Seducing the Viscount
Page 31
Vaguely, Raoul recalled spotting Jefferson’s raven-haired daughter occasionally about the estate during his rare visits. She had been at least five years younger than himself, and while a pretty little thing, of no real interest to an unhappy bastard who was already dreaming of a life far from Cheshire.
“Miss Sarah, she is not wed?”
“Nay, nor does she ever intend to wed. She says she is happy to be an old maid.”
Old maid? Egads.
Without undue vanity, Raoul comprehended the power of his appearance on women. How could he not? They had been fawning, fluttering, and occasionally fainting since he had left the nursery.
And old maids were always the worst.
“Perhaps you should run ahead and prepare her for my entrance,” he commanded, poised for flight. It was bad enough to be on his father’s land, without having the added annoyance of fighting off a desperate female. He would hand over Jimmy and bolt. “I would not want to send Miss Sarah into a swoon at the sight of her wounded lamb.”
“You don’t know Miss Sarah if you think anything would send her into a swoon. She didn’t so much as bat an eye when I fell from the tree and broke my arm.” Willie glanced toward his brother’s limp body, gnawing his bottom lip. “Still, I wouldn’t wish her to be thinking poor Jimmy is dead.”
Raoul’s impatience melted. Poor lad.
“Go on,” he urged, gently. “The little one is safe in my care.”
The gray gaze studied him for a long moment, then seeming to find something trustworthy in Raoul’s lean features, he abruptly turned and sprinted across the frozen ground, and disappeared into the cottage.
Alone in the cramped front garden, Raoul distracted himself from the impending confrontation by ensuring that Hercules was happily destroying a small bush next to the gate, and then by studying the warm bundle cradled in his arms.
Ugly little bugger, Raoul decided, with his face all thin angles and sharp points. So ugly that Raoul could not possibly feel a tug at his heart at the boy’s small frown of pain. And certainly his arms did not tighten as Jimmy shivered in the sharp breeze.
There was a welcome distraction as a woman stepped from the cottage, and lifting his head, Raoul watched as she briskly crossed the short distance.
No, not a distraction.
A . . . bolt of lightning.
Or at least that was what it felt like to Raoul as he haplessly gaped at the exotic vision swaying across the frozen ground. She was dark, he inanely noted. Thick raven hair tugged into a haphazard knot at her nape, and black eyes that were faintly tilted and surrounded by a thick lace of black lashes. Even her skin held a hint of gold, rather than ivory, reminding Raoul that her mother had been a foreigner, reputedly of gypsy blood.
An old maid?
Sacrebleu. With her lush curves perfectly revealed beneath the plain blue gown, and those lips that were full and tinted with rose, she could make a fortune on the London stages.
Or gracing his bed . . .
Abruptly Raoul realized that far from fending off a hysterical female, he was the one staring like an idiot. As if he had been kicked in the head, instead of poor Jimmy.
Rueful amusement helped to ease the sense of unreality that gripped him, and with a measure of composure, a very small measure, he managed to meet the dark, steady gaze.
“Miss Jefferson, I believe I have something that belongs to you,” he murmured.
“So I see, Mr. Charlebois,” she retorted, proving she was well aware of his identity. Just . . . indifferent. Astonishing. “If you would be so kind as to bring Jimmy into the parlor?”
His amusement deepened as she turned, and with the same brisk movements led the way back to the cottage, clearly expecting to be obeyed.
As if it were England’s most notorious actor’s duty to tend to her precocious scamp.
“Of course.”
A few flakes of snow drifted from the gray clouds, twirling in the icy breeze. Nearby a dog barked in warning. From the cottage wafted the scent of wood smoke, and more distant the potent scent of freshly cut evergreens.
The sights and smells of Cheshire in December.
Ducking his head, Raoul entered the cottage and followed Miss Jefferson through the cramped foyer into the parlor. He had a brief impression of wooden floors and an open-beamed ceiling with plastered walls. The furnishings were plain and ruthlessly polished, and despite the woman’s obvious housekeeping skills, there was no way to disguise they were growing shabby. Oddly, Raoul had the vague feeling he had seen them before as he settled his small burden on a brocade sofa.
It was a feeling he readily dismissed as his beautiful companion moved to stir the coals in the vast stone fireplace.
His breath became elusive as he watched her graceful movements, feeling as focused as a hound on point as she slowly straightened and brushed past him to settle on the edge of the cushion next to her young ward.
As if sensing her presence, Jimmy managed to lift his lashes just a crack, revealing a hint of pale blue eyes.
“Miss Sarah . . .”
“Sssh, poppet, all is well,” she murmured, motioning toward Willie, who had just entered the room carrying a basin filled with lavender-scented water. He set it on the floor and stepped back as the woman reached into the water to withdraw the cold compress, pressing it with tender care to the lump on Jimmy’s forehead. Only when the boy sighed and drifted back to sleep did she lift her head to regard Raoul with a calm expression. Clearly, Willie had not exaggerated. Miss Jefferson was quite prepared for any disaster. “What happened?”
Raoul hid a smile as he felt Willie stiffen at his side. “The fault is mine, I fear,” he said smoothly.
She arched a perfect raven brow. “Yours?”
He smiled, readily disregarding the truth. “My mount is a high-spirited beast that took exception to the poor lad as he stood beside the path.”
The dark gaze shifted toward the window where she had an unimpeded view of Hercules, patiently awaiting his master.
“Oh yes, quite spirited, I see.”
“Beyond question.”
“And no doubt there was an unexpected noise that spooked the poor creature?”
“A covey of quail in the hedgerow, I believe.”
“Ah.” Her gaze slid to the suspiciously innocent expression on Willie’s countenance before returning her attention to the equally innocent Raoul. “I do hope there was no harm done?”
“Only to poor Jimmy. Do you wish me to fetch the local surgeon?”
“Thank you, no.” She turned her head to smile tenderly at the unconscious urchin. Raoul’s heart gave a peculiar flop. “I believe all I shall need is a length of rope and apple tarts.”
“Rope?” Raoul shamelessly vied to regain the minx’s attention. “I do trust that the rope is not destined for my neck?”
As hoped, the dark gaze lifted. “Actually, I intend to tie this impossible scamp to his bed so he cannot sneak out and do even more damage to his battered brain.”
“And the tarts?”
“They tend to make any wound a bit more bearable for the boys.”
“Actually I believe it is you, Miss Jefferson, that makes wounds, not to mention life in general, more bearable for the boys.”
eKENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
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Copyright © 2009 by Debbie Raleigh
Previously published under the name Deborah Raleigh.
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First eKensington Books Electronic Edition: August 2014
ISBN: 978-1-6018-3237-5
Seducing the Viscount