Snowbound With the Notorious Rake

by Sarah Mallory

  ‘I am very glad to hear it.’

  He sat down at the big table. Rose frowned.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Nothing. That is, I am watching you.’

  She turned back to the fire.

  ‘I wish you would not.’

  ‘Why? I like watching you.’

  Rose knew it was not just the fire that was heating her cheeks.

  ‘Well, I do not want you to watch me,’ she said crossly. ‘It is very off-putting.’

  He laughed. ‘Very well. Is there anything you would like me to do?’

  His good-humoured compliance disarmed her. She stood for a moment, wiping her hands on her apron.

  ‘Well,’ she said at last, ‘the table will need to be prepared…’

  ‘Then I shall do that,’ he said promptly. ‘If you are to be cook and serving maid, I will be footman—oh, and butler, of course. I will find a bottle of wine for us to drink!’

  The drawing room looked very inviting. The heavy velvet curtains were pulled across the windows to shut out the cold night. On the table, candlelight twinkled on the array of glass and silver, and Sir Lawrence had even collected a few evergreens to decorate the table. A dish of steaming vegetables was placed in the centre and a chicken, golden and succulent, rested on a platter waiting for Sir Lawrence to carve.

  ‘A simple meal,’ declared Rose, surveying her handiwork as she took her place at the table, ‘but I think it preferable to cold meat and cheese!’

  ‘Infinitely so,’ agreed Sir Lawrence. ‘I congratulate you, madam. It looks, and smells, delicious.’ He raised his glass. ‘A toast. To the most resourceful woman of my acquaintance.’

  Rose was thankful for the dim candlelight to hide her blushes.

  ‘It is nothing. Any good housewife could do as much. And credit goes to you, too, sir, for the excellent smoke-jack in the kitchen; it turned the spit most successfully.’

  ‘Ah. That was one of the conditions Mrs Brendon placed upon me when I purchased the place. She said she would not consent to work here unless I improved the kitchen.’

  ‘When did you buy Knightscote?’ she asked him. ‘It is strange we heard nothing of it at Mersecombe.’

  ‘I have owned it for a couple of years now, but I have seldom used it, so my coming made little noise.’

  ‘What, was there no gossip?’ she dared to tease him. ‘Even when you brought your less-than-respectable guests here?’

  He frowned at her, but she was not deceived, for she read the laughter in his eyes.

  ‘Be thankful, Mrs Westerhill, that my disreputable guests did visit, else you would have nothing to wear.’

  Instinctively her hand went up to the neck of the dressing gown.

  ‘I had hoped my own clothes would have been dry by now…’

  ‘I’m afraid we did too good a job of making them damp.’

  Rose bit her lip and tried not to recall her wicked thoughts of that afternoon, but they were always there, in her head.

  ‘At least you are most decorously attired,’ he continued. ‘You have only to cover your hair with that napkin and the result would be positively nun-like!’

  She could not resist a retort.

  ‘Some might suggest it is a necessary defence, sir, given your reputation.’

  He bared his teeth.

  ‘Put away your claws, vixen. I will not fight with you on Christmas Day. Tell me instead about your life in Mersecombe. Do you have a large establishment?’

  ‘No, a modest house with a couple of servants.’

  ‘Yet you keep a groom.’

  ‘Evans has been with me since I was a child. He came with me when I married, and when I sold the house at Exford he agreed to come with me to Mersecombe, although he is obliged to work in the house as well as look after the horses.’ She smiled. ‘They are my one luxury. I will buy a pony for little Sam, when the funds allow. Evans will teach him to ride—he put me on my first pony. I should like him to do the same for my son.’

  ‘It must be hard, bringing up a boy on your own.’

  ‘I have my mother to help me. But you are right, he misses his father. Sam was only four when I was widowed, so I am not sure how much he remembers of his papa.’

  A good thing, perhaps, recalling the tears and the arguments.

  ‘How did he die?’

  Lost in the past, Rose looked at him, uncomprehending, and he said quickly, ‘I beg your pardon, if you would rather not—’

  ‘No, no. I have no objection to telling you. A riding accident. His horse slipped on the ice and threw him. He broke his neck.’

  She did not add that he was returning from a tryst with his current mistress. Everyone in Exford might know the truth, but there was no reason she should admit it to this stranger.

  ‘I am very sorry.’

  She shrugged as if to evade his sympathy.

  ‘It was four years ago. We have managed very well since then.’ She added brightly, ‘And now we have Magnus.’

  ‘Magnus?’

  ‘Magnus Emsleigh. He is a shipping merchant and owns a substantial property just outside Mersecombe. He is a pillar of the local society. An excellent example for my son to follow.’

  ‘And does he wish to become Sam’s father? Ah. I can see by your look that that is the case. Why have you not mentioned him before?’

  Rose had wondered that herself. Surely to tell Sir Lawrence that she was betrothed to a wealthy, respected local gentleman would have added to her consequence. It was not a love match, but a prudent arrangement, designed to provide security for her and for Sam. It now occurred to Rose that she was reluctant to admit, even to herself, that she was soon to marry Magnus Emsleigh.

  He spoke again, saying lightly, ‘Have you set a date?’

  ‘Lady Day.’ She pushed a slice of chicken around on her plate. ‘Magnus has no experience of children. Sometimes Sam can be…difficult.’

  Lawrence sat back, his fingers playing with the stem of his wineglass. He remembered his own stepfather, a deeply religious man whose repressive regime of sermons and beatings had only made a spirited young boy even more determined to rebel.

  ‘It can be hard for a young boy to accept another man in the house. It will take time and patience.’

  ‘Yes,’ she nodded eagerly. ‘That is what I have told Magnus.’

  Lawrence took a sip of his wine.

  ‘But what is this pillar of society thinking of, to let you ride unattended in such weather?’

  She put up her chin at that.

  ‘He is not my keeper. I will not allow him to dictate to me.’ Lawrence’s brows went up and she added, ‘Besides, he is in Bath at present and does not know what I am about.’

  Rose turned her attention to her plate and Lawrence took the opportunity to study her. She looked absurdly young in her borrowed dressing gown, but it did nothing to hide her charms. The belt was pulled tight around her tiny waist and accentuated the full, rounded swell of her bosom. The ordered ringlets of yesterday had given way to more natural curls that she had caught back from her face with a wide ribbon, and her cheeks were still delicately flushed from her endeavours in the kitchen.

  ‘I applaud your wish for independence, Mrs Westerhill, but I pity your suitor.’

  He thought she might blush at that, but she surprised him by chuckling.

  ‘Poor Magnus. He thinks I am not capable of managing my own affairs and he is eager to relieve me of all my burdens. As if I had any! My meagre savings require little effort and, no matter what I say, I cannot persuade him that Sam is not a burden! Magnus is a dear, but he is inclined to lecture me and I get quite cross with him sometimes—’ She broke off. ‘I beg your pardon. I should not be telling you all this.’

  ‘You may tell me whatever you wish. In fact—’ He stopped, slightly alarmed to discover that he wanted to know everything about her. He got up to throw more logs on the fire. He must be careful; this woman was getting under his skin. He enjoyed her company, enjoyed teasing her,
watching the delicate colour mantle her cheek, but she was not of his world. The seduction of a respectable schoolteacher was not something he wanted on his conscience.

  When he looked up again she had walked to the window and pushed apart the curtains.

  ‘We have had more snow this evening. It has stopped now and the moon is rising. Do come and look, it is almost as bright as day.’ She glanced over when he came to stand beside her. ‘Is it not beautiful?’

  Almost as beautiful as you.

  The words were on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed them, saying instead, ‘If we have no more snow, then the packhorses should be able to get through tomorrow. You can be on your way.’

  She looked a little startled at his harsh tone, then the lashes dropped, veiling her eyes.

  ‘Yes, of course. And this little idyll will be over.’ There was a hint of sadness in her voice that surprised him.

  ‘An idyll? Is that how you have seen this?’

  Her smile not only lit up her face, it illuminated the room.

  ‘Stranded here, having to fend for ourselves—it has been so different from my everyday life.’ She added shyly, ‘Of course, I was a little frightened of you at first, but you have proved yourself to be most—’

  ‘Be careful,’ he warned her. ‘Do not make a hero out of me!’

  ‘—most restrained,’ she ended, one corner of her mouth lifting a fraction. She looked back to the window. ‘I wonder what might have happened if you had been less honourable.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Surely he had misheard her? The faint blush on her cheek told him he had not.

  ‘We have been given this opportunity to escape from our ordinary lives for a few days. Tomorrow, I will go back to Mersecombe and I assume you will soon return to London. It is unlikely that we shall ever meet again. I just wonder what it would have been like…’

  For a long moment she held his eyes.

  ‘Forgive me.’ She looked away, giving her head a little shake. ‘I think I have had too much wine. Please, ignore what I said.’ She turned back to the table. ‘I had best get these dishes to the kitchen. Evans will have finished his own meal by now and will be waiting to clear up.’

  ‘Let me help you.’

  She did not refuse and he followed her through to the kitchen, his mind buzzing with conjecture. Was she really regretting the fact that he had not tried to seduce her? He shook his head. No. She was far too respectable for that. His gaze was drawn to the proud line of her back, the narrow waist and the full hips that swayed so invitingly as she moved. It was unconsciously done and therefore all the more alluring.

  Evans had already cleaned the spit and cooking pans and he would allow them to do no more than bring the dishes into the scullery.

  ‘A kitchen’s no place for the likes of you, Miss Rose,’ he muttered, ‘nor you, sir. If you will forgive me for saying so, I think you’d be more hindrance than help.’

  Lawrence laughed at that. ‘I fear you may be right. I’ll go away.’

  ‘Aye, do, and be so good as to take my mistress with you!’

  ‘Really, Evans is growing quite autocratic,’ grumbled Rose. She was kneeling before the drawing room fire, jabbing the poker between the logs. ‘He knows I am more than capable of helping him!’

  ‘Yes, but you should not have to.’

  Sir Lawrence reached out and took the poker from her. She shook her head at him, smiling.

  ‘I want to do something!’

  He dropped down beside her and finished stirring the fire into a blaze.

  ‘Then find something a little less harmful to your hands.’ He took her fingers in a firm, warm clasp. ‘Look how rough they are.’

  Rose tried to pull away, embarrassed.

  ‘That is not just from the last couple of days…’

  He ignored her and continued to examine her hands. They were trapped in his gentle grasp. His intense scrutiny was unsettling; her heart was pounding, fluttering in her chest like a caged bird.

  ‘You have even burned yourself.’

  ‘A tiny mark!’ She tried and failed to keep her voice steady, conscious of how near he was. The tug of attraction was almost palpable. He continued to study the small red weal on the edge of her palm. She swallowed. ‘And one expects that in a kitchen…’ Her words trailed off as he lifted her hand to his lips.

  It was a gentle, intimate gesture and it took her breath away. Without thinking Rose tightened her fingers around his. She leaned closer and kissed him full on the mouth. His hands slid up her arms and rested lightly on her shoulders, holding her to him. Rose had closed her eyes, but the next instant they flew open and she drew back.

  ‘Oh, my! I beg your pardon!’

  ‘There is no need; I am not offended.’ He was smiling at her in a way that made it difficult to think.

  She knew she should get up off her knees, but his hands remained on her shoulders, the thumbs tracing the line of her collarbones through the wool of her wrap. She did not want him to stop.

  ‘I—I do not know what came over me.’

  ‘Curiosity, perhaps?’ His smile grew and she felt her bones begin to melt.

  ‘It…it is the snow,’ she stammered. ‘And the wine. I am not normally so…wanton. What must you think of me?’

  He skimmed one hand down her arm and even through the soft woollen sleeve her skin tingled beneath his touch.

  ‘I think you are adorable.’ He lifted her hand and began to kiss each of her fingers.

  ‘Wh-what are you doing?’

  ‘Trying to decide,’ he murmured, between slow, deliberate kisses, ‘if I most want to make love to you here on the rug in front of the fire, or in my bed, between silken sheets.’

  The images conjured by his soft words made her tremble. If she had not already been kneeling, she thought she must have collapsed on the rug in a damp heap of desire and anticipation.

  ‘Im-impossible,’ she stammered. ‘You will do neither of those things.’

  ‘No?’ He raised his eyes from the contemplation of her fingers, and what was left of her insides liquefied. ‘It was you who kissed me. And you yourself questioned whether we were wasting this opportunity.’

  She swallowed and ran her tongue nervously over her lips.

  ‘Are…are you joking me, Sir Lawrence?’ The look in his eyes told her he was in deadly earnest.

  ‘One night,’ he whispered. ‘After that we will go back to our separate worlds and need never meet again. What do you say?’

  It was the edge of a precipice. He was still holding her hand, his thumb rubbing gently across the soft inner side of her wrist and sending arrows of heat through her body. They were still kneeling, and so close that she would only have to lean forwards a little to be in his arms.

  Rose searched his eyes. Behind the intense blue was a shadow of sadness.

  I could dispel that, she thought. I could make him happy, at least for a while.

  ‘No.’ Gently she disengaged her hands. ‘I am very sorry if I led you to think—’

  ‘You did, but I shall get over it.’ He held out his hand to her. ‘“Since there’s no help for it, come, let us kiss and part,”’ he quoted, smiling.

  Her throat swelled. Tears burned her eyes as he pulled her to her feet.

  ‘Oh, please do not say such things to me!’

  ‘Do you not like Drayton?’

  ‘Too much!’ She blinked. ‘It—it has been a long day. I should retire now.’

  He released her, and with another mumbled apology she ran out of the room.

  Damnation!

  Lawrence stared at the closed door. She had rejected him.

  And quite right, too, argued the voice in his head. She is too respectable for you, despite that unsolicited kiss. But he had thought, for a while, that she might just count the world well lost. She had certainly considered it. He sighed. Such a heady mix of innocence and honesty. She had begged him to ignore her. How much better if he could have done so! Indeed, he had intended to k
eep his distance, until the moment he had taken her hands. The mere touch of her skin and all his honourable resolutions had fled. All he knew was that he wanted her in his arms. In his bed.

  He had not felt such desire for months, possibly years. He was happy enough to attend the constant round of parties and balls that filled the London social calendar and was willing to indulge any of the ladies who threw themselves in his way in a little flirtation. Mostly it was no more than that, but he had only to escort a lady to her home for the gossips to claim she was his mistress. He had stopped trying to correct them, but the lies and intrigue of town life had begun to pall—society would be aghast if they knew how many nights he spent alone. He collected a glass of wine and threw himself down in a chair. Another lonely night would be nothing new. The rattling of the window reminded him of the weather. Pray heaven it did not snow again—he needed Rose out of the house. He was only flesh and blood, after all, and she was too damned desirable.

  Rose shut and locked the door of the guest chamber. The room was warm and she sank down in front of the peat fire. What had she done? To kiss a rake, and so wantonly; she might as well have begged him to take her! It was to Sir Lawrence’s credit that he had let her go so easily.

  But you didn’t want him to let you go.

  The thought shocked her, but honesty compelled her to acknowledge it. Ever since she had arrived at Knightscote she had felt the tug of attraction. It was not just that he was wickedly handsome, it was the smile in his blue eyes, the way he made her laugh. She had not felt so alive since those early years with Harry, when he had courted her so assiduously. Her thoughts moved on from there to the marriage bed. Since Harry’s death she had never craved another man’s touch, until now. It was loneliness. She wrapped her arms about herself and inched even closer to the fire. That was the true reason for her restless state. She was lonely.

  And she had read loneliness in Sir Lawrence’s eyes, too. He had forsaken the world this Christmas to mourn his lost love. Rose’s heart went out to him. He might be a rake, but he was sincerely grieving.

  So why not comfort each other?