by Sophia Nash
Sophia Nash
Love With the Perfect Scoundrel
To Helen Breitwieser,
a literary agent whose diplomacy, confidence, and
great vision astound
Contents
Chapter 1
Nobody could really explain the reasons behind the failed engagements…
Chapter 2
Michael Ranier tugged his brushed-beaver hat lower on his head…
Chapter 3
Finding Brynlow required greater fortitude and patience than Michael had…
Chapter 4
Grace awoke to the luxurious feeling of warmth. It was…
Chapter 5
Grace woke the following morning to find another steaming bowl…
Chapter 6
In the bluish, harsh light of a new winter day,…
Chapter 7
His head heavy but his body drained, Michael knew as…
Chapter 8
Grace wasn’t sure what force pushed her to go down…
Chapter 9
“Do make an effort, Quinn,” Grace insisted quietly. The carriage…
Chapter 10
It was surprising how quickly Grace found her former daily…
Chapter 11
Sheffield House had never looked quite this lovely, Grace thought,…
Chapter 12
Grace had come up with a dozen plausible excuses before…
Chapter 13
Michael’s feelings of jubilation were soon extinguished when he found…
Chapter 14
Michael slid his fingers up Victoria’s sides and began to…
Chapter 15
Two days later, in the privacy of her beautiful suite…
Chapter 16
“Don’t you dare touch me, you—you, my lord! This is…
Chapter 17
Grace was so happy riding Sioux over the cobblestones of…
Chapter 18
The sound of water dripping on stone just inches from…
Chapter 19
Grace was grateful for the steadying arm of Mr. Brown…
Chapter 20
“James,” Michael said to the boy riding alongside him in…
Epilogue
Dear Mr. Brown,…
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Other Books by Sophia Nash
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
Nobody could really explain the reasons behind the failed engagements of the beautiful Countess of Sheffield.
Oh, there was speculation. Oodles of speculation, and none was kind.
But that was to be expected.
For the aristocracy of England was unparalleled in its ability to knock one of their own off the fragile ladder of rank—with merely a look or an emphasis on a single syllable of a word. And they accomplished it with relish—especially during the little season, when few of the amusements of town were in the offing.
Yes, during those cold days of December, Grace Sheffey often wondered with dark humor if it had something to do with all the falsely elegant variations of boiled mutton and prune pudding that coddled lords and ladies endured following autumn’s cornucopia.
Whatever the cause for the malaise coursing London’s ballroom jungle, the countess knew that the traditional method of clawing out survival involved an iron jaw and a tin ear. For if a lady possessed an “of” in her name, she had best armor herself well against the vicious jaded humor prowling about Mayfair’s upper ten thousand.
And so, after fleeing her circle of friends in Cornwall on the heels of her second engagement debacle, Grace tightened her corset and valiantly tried to brazen out the sting of rumors in London.
And failed.
Quite miserably and quite alone, for there had not been a single invitation addressed to her for a single event during the upcoming holidays, nor had there been a single acceptance to a small soiree she had meticulously planned.
There were only regrets. Regrets from everyone she had invited and her own regrets for ever thinking she should attempt a return to London in the heat of such ferocious gossip.
That was why she next chose to do what she did best: to leave. Again. Grace Sheffey decamped from this newest disaster in the making, as far and as fast as she could. Little did her kindhearted traveling companion know of Grace’s ultimate plan.
“Put your feet on the hot brick, lass,” Mr. John Brown pleaded, his bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows rising over faded, owlish eyes.
“I’m perfectly fine, thank you,” replied Grace softly, taking care to keep her back perfectly arched, her lustrous pearls and dress perfectly elegant, her expression perfectly blank. “Forgive me, Mr. Brown, but do you think we’ll reach York before nightfall?”
Silence and their frosted breath mingled inside the cold, cramped space.
“Perhaps,” he said across from her as he rubbed at the tiny window and glanced at the leaden sky. “But perhaps no. Roman is an excellent driver, but I see patches of ice forming. Well, at least there’s no snow. My old bones tell me it’s too early in the season. But it might have been better to secure rooms at that last inn.”
She put aside her book. “I’m sorry I asked that we continue on.”
It was the longest stretch of conversation they’d had since leaving town. And it was the first time she’d offered anything other than a response to a question.
“No, Lady Sheffield, ’tis I who am sorry. I shouldna have presented you with the chance to go north with me. The dowager duchess will no’ forgive me for taking you from her. But then again, she’ll no’ forgive me for anything else.” He muttered the last under his breath. “Take this, Countess.”
Grace grasped the heavy horsehair blanket but it slipped from her stiff fingers. Mr. Brown unfolded it and arranged it to cover both their laps.
“Lady Sheffield, I know you willna like me for it, but may I have a word? You’ve stewed too long. I know now you’re no’ going to crack and—”
He stopped cold when she dared lift her eyes to his. She then took care to draw the lacy veil of cool elegance back into place.
Mr. Brown would not be deterred. “Perhaps we should speak about your future, about the past, about your—”
“No—”
“—recent ill fortune.”
She exhaled sharply and her ghostly breath swirled into nothingness. “Do you mean to propose we examine all the details that led up to my being thrown over by one gentleman and jilted by the next, Mr. Brown?”
“There’s no need to—”
“You’re absolutely right. There’s no need to discuss any of it. It’s the most tedious story in the world. If you really want to help, perhaps you can give me your opinion concerning two bonnets I saw at Locke and Company. Shall I order the one in pale pink satin with grapes dripping off the ends, or should I reconsider the lace creation with the blue bird of happiness tipping drunkenly to one side? What say you, Mr. Brown? Are fruits or birds the thing this winter?”
He refused her well-baited trivialities like a cunning, seasoned old trout. “I admire you, Countess. More than you know. I’ve always thought you gentle, sweet, and full of feminine sensibilities. But I do believe I might have misjudged you on the last. I came prepared for this journey with three dozen handkerchiefs and yet they remain as dry as a Scotsman’s throat when gin runs thin.”
“Tears never change the facts, Mr. Brown.”
He scratched his balding pate, returned his hat to its place, and refused to drop the matter. “After Ata is through with me, the marquis and the duke will probably drag my bones through all of England for taking you to Scotland.”
“Is that what you call ruptured engagements now? Past expectations?” He snorted. “The dowager duchess calls them something entirely different, and unforgivable. But that’s not fit for your ears.”
Grace knew his pride was still bruised from the dowager duchess’s stalwart refusal to reconsider a life with him.
“So, it appears we’re both running away.” Grace stared unseeing out the smudged window of Mr. Brown’s small carriage.
“No, lass,” he replied. “You are running away. I am giving up.”
“Well, Mr. Brown, we shall have to make a bargain then. I shall promise not to call you a fool for giving up a lady who obviously still loves you, if you will promise not to utter the obvious—that I’m a coward for running away.”
“You are anything but a coward, Grace Sheffey. You’ve proved to be a lady of great fortitude and character. You didn’t have to release Lord Ellesmere from his promise.”
She pursed her lips. “There’s no need for false praise. I’ve never found virtuous behavior all that rewarding.”
“Perhaps, but wrongdoings never improve one’s lot in life, either.” The older gentleman sighed and stretched his aching limbs as much as the interior of the small carriage would allow.
“Are you suggesting we’re damned to be unhappy whether we’re respectable or sinful, Mr. Brown? Hmmm…I hadn’t guessed our view of life so similar.”
“Och, what a muck I’ve made of cheering you.” He leaned back against the hardened leather squabs of his carriage. “You’re entirely wrong, my dear. You’ve forgotten the great benefit of youth. You’ve the whole of your life ahead of you. I’m the only one allowed to feel sorry for myself. When you’re staring at seventy years in your brittle dish, then—mind you, only then—may you seek peace after failure.”
“Well, it’s a bit different for females, as you well know, sir. Most everyone would argue that a widow of seven and twenty is as firmly stuck on the shelf as mildew. But please, Mr. Brown, never think I’m complaining. I’ve had my second chances. And I was blessed with an enormously kind husband for a short while—”
“A very short while,” he interrupted. “Och, Countess, Sheffield was a great man, but, forgive me for saying, he was too old for ye.”
“You’re very wrong, Mr. Brown. Age has nothing whatsoever to do with attachments of the heart. But, now I want”—she paused and smoothed a wisp of hair back in place with her cold, stiff fingers—“no, I need to go away for a short while. But have no fear. I’m certain I’ll return to the whirl in town very soon. I can never stay away for very long. It’s just that everything is too fresh. We never should have stopped in London. I should have waited until a new scandal made my failure look like moldy old news.” Distractedly, she rolled one of her long strands of pearls between her fingers. “Fortunately for me, I have the wherewithal to feel sorry for myself far, far away from all painful conjecture.”
“If it were not so cold, I would argue with you. Why, you’re but a spring chick. I’ll endeavor to do better once we thaw before a good fire on the other side o’ the border.” He tucked the loosening corner of the blanket under her. “I’m only sorry you didn’t urge your maid to continue along with us. You’re too softhearted by half.”
“Not at all. Sally doesn’t tolerate the cold—has never been more than ten miles from Cornwall,” Grace replied. “I never should have asked her to come. But I’ve arranged for her return to London. When I’m settled, I’ll engage a maid who is more hardy to the vagaries of the northern climes.”
She remained silent for a moment, her hands folded demurely in her lap, then cleared her throat. “Mr. Brown?”
He stopped tapping his fingers along the edge of the bench.
“I’m glad we’ve been frank with each other. I’ve wanted to tell you that I’ve decided on a small change of plans.”
Mr. Brown shook his head. “I don’t like changing plans.”
“I would ask you to deposit me in Lancaster. When we arrive in York, it will be a simple matter to take the crossroad to the coast.”
The elderly gentleman opened his mouth like a carp, then clamped it shut when Grace continued, “I decided several days ago that I will not go on with you to Scotland. I’m going to the Isle of Mann—where I spent my childhood. When my cousin inherited, he invited me to reside there anytime I choose. He’s never there—too desolate to his taste, I suppose.”
“The Isle of Mann? You must be joking. I can’t let you go there, not at this time of year. Why, it might very well storm. The Irish Sea is treacherous in the best of weather.”
She raised her eyes to his, and apparently what he saw quickened his speech. “I won’t let you go alone, Lady Sheffield. I’ll go with you, see you settled. Perhaps even stay on for a while if I’m honored by an invitation. Maybe through the winter? Or longer. Yes, much longer.”
“You’re not my nursemaid, Mr. Brown. I only asked to take a detour—to be left at the port in Lancaster. I know the village there well, and shall arrange for passage. Then you are to continue to—” She stopped at the sound of an eerie, mournful moaning outside the carriage. “What was that sound?”
“Just the wind, my dear. It’s more than a mite wicked in the vales.”
“But it sounds like a child crying most piteously.”
“Some say it’s the lost heir of the moors.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Just a sad tale told by—”
The carriage bounced out of a frozen rut and lurched to one side. Grace became stiff with the ill feeling of disaster. And in one suspended instant in time, everything changed.
Rounding another sharp turn, the carriage careened across the ice-slicked lane. Mr. Brown levered his aged frame into the space beside her and braced her shoulders as the old, ill-suited carriage floated on a long skid to the far side of the road. The driver shouted, and with an awful creaking sound, the tiny single-horse-drawn carriage teetered sideways before losing its fight with gravity, and tumbled onto its side. The loud crack of a wheel or axle rended the air at the same moment Mr. Brown’s heavy form fell on top of her and a pain lanced her ribs.
In that moment, Grace envisioned the distraught, pitying expressions of her two former fiancés, the Duke of Helston and the Marquis of Ellesmere, as they searched the wreckage. Mr. Brown and she would appear like frozen herrings in a tin under a hedgerow.
For a few seconds there was blessed silence before the carriage horse whinnied and the ruined vehicle slid a few inches forward. The old carriage’s off-kilter frame creaked in outrage and cracks snaked down the joints.
“Lady Sheffield? Lord, I’m crushing you,” Mr. Brown croaked.
“No,” she whispered. “I’m perfectly fine.”
“Thank God.” He awkwardly reached for the door, which was now above them. Maneuvering, he wrenched it open and a blast of cold wind rushed inside the tiny carriage, which had never been meant for long-distance travel.
“Roman? Roman, are you there, man?” When there was no response, Mr. Brown toed a buckled bench and heaved himself through the opening, muttering a Scottish oath.
Breathless, Grace righted herself despite the tangle of her gown’s skirting and the blankets, and then knelt on what had once been the side of the carriage. She collected all the objects flung about—her book; Mr. Brown’s ledger; her embroidery bag; and her large jewelry pouch. The latter she put in her voluminous pocket.
“Lady Sheffield, can you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“Look, we’ve a dilemma. Mr. Roman is knocked senseless and his head is bleeding. At least the horse is unharmed. You’re going to ride pillion—behind Mr. Roman, holding him—toward the last town. I’ll walk. Give me your hand and I’ll help you out.”
“Mr. Brown, I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
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“What? Come along now. I’ve wrapped Roman’s wound but we have to make our way out of here straightaway. The wind is up and—”
“Mr. Brown, I cannot ride astride with this narrow gown.” She prayed it would be an acceptable excuse. “And I certainly won’t be able to prop up Mr. Roman if he’s unconscious—especially without a saddle. He’s a very large man, is he not? You must take him. I’ll wrap myself tightly with these blankets and wait until you send someone back for me.”
Mr. Brown muttered another oath. “Lass, you will get out o’ this wreck and mount the blasted horse now. And I’ll hear no’ another word about it.”
“Mr. Brown,” she replied calmly, “if you don’t do what I suggest, you might very well find yourself with two injured people on your hands without any sort of shelter—not even a wrecked carriage—and then what will Ata do to you? Especially when I tell her that I begged you to send help. And I could also hail the mail coach when it passes. The man at the inn mentioned it was traveling this same road, did he not?”
She heard him climb down the outside of the carriage while mumbling something about ladies and their blooming ability to make men bow to their ill thought out ideas. Then a heap of clothing was tossed through the door. She swaddled herself in a mélange of thin shawls taken from her trunk strapped to the rear of the rickety carriage.
Mr. Brown draped his torso through the opening and thrust a flask into her fingers. “Here’s a bit o’ false fire.” He cradled her cheek with his gnarled hand. “I don’t like this at all, mind you. No’ one bit. But you’ve got that look about you. That mulish look I’m thinking Ata taught you. Och, I know it too well.” Mr. Brown’s Scottish burr always became more pronounced when he was agitated.
“You’re correct. Go on, now. I don’t want Mr. Roman to suffer a moment more than necessary. I shall be perfectly fine. I’m stifling under all these shawls. And I have the basket of food from the inn.”
Mr. Brown was remarkably good in a crisis, and even better at taking direction.
He shook his head. “Don’t you dare set one foot out o’ this carriage. I promise I’ll return for you.” He glared at her until she shook her head once. Then he shut the carriage door above her.