Love With the Perfect Scoundrel

by Sophia Nash

  “You must agree, it was a stroke of brilliance on my part to send a note to Mr. Ranier to meet us an hour earlier so we could avoid all that male posturing—although…it does feel like dawn, something I’ve surely never seen,” Ata said with a laugh.

  Grace pursed her lips. “This will only lead to disaster.”

  “My darling, haven’t you ever noticed that sometimes disaster leads to happiness?” Ata’s blind confidence radiated from her petite frame.

  Grace conceded a smile. “Well, in that case I, out of all of us, should be radiantly happy shortly.”

  “Give it time,” Ata said, readjusting the angle of Grace’s feathered hat, “I have faith, even if you do not.”

  The carriage lurched to a stop in front of the boxwood hedge separating them from Ranelagh’s ornamental lake. Grace peered out the window and spied one of Quinn’s smart curricles, driven by Mr. Brown, drawing near. A small gray horse was tied to the rear.

  The instrument of torture.

  She prayed Mr. Ranier would not come. It was spineless, she knew. But then it would be so much easier. She could simply refuse to see him if he dared lift the Sheffield brass knocker on Portman Square.

  All at once, there was a rap on the carriage door and it opened. Mr. Ranier’s face was silhouetted against the crisp, pale blue winter sky. His large black mare with the white blaze stood a few feet beyond. It had been apparently too much to wish for freezing sleet or at the very least a miserable drizzle.

  He bowed, and looked up with a wink. “Your servant, ladies.”

  He handed out Ata, Elizabeth, and Sarah, who thanked him graciously. His face reappeared in the carriage.

  “Countess?”

  “Yes?”

  “Would you do me the honor?” He held out his wide, gloved palm.

  “Oh, all right.”

  “Such excitement. Such transports of delight.”

  “You are lucky I am here.” She placed her hand in his only to remember how large and solid it was.

  “I know,” he purred into her ear as she alighted from the carriage.

  A fine mist hovered on the ground, nearly obscuring the great rotunda in the distance as well as the Chinese pavilion. What had always looked like an enchanted castle in the glow of lanterns at night now revealed its man-made small flaws with the daylight.

  Mr. Brown was untying the gray horse from the other carriage when Ata gathered the party around her. “Mr. Ranier, Sarah and Eliza will walk the gardens while you give Grace her lesson. And I will try this new team Quinn has so graciously offered for my use.”

  “I’ll drive,” Mr. Brown insisted quietly, walking up.

  During the long pause that followed, only the sound of two geese honking in the distance could be heard.

  “Actually, Charles asked to accompany me,” Ata informed him, her eyes steeped in challenge.

  “Did he, now?” Mr. Brown placed the reins of the small mare in Mr. Ranier’s hands.

  “Yes. While I take the ribbons.”

  “Really?” Mr. Brown said, deceptively calm. “Ladies, Mr. Ranier, would you excuse us? The dowager duchess and I must have a word.”

  Everyone inched away.

  “Absolutely not,” Ata said, instantly on her guard. “You are all to stay. There is nothing that cannot be said among my friends.” She seemed not to notice that Sarah and Elizabeth had managed to disappear, presumably down one of Ranelagh’s many paths.

  “All right,” Mr. Brown said. “Then I am forced to remind you in front of your friends that you made a promise not to drive a carriage ever again.”

  “No. I promised never to do it alone again.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes,” Ata replied, peevishly.

  “Was that after ye nearly killed yourself with a runaway team in Cornwall? The one which left Quinn’s phaeton in matchsticks?”

  “Yes. Rather like your carriage when you left my dearest girl to die in a blinding snowstorm in Yorkshire.”

  Grace cleared her throat.

  “No, Countess, this is not your affair,” Mr. Brown stilled her before returning his gaze to Ata.

  Grace met Michael Ranier’s glance and nodded to a small domed folly a few feet away. He took the hint and slowly, ever so slowly they backed away from the infuriated couple. But it was not nearly far enough away to avoid overhearing the heated conversation.

  Mr. Brown stared at the petite dowager. “Is this truly what is behind your ill humor and behavior of the last month? Is this why you’ve taken a sudden interest in Beaufort? And here I’d taken to heart your letter. I’d thought you too shy or proud to admit your sensibilities when I saw you again. Your letter said that you might reconsider—”

  “I said I would not forgive you if you did not bring Grace back to me,” Ata interrupted.

  “You did, indeed.” Mr. Brown raised his chin, his eyelids at half mast. “You will always be looking for reasons not to forgive me for not meeting you over the anvil all those years ago, won’t you? It would be more honorable if you would just have done with it and admit you canna and willna forget or forgive, Merceditas. Och, I’m a fool.”

  “Now is not the t—ah, there is Beaufort now.” Ata’s gray curls bounced as she waved to a gentleman astride a horse in the distance.

  Grace sensed Michael Ranier’s lips near her ear. “Come with me,” he whispered. “Please—now’s our chance.”

  She didn’t want to go. She really didn’t. But she also did not want to witness any more of the heartbreaking encounter between Mr. Brown and Ata. She nodded.

  Grace inched ahead of Michael toward the clearing on the other side of the tall, manicured boxwood hedge, while he retrieved the other horse. They were out of sight and out of earshot when Grace finally halted.

  “Look, I know I agreed to ride, but really there’s no need to play out this farce. I know you just want to speak to me about something. So, say it and then I will return to Portman Square and you can be on your way. In fact, I shan’t even require you to beg my forgiveness for your crass words in Yorkshire. I know it was an awkward situation. You wanted me to end what we had begun and I didn’t let you off the hook. And so, as a gentleman, you used pride as the tool to avoid being reeled in. Luc or Quinn had just struck you, and obviously insulted you, and—are you laughing at me?”

  “Absolutely not, sweetheart.”

  “You are laughing at me.”

  “Why would I dare laugh at a woman man enough to forgive me for something I’ve not even had to grovel for? You’ve even saved me the trouble of inventing excuses.”

  “Well, Mr. Ranier, most women are pushed to the task as few men ever admit guilt with any sort of finesse. Oh, and by the by, I have not forgiven you.”

  “I am very willing to admit I behaved abominably toward you. There was no excuse.”

  She didn’t know what to say in the face of such blatant acceptance of blame. “Well, this is inconvenient.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because I’d planned to rail against you quite a bit longer.”

  He chuckled. “Do you always chatter on like this, or are you just trying to avoid getting on this horse? You know, you might enjoy riding her.”

  She would rather endure another failed engagement, truth be told. But she’d also do just about anything to avoid admitting such. “There’s no mounting block.” She shivered despite the unusually warm winter day.

  His face grew serious. “Are you chilled? Would you like my coat?”

  “No. I’m perfectly fine, except for the fact that you seem perversely determined to furthering disaster in my life whether we’re in Yorkshire or London.”

  His face eased into a smile and he moved close to the mare. Grasping her waist, he looked down at her veiled face. “Ready?” he murmured.

  Grace couldn’t breathe, torn between the strength of his hands and her nearly lifelong irrational fear. Her fingers numb, she reached for the front of the side saddle when he lifted her onto the seat. She
froze. Her limbs lay in a tangle below the leg horn.

  “I would have preferred you to ride astride,” he said, his attention on fitting her foot into the stirrup. “I’ve always thought it much safer. But this will have to do.”

  She was dead still in the saddle, unable to move, unable to speak, waiting for an unknown, yet gruesome catastrophe to unfold.

  “Grace? Hey…hey. Here, let me help you.” He was moving her knee over the horn. But maybe not. She really couldn’t feel anything. All she could see was the horse’s ears lying flat back and she suddenly foresaw what would come next. The horse would run away before she could pick up the reins, and then it would all get worse. A lot worse.

  Michael’s harsh voice floated through the tunnel of her mind. “Grace, look at me.”

  She stiffly turned to his voice, unseeing.

  Without warning she was blessedly being lifted from the cursed saddle and found her feet on solid ground again. And he was holding her to him. “Christ, I shouldn’t have made you do this.” He held her tighter. “Grace, I shouldn’t have said those things to you at Brynlow.” He lowered his voice, “I should’ve left well enough alone.”

  His words burned through the fog of her consciousness, leaving her slowly but surely furious. “That’s what I’ve been saying all along, Mr. Ranier.” She shoved him away and hissed, “What do you want from me?”

  His lids lowered over his golden eyes. “To see you.”

  “Well, you’ve seen me.” She held her arms out wide for his examination. “Now what? Perhaps the scenery has changed, but the circumstances remain the same.” She rushed on, “Or has your neck become itchy? Perhaps the idea of a collar has suddenly become more appealing?”

  “Never really liked the idea of a noose, sweetheart.”

  The small mare pawed the ground in boredom. “You are truly beyond the pale. If you’re here because you think I’d consider resuming our—our—” The word stuck in the back of her throat.

  “Friendship, sweetheart?”

  She snorted. “Well, I suppose I should be happy you didn’t say something coarser.”

  “Darling, friendship is all I’m looking for.”

  “Said the fox to the hare.”

  He chuckled. “Can a man not be friends with a lady then, Countess?”

  She looked at him dubiously. “With enough distance I suppose anything is possible, Mr. Ranier. Perhaps if you were to remove to Portugal and I to Prussia, our friendship would flourish quite nicely.”

  He scratched his jaw in that familiar way she remembered. “Well, if you really can’t trust yourself around me and need that much distance, you’d best begin packing—because I’m not leaving, at least not straightaway.”

  “You never give up, do you?”

  “No…It’s one of my most endearing qualities, I’m told.” He paused. “Now are you going to tell me why you are afraid of horses, or not?”

  She muttered something under her breath, unable to hide her exasperation. “Look, it should be obvious I’m no good with horses or really any animals. Always seem to fall off horses. Can’t catch a fish. Can’t fly a falcon. Fur makes me sneeze. Even Ata’s canary always pecks me.”

  He looked as if he didn’t believe her.

  Words came from her without thought. “I fell off three times the month my riding lessons commenced as a child. The last time, my foot got caught in the stirrup and I was dragged over half of Mann. But no harm was done—aside from a few scratches and a twisted ankle. My father shot the poor horse, though. Yes, that’s when I decided not to ride again.”

  “I wish you’d told me before now,” he murmured.

  “Would that have stopped you from insisting I try again?”

  “No. But now that I understand the root of your fear, as your friend—”

  “You are not my friend.”

  “Well, then as your former—”

  “No! Don’t you dare utter out loud what we once—oh, botheration.” She looked at him mutinously.

  He tilted up the front of his hat and squinted. Lines furrowed his brow. “Well, you’re wrong about one thing, sweetheart. You’ve got a fine touch with animals. Have you forgotten Pearl? If not for you he wouldn’t have survived.”

  “Pearl is male?” she asked incredulous.

  A grin teased the corners of his wide mouth. “He only responds to the name you gave him. And he keeps wandering among the ewes, looking for you, Blue Eyes. He misses you. And Timmy misses you. And I’ve missed you”—his head tilted—“terribly.”

  “Don’t,” she whispered.

  He took a step toward her and she backed away.

  At that moment, she felt something prickly touch her wrist. Grace turned to find the muzzle of Michael’s huge black horse sniffing her hand.

  “No,” Michael said firmly, and the horse swung her massive neck away after staring at Grace with her large intelligent eyes.

  Grace was desperate to turn the conversation, tired of playing the charade. “Your horse is very beautiful.”

  “She’s a powerful mix of breeds. Built for endurance and strength—named after the warrior Indian tribe. Only her big, floppy ears give away her gentle nature.” He stroked his mare’s neck, his smile disarming her as always.

  She cleared her throat.

  “Yes?”

  “I do hate being such a pea goose around horses. And…”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, do you think…”

  “Think what?”

  “No, forget I—”

  “Can’t.”

  “No, really, I—”

  “Won’t.”

  “Will you stop interrupting me?”

  He grinned again. “Only if you’re ready to try again.”

  Without thinking, she rushed on. “I’ll do it if only to stop your incessant pestering.”

  “Smart woman.”

  Realization of what she’d agreed to do swept through her. Pride kept her from reneging. “I’ll only try with Sioux. I feel safer with her.”

  “All right.” He moved his mare into position before she could utter another word. “She responds to whoa or easy or steady now. And she stops on the spot at the word no. But if you cluck to her or use your heels, she’ll move on. Here, put your hand out, palm up, and touch her muzzle.”

  She followed his directions and the mare nickered sweetly. Grace was in awe.

  “She likes you.”

  “I like her too,” Grace said softly.

  “Don’t be afraid of her height or her strength.”

  “I’ve never been afraid of height or strength.” Grace watched Michael’s Adam’s apple dip as he stared at her with eyes that flared with a poignant mix of hope and sadness.

  He finally withdrew a small folding knife from his coat. “We’ll have to cut your habit since you’ll be astride.”

  “It’s a good thing no one ever appears to come here in the morning,” she said dryly.

  Grace turned sideways to him and he leaned down to cut cleanly through each of the side seams. She glanced at Sioux and nearly faltered at the sight of the mountain of horseflesh in front of her. The mare’s hooves were almost the size of dinner plates.

  “Check the girth, first,” he directed and then took up her wooden fingers, showing her what to do. “And let’s shorten the stirrups.”

  The mare’s neck swung around as she watched their efforts with a baleful expression.

  “All right,” Michael said with obvious false cheer. “Ready?”

  “No,” Grace muttered.

  He chuckled and locked his hands together in front of him. “Go slowly, now.”

  She stepped into his hands and he lifted her for an eternity before she saw the top of the saddle.

  “Swing your leg over,” he commanded and she obeyed.

  She could feel him fixing the ball of her boot in the stirrup and then going to the other side to do the same. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him gather the reins of the other horse to lead her, too
. The entire time, a flood of calming words came from his direction. What he said exactly Grace wasn’t sure. She could barely breathe, let alone hear properly.

  The mare shifted one hoof and it felt like the horse was about to crumple to the ground.

  “Steady, now. Grace—you all right?”

  She couldn’t speak, but she tried to focus on him and nodded.

  A moment later, she looked down to find the reins being woven between her fingers.

  “You don’t have to do anything with the ribbons. Just hold them—or the mane. Now tell me when you’re ready and I’ll lead you along the path. We’re only going for a very short walk.”

  For a long time they just stood there, the mare pricking her ears up and looking across the lake, the man in front of the two horses, stroking their noses while watching Grace.

  “I’m ready,” Grace murmured, finally.

  A moment later, the mare moved forward, her large shoulders rolling rhythmically between Grace’s knees. The slow clop of the animal’s hooves hitting packed earth was steady and sure.

  “Look up, Grace. Don’t look down.”

  She forced herself to obey.

  “How are we doing?” His voice came from somewhere, Grace was not sure precisely where. She was too busy looking forward, beyond the horse’s large ears.

  “Your seat is excellent. Your back is supple, yet arched, your heels at the proper angle. Lift your hands off her withers if you like.”

  She didn’t dare.

  For long minutes, they continued on until Grace chanced to notice how lovely the view of the lake and the pleasure gardens were from this high angle. And, without knowing what she did, she lifted her hands.

  And Michael began to hum a tune.

  Ranelagh was so beautiful this early in the day. The night frost on the evergreens had turned to dew with the rising winter sun. It was unseasonably warm, Mother Nature being in a particularly fickle frame of mind this season. A flock of geese formed a V in the sky, honking as if to announce their arrival. At the half-mile marker, Michael turned to go in the reverse direction.

  That was when Grace realized she had relaxed. She looked at the man in front of her, his shoulders so broad, tapering down his immensely powerful frame to his hips. And yet, despite his great size and blunt humor, he was so very gentle with every living thing. It was all in his eyes, each time he glanced back at her, each time he touched his horse.