Ransom Redeemed

by Jayne Fresina

  Having inspected his face for a moment, she laughed. "You are proud of that reputation, aren't you? I suspected it from the first."

  He scowled. Nobody had ever laughed at him the way she did. Men were generally too afraid and women too eager to please.

  "Ransom Deverell, you don't really want saving. You don't want a good woman. You wouldn't know what to do with her, except see to her utter corruption and heartbreak."

  "Then what do I want, Miss Ashford of the all-knowing mind?"

  "A spanking quite probably." Her eyes held a sultry glimmer as she looked up at him. "But it's much too late for that."

  Although her hand had stopped his, the bow was undone and her ribbon hung loose. Now, with his other hand he grabbed the bonnet off her head and put it behind his back. "I thought nobody was sunk too far for rescue?"

  She blinked and when that clear, shining grey appeared again he felt drawn down to it, like a bee to nectar. "But a person has to want to be rescued. It takes effort and toil on their own behalf too, sir. It takes a person not giving up on themselves. And you seem content to be the villain."

  He couldn't think what to reply, too consumed with the need to kiss her. If she only knew what he'd dealt with in his life, how he'd raised himself not to care about anyone or anything. Or tried.

  "We all have troubles in our life," she added, as if she read his mind. "Just when I think life cannot get any harder, someone or something else I love is taken from me, or another obstacle is thrown up in my way. But I look to the next day and the next, because sooner or later it must get better. It must. I'm a fighter, sir, for myself and my sister. We've been through enough tragedy, and I won't succumb to the lure of transient pleasure just for a temporary respite. I will give my sister a good future. A lasting one."

  Without her bonnet and the broad shadow it had cast over her face, she seemed more vulnerable, younger. Exposed. And yet her gaze met his bravely, unwavering, and she made no attempt to get her bonnet back.

  Suddenly he wanted to put his hands around her face, very gently, and reassure her that she was safe with him. That he would never hurt her or let her be hurt. He would do anything for her.

  It was an intense sensation such as he'd never before felt.

  "So please forgive me, for declining your offer of pork chops and misbehavior, Mr. Deverell, but I have enough troubles already. I am trying to save myself, as well as my sister, and that, at present, takes up much of my time."

  He huffed. "You need a man's help, of course."

  "Despite the fact that, as my family history can prove, when they are in charge of matters all is rapidly laid to waste?"

  "Yes. You need the right sort of man. And I don't mean a man just to reach the top bookshelf."

  A half laugh, half gasp shot out of her. "One like you, I suppose?"

  "Why not?"

  "Mr. Deverell, rest assured that if I suddenly find myself suffering tedium and desirous of another calamity, I will certainly let you know." She leaned closer, feigning solemnity with a whisper. "You'll be the first man I come to. When I am desperate enough to need one."

  She prepared to walk around him, looking very determined. Still holding her bonnet ribbons in one hand, he stretched out both arms in the frame of the door to prevent her passing. "Perhaps I shan't let you go. I'm a powerful man, you know. Could keep you here and who would know? Who would object?"

  "I would." She set her lips in a firm line and eyed the doorway again, probably trying to measure the possibility of getting around him without actually touching his wretched, wicked person. "Be warned, Mr. Deverell, I may be a meek little bookseller, but I am not a woman who balks at the application of violence when it is required."

  "Oh. What are you going to do to me? It cannot be any worse than the usual."

  "The usual?"

  "What women usually want to do to me. I seem to bring out the worst in them. Or is it the best?"

  While she was still thinking up a response, he suddenly put his free hand under her chin.

  "Pardon me, Miss Ashford, but I've wanted to do this since Wednesday and I cannot seem think about anything else until it is done." He lifted her face, paused a brief moment, just to watch the color in her eyes turn incandescent as the moon, and then he bent and kissed her.

  It was a tame kiss by his standards, a soft brush of flesh on flesh. Yet it felt like much more. Her lips were warm and tasted sweet. He had a memory suddenly of stealing cherries from a fruit cart in the market when he was very young. Until that moment he had never thought of it, but the picture was clear as if it happened yesterday. He and his sister had escaped their nanny to run wild in the crowded market. They filled their pockets with stolen cherries, but the crime was discovered when Raven ate so many that she had a stomach ache and became sick. Ransom, being the eldest, was the one punished for it. But he didn't care because the cherries were so very sweet and succulent. He never cared about the punishment as long as he enjoyed himself to the fullest before he was apprehended in his mischief.

  As he drew back, he waited for Mary Ashford's retaliation, an angry accusation. Perhaps a slapped face.

  Instead, all she said was, "I hope that helps clear your mind."

  "So do I," he managed, slightly hoarse.

  "Anything to be of service."

  "Anything?"

  "Within reason."

  He stroked the pad of his thumb along her jaw. How soft she was, yet not in the least delicate. "The dreadfully sensible and level-headed Mary Ashford. Have you ever done anything that was not reasonable, I wonder? Ever done anything reckless?"

  "Of course. When I was a girl. But one grows up. Circumstances change. One must adapt to one's lot."

  He drew his thumb back again to stroke her lips, tracing the gentle bow which had, from the beginning, captured his attention. "Circumstances could change again, if you were not so damnably stubborn and wretchedly sensible."

  "My good sense is most inconvenient for you, I'm sure."

  "Damn it all, woman. I thought you'd appreciate the candles."

  She frowned. "Candlelight strains the eyes when one wants to read."

  With a low growl of frustration, he lowered his mouth to hers again and this time the kiss was firmer, more demanding. His hand swept around to the nape of her neck, feeling that lace under his fingertips, the warmth of her hair and wanting to be lost in it. He wanted to rip apart the tight knot of hair and then her clothes. He wanted to devour her, claim her for his alone.

  Never had he felt possessive, so full of desire. And yet so helpless to know how to capture his prey.

  There was a sudden sharp pinch and he realized the damn woman had bitten his lip. Her eyes were wide open, regarding him again in that partly alarmed, partly bemused way.

  "I warned you," she said.

  Breathing hard, he wiped the back of his hand across his lip and saw the little speck of blood she'd drawn. He raised an eyebrow. "That was quite unnecessary, Miss Ashford. I'm appalled."

  "Excellent. You ought to be." She calmly reached into the potted palm beside the door. "Do return this to the lady who misplaced it here, amongst other items she lost in this house no doubt." She held out a lady's slipper that must have been overlooked during the house cleaning after the party. "I don't believe it's one of yours. It looks a little too dainty for your feet."

  Frowning, he snatched it from her hand, and since he had removed both arms now from the doorway, she was able to escape through the gap, into the hall.

  "If you ever get around to reading that book I sent you, Mr. Deverell, then we might have something to talk about. But don't think you can summon me, or have me brought here to amuse you on a whim. I've encountered handsome and arrogant before, and my shelves are thoroughly full up with men who think I need their advice. If you truly want to impress me, you'll have to employ a little more than the usual effort and one sorry candelabra." She laughed again. "Do not look so crestfallen. You'll soon decide it's not worth the struggle, I'm sure. Good even
ing. Oh, and there is a matching shoe to that one under the red sofa. The practical side of my nature shudders to think how the lady got home, unshod, in this weather." Her little speech delivered smugly, she curtseyed and turned to leave.

  A footman was opening the front door already.

  "Have it your way, Miss Stubborn," he grumbled as he strode after her, "but I already have you in my bedchamber in any case so it matters not to me."

  Lips parted, she looked at him in astonishment, cheeks blushing pink.

  "I can show you if you don't believe me," he said, glowering.

  The footman holding the door open did his best attempt to pretend he hadn't heard. But a new arrival, standing on the top step with her hand on the bell pull, wearing a hooded, fur-lined cloak and waiting to come in, definitely had heard.

  Both his departing guest and the new one froze and stared at each other.

  "I know you, don't I?" said the second woman.

  Mary Ashford shook her head and hurried away down the steps to the waiting horse and cab. Ransom signaled to let the driver know that he would pay for this trip too, and then he watched her leave. She did not look back.

  Meanwhile the other woman was waiting, her frown deepening with irritation, which suggested she didn't wait very often for anybody. "I am Lady Elizabeth Stanbury. Your brother said you were expecting me."

  Oh, lord. He'd completely forgotten about Damon's problem. He scratched his head with the slipper and winced. "Ah, yes. I suppose you'd better come in and get it over with. Smith, please take Lady Stanbury through to my father's study." His lips were feeling a little odd. As if they were stung. But surprisingly they still worked, despite being savaged by that "meek little bookseller".

  "There is no fire in the study, sir," the butler intoned gravely. "Should I have one lit?"

  "No. No. Lady Stanbury won't be here long, and my father's study is more suitable." He always referred to it as his "father's study", because he still thought of the house as belonging to True Deverell. Ransom was merely a cuckoo who probably didn't deserve such a grand house. That was the way he had felt since he first moved in and the sensation had not decreased over time. Touches of his father were everywhere— in the art and treasure that he'd purchased to decorate the place. Even the staff were chosen and hired by True. Ransom had no inclination to change anything. Why bother? Everything in life was temporary and one should never get attached. People inevitably let one down.

  "Sir, is that blood on your lip?"

  "Ah." He wiped his lip again and managed a sheepish smile. "A slight mishap, Smith. Nothing to worry about."

  The butler swept Lady Stanbury away, while also relieving Ransom of the discarded lady's shoe.

  So Miss Ashford— his reluctant savior from irate Frenchwomen— was gone, carried away into the darkening night by a stout horse and a creaking chariot. Well, he might have known he couldn't persuade her to stay. It had been a rather clumsy attempt, not up to his usual seductive standards. Truth was, he did not know how to win this one over. As she'd said, it required more effort than he was accustomed to making when it came to women.

  What did he think he was doing with her anyway? Where could such an interest possibly lead? He really did not want a Daisy Do-good under his feet, casting her disapproving eyes all over him, as if he didn't already know how very wicked he was.

  "Shut the door, Thomas," he growled to the footman. "We failed to keep that one, I'm afraid. We must release her into the wild."

  "She seemed rather different to the usual ladies, sir."

  "Different? In what way, Thomas?" Had she bitten his footman too? She'd only been in the man's presence with her damnable lips for a moment.

  "Careworn, sir. But kindly. Was she collecting for charity, sir?"

  He smirked. "No. Unfortunately. She might have been a bit more obliging then, if she wanted money out of me."

  Hmmm. That was a point. Why hadn't she taken advantage of the fact that he had money and she had none? Most women would get what they could from him if they managed to catch his eye— drunk or sober. As his father would say, nothing made its way faster to a woman's heart than money. But apparently she didn't want any of his.

  All she wanted was for him to read a book.

  Chapter Twelve

  As the horse took her away from Deverell's house, hooves sloshing wearily through puddles, Mary's insides tumbled through a gamut of emotions. None of which she wanted to identify. She let her body bounce and sway carelessly with every bump, her basket in her lap, her gaze fixed to the cobbled road ahead.

  Elizabeth Grosvenor.

  Now Lady Elizabeth Stanbury, of course. Wife of George Stanbury— the man once engaged to marry Mary.

  In that other lifetime.

  It was several years since Mary had seen Elizabeth, but there was a time when they moved in the same social circles, attended the same balls and parties. She would have recognized her anywhere, although Elizabeth had not known who she was, only that there was something familiar. Well, she supposed time had changed her appearance and not for the better. Worries and responsibilities did that to a person, Mary thought grimly, fingers tightening around her basket.

  In comparison Elizabeth had looked very well standing on Ransom Deverell's steps. She was older than Mary, but very well preserved, positively glowing with health and contentment. A woman who glided smoothly through life. A woman for whom nothing ever went wrong. A woman who would trample her own grandmother to get a foot up the social ladder.

  "I know you, don't I?" spoken in that clipped, cut-glass, aristocratic voice.

  Mary was surprised the woman dared admit they had ever known each other.

  Blowing out a hefty sigh, she turned her head to watch the light of the street lamps slipping by. There were fewer lights here, of course, for the horses were taking her farther away from the affluent part of town. The stripes of darkness became broader and longer, briefly lit faces sucked away into shadow, until she might as well be the only one out on the road.

  Did George know his wife paid visits to Ransom Deverell under cover of darkness?

  She imagined Violet's voice then, "Serve him right, the blackguard!"

  But it was years since Mary had felt any real anger against George. As she'd said to her sister, she could hardly fault the man for wanting to secure his father's estate and keep his home. Besides, he had forgotten her so easily, set her aside with so little apparent qualm, did that not suggest he could have done the same even if they married?

  During their courtship, Mary had never pried too far beneath George Stanbury's fine surface. He was charming and lively, but they had never been alone together, of course. There were always other people there, chaperones and friends to keep them from the "temptation of improper intimacies". The knowledge they had of each other, however many times they were in company, could have been noted on a card no larger than four inches square.

  But when her father and brothers encouraged the match, Mary had found herself swept up in the merriment. She agreed to marry him, aware that their engagement must be of some lengthy duration. His father was very ill and George did not think it right to plan a wedding until his health had improved. Mary understood. The delay, she'd thought, would give them time to know each other better, hopefully in less formal settings.

  Alas, his father never rallied and then there was a period of mourning to be observed. Once again Mary waited with patience, for George's time was greatly taken up with responsibilities when he inherited his father's title.

  It was not long before she had her own grief to manage when her brothers— who had always done everything together, including defy their father to join the 3rd Light Dragoons— were killed at the Battle of Kabul. Silence and an awful stillness descended upon their world. A dark rain cloud covered them as if it would never be summer again. Uncle Hugo was then the last male heir for the Ashford estate, but at the age of fifty-five he had no wife and no children, nor did he possess the slightest inclination to get any.
He preferred to travel and paint, to live an unconventional life, unfettered by the responsibility of a great estate and not beholden to society's rules. Mary couldn't blame him, for what had the estate and his family ever done for him except turn their backs on his way of life and try to pretend he did not exist?

  But her father never forgave Hugo for that refusal to conform. He believed that his brother had failed to do his duty for the estate by not marrying and producing sons. It was that simple, and he did not care whether marriage might have been against Hugo's nature. He did not care whether his brother would have been miserable leading a false life. "Your Uncle Hugo is an embarrassment to the Ashford name," he said once to Mary. It was one of the few times she ever heard him speak of his brother, and one of the last that actually referred to him by name.

  So Mary's father, buried in debt and without male heirs, was obliged to sell everything.

  "We shall need that wedding now, Mary, my girl, to lift our spirits," her father had said, his eyes heavy with sorrow. "The sooner the better. What can be keeping that young man of yours from our door?"

  But of course, it would not be proper to rush the proceedings, no matter how urgent one party felt in the matter. "Father, we cannot have a wedding while we're in mourning." Nor would she lower her Ashford Pride to push George into action.

  So the delay stretched on.

  When her father moved his daughters permanently to London, Mary still had hopes of a marriage occurring in the not too distant future, despite the growing infrequency of George's letters and visits. The Ashfords— what remained of them— kept up appearances as long as possible.

  Always she found excuses for her absent fiancé: he must be busy; must still be in the country at a shooting party; or his family obligations kept him dashing about Town— the fashionable part, of course, not the area where they now lived. He would visit when he could. She must be patient and understanding.

  Then, finally, she read the announcement of his wedding one morning in the newspaper.