Love With the Perfect Scoundrel

by Sophia Nash

  Suddenly, the warm, poignant memory of his scent washed over her…a smoky moss-and-evergreen aroma. Her eyes snapped open and she whirled around, only to spy an ominous, huge shadow against the wall under the balcony. He appeared even larger than she remembered when he pushed away from the foundation and came toward her, pulling off his domino. Her heart slammed against her ribs as he drew close and blocked out everything in front of her, leaving her nowhere to look except at him.

  “Care to waltz, Lady Sheffield?” His voice suggested an intimate caress, all molten charm and heated irony. “Or would you prefer to shoot me?” He leaned closer, and she stepped back and encountered the stone arch at her back.

  “Perhaps you’re not asking the right questions, Mr. Ranier.”

  He chuckled. “You’ve waited a long time for the opportunity to say that.”

  “Long enough.” She quelled a shiver threatening to tease her shoulders and blurted with little finesse what she most longed to know. “Well, Mr. Ranier, what brings you to London? I’d thought nothing could wrest you from Brynlow.”

  His amber eyes appeared almost black in the low light; harsh shadows carved his prominent cheekbones. “I came for several reasons, Grace.”

  “Really?” This time she couldn’t stop the quiver at the use of her given name. And with that, all the words to her well-ordered speech were forgotten, like dreams on a long winter’s night.

  Michael refused to go on. He meant to drag out this conversation for as long as humanly possible to drink in the sight of her in the moonlight. She was masquerading as an elusive, nubile Greek goddess in that sinfully exotic costume, which showed vastly too much flesh and hinted at everything that lay beyond the golden material. And yet he alone knew of the simple goodness and sweet innocence to be found beneath all the expensive fabrics.

  Despite her outward calm, her eyes betrayed her agitation. “Well, are you going to tell me the reasons or not?”

  God, her voice was so lovely and lilting. “I came at the request of Mrs. Kane to organize a proper Christmas for the children,” he said quietly.

  She said nothing, just continued to stare at him, her silver-blonde hair haloing her face in the moonlight.

  “Imagine my surprise when I arrived”—his hands itched to reach for her—“and learned of your sudden interest in the foundling home. Sweetheart, you—”

  “Don’t you dare use that endearment again,” she hissed. “I suppose you think all this has something to do with you.”

  “I would never presume to influence your actions. Mrs. Kane requested I lead the choir tonight.”

  She raised her chin and looked at him dubiously. “This benefit had nothing to do with you.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it,” he said, unable to keep doubt from lacing his voice. “But I can be reasonable, Lady Sheffield. I won’t presume to have had a hand in your generosity if you won’t assume I’m here for any other reason than a promise I made.”

  She appeared vastly annoyed, which delighted him. It was indifference that he most feared. Perhaps he had not managed to kill every last ounce of affection she had held for him in Yorkshire. God, how he longed to pull her into his arms and kiss her until she couldn’t breathe.

  “Why are you lurking in my garden?” Without waiting for an answer, she rushed on. “You’ve already discharged your obligations tonight.”

  He stepped an inch closer to her and was hit by her intoxicating scent. “Actually, I have other reasons for coming to town, and while you try to hide the reasons behind your efforts, I won’t,” he said, trapping her against the arch. “I came to thank you for the mittens you made for me.”

  She brushed aside the gratitude with impatience. “It was nothing. Small repayment for saving me in that storm. And the other reasons?”

  He would not tell her the real reason. “Why would you think there was another reason?”

  “You said there were reasons—plural.”

  He longed to smooth the fast-beating pulse on her fragile neck.

  “Well?”

  “Perhaps I missed your cooking, Blue Eyes.”

  She exhaled roughly. “Surely you can do better than that, Mr. Ranier. Even a—”

  Abruptly, several shadows fell from the balcony above. Ladies, at a guess, given their high-pitched giggles. Michael gathered Grace in his arms and swung her under the privacy of the overhang. She made a strangled sound and he released her.

  “No,” he put his finger to her lips, “don’t raise your voice unless you want to be discovered with a scoundrel.”

  “You know, you don’t have to keep telling me what you are,” she hissed. “I already know.”

  “But I think it’s only fair to remind the prey before I come in for the kill.”

  “Oh, pish. You’re as harmless as—as…”

  “As what, Grace?” he whispered, leaning forward. An inch closer and he would drown in her evocative, heavenly scent.

  She pushed away from him. “Why are you really here in my garden?”

  “For the same reason you are,” he murmured.

  “Stop it.” She looked away.

  He was grateful she was stronger than he. No matter how much good sense he possessed, his desire for her trumped his good intentions. “I came because I wanted to know…No, I needed to know, if you are with child.”

  Her delicate brows drew together. “I told you before, you needn’t worry about that. I’m not like other ladies…Oh, this is absurd. I already told you.”

  “Yes, but there is always a chance when two people engage in—”

  She cut him off. “You know, I made an enormous mistake thinking I was cut out for an affair of this nature. I find it unsupportable.” She appeared wretchedly self-conscious. “I’m not with child. I had proof of it last week.”

  A small wave of sadness crashed through him. “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. It’s an entirely natural process.”

  “I don’t know why you’ve come. I promised I would tell you. I can be trusted to always tell the truth, unlike other people I’ve recently come to know.”

  God, he hated to see the hurt glittering in her angry eyes. “And when have I ever been dishonest with you?”

  “When I took my leave of you at Brynlow. And don’t you dare make me repeat any of it. We both know you have none of the pride you suggested, and I—”

  The sound of footfalls on the stone stairs trailing the side of the balcony made her stop. Four elongated shadows advanced on the short winter lawn beyond the arches. A pair of gentlemen and two ladies strolled into view. The petite elderly dowager duchess was on the arm of a starkly beautiful raven-haired lady. Helston and the marquis swung their gazes toward them and strode forward, the ladies trailing in their wake.

  The brandy in Helston’s glass sloshed near the rim when he stopped abruptly. “Well, if it isn’t the harbinger of tragedy in the flesh. I should knock you down, you bloody—”

  “Luc!” the dark-haired lady interrupted, horrified.

  “Leave him, Rosamunde,” Ellesmere said quietly, the smoke from his cheroot swirling around the party. “Helston’s entirely correct. Grace?”

  “I’m perfectly fine. I was just about to—”

  “He vowed he would leave well enough alone.” The duke cut in, his fury uncontained. “I should have known better than to take the word of a turncoat. What in hell are you doing here?”

  “The question of the century,” Grace muttered.

  Michael silently endured their scrutiny until Helston could not hold back any longer and turned to Grace. “It’s too bad half the titles in England are prancing about above us, ruining a perfectly good opportunity to drag an answer from his—”

  The lady who was obviously Helston’s wife interrupted him with a smothered laugh. “Ata said you were tall, Mr. Ranier, but I never dreamed…”

  “Please escort Ata and Grace to the ballroom, dearest,” the duke gritted out.

  The dowager turned to her grandson. “But Luc, it’s
so much more amusing to fraternize with the enemy.”

  Ellesmere chuckled. “That’s why the battle of the sexes can never be won decisively by either side, Ata.”

  “Damn it to hell,” Helston choked, “can we not stay on subject?”

  “Luc, our masks are itchy and we need some air. Now, young man,” the elderly duchess continued, turning to Michael, “what are you doing here? And why did it take you so long? I think Grace should dance the supper dance with you instead of the marquis.”

  Michael clenched his hands. That damned ballroom was too exposed. “I’m not here to dance, ma’am.”

  “Well, none of the gentlemen want to dance, but that’s beside the point,” the dowager said bluntly before Helston could interrupt. “How are you to win back her favor unless you let her mash your toes?”

  Helston’s duchess pressed her fingers to her lips to still them.

  “As I told the countess, the boys’ choir was desperate for a leader and I made a promise.”

  Grace made an almost inaudible annoyed sound beside him.

  “Really?” Ata’s one word dripped with doubt.

  “Get that blasted torch out of my face, Ellesmere,” Helston said to the gentleman next to him.

  The marquis smiled and took another puff from his cheroot.

  “And what do you find so humorous?” Helston continued. “It’s your fault we’re in the position of having to hunt down overgrown ne’er-do-wells in the bushes.”

  “I’m amused because he’s fairly competent at deception. Might have been able to use him in the diplomatic corps if his height and features did not make him so recognizable,” the marquis replied. “Now, Mr. Ranier, shall we start again? Surely you’re here to see the countess. But, why pray tell? I thought we settled everything before. Surely even a man such as you lives up to his promises.”

  Michael looked at Grace’s tumultuous expression and thought quickly. Sounds from her mews nearby filtered through the darkness—a horse nickering for its feed, and another stomping its displeasure. And finally, blessedly, he arrived at an idea. It was entirely derisory, entirely a selfish idea, but it was the best he could do under the scrutiny of five pairs of eyes.

  “I’m here to honor another promise. I made one to Lady Sheffield not long ago. I agreed to give her riding lessons when she was my guest at Brynlow.”

  Grace gaped at him. “I agreed to no such thing. You just conjured that up.”

  Ellesmere chuckled.

  “Do you deny we spoke about horsemanship lessons, Lady Sheffield?” Michael murmured.

  “How ridiculous. You might have suggested some far-fetched notion in jest, but everyone knows I detest…” She stopped, obviously mortified by the hen-hearted words she was about to utter.

  Ata cleared her throat. “I’ve never understood why you don’t like horses, Grace. They are such a necessary part of our lives. I love horses. So do Rosamunde and Georgiana. And I would wager—”

  “This is ludicrous,” Grace interrupted, her eyes narrowing. “I do like horses. It’s just they don’t like me. Oh, I refuse to continue this conversation. Mr. Ranier is outrageous. I need to go back to the—”

  Ata interrupted her by turning to Michael. “She would need a chaperon and I adore riding. Grace dear, Luc has the most lovely little gray mare from Wales you could try. We could all go. Don’t look at me like that, Luc. I’m not suggesting races at Rotten Row. There’s a nice little track around the ornamental lake at the edge of Ranelagh pleasure garden. No one ever goes there in the morning. We should go tomorrow with this fine weather.”

  With the exception of Helston’s wife, who was trying very hard not to laugh, the rest of them looked at the tiny dowager with mute horror. The duke clutched his head until his wife whispered to him and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

  “Would nine o’clock be too early for all of you?” Michael asked quietly.

  “It’s too late no matter how bloody early you suggest,” Luc muttered, scrutinizing Grace before turning to his wife. “And Rosamunde, I do believe I shall collect on that, uh, bargain you offered…immediately.” His eyes darkened and he glowered before dragging his wife toward the relative obscurity of a large willow tree.

  The marquis brought the cheroot to his lips, his eyes half closed, and said not a word.

  And Grace? Grace Sheffey lifted her chin and glanced briefly at each of their faces before coming to rest on Michael’s. “Mr. Ranier, good manners forbid me from telling you precisely what I think. I don’t know the reason behind this absurd charade, but you should know I will not allow myself to be goaded into…”

  A clucking sound floated from above and Grace sharply turned her head. A short gentleman was briefly silhouetted against the glow of the lanterns decorating the railing before the man returned inside.

  If Grace had been the sort of woman who had a predilection for wagering, a person such as her father, she would have bet half her fortune that it had been Mr. Brown…and he had been clucking like a chicken. To her. She returned her gaze to Michael Ranier. “Nine o’clock, sharp. I shall leave all of you to figure out the particulars.” She then retreated to the stairs alone before she could humiliate herself further.

  There would be time for that.

  Tomorrow.

  At a quarter past nine, sharp, if she had to hazard a guess.

  Chapter 12

  Grace had come up with a dozen plausible excuses before retiring after the long, successful evening, but when dawn’s pink vines unfurled across the sky, all of the reasons to avoid the outing sounded hollow to her own ears.

  She wasn’t sure what had really brought Michael Ranier to London, but the last thing she’d ever do was let him see how much the sight of him again affected her. Was she not the Countess from the Isle of Ice? Well, now he would see her as such. And then he would return to Yorkshire without a backward glance.

  It was how she preferred it.

  She was through with courtship, gentlemen, and blacksmiths in particular. And most especially any man with the mad idea of forcing her onto a horse.

  Not bothering to ring for her maid, she crossed to her burled walnut armoire, where, after a long search, she found the one and only riding habit she owned. Dark blue with scarlet trimmings and brass buttons, the habit had always made her feel like she should style her hair in two long braids, for then she would truly appear like a little girl playing at captain of the Royal Navy. She donned the gown, which was uncomfortably stiff, and then sat before the looking glass to pin up her hair and draw down the veil of the modish hat with the long pheasant feather that dipped behind. Both articles had been ordered by the Earl of Sheffield and had never been worn. Grace had hoped to keep it that way.

  Looking at her pale countenance, she couldn’t decide if she looked more like she was facing the guillotine or ready to do murder. What had come over her in the last few weeks? There was none of the collected elegance gracing her face. She even left off her customary pearls. The long strands catching on some equine paraphernalia was just one more item on the dizzying list of potential disasters in the making.

  Why did he insist on continuing the acquaintance? She might have ended it badly, but at least she had ended it. He did not truly want her. If he did, he wouldn’t have said what he did at Brynlow. And he did not seem the sort to harbor guilt. He was too plain-spoken for that.

  So he was a blackguard, as he insisted. It was one thing to lust after a woman and cast her off. It was altogether something else to then proceed to torment her. He was a rogue without conscience. Well, it was not to be borne.

  The smallest voice within her said differently. But then, hadn’t small seductive voices always gotten ladies into far more trouble than sensible ones?

  A quarter of an hour later, Grace found herself ensconced with Ata, Elizabeth, and Sarah in a dark green lacquered carriage with the Helston coat of arms marking its sides.

  “I’m worried for you, Grace,” Elizabeth said, tucking in the edge of the carriage blanke
t. “I tried to warn you most gentlemen can’t be trusted to understand the word no.”

  “Oh, botheration,” Ata said, smiling, “I, for one, am delighted Mr. Ranier has come. And I would wager he’d go away at the snap of my fingers if he was not in love with her.”

  “Ata!” Grace moaned. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “He might have faltered in Yorkshire, but there he was outnumbered, surprised, and unprepared. Now he is clearly equipped, and has developed tactics.”

  “One must hope, if this is indeed a battle, that you will take my side,” Grace replied with no small amount of doubt.

  Ata patted Grace’s restless hands, gloved in pink leather. “I will, my dear, I will. Your happiness is paramount, dearest.”

  Grace had a few conversational tactics of her own, and they included changing the subject when out-flanked and outranked. “By the way, Eliza, where were you last night? Rosamunde’s eldest brother was looking for you to claim a dance after supper.”

  Elizabeth looked out the carriage window. “I never promised him a dance. And my costume was ill-fitted—vastly uncomfortable.”

  Ata examined Elizabeth with skepticism. “You, my dear, have become remarkably skittish since we’ve come to town. We seem to have lost the lady with the vibrant outlook on life somewhere between Yorkshire and London.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Elizabeth said, evading the dowager’s comment by using Grace’s tactics herself. “Oh, look, we’re almost there.”

  Ata patted the younger lady’s hand. “Don’t worry, I won’t pester you, Eliza. I rather think I can only successfully badger one of you at a time. And today, we’re here to encourage Grace.”

  Grace rolled her eyes. “I rather think you are here to encourage Mr. Ranier. We all know I never made any silly promise to ride a horse.”

  “I believe you,” Sarah said. “But perhaps you can use this opportunity to have a private word with him. Even if it is only to say a proper good-bye without Luc and Quinn hovering about. My husband always said a good-bye is every bit as important as a hello.”