Snowbound With the Notorious Rake

by Sarah Mallory

  ‘Fiancée!’ She flushed as his scorching glance swept over her. Her incredulous exclamation was insulting. After all, she knew nothing about the man, except gossip. ‘I b-beg your pardon,’ she stammered. ‘I thought— I did not know—’

  ‘How should you? It was never announced. The betrothal was of very long standing. Even her death was accorded no more than a line in the society pages, easily missed. Our betrothal was not a secret, but it was unremarkable.’ He held up his glass and stared at the dark liquid. ‘It has always amazed me that my indiscretions are emblazoned throughout the society news sheets, but my sweet Annabelle, whose short life was so full of kindness and charitable acts, was not considered worthy of a paragraph.’

  ‘You say it was a private arrangement, sir. Were her parents against the marriage?’

  ‘Oh, no. Why should they be, when it would mean the combining of our two estates? It had been arranged between the families when we were children. We are neighbours, you see, and it was always understood that a marriage between the Cravens and the Dauntons would be most advantageous.’ His lip curled. ‘But I was not to be constrained. I would go to London, sow my wild oats, then return to Hampshire to the family seat and marry my childhood sweetheart. Only before I could do so, she caught a fever and…died.’

  ‘I am very sorry.’

  ‘So, too, am I. Last Christmas I returned to Daunton House. It had become the custom, you see, for both families to be in Hampshire during the winter season. My parents died some years ago, but there are the aunts, uncles and cousins, as well as the whole Craven family. They descend upon Daunton and the Craven estate to spend Christmas together. But with Annabelle gone—’ He broke off, giving his attention to refilling his glass. ‘It was the condolences,’ he said harshly. ‘Everyone was so dam—dashed sympathetic. What had I ever done to deserve their compassion? Instead of commiserating with me on my loss they should have berated me for neglecting poor Annabelle, condemning her to her quiet life with her charities and her good works while I scorched my way through society like a—a comet, bent upon my own destruction. That is why this year I determined I would not go back. I would come here and—’

  ‘Wallow in self-pity.’

  His head shot up.

  ‘Why should I not?’

  ‘No reason at all.’ Rose held out her rummer, not speaking again until he had refilled it. ‘What was she like?’

  ‘Annabelle? An angel. Patient, forgiving—’

  ‘She sounds more like a saint,’ observed Rose. ‘To sit at home year after year while you spent your time on routs and revels! Good heavens, if we could read about your…exploits here, so far from London, surely she must have done the same?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And she never once took you to task over your wild ways?’

  ‘Never.’ His black brows snapped together. ‘And just what does that look mean?’

  ‘I beg your pardon. It is none of my business.’

  He pushed himself upright in his chair.

  ‘You are quite right, of course,’ he said, fixing his hard eyes upon her, ‘but since we have come this far, pray do not stop now. Explain yourself.’

  Rose hesitated.

  ‘I do not understand why her family—or yours—did not express their disapproval at your excesses. I admit they make very entertaining reading—my mother is an avid follower of the crim. con. and the latest on dit—as is my aunt and most of her friends!—but I think they would feel very differently if it was anyone connected to us. The lady’s family must have been aware of the damage you were doing to yourself.’

  ‘Of course they were. Annabelle’s brother George spends his time in town and he knew exactly what I was about. But as long as I did not damage my fortune, they were all happy to turn a blind eye.’

  Again she heard the bitterness behind his words. Pity stirred, but instinct told her it would not do to show it. Instead she said thoughtfully, ‘Well, I think it is a very good thing that you did not marry her.’

  The silence that followed Rose’s announcement was as brittle as glass. She sipped at her punch, trying to look unconcerned while a pair of piercing blue eyes bored into her.

  ‘Would you care to explain?’

  His voice was dangerously quiet. She had the impression of sitting opposite a tiger who was ready to spring and she had to steel herself to continue.

  ‘I cannot see that you would have been happy. Unless, of course, you intended to live apart.’

  ‘That is not at all what I intended.’

  ‘So you planned to settle down with a woman of whom you knew nothing—’

  ‘I beg your pardon! I told you we were neighbours. The families had known each other for years.’

  ‘Truly? Did you grow up together, like brother and sister?’

  ‘Of course not. I was sent off to school before Annabelle came out of the nursery.’

  ‘Perhaps you played together during the holidays?’

  ‘Well, no. George and I were friends, but Annabelle did not enjoy good health…’

  ‘And once you had reached your…understanding, she was quite happy to let you go off and…sow your wild oats.’

  ‘By heaven, ma’am, I am no worse than her brother, or most of the men in town!’

  ‘Pardon me, sir, but if only half the reports I have read are true then you are much worse than most!’

  He gave a savage bark of laughter.

  ‘Only because I do not hide my peccadilloes. In actual fact, they are not so very bad—my worst crime is that I enjoy the company of beautiful women and they seem to enjoy mine. But I will not pay to have my name kept out of the news. I am not such a hypocrite.’

  ‘That, of course, is to your credit, sir.’

  Rose returned his furious gaze with one of limpid innocence, but she noted how those long, lean fingers whitened around his glass. She thought it just possible that he might strangle her.

  He drew a deep breath, as if containing his anger. ‘I never lied to Annabelle. She knew what I was.’

  ‘It seems you made no effort to conceal it.’

  ‘She also knew I would change when we were wed.’

  ‘Hah!’

  ‘The devil, madam! You dare to dispute with me?’

  ‘Well, there has certainly been no shortage of news about you this past year, sir.’

  ‘With Annabelle gone I have had no reason to change my way of living.’ When she said nothing he put his rummer down with a snap. ‘Do you think a man cannot change?’

  She fixed her eyes upon him.

  ‘A snake may shed its skin, Sir Lawrence, but it is still a snake! If you had married this poor woman, then one of two things would have occurred: you would have been heartily bored within a month or you would have continued your wild career and broken her heart. You might even have managed both.’

  With a smothered curse he leapt out of his chair.

  ‘Confound it, how dare you say such things to me!’

  ‘Well, it is about time someone said them,’ Rose retorted. ‘It seems to me the poor girl was to be married without any consideration for her happiness, or yours. Do you honestly believe she was content living her solitary life, waiting for you to decide when it was time to settle down?’

  ‘Yes! Yes, she was. In fact…’ She waited, watching him as he strode about the room. After a while he stopped and rubbed a hand across his eyes. ‘I admit I was surprised that she was so content with her lot. I sometimes wondered if she really wanted to marry me.’

  ‘Perhaps she did not.’ She added drily, ‘Charming as you may be, a libertine does not make a good husband.’

  He came back to his chair and threw himself down again, slanting a quick glance towards her. ‘You really do not think very much of me, do you?’

  Rose looked away.

  ‘You do not think enough of yourself, sir.’ She finished her punch. ‘It is getting late, I should retire.’

  Immediately he was on his feet.

  ‘I w
ill escort you.’

  ‘Oh, no, that is not necessary—’

  He was already at the door, holding the lamp. He tilted his head, listening as the long-case clock chimed the hour.

  ‘I remember how nervous you were earlier. How much more so will you be now it is midnight?’

  His kindness surprised her. She had angered him, criticised his way of living, yet still he could consider her comfort. She did not argue, merely took the proffered bedroom candle and allowed him to lead her up the stairs. Their conversation rattled around in her head. Perhaps she had been too outspoken, but he was a rake and she despised rakes. But it was no business of hers how he chose to conduct himself. Still, she was a guest in his house and she did not like to think that she had been impolite. A fleeting glance at his face told her nothing.

  ‘This is your room.’ He stopped. ‘Goodnight, Mrs Westerhill. Let us hope the snow has eased by the morning and you can continue your journey.’

  ‘Sir Lawrence! What I said earlier—if I offended you, I am most sorry.’ The look he bent upon her was unfathomable, but the flickering shadows made his features seem harsh and uncompromising. She hurried on, ‘I was taught never to let the sun set upon a quarrel.’

  ‘I thought what you said to me was more in the nature of…home truths.’

  She dragged up a smile.

  ‘You are regretting your kindness in giving me shelter.’

  The harsh look fled from his eyes. He said with a touch of humour, ‘I cannot recall I had any choice in the matter.’ He reached for her hand and raised it to his lips. ‘Goodnight, Rose Westerhill. Content yourself with the fact that you have given me much to think on.’

  Rose stepped into her room and leaned her back against the closed door. She was trembling, but not with cold, or the effects of their harsh words. It was shock at the bolt of wanton lust that had shot through her when he had pressed that final kiss upon her hand.

  Lawrence opened his eyes and lay very still, watching the play of light upon the ceiling. Something was amiss. He was at his hunting lodge, it was Christmas Day, but his head was unusually clear.

  Then he remembered.

  He slid out of bed and reached for his dressing gown. He had a visitor. A respectable schoolteacher who dared to lecture him—him!—upon how he should grieve for Annabelle. Well, the sooner Rose Westerhill was on her way and out of his life the better.

  It took only a glance out of the window for him to know she would not be going anywhere today. The snow had fallen heavily all night, covering the ground with a thick white blanket and piling heavy drifts against the walls. There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in!’

  Evans entered.

  ‘The mistress’s compliments, sir. She sent up hot water. Said as how you would want to wash and shave before you came down to breakfast.’

  ‘Did she, now?’

  ‘Aye, sir.’ The groom fixed his eyes somewhere over Lawrence’s shoulder. ‘She also said you shouldn’t dress too fine, even though ’tis Christmas Day. She said there’s work to be done!’

  The clock was chiming ten when Sir Lawrence strode into the kitchen. Rose heard his impatient tread and turned towards the door. Her heart, which had become very unreliable recently, leapt to her throat and then began to hammer against her ribs.

  I knew it. I knew he would be unbearably handsome!

  When she had seen him last night with his hair untidy, clothes dishevelled and a day’s growth of beard upon his cheek she had thought him a rogue, albeit one with kind eyes and a blinding smile. Now he appeared before her clean-shaven, his hair brushed until it gleamed glossy as a raven’s wing and she was sure the snowy whiteness of his starched neckcloth would not have looked out of place in a London salon. His brown jacket appeared to be moulded to his frame, but no more so than the tight buckskins that clung to his thighs. She had heard that some gentlemen deliberately shrunk their breeches to make them fit so tightly. His certainly left little to the imagination. Her mouth was so dry she could not speak.

  ‘Well—’ his deep voice was rich with laughter ‘—do I pass muster?’

  She blushed vividly.

  ‘I asked Evans to tell you not to dress up today.’

  He glanced down.

  ‘This is my usual country wear. Nothing special. The coffee smells good. May I have some?’

  ‘What? Oh—oh, yes. Of course.’

  With a supreme effort Rose pulled herself together.

  ‘I found some muffins that your housekeeper had left for you. And there’s honey and butter…’

  ‘Excellent. Have you eaten yet?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Then we shall break our fast together.’

  They sat down at one end of the big table and toasted the muffins before the fire. Rose found herself relaxing, enjoying the companionship—there could be no false airs when one was licking butter from one’s fingers. Sir Lawrence was watching her over the rim of his coffee cup. She smiled.

  ‘Oh dear, have I made a terrible mess? There is no dainty way to eat these things!’ She picked up her napkin and wiped her lips.

  He put down his cup.

  ‘You have butter on your cheek. Here—let me.’ He took the napkin from her fingers and leaned closer.

  Rose held her breath. His hand was on her cheek, but his face was just inches from hers, so close she could see the tiny laughter lines around his eyes, follow the curl of each dark lash, study in detail those incredibly blue eyes. When she breathed in she was aware of the clean, fresh scent of him. She had heard that the Prince Regent used a perfume water scented with roses. Whatever fragrance Lawrence favoured it was not roses, but a much more subtle blend of herbs—lavender, perhaps. His hand stilled on her cheek and he looked down, exposing her to the full force of his gaze. Rose knew she must say something, and quickly.

  ‘Wh-what is that fragrance you are wearing, sir?’

  The blue eyes never wavered from her face.

  ‘It is from France. Eau de cologne.’ The corners of his mouth twitched. ‘I am sorry to say Bonaparte’s endorsement has made it rather unpopular in England. Do you not approve?’

  Oh, yes, she thought, her senses swimming as she breathed in the heady fragrance.

  She cleared her throat.

  ‘It is not for me to approve or disapprove, sir.’

  He was still hovering over her, tantalisingly close.

  ‘Most ladies seem to like it.’

  The words were provocative. She should give him a set-down, but it was impossible. He was still staring at her and she could not tear herself away. But then, she did not wish to. All her virtuous resolutions had deserted her. She was drowning in a pair of blue eyes.

  ‘By gum, ’tis a cold ’un.’

  A blast of icy air enveloped them as Evans came in, knocking the snow from his boots before shutting the door. The groom’s entrance had freed Rose from her inertia. Heavens, how close she had come to disaster! She rose quickly and began to gather up the dishes, clattering them angrily together.

  ‘Bad, is it?’ Sir Lawrence asked him, unperturbed.

  ‘Aye, sir. Nothin’s travelling today, that’s for sure. Miss Rose asked me to go down as far as where I guessed the main track should be, but the drifts are terrible deep. Once the packhorses have pushed through, then we can follow their trail, but I don’t expect to see ’em today. ’Tis Christmas Day, after all.’

  ‘So it is!’ Sir Lawrence turned back to Rose. ‘Let me be the first to wish you a Merry Christmas, madam.’

  ‘Do you mean to say we will be stranded here for another day?’ she demanded.

  Sir Lawrence grinned.

  ‘At least.’

  It occurred to Rose that her host was not at all upset by the news.

  ‘When do you expect your staff to return?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘I had told them to come back tomorrow. However, if it snows again that may change. If we cannot get out, they will not be able to get in.’<
br />
  ‘You do not seem very put out by the prospect.’

  ‘Why should I be? Mrs Brendon has left the larder well stocked with ham and cheese, probably biscuits, too.’

  ‘Enough for you alone, perhaps. But…cold meats on Christmas Day?’ She rose, brushing down her apron. He had accused her of being a managing female—she would prove him right! She said briskly, ‘Very well, then, we must get to work. Evans, have you checked the stables yet?’

  ‘No, ma’am. There’s a gert snowdrift across the door.’

  ‘Well, I think you should dig it away and look after the horses.’

  Sir Lawrence stood up.

  ‘I’ll give you a hand—’

  ‘No, sir, I have another job for you.’ Rose gave him her sweetest smile. ‘I am afraid, Sir Lawrence, that the occasion calls for a sacrifice.’

  Sir Lawrence scowled. ‘This is a damned unusual Christmas!’

  Rose chuckled.

  ‘I know, Sir Lawrence, but needs must, as they say.’

  They were in one of the outhouses, surrounded by feathers.

  ‘I only hope these birds were not the best layers,’ he muttered. ‘Mrs Brendon will have something to say when she returns.’

  ‘But, my dear sir, we must have something to eat today.’

  He cast a fulminating glance in her direction.

  ‘My requirements were quite minimal. A slice of ham, a bottle of wine…’

  ‘But it is so cold I am sure your housekeeper will be pleased to know you are going to eat a proper meal,’ replied Rose, trying not to smile. ‘I have almost finished plucking my bird, Sir Lawrence. You do not seem to be making much progress with yours. But I acquit you, since you were the one who had to despatch the poor things.’ She looked up and laughed. ‘Fie, Sir Lawrence! I do believe that, at this moment, you wish it had been my neck that you had wrung!’

  His mouth curled in a reluctant grin.

  ‘I admit I was sorely tempted, ma’am, when you told me what you wanted me to do.’

  ‘But you will enjoy your meal, sir, I promise you.’ She put aside her own bird and reached for his. ‘Let me finish that for you, Sir Lawrence.’

  He looked at her, his brows raised.

  ‘Why do I have this suspicion that you will find me something equally onerous to do now?’