. A man bases his worth on his fortune and station in life. “All right. I see how it is. I have an idea. You shall direct your steward or solicitor to draw up a bank draft.”

  Quinn straightened his posture, his eyes alert. “A bank draft?”

  “Yes. I’ve decided the only way you or Luc will ever stop looking at me as though I’m a pitiful creature, is to demand that you each give over an absurd amount of coin.”

  Quinn’s brows drew together, but he appeared ready to acquiesce to anything she asked. “Whatever you desire from me is yours, Grace.”

  “It’s not for me. It’s alms for charity. It’s the season for it after all, is it not?”

  “And what, pray tell, is this worthy cause?”

  “A foundling hospital.”

  The glimmer of benevolent amusement appeared on his face. “How obscene an amount are you proposing?”

  “Enough to make you think twice about ever crossing a Sheffield again,” she purred with a smile.

  “I see,” his eyes twinkled.

  “No, I don’t think you do.” It was astonishing how the smile that had once caused Grace to flush with pleasure did nothing to her now.

  “I shall double the amount you suggest,” he said, his noble smile widening.

  “Five thousand pounds.”

  That wiped the grin from his face. Why, five thousand was enough to keep a great house and all its servants quite comfortable for a year or more.

  “Grace, the purchase of Trehallow for Georgiana and her family has put quite a strain on…” He sputtered to a halt before continuing. “Would you like my solicitors to deliver the ten thousand pounds to—”

  “I shall take pity of you, Quinn. I should have clarified that I expect you and Luc to divide the burden. I shall not hold you to doubling it.”

  He exhaled roughly, his face still blanched.

  “Oh, and Quinn?”

  His posture had finally unbent. “Yes?”

  “Thank you.”

  “No. It is I who—”

  “Not for the donation.”

  “For what then?”

  “For marrying Georgiana. For letting me go.”

  “You’ve fallen under that heathen’s spell, haven’t you?”

  “No.”

  He shook his head. “Take care, Grace. I, of all people, recognize the signs now.”

  “And what precisely are the signs?”

  “Decisive one-word answers, for a start.”

  She laughed. “So you’re saying I should prevaricate?”

  “Yes. But only if you can do it convincingly.” He rearranged her lap blanket. “I only wish there was a true possibility for a future for you with him. But it’s impossible. He’s not a gentleman worthy of you, my dear. Indeed, he’s no gentleman at all.”

  “Well, I see the entire affair quite differently.”

  “How so?”

  “You think he’s not laudable because of his station in life. But, you see, that’s not it. I chose not to like him because he’s foolish enough to let an illogical notion of pri
de stand in his way. The man had the audacity to think it wasn’t correct to marry a lady with a fortune such as mine when he has so little.”

  Quinn’s lips twitched. “Perhaps it’s some sort of dreadful disease afflicting people in the colonies.”

  “Obviously an advanced case. Lord knows no blue-blooded gentleman I know would ever let a fortune stand in the way of marriage.”

  Quinn chuckled and Grace couldn’t help but join in. And like a giggle in church, the tension had turned and they could not stop until they were nearly out of breath from laughter.

  But in her heart, Grace knew the tears on her cheeks were not all from mirth. She finally allowed the full weight of the truth to engulf her.

  The Michael Ranier she knew would never have let pride stand in his way if he had truly wanted something or someone. He was like an avalanche, never allowing anything to stop his natural course of motion.

  He had not wanted to share a life with her. And so he had conjured up words he thought a rich countess would allow herself to believe.

  Well.

  Mr. Ranier had forgotten his earlier ludicrous conviction. Perhaps she was a Viking at her core—and not an overbred aristocrat. A swell of strength flowed through her for some bizarre reason she refused to examine. She was just too grateful for its appearance.

  Grace peered out the small panes of the carriage window and spied the outline of the tallest spires of London in the twilight. They almost looked like the masts of a fleet of vessels.

  It was time to go raiding.

  It was amazing how nature was able to beautify what man had once destroyed.

  Michael sat astride Sioux, gazing at the vast view from the crag of one of Derbyshire’s most famous prominences. The wind whipped about him from all directions, but he couldn’t feel the cold. The scene in the distance robbed him of coherent thought.