Snowbound With the Notorious Rake

by Sarah Mallory

  ‘No, no, not at all.’ She laughed at him. ‘I only want you to go and make sure the fires are banked up! Evans has fetched in more peat, but you might wish to refill the wood basket.’ She added, in the way of a treat, ‘When you have done that and I have prepared these birds for the spit, perhaps we should step out and see for ourselves just how bad the roads are.’

  The blizzards of the previous evening and the overnight snow had given way to a gloriously clear blue sky. The glistening white world shone just outside the door. Rose was dazzled by its brightness. She longed to go out and explore it, but she had spent years teaching her pupils that leisure time was much more enjoyable when it was earned, so she carried the two hens to the kitchen and set everything in readiness for dinner before she allowed herself even to think about going out of doors.

  When she ran upstairs to collect her cloak she stopped for a moment to gaze out of the window. The world was transformed by a blanket of white. She thought of her family back at Mersecombe. They would have realised how impossible it was for her to get home. She hoped they would not be too anxious; little Sam would not worry at all, he would be much too excited by the first real snow of the winter, but Mama—she knew Rose had Evans with her and would surely believe her daughter was sensible enough to take shelter. Rose gave a little laugh. Sensible! If her mother could see her now she would think her anything but sensible, stranded in a large old house with a man whose licentious reputation was known countrywide! But, in truth, what else could she do? The sensible thing had been to remain at Knightscote and it was eminently sensible to make sure they had a good meal. Humour bubbled in her throat again. Perhaps she could have fainted off, or had hysterics when she realised just who her companion was, but Rose could not see that such behaviour would have benefited her at all. No, she would just have to make the most of it. Her family would be at church now, so she uttered up a little prayer for them as she picked up her cloak and set off to join Sir Lawrence downstairs.

  The sun was high over head as they left the house.

  ‘I am surprised you are willing to quit your new do main,’ remarked Sir Lawrence as they set out across the courtyard.

  ‘It is not my domain,’ she told him. ‘Evans is only too happy to sit in the kitchen, smoking his pipe and keeping the fire in. My presence is not required.’

  They left the grounds by a little wicket gate that led directly to the lane. Rose walked behind Sir Lawrence, placing her boots in his footsteps, but still it was necessary to hold her cloak and skirts high to avoid them dragging in the snow. It was only one hundred yards to the end of the lane, but by the time they reached it she was breathing heavily, her boots and the hem of her skirts caked in snow. Sir Lawrence, she noted, in his country jacket, York tan gloves and stylish beaver hat, looked as fresh as the moment he had stepped out of the house. He had not put on his greatcoat and his only concession to the cold was a muffler wrapped about his neck.

  She came to stand beside him and they gazed down upon an alien landscape, only the black outlines of the trees and bushes showing against the dazzling white of the lying snow.

  ‘Evans is right,’ said Sir Lawrence, shielding his eyes against the glare of sun on snow. ‘It would be hard going for you to push your way through those deep drifts.’

  ‘But how long must we wait for the packhorses to go through?’

  He shrugged. ‘A couple of days at the most.’

  ‘Oh, no!’

  He turned to smile down at her. ‘You need not worry; livelihoods depend upon the business. They will be on the move as soon as they can.’

  ‘Well, it cannot be soon enough for me.’

  ‘Ungrateful woman! Is my house so lacking in hospitality?’

  ‘Indeed it is,’ she retorted, ‘when I have been obliged to cook my food and to make my own bed!’

  ‘Neither of which was necessary. Mrs Brendon left plenty of cold food and my bed was made; I would happily have shared both with you.’

  Rose gasped.

  ‘How…how dare you!’ she stammered, her cheeks flaming.

  ‘Oh, easily.’ He grinned. ‘I am quite notorious, you know.’

  ‘Y-you are quite outrageous,’ she retorted, trying not to laugh. ‘You are trying to put me to the blush.’

  ‘And succeeding!’

  ‘Well, I wish you would not. It will make for a most uncomfortable time if I have to spend the rest of my stay in the kitchen with Evans.’

  ‘It will, indeed, and I would not have you do that for the world. Shall we go back?’

  The return journey was easier, for they had a beaten path to follow and Rose now found it possible to walk beside Sir Lawrence. His outrageous remarks had not disturbed her—quite the contrary, for there was understanding in his blue eyes and an invitation for her to share the joke. He was obviously in good spirits and she was a little surprised therefore, at the serious tone of his next remark.

  ‘What you said to me last night,’ he said, gazing up at the sun, ‘do you think it true? That Annabelle never really wanted to marry me?’

  ‘Sir—’

  ‘No, tell me, if you please. I feel I have been surrounded by sycophants, people who only say what they think I want to hear.’

  ‘Whereas I will tell you the truth as I see it.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Rose drew her breath, awed at the responsibility he was placing on her shoulders.

  ‘I did not know your Annabelle. Perhaps she was a saint, content to wait, but if she truly loved you, I wonder that she did not remonstrate with you.’

  ‘She never did. Not one word. As I told you, she was an angel.’

  ‘However much you might grieve for her, it will not bring her back. She is gone and the best you can do for her now is to make something of your life.’

  He gave a mirthless bark of laughter.

  ‘And just what am I good for? Spending money, charming women…’

  She gripped his arm.

  ‘You are young and strong. And rich! At the very least you should work to improve the lot of those you employ. And even if your land is in good heart and supporting you and your people, there are others who need help. For example, those poor wretches who fought at Waterloo. Soldiers, proud men who are now cast off, unnecessary to the government. One sees them sometimes, even in this out-of-the-way place, starving at the roadsides. They should be honoured, protected. If you have the means to help them, then you should do so.’

  He stopped.

  ‘Aha, so you do think a man can change?’

  ‘No, sir.’ She returned his look. It was easy to be brave when the winter world was so bright and fresh. ‘But I do not think that charming women is all you need do with your life!’

  The house was in sight, long and low, the leaded windows twinkling in the sun beneath the covering of snow on its gabled roof. All around them the drifts were piled against walls and hedges, turning everyday outlines into magical forms. Rose breathed deeply: the clear air was as heady as wine.

  ‘It may interest you to know, madam, that my reputation is somewhat exaggerated. I do not go out of my way to attract females.’

  ‘But you do not go out of your way to avoid them.’

  ‘Well, no, but your sex can be quite…resolute.’ He grinned. ‘Especially when the prize is so worth the catching.’

  When his blue eyes smiled in just that way Rose could understand why so many foolish women succumbed to his charms, but she was determined not to be one of their number. She said severely, ‘You value yourself very highly, Sir Lawrence.’

  Again he flashed that wicked smile.

  ‘Who am I to dispute what the ladies say?’

  They were approaching the wicket gate and he strode ahead of her so he did not hear her indignant gasp.

  ‘Why, you…smug…arrogant…conceited man!’

  She scooped up a handful of snow and squeezed it between her hands, taking aim as he applied himself to opening the gate.

  Her snowball caught him only a gl
ancing blow on the shoulder so she quickly formed another and hurled it after the first. Her aim was hurried and the snowball would have sailed harmlessly past his head, if Sir Lawrence had not turned back at that moment and taken the full force of her missile on his hat, which was knocked clean off his head.

  ‘Well, that was most satisfactory.’ Rose dusted her hands together, a grin tugging at her mouth, until she realised that Sir Lawrence was about to retaliate.

  She turned away, uttering a small scream as his first attempt splashed on her neck, some of the snow finding its way onto her skin. She remembered the adage that the best form of defence was attack and fired off another couple of shots. However, she quickly realised that she was no match for Sir Lawrence’s deadly aim.

  ‘Enough!’ she cried, laughing. ‘Truce, sir, truce!’

  ‘Oh, no, this is a duel to the death!’

  Another well-aimed shot hit her shoulder and showered her face with icy flakes. Rose picked up her skirts and fled for the shelter of the hedge. Sir Lawrence followed and Rose set off across the field with its covering quilt of snow.

  ‘Got you!’

  The hand on her shoulder sent her tumbling, Sir Lawrence following as he lost his footing on the icy ground. They sprawled together, laughing and gasping for breath.

  ‘Unfair, sir,’ declared Rose, when she could at last speak. ‘Do you know how difficult it is to move when one is hampered by skirts?’

  ‘Hah! Who was it struck the first blow, when my back was turned?’

  ‘That blow was well deserved!’

  She was about to rise, but Sir Lawrence rolled over, pinning her down.

  ‘Well deserved? What had I done?’

  ‘It was punishment, for your arrogance!’

  ‘My—’ His black brows rose. ‘Is it my fault if women find me irresistible?’

  ‘You are incorrigible!’ She was laughing up at him, finding it quite impossible to disagree and responding unselfconsciously to the humour in his eyes.

  They continued thus, smiling at one another, blue eyes locked on blue-grey, for a long, long moment. Time stopped, everything around them was hushed and still, as if the world was holding its breath. Suddenly it occurred to Rose that she had never shared such a moment before, even with her husband.

  She realised her situation: stretched out on the snow with Sir Lawrence almost lying on top of her, his lips only inches from her own, his breath feathering her cheek and the faint tang of eau de cologne filling her senses. In her imagination she reached out for him, pulling his face to hers and kissing him passionately. He would respond, of course, but it would not stop at kisses. Suddenly she knew why she had been feeling so restless… Panic filled her and she struggled to sit up. Immediately Lawrence rolled away.

  ‘Very well, Mrs Westerhill, let us now agree to that truce!’ He jumped up and held out his hand to her. ‘Will you cry friends with me?’ Even the touch of their gloved hands was unsettling. As soon as she was on her feet Rose pulled her fingers free and turned away, knowing she was blushing, but the thoughts of making love to him refused to leave her mind. He said quickly, ‘I hope I did not hurt you?’

  ‘N-no.’ She concentrated on shaking out her skirts, speaking sharply to cover her discomfiture. ‘But that was very irresponsible of us. Our clothes will be wet through.’

  ‘Here, let me help you.’ She started when he began to brush the snow off her back. ‘There.’ He turned her to face him. ‘Forgive me,’ he said gently, ‘I did not mean to alarm you.’

  Her eyes flew to his face. She was nervous, overset, but he had done nothing, save be there.

  ‘Oh, no—that is, it was as much my fault as yours.’ She struggled to smile. ‘I fear the snow has made me a little light-headed.’

  ‘It makes everything different,’ he agreed, looking around them. ‘It is like living in a fairy-tale world.’ He held out his arm. ‘Friends?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Friends.’

  When they reached the kitchen garden Sir Lawrence stopped.

  ‘It is Christmas Day and I have no present for you.’ He reached across to a snow-covered bush and pulled off a small twig. ‘Here. Rosemary, for remembrance.’

  Rose took the spiky little branch and held it to her face, breathing in its scent. She never wanted to forget this day, however dull and respectable the rest of her life might be. The smell of rosemary would for ever remind her of Sir Lawrence.

  ‘Thank you.’ She tucked the stalk carefully into her pocket. ‘But now I am in your debt.’

  He put his fingers under her chin. She yielded to the pressure, tilting up her face, and he kissed her.

  ‘Now we are equal.’

  His kiss was brief, light as a feather, nothing like the impassioned, ravaging embrace of her imagination. It meant nothing, she kept telling herself. It was a friendly gesture, to reassure her that he had no designs upon her virtue. She was not sure she wanted to believe this argument, but as they walked back to the house she made a great effort to regain her composure. By the time they walked into the kitchen she had recovered sufficiently to smile at Evans’s look of surprise.

  ‘We have been very imprudent,’ she told him, pulling off her cloak. ‘Sir Lawrence will be able to change, but I shall have to rely upon a good blaze in the drawing room to dry my skirts.’

  ‘Aye, well, I did build up the fire there for you and banked up the fires in the bedrooms, too, but you’ll never sit around all day like that, Miss Rose,’ declared her groom. ‘Why, I can see from here that the back of your gown is soaked through!’

  Sir Lawrence had been arranging their gloves on the mantelshelf, but now he turned, saying, ‘If you would like to follow me, ma’am, perhaps we can find something for you to wear while we dry your clothes.’

  Rose shook her head. ‘I must put the chickens on the spit to roast—’

  ‘I can do that for you, Miss Rose,’ said Evans, waving her towards the door. ‘You had best get out of those wet things before you catch your death.’

  ‘That is the problem with servants one has known since a child,’ she remarked, frowning at her groom, ‘they tend to bully one.’

  ‘But you know he is right,’ replied Sir Lawrence. ‘Come along, ma’am.’

  There was nothing but friendliness to be read in his expression, so with a nod Rose followed him up the stairs, aware that her wet undergarments were becoming increasingly chilly against her skin.

  ‘This is my bedroom,’ he announced. ‘You may come in or stay outside, but pray do not keep the door open, you are letting all the heat escape.’

  Rose knew she should retreat and wait for him in the corridor, but the warmth of the fire was too tempting so she stepped into the room and closed the door. While Sir Lawrence delved into drawers and searched through a large linen press she looked about her. The painted walls glowed ruby red in the brilliant sunshine, matching the red-and-gold bed hangings. The ornately carved chimneypiece depicted hunting scenes that were repeated in the plaster frieze around the ceiling. In the daylight the chamber looked rich and warm; Rose imagined it at night, with the curtains pulled across the windows and the warm candlelight adding to the fire’s glow. How much more comfortable to lie beside Sir Lawrence on that huge bed rather than in the cold snow…

  Her body grew quite hot at the idea. Heavens, did merely being in the company of a rake make one prey to such dissolute thoughts? Rose quickly reached for the door handle.

  ‘Perhaps I should wait in my own room…’

  ‘No, no, I have found it now.’

  Sir Lawrence came towards her, a floating confection of lace and ribbons in one hand. Despite her nerves Rose laughed.

  ‘I cannot wear that,’ she declared, gazing at the gossamer-thin nightgown. ‘It would be most improper. And besides, it would afford me no warmth at all.’

  Sir Lawrence grinned.

  ‘One of my—er—guests left it here. And I cannot recall thinking it improper.’

  Rose choked. She must not l
augh at his outrageous comments. He continued as if he had not noticed. ‘However, I agree it would not be very warm, but you might wear this over it.’ He held up a grey woollen wrap. ‘It is a banyan and a trifle small for me.’ Rose hesitated and he added, ‘Surely it would be better than risking your health by keeping on those wet clothes.’

  ‘Very true.’ She held out her hand. ‘I will go and change.’

  ‘Do you need help?’ asked Sir Lawrence. ‘I am not unfamiliar with…’

  ‘No—thank you!’

  Rose snatched the clothes from him and fled.

  Chapter Three

  ‘Well, it may not be stylish, but it is certainly respectable.’

  Rose regarded her image in the mirror. Sir Lawrence’s dressing gown almost wrapped around her twice, held in place by the belt which was knotted tightly at her waist. It covered her completely from her neck to her toes; if she had not folded back the sleeves, they would have hung down past her fingertips.

  Thankfully her serviceable leather boots had been laced tightly at the ankle and not leaked, so she was able to put them on and protect her feet from the cold stone flags of the lower floors. When Rose left her chamber she was conscious of the soft silk and lace of the nightgown against her skin. Enveloped as she was in the dressing gown, no one could consider her dress immodest, but without her stays or chemise she felt decidedly underdressed.

  The succulent smell of roasting chicken greeted her as she entered the kitchen, making her realise how hungry she was. She reached for the cook’s apron hanging behind the door and was tying it around her when Evans brought in a basket of vegetables from the cold room. If he noticed her unusual garb, he said nothing about it. Neither did Sir Lawrence, who came in shortly after, but she was aware of the way his eyes wandered over her and she had the uncomfortable feeling that he knew exactly what she was—or was not—wearing beneath the enveloping wrap.

  ‘So you are going to cook Christmas dinner for us, ma’am?’

  ‘I am.’ She tried to keep her attention firmly fixed upon basting the chickens. ‘I am quite adept at the art of cookery.’