Love With the Perfect Scoundrel

by Sophia Nash

  Ellesmere chuckled. “Wallace, you can help by giving us the names of any people who knew you when you were a child. People who might remember you well—servants, the vicar, anyone. Or names of peers who knew your father—or any other incontrovertible proof. I’ve already sent my steward to Derbyshire to ask about the neighborhood. We’ll need all the ammunition we can secure to have you officially declared the right and true Earl of Wallace.”

  Michael scratched his jaw. “While it’s impossible to tell you how grateful I am for everything you’ve done, my lords, you still haven’t told me what I really want to know.”

  “How very demanding of you, Wallace,” Helston replied dryly.

  “I want to know where Lady Sheffield is. And I also want to know about her meeting with Rowland Manning.”

  “And why would you need to know that?”

  “Because I mean to get her fortune back, of course. You didn’t really think I’d sit here and do nothing, did you?”

  Helston, exasperation dripping from his expression, sighed. “We’re coming to that. But you’ll have a better chance with the power a title confers.”

  “I don’t need a title to kill the bastard. And I’m not going to wait another day. Manning will secrete away or spend her fortune in a fortnight, if not sooner.”

  Ellesmere gritted his teeth. “Don’t be a fool. Do you really want to revisit the underground gardens of Newgate so soon? I would think one tour would be enough for anybody.”

  “Actually, I was hoping since we’re friends, that—”

  “God help me…” Helston muttered.

  “Perhaps you would come with me. I would of course do the primary work. But it would help if I had you both stand as sentry.”

  The duke and marquis exchanged glances.

  Ignoring the blaze of pain in his jaw as he grinned, Michael continued, “Since you’ve been good enough to expend your varied talents to my benefit, I was thinking I might show you some of mine.”

  “And what talents would you possess, Mr. Jack-of-all-lowering-trades?” Helston asked, exasperated.

  Michael raised a single brow. “Entering without breaking for one, finding but not taking, for another. Unless it’s Grace’s money, of course.”

  Ellesmere examined his fingernails. “I suppose we should have guessed it would come to this.”

  “Undoubtedly,” Helston replied. He dragged his hands down his face. “Good God, I’d thought my days of plundering over when I resigned my commission. And when were you proposing we—God preserve us—pay a ‘social call’ on Mr. Manning?”

  “At three o’clock,” Michael replied. “Tomorrow morning.”

  Helston shook his head. “I hear Ata coming up the stair. Let’s decamp to plan this properly. Won’t waste a moment letting her expound on all your fine attributes. I would prefer to keep my dinner, thank you.”

  The three men strode to the door, and nearly collided in the effort to file out at the same time. “Blast it all, Wallace,” Helston gritted out. “It’s dukes before marquises, and marquises before earls. Please tell me we are not going to have to waste our time teaching you the elementary rules of polite society?”

  Michael attempted a contrite expression. The duke sighed heavily as he preceded Ellesmere out the door. Michael followed his new friends down the back hallway. God, were they really that to him? The last time he’d enjoyed that bond had been with Sam Bryn. It had been a long time ago. A very long time.

  But it felt good. It felt very good.

  Chapter 20

  Nine weeks later…

  “James,” Michael said to the boy riding alongside him in the flat lands of Berkshire, “I have a good feeling about this place.”

  “Sir, you’ve said that the last three times.” The former chimney sweep’s small gray gelding trotted a bit faster to keep up with Sioux.

  Michael chuckled and tried to ignore the pain in his one arm. “I know, lad. It’s just that I’ve had a good feeling ever since we left town. Anticipation is half the joy, don’t you think? Lower your hands, and ease off the bit. Yes, that’s exactly right.”

  The boy showed such promise. He’d taken to riding like a bird takes to flight. Michael glanced at James’s noble profile and open countenance, so different from two months ago, when Michael had arranged his release with much difficulty. Ah, the adaptability of youth.

  Michael halted Sioux at the crest of a small rise, James following suit. “Glory be, sir,” he said with wonderment. “Never seen anything like this in me life.”

  The magnificent view beckoned them, the air thick with vernal evidence—shy snowdrops nodded their single clasped blooms while enjoying the shade of the burgeoning tree branches heavy with bud. Daffodils and gorse competed to show off the brightest yellows of the season, and everywhere, new life was in evidence. Tiny lambs bleated for their mothers in the vast pastures dotted with wisps of lost wool that appeared like remnants of snow.

  Nestled in a little bit of wilderness, with a stream running nearby, lay an ivy-covered cottage complete with gables and a tile roof. Two outer buildings stood behind. When he spied the very uneven lines of a newly laid kitchen garden, Michael grinned and tipped back his hat. “James?”

  “Sir?”

  “I’ll wager evening chores this is the one.”

  “Why, you know I’ll do whatever you ask, sir.” The boy looked so happy. “And you know I never gamble, sir.”

  “Except that one time.”

  “Yes. Except that one time.”

  “I’ve not said it, James, but I thank you for placing your trust in me, son.”

  “I’d go to the ends of the world for you, sir,” the boy said quietly.

  Michael leaned down to place his hand on James’s shoulder for the briefest moment. “And I think you just about did. But I’ve good news. We’ve arrived.”

  James studied the landscape. “It sure is pretty. How long will we stay?”

  “Not sure,” Michael said, clucking to Sioux to continue forward. “It might not be as long as I’d like.” Michael did not mention that this was the point where expectation turned into uncertainty.

  “Sir?”

  “Yes, James?”

  “Tell me again what she’s like.”

  Michael smiled. “Like the first ray of sunshine after a long blizzard. Brilliant and pure. And her eyes are like bluebells and violets and as clear as a sapphire, untainted by any other hue of a rainbow.”

  “Can’t imagine it, sir. But tell me about her goodness.”

  He’d asked so many times to hear about Grace’s character. Michael knew it was all due to the boy’s fear. He would never voice it, but Michael guessed long ago that James was terrified she wouldn’t accept him. What James did not know was that Michael was a thousand times more worried that she wouldn’t accept the larger of the two of them. She’d had two months to regret the horror of what she had done, two months to doubt him, and two months to learn she could go along very well without him.

  “Her goodness, James, is as pure as an angel from heaven. Her generous heart is unparalleled; her spirit, kindness personified. You do know what those words mean, don’t you?”

  “It doesn’t matter, sir. It sounds better than anything I can imagine. So shall I water the horses and let them graze, like at the other places?”

  Michael nodded. “Yes, here near the stream.” Michael swung off, removed Sioux’s bridle and replaced it with a halter, James mimicking his motions with the other, smaller horse.

  He strode toward the cottage, James’s words floating behind him. “Good luck. And sir?”

  Michael stopped but didn’t turn around. She was so near. “Yes?”

  “Don’t worry so. If she won’t take ye in, we can al’ays go back to Brynlow. Or if she takes ye, I could go to work in the stables of the Duke o’ Helston, like his worship said.”

  “James, I would as soon as part with you as I would lead you back to the rookeries. You’d best get used to it. You’re stuck with me. A
lways. And I’ll remind you of it every day of our damned lives until you tell me you’re sick of hearing it. Agreed?” He glanced behind him just in time to catch James bob his head and turn away to hide his emotions. Michael swallowed against the knot in his throat. “And James, if it becomes too hot, I spied shade trees on the other side of the cottage. I’ll return as soon as I can.”

  Michael continued on but his footsteps slowed as he approached the lacquered door with the black cast-iron winged hinges. He knocked, his belly churning. Counting to twenty, he knocked again, and then tried the latch, which gave way.

  Michael called out, “Lady Sheffield…” He cleared his throat, his voice strained to the point of breaking. “Grace?” The floorboards creaked as his heavy boots crossed the room. He poked his head in each of the four small rooms.

  Evidence of her was everywhere he chanced to see…he recognized her even stitches in a small pile of mending. A simple pink wool shawl lay on the back of a worn armchair near a grate. But more than anything, it was her elusive scent he caught once or twice, which sent his mind spinning.

  Blinded suddenly by the overwhelming need to see her, he took the steps on the narrow staircase three at a time, now calling her name with increasing urgency. But she was not to be found in any of the bedchambers above. This was not going as he’d expected.

  Where in hell was she? Had she hid herself when she’d seen him coming? He chastised himself. Fear always led to absurd thoughts. He let himself out the back of the cottage and scanned the small garden and structures beyond.

  A loud squawking erupted from one and he broke into a run toward the enclosed yard. Without bothering to knock, he entered the henhouse.

  Feathers floated in the air and a clutch of birds intent on mutiny surrounded her. She was everything he remembered and so much more. Christ, she was his whole world. Her hair was pinned back and gleamed in the shaft of light from the sole window. He would never be able to describe her no matter how many times he tried. For she was perfect. Even her damned imperfections were perfect because they were part of her.

  He coughed. “You know, sometimes it’s easier to collect eggs when you distract them with feed outside.”

  Grace whirled around, her eyes widening. She dropped the empty wire basket she carried. “Oh. It’s you.”

  Leaving the door open, he walked forward, the chickens scattering into the yard behind him.

  He leaned down, retrieved her egg basket and placed it in her hand.

  “Thank you.” Her gaze remained on the basket.

  “You’re very welcome. Grace, I’m sorry I star—”

  “It’s lovely to see you, my lord,” she interrupted, her tone now even and calm.

  He stared at her, terrified of her formality.

  She brushed a lock of her hair back into place and finally raised her eyes to his. “If I’d known you were considering a call, I would have prepared better for your visit.”

  Her eyes were so very warm, their blue depths startling. He longed to wrap his arms around her and crush her to him, and yet it was obvious she would not welcome it. Not in the least. “May I offer my help?”

  “No, this will take but a moment.” She strolled the aisle, plucking eggs from the various nests until she circled to the door. He stood watching her silently, feeling every inch the awkward lumbering giant in the cramped space. Christ, what had he been thinking? He should have just walked up to her straightaway and taken her in his arms instead of standing there like a silent fool.

  He followed her as she left the henhouse, her apron flapping in the spring breeze. Michael rushed forward and opened the gate for her and then, fifty yards later, the back door of the cottage. In the small kitchen, she placed the basket on the simple, rustic table and swung a black pot filled with water over the fire.

  She appeared as if she had lost weight, and it filled him with ill ease. Made him want to force her down in the chair while he prepared a feast for her and handfed her with a spoon. Instead, he found his voice. “I’m sorry I gave you no notice. I assure you it was not for lack of effort.”

  Her eyes lifted to his. “May I offer you something to drink? Perhaps a cup of—”

  “Tea would be lovely,” he interjected.

  A faint blush crept up the prim edges of her simply styled gown. “I’m afraid there’s no tea. May I offer you water or perhaps milk, Lord Wallace?”

  He couldn’t forget how her plush lower lip was like soft petals in the rain and he wanted to cry for the damage she was doing, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. “Water would be most welcome. Grace, please let me—”

  “And may I offer you a biscuit?” she interrupted. “They are freshly baked.”

  “Thank you.” Would she ever let him speak? He was near to breaking as she placed water and several biscuits before him.

  He stared at them, wondering where to begin.

  “Well, are you going to try them? I’ve made a bit of progress. Cooking, I mean,” she said.

  He bit into the fragrant, flaky biscuit, his appetite nil, his jaw working only to please her. He finally registered her effort. “Grace, this is bar none, the best biscuit I’ve ever tasted.”

  “Thank you.” She finally lowered herself into the chair opposite him, and brushed a crumb into her apron, her eyes avoiding his. “What happened to your arm?”

  He looked down at his forgotten sling. “Nothing much. It’s just a scratch.”

  “I remember you once telling me the same when Luc and Quinn fought you. Did they strike you again?”

  “No. This was courtesy of Rowland Manning, although I assure you I fared better than he.”

  Her eyes flew to his.

  “Really, it’s nothing.”

  She jumped up and came to his side of the table. “I want to see it. Is it a broken bone or a flesh wound?”

  He was so happy to see her concern, he would have let Rowland Manning shoot at all his limbs if he had known it would encourage her to touch him. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He let himself drown in the gentle sensation of her fingers working the sling from his arm and unwrapping the bandage.

  Her breath hitched and he finally opened his eyes to see her staring at the raw scar on his forearm. Before he could stop himself, his other hand reached to stroke the ends of her hair so gently she didn’t register the fact.

  “Won’t you tell me what happened?”

  “Grace…none of this matters. I’ve come to ask you something. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long, it’s just that, well…I couldn’t find you.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “I’ve toured half of England and Scotland looking for you. First to Brynlow, then to Mann—where I assure you it is indeed, cold enough to please any Viking, only to be surpassed by Scotland in February. By the by, Mr. Brown’s estate is quite lovely, even when covered by three feet of snow.”

  She said not a word as he continued. “And did you know that there are at least six dwellings known as Ivy Cottage in the county of Berkshire?”

  Grace looked into his clear golden eyes and prayed for control. She closed her eyes to stop herself from falling toward him. It had taken so long to force hope from her mind that she dared not ever hope again, after the agony of the last month of winter.

  In the beginning, she had taken secret nourishment from the idea that he would rush to her the moment he was released from Newgate, like a grateful prince coming for his bride. But after the first three weeks, hope had slowly strained and become tinged with fear. And fear had continued unabated with each passing day, when no letters ever appeared from London. It was obvious that even Ata had given up hope, had not been able to bring herself to write of any happiness, and so had not written at all. Endurance replaced hope with shattering reality. And yet, self-reliance had brought the warm glow of pride to her heart. And Lara had fanned the flame.

  Unexpectedly, she registered his large, warm hands circling her wrists and pulling her onto his lap.

  “Your arm,” she
whispered.

  “Is fine—as long as it is holding you.”

  She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from crying at the overwhelming feel of his warm embrace. “Shall I find a fresh bandage for you? Or perhaps you’d prefer a poultice?”

  “Still asking the wrong questions, I see,” he murmured close to her ear. “Aren’t you ever going to ask me why I’m here?”

  She swallowed against the lump in the back of her throat, and tried to pull away. “My lord, I had thought—”

  “Are you trying to torture me, Grace? Because if you don’t stop referring to me as ‘my lord,’ or ‘sir,’ or ‘Lord Wallace,’ or whatever else you dream up, I think my heart will never recover.”

  “And how would you propose I address you?”

  “‘Michael.’ And shall I tell you how I should like to address you?”

  She shook her head, her throat tight.

  “‘Lady Wallace,’ or more intimately,” he whispered, “‘Mrs. de Peyster.’ Yes…” He nuzzled her neck, sending shivers down her spine, “either of those names would serve, don’t you think?”

  Her mind swirled with ill ease. “But—”

  “No good comes from a sentence that starts with but. Start again, if you please.”

  “Michael, I really think—”

  “Say it again…the first part.”

  “Michael?”

  “Yes. I kept dreaming of you, whispering it over and over again as you did the last night I saw you. I think it was the only thing that kept me from going mad the four days I spent at Newgate.”

  “Four days? But Quinn promised—”

  “And delivered. But I wouldn’t leave without arranging a young friend’s release as well. It took more than a little doing, but your former fiancés were very accommodating. Well, one was a bit more courteous than the other. Oh God, Grace…I have to kiss you. I’m sorry I can’t wait any longer.”

  She struggled against him. “Michael…wait.”

  He sighed and stared at the lengthening shadows in the kitchen. “Grace, I struggled before leaving London. Do you want to know why?”