Regency: Rakes & Reputations (Mills & Boon M&B)

by Gail Ranstrom

  Finding the passageway deserted, he made for the door at its far end. Having been ushered through that same door the previous evening, he had no doubts about it leading him to the kitchen and to that much needed cup of coffee!

  Pushing open the door, he quickly surveyed the scene in front of him. A lace-capped serving wench, clad in a plain grey kerseymere gown, overtopped by a clean white apron, was bent over the range with her back to him, heavily preoccupied in stirring the contents of one of the pots thereon.

  ‘Coffee, if you please, and quick about it!’ he ordered authoritatively, as he sauntered across the room and took a seat at the large pine table that dominated the tavern’s kitchen. ‘And then ham, eggs and mushrooms to follow, I think!’

  Straightening up in shock, Sophie swung round to face him, her heart stuttering almost to a stop as she got her first real look at her midnight assailant. Pausing momentarily to take in his remarkably handsome if slightly dishevelled appearance, she found it necessary to take in quite a deep breath of air before she felt able to summon up the necessary self-assurance to respond to his communication. Having spent the better part of the night trying to rationalise the quite bizarre happenings in the parlour—particularly in reference to her own out-of-character behaviour—she had reached the conclusion that, since it had seemed to her that the man must have been in a very advanced state of intoxication to behave in the way he had done, there was every chance he might well have woken with no memory of what had occurred between them.

  Not that anything of great moment had actually taken place, as she hastily reminded herself! Merely a fumbled kiss, followed by his slurred attempt at an apology—hardly a matter to get wound up over and, if she were honest, an experience nowhere near as unpleasant as those she had suffered at the hands of Arthur Crayford, whose constant attempts to waylay her whenever his stepmother was not in the offing were beginning to cause her considerable disquiet!

  ‘Wake up, girl! I said coffee, if you please!’

  She started. It seemed that the man had not recognised her! Which was hardly surprising, really, considering all the effort she had made to bundle her unruly chestnut curls into some sort of chignon, prior to covering her entire head with one of the highly unattractive lace caps she had taken to wearing in her attempts to hold young Crayford at bay.

  ‘There is no more coffee, I’m afraid,’ she replied, in as gracious a tone as she could manage in the circumstances. ‘Mr Webster has had the last of it—he slipped on the ice while going to collect logs and has been obliged to take to his bed with a badly sprained back. As a result of which, the range fire is now almost out, but should you care to go and fetch some logs yourself, I daresay I might be prevailed upon to provide you with a fresh jug of coffee!’

  Thoroughly taken aback, Marcus rose from his seat and in two quick strides he was standing in front of her, an angry expression upon his face.

  ‘I believe you are forgetting yourself, miss!’

  ‘As indeed are you, sir!’ Sophie fired back at him, her former apprehension instantly swept aside in her growing indignation at what she felt was an unnecessarily imperious manner on the man’s part.

  Marcus stared down at her, his eyes narrowing. ‘What the devil do you mean by that remark?’ he demanded, somewhat belligerently. ‘Is it or is it not your duty to wait upon the guests in this establishment?’

  ‘I hardly think so,’ she countered, in the most dulcet of tones. ‘Since I myself am also one of the guests.’

  A puzzled frown shifted across his brow as he continued to peruse her face until all at once realisation began to surface. ‘Good God! You’re her, dammit, aren’t you?’

  ‘She,’ corrected Sophie automatically. ‘I am she, not “her”—if you are referring to the female who inadvertently invaded your sleeping quarters last evening, that is!’

  Marcus’s eyebrow quirked in exasperation.

  ‘Never mind the blessed semantics,’ he grunted. ‘Perhaps you will have the goodness to explain to me what you mean by going around giving folks the impression that you are a serving maid?’

  ‘I believe that was your mistake, sir, not mine!’ she answered cheerfully, as she turned back to the porridge pot to give it another quick stir. ‘I am merely doing my best to help an old couple who, quite without warning, have found themselves landed with a house full of uninvited guests. Apart from our doughty driver and his guard, who have spent the past two hours clearing a path to the stables and woodshed, it would seem that I am the only one of our party who is capable of being of any practical help to them.’

  ‘Ah! At last I begin to understand,’ returned Marcus with an expressive nod. ‘I must suppose that this is also the reason you are togged up in that apron and wearing that hideous monstrosity on your head.’

  ‘I beg your pardon!’ flashed back Sophie indignantly. ‘I’ll have you know that my cap is perfectly respectable and generally considered to be quite in keeping with my position.’

  ‘Whatever position that might be I cannot begin to imagine,’ he riposted quickly, having already ascertained that her fingers were unadorned with rings of any sort. ‘You are quite clearly not a widow, and unless I am much mistaken a fair few years from being counted an old maid!’

  ‘Really, sir!’ retorted Sophie, beginning to feel distinctly nettled at the man’s indefensible lack of civility. ‘I fail to see that who I am or what my situation is can be any possible concern of yours!’

  Whilst it was true that in normal circumstances such pointed questioning of a young woman might be considered rather improper, Marcus suddenly found himself relishing the thought that, given their present situation, no such conventional restrictions need apply.

  ‘Oh, come now!’ he cajoled, favouring her with a lopsided grin, the like of which was usually more than enough to leave even the most straitlaced of females quivering in her shoes. ‘Since it would seem that we are likely to be cooped up together for who knows how long, it occurs to me that the polite interchange of names might not be considered amiss.’

  Then, executing a perfect leg, he added, ‘Marcus Wolfe, at your service, ma’am.’

  Whilst his roguish smile was certainly enough to bump up her heart rate more than just a notch or two, Sophie’s unconventional upbringing had taught her to recognise such guile for what it was worth, and, dipping him what was intended to be a mockingly servile curtsey, she replied, ‘Miss Sophie Flint, governess—if it so pleases your honour, sir!’

  He laughed, showing a set of even white teeth. ‘It pleases me greatly, thank you, Miss Flint and, if you will allow it, I should like to take this opportunity to apologise for that rather unfortunate misunderstanding last evening—I suspect that your impromptu visit was actually intended to retrieve this piece of property. I assume that it is yours?’

  And, having thrust his hand into his pocket as he spoke, he extracted Sophie’s reticule and held it out towards her.

  At the sight of her shabby brown leather purse, the blush that had been forming on Sophie’s face at the man’s mention of the highly discomfiting events of the previous evening quickly disappeared. All at once her summer blue eyes lit up in delight and she favoured the Viscount with a smile of such joyful sweetness that he was momentarily lost for words.

  ‘Oh, thank you, Mr Wolfe!’ she exclaimed, as she reached forward to accept the purse. ‘I was beginning to fear that I might have seen the last of it!’

  Not having seen fit to introduce himself by his correct title, Marcus was unable to bring himself to rectify Sophie’s unwitting error. In fact, having experienced a somewhat disconcerting sensation in the pit of his stomach the moment their hands touched, he was very soon of the opinion that, for the short time that they were to be forced into one another’s company, to be known as Mr Wolfe might serve him rather well—especially since the yawning, night-capped landlord had been too busy apologising for the lack of a suitable bed to get around to enquiring his name upon his arrival the previous evening.

  Fo
rcing his eyes away from her elated expression, he shot a quick look at the dying fire.

  ‘I suppose if I am ever to get that cup of coffee I am so desperately in need of, I had better go and see about these blessed logs,’ he groaned, at the same time simulating a world-weary sigh. ‘Exactly where is this woodshed of which you spoke?’

  Unable to hide her amusement at his feigned expression of virtuous suffering, Sophie raised her hand and indicated the back door. ‘Directly opposite,’ she replied. ‘As I said before, part of the yard has already been cleared of snow and—oh, yes, I’m afraid I forgot to mention—should you happen to require milk in your coffee, you will find Daisy waiting in the adjoining cowshed!’

  ‘Daisy?’

  Marcus stopped and turned, a mystified frown on his face.

  ‘The Websters’ cow—she is yet to be milked.’

  But then, seeing the Viscount’s look of utter astonishment, she added hurriedly, ‘That was intended merely as a jest, Mr Wolfe. One could scarcely suppose it likely that you also number milking amongst your undoubted talents!’

  He gave a low chuckle and a mischievous glint lit up his eyes. ‘Such talents as I do happen to possess might surprise even your good self, Miss Flint,’ he murmured softly. ‘In fact, if you would just do me the service of removing that ghastly monstrosity from your head, who knows what hazardous activities I could be persuaded into!’

  The challenging look he cast at her was more than enough to cause Sophie’s cheeks to flame in mortification, it having instantly brought to mind her almost wanton behaviour of the previous evening.

  ‘Logs!’ she choked, as she gave him a swift push towards the door. ‘And quickly—before the fire goes out!’

  Kissing the tips of his fingers, he sent her a quick salute as he exited from the room with the words, ‘Your wish is my command, dear lady!’

  As she stared at the now closed door, a perplexed frown creased Sophie’s brow and she tried her utmost to make some sense out of the somewhat odd sensations that the very vexing Mr Wolfe seemed to have engendered within her. Unable to reach a satisfactory conclusion to her ruminations, however, she gave a brisk shake of her head and forced herself to return her attention to the porridge pot from where, after giving it one final stir, she spooned out a small bowlful to take up to her still ailing charge, along with the very last drop of milk in the jug.

  That Marcus Wolfe was the most accomplished rake she had ever come across was without question, and, given his rather autocratic manner and the obvious quality of his perfectly tailored jacket and fine leather riding boots, it would seem that he more than likely belonged to that high-flown set of men about town whom lesser beings such as Arthur Crayford craved vainly to emulate. Clearly the sort of dangerously attractive man that all well brought up young females were taught by their mothers to be on their guard against, and, bearing in mind the rather disconcerting effect that his very presence already seemed to be having on her, Sophie was quick to realise that she would need to keep all her wits about her if she meant to keep her heart safe from Wolfe’s compellingly magnetic charisma.

  Having spent most of her growing years in the company of men from all walks of life, she could not recall a single one of them having had quite the same effect on her pulse as did this man, who was little more than a stranger to her. Whilst she had never been averse to a light flirtation with the occasional junior officer under her father’s command, her heart had always remained entirely her own, and now that she was forced to make her own way in the world she had reached the conclusion that it must continue to remain that way.

  With her mother reduced to taking in paying guests in a rented house in Dulwich village, in order that Roger, Sophie’s fourteen-year-old brother, might continue his public school education at the nearby college, an advantageous marriage might have been thought to be the ideal solution to the Flint family’s financial difficulties. Unfortunately, given that Sophie’s current situation as a governess to two young children was something of a drawback insofar as regular contact with unmarried members of the opposite sex was concerned, she had grown accustomed to the idea that the chances of receiving a suitable offer for her hand were distinctly remote. Indeed, it was entirely due to having found herself the unwitting recipient of rather too many highly unsuitable offers during her six month tenure with the Crayfords that she had privately determined to consign all gentlemen below the age of sixty-five or so to Hades—or to some other persecution of an equally unpleasant nature!

  Her inexplicable reaction to Wolfe’s stolen kiss had set her at odds with her normally down-to-earth self, and she could only pray that she had it in her to drum up sufficient tenacity to withstand his flirtatious banter—not to mention the incredibly melting effect he seemed to have on her every time his lips curved in that particular smile of his! In fact she was disconcerted to discover, as she made her way up the stairs towards Lydia’s room, it seemed that even the memory of it was enough to make her heart skip more than the odd beat.

  Chapter Three

  Once she stepped inside the bedroom door, however, one glance at her young charge was more than enough to banish all such heady thoughts from her mind. Oh, dear Lord, she thought in dismay, as she stared down at the girl’s flushed and perspiring face, the poor child really looks quite poorly! Now what am I to do?

  ‘Could you just try and sit up for a moment, Lydia?’ she coaxed, and she sat down on the bed where, slipping one arm beneath the girl’s shoulders, she eased her gently into a sitting position, before carefully plumping up the pillows behind her back to help support her.

  ‘Oh, Miss Flint!’ wailed Lydia, clutching at the governess’s hand. ‘My head aches so and I feel truly dreadful! Please do not tell me that I have developed the chickenpox, after all—Mama will be so cross with me if I should end up with a host of unsightly scars on my face!’

  ‘Hush, my dear, you must not think such things,’ soothed Sophie. ‘You have caught a very bad cold, that is all, and if you wish to get better quickly you must try to eat some of this lovely porridge that I have brought you.’

  ‘But I hate porridge!’ cried the youngster, eying Sophie’s offering with considerable distaste. ‘I would much rather have a glass of cold milk!’

  Finding herself at something of a stand at the girl’s plea, Sophie dipped the spoon into the bowl and lifted it towards her lips.

  ‘As soon as you have eaten all of this,’ she encouraged, mentally crossing her fingers as she did so, ‘then you shall have as much milk as you want, I promise you, my dear!’

  Even if I have to go and milk the blessed animal myself! she averred silently.

  Fortunately, since it took every scrap of Lydia’s energy to take in and swallow every mouthful of the detested oatmeal, all she wanted to do when she had finished the dreaded ordeal was to slump back against the pillows and drift off to sleep again.

  Placing her hand upon the child’s fevered brow, Sophie could not help but feel that Mrs Crayford had landed her with an almighty problem. What if Lydia was really sick? Supposing that she had caught the chickenpox? Without a doctor, and only Mrs Webster’s headache powders to hand, it seemed that there was very little that she could do to alleviate the youngster’s suffering. But then, castigating herself for such negative thinking, she started to ask herself what her own mother, the calmest and most practical of women, would have done in such circumstances—her tender ministrations to the sick and injured having become almost legendary during the family’s years in the Peninsular.

  Lemon barley water, of course! Mrs Webster is sure to have those ingredients, at least! And then I must bathe Lydia’s arms and legs with warm water to bring down her temperature.

  But after shooting a quick glance at the dying fire, she could not help but wonder how successful Mr Wolfe had been in his bid to secure logs—only to experience a slight flutter of dismay when it suddenly came to her that the future health and safety of the entire household might well depend on the reliability of th
at undeniably handsome but decidedly suspect character downstairs!

  Raised voices from the next room soon had her on her feet, making for the door. Surely Captain Gibbons and the Reverend were not at each other’s throats again, so early in the day? She had hoped that, after yesterday’s disturbing goings-on, the ill-matched pair would have been only too happy to remain in their bed until at least mid-morning. Apparently not, if the noises emanating from their room were anything to go by!

  Glancing across at the bed, she could see that Lydia was now asleep, although her restless tossing and turning did not bode well for a swift recovery. Quickly making up her mind, she tossed the last of the logs on to the fire’s still glowing embers, left the room, and rapped sharply on the door of the neighbouring bedchamber.

  The wrangling from within ceased instantly, followed by a moment’s silence before the door was flung open by the Reverend Palfrey, to reveal both of the room’s nightshirt-clad occupants clutching at a tangled heap of bedclothes.

  ‘I hesitate to bring it to your attention, sirs,’ she began, without preamble. ‘But there are sick people on either side of you, and the walls of this cottage are exceedingly thin! Kindly lower your voices to a minimum, if you would!’

  ‘But he keeps taking more than his fair share of the blankets!’ protested Captain Gibbons, tugging frantically at the quilt that the reverend gentleman, despite his lesser stature, was quite determined not to relinquish.

  ‘The situation is quite the reverse, I assure you, ma’am,’ gasped the outraged parson. ‘I have awoken time after time throughout the night to find myself totally devoid of bedding. I was merely endeavouring to rectify the matter when this—this—!’

  When the epithet he was searching for failed to materialise, his shoulders slumped, and with a resigned sigh he released his hold on the quilt, allowing his adversary to clutch it to his chest in grinning triumph.