With an exasperated sigh, she moved forward and then stopped a few feet from his chair and the fire.
"You must be cold," he said, gesturing to a chair on the opposite side of the hearth. "Won't you sit?"
"No. Thank you." Her gaze slid quickly around the room, as if she was almost afraid to look too closely. "I will not stay long, but you may as well explain yourself before I go. It must be something very important that caused you to have me brought here."
Ransom was still, watching her intently. Finally he spoke. "I want to know what you're up to with my mother." He still had not changed his lazy pose in the chair, but inside he was anything other than relaxed. How strange that she did this to him when many very beautiful women had failed to catch his attention for more than an hour or two. She'd had his for two full days, all while pretending it was accidental and she didn't want it at all.
A faint frown marked her brow. "Lady Charlotte seems in need of a companion once in a while. Since her daughter is now married and moved away—"
"You stepped in to take her place. And get what? Money and trinkets, I suppose. Take care, Miss Ashford, for whenever my mother gives anything there is always a string attached."
He saw her fingers tighten around the basket handle. Instincts warned he should prepare to duck. "Lady Charlotte does not pay me to visit her. I wouldn't accept payment if she tried." Her voice was tight and hoarse with anger.
"Then what do you get out of it?"
Her lips parted and then snapped shut.
"Well?" he demanded. "Don't try to tell me you have no motive for your own advantage. Women always have a cunning scheme in play, and nobody would spend time with my mother unless there was something in it for them. I'm waiting, Miss Ashford. You told me you never fib."
Head on one side now, she seemed puzzled, her anger fading. Already he had seen how her temper mounted quickly and dissipated in the same way. Almost as if she didn't think it was worth the trouble to be angry. "Mr. Deverell, is there anything about our brief acquaintance that makes you think me a woman capable of cunning schemes?"
"Yes," he snapped, pushing himself more upright and setting both booted feet on the carpet. "You tricked me into buying books, didn't you? Only the devil knows what you'll talk my mother into. My mother is...susceptible to influences."
He saw the tip of her tongue travel swiftly across her lower lip and she looked down at his feet. The corner of her mouth moved. Was she laughing at him? Inside, where he couldn't damn well see what was going on? She probably had many intricate, sly-moving parts.
"Did I say something amusing, Miss Ashford?"
"Mr. Deverell," she said softly, "your mother is not in any danger from me. I read to her, and sometimes we play cards. Very occasionally, in fair weather, we go out to a museum or an art gallery." He watched her fingers open and then close again around the woven basket handle. "We discuss fashion and other frivolous matters that please her and take her mind off her troubles for a while."
"What else?" He knew there had to be more.
"I tell her when a new bonnet makes her look youthful," she admitted.
"Ha! So you flatter her to get into her confidence. I knew it! Somebody sent you to spy on her and acquire gossip about our family." He glowered hard, but she met his gaze without flinching.
"Is it difficult to acquire gossip about your family? I thought everybody knew everything about the Deverells already. And what they don't know, they make up." She paused, looking down for a moment. "I am touched by your concern for Lady Charlotte, but you may rest assured that I know what it is to have a family wounded by scandal, and I would never contribute to vile gossip."
He hesitated to believe her and yet there was honest warmth in her voice. It curled around him like a blanket of light, soft down, not smothering by holding too tightly, but seeking to comfort. Careful and polite.
"And to answer your question— no, I do not flatter your mother," she added. "I only tell her the truth. If I have nothing good to say I remain silent."
Ransom fell back in his chair, knees spread and hands on his thighs. He laughed gruffly. "Yes, you are a cunning creature."
"It's called civility and diplomacy, Mr. Deverell. These characteristics, so Lady Charlotte tells me, are not much known in your family. I think she feels the value greatly now."
"I'm sure she finds much of worth in your company." It came out of his mouth before he could stop the words forming. "You're quite exceptional."
She looked surprised. As was he.
Again her fingers flexed around the basket handle. "I am neither difficult nor argumentative. But I do not prostrate myself timidly at her feet either."
"Good." He recovered the stern gruffness with which he'd meant to interrogate her. "Because if you're not careful, Miss Ashford, she will take over your life and have you at her beck and call. She tried to do that with my sister."
Her gaze had once more drifted away from him and gone off on a tour of the drawing room. Apparently he was less interesting to look at than the furnishings and the paintings on the wall.
He hitched to the edge of his seat. "She'll probably try to make you travel into Oxfordshire with her, since I refused."
"Yes, I know."
"And you also know better I hope."
She sighed. "I do."
"You'll let her down with that civility and diplomacy, will you?" He smirked. "Better than I did."
"Yes."
She said nothing more, but left the word there, as if it was all he needed, as if he should have no doubt that she knew exactly how to manage his mother. Her eyes now watched him with a calm confidence, an ease in her own skin. Unusual in a woman. Discomforting for a man who thought he knew all the ins and outs, all the ways around, over and under an obstacle.
"So you're a Baron's daughter. I should address you as The Honorable Miss Mary Ashford, should I?"
"Only when formally addressing a letter," she replied crisply. "It only means something on paper, and I wouldn't be in the least offended if you forgot it altogether."
"And how did you come to be living in a bookshop?"
"My father's estate could only be inherited along the male line. The Ashfords have always been a very proud family, and above all else it was important that the name never die out. Ironically, that same feudal sense of pride and duty caused us to lose everything when we simply ran out of men. An event inconceivable to my ancestors, no doubt."
He frowned. "Ah. But what about all those brothers you mentioned?"
"My brothers both died in the Afghan war. They defied my father to go off together. I had an uncle, but he never married. My father sold the estate to the railway to cover his debts, and so the Ashfords are no more. Women don't count in our family. You see now the futility of the Honorable."
Ransom nodded slowly. "How long have you known Raven?"
"Since I was fifteen."
All those years when they might have been better acquainted.
Her eyes narrowed as they returned to his boots and then, slowly, traveled upward. "This is why you had me delivered here like a basket of cabbages? To quiz me about my past and my connection to your family?"
"Why else? My mother and sister are notoriously careless about associations they form. Someone has to keep an eye on things."
"Who keeps an eye on you and the associations you form?"
He gave a slow grin. "Nobody. I'm quite unmanageable."
A quick huff escaped her pretty lips. "So I see."
"Well, when we met you did complain to me that nobody ever goes to great lengths to seek out your company. I thought you might be impressed if I did."
"Why on earth would you want to impress me?"
He was thoughtful, studying the elegant line of her neck and shoulders. She was very poised, very upright. A credit to her nanny, assuming she had one as a child. Today she wore a gown with a high, lace neck that was visible under the collar of her coat, and his eyes were constantly drawn there to the sensual curve wer
e her slender neck met her shoulders. Whenever she swallowed a tiny flutter of lace was visible to his observant eye. "I really couldn't say why I felt the need to impress you," he growled. "It's not like me at all."
She almost smiled, or perhaps it was merely that her lips had a habit of pressing together tightly with impatience. "May I go now then? If you are done with me, of course."
"What makes you think I am done with you, my little basket of cabbages?"
"If my only sin was making you buy a book, Mr. Deverell, I cannot comprehend that you truly think I have any bad intentions in visiting Lady Charlotte. Are you afraid of what I might make her read too?"
"Undoubtedly. We can't have a bold wench like you putting thoughts into her head. Her mind is better left fallow with nothing more than the appearance of a grey hair to worry about."
"Why did you not question me like this in her presence? Why go to these lengths?"
"I couldn't very well ask you all this in my mother's parlor, could I?"
"Why ever not? What difference does it make where you question me?"
Because he didn't want his mother to see he had any interest in Mary Ashford. That would only cause trouble for both of them.
Interest? Was that what it was? He didn't know. Certainly he was curious to know how she came to be entombed among the cobwebs of that bookshop. And why she had pretended not to know who he was. Why she had teased him.
Leaning forward with his feet apart, forearms resting on his thighs, hands clasped together, he eyed her thoughtfully in the dancing reflection of candles and fire. The two sources of light seemed to fence with each other, thrusting and parrying with fluid, graceful skill. But Mary was the trophy for which they fought, a slender figure with dignified bearing and the stillness of self-possession.
"I wonder why my sister never introduced us."
"I daresay she thought I'd be a very wicked influence on you," she quipped.
He laughed. "Yes. Something like that."
A coal tumbled from the fire, making her start and look across at the hearth.
"Or she wanted to keep you to herself," he added. "She was always very selfish with her toys and possessions. Although it didn't stop her from wanting to play with mine too."
"I should be going, Mr. Deverell. As I said, I am expected home and —"
"Dine with me."
He had not planned that, but there it was. Just like the last time he asked, it sputtered out of him with no warning, no preamble. No possible good motive.
The woman gripped her basket as if someone might try and wrench it from her. "I told you the last time we met that it wouldn't be possible."
"Yet it's not out of fear for your reputation?"
"No. A reputation is as meaningless to me as the Honorable."
"Why is that?" He was genuinely curious, wanting to understand this woman. It had never been important to see beneath the surface before, but this was different. She was different. She talked to him naturally, easily and he felt a warmth in her company. As if nothing bad could ever happen if she was near.
He did not want to stop looking at her, or hearing her voice.
This was a startling discovery and somewhat worrisome.
"My family has fallen on hard times, Mr. Deverell," she said. "Unfortunately that is what happens when men are in charge. But now it is just me and my sister, and our misfortunes have helped me see life through clearer eyes. My Uncle Hugo used to say it is easier to see the larger picture when one stands outside the frame and is not part of the bright, rich, busy canvas. Now I know what he meant, for I am on the outside, no longer caught up in the rules and expectations of society. I see now what is important."
"Which is?"
"People. I have lost many people I loved and I wish...I wish I had helped them more while they were here, done more for them, that I had not been so selfishly caught up in myself and that world of the bright canvas. It is people that are important. Family." She looked away, her gaze wandering over a landscape painting above the fire. "We should look after each other."
Ransom put out his hands, palm up, and exclaimed impatiently, "What about you and I then?" He was a little annoyed, he realized, that she befriended his sister and his mother, but wanted nothing to do with him.
"Are you suggesting you could look after me?" She sounded amused.
"No. Good God," he teased. "I'm no use for anybody. But why can't you look after me? Clearly I need it. Look at me!"
"There is nothing I could do for you," she replied drily. "I'm quite sure you have everything exactly the way you want it."
He shrugged. "Not all the time."
"Oh, poor you. The degradations of not having everything all the time." She began making those little movements that meant she was ready to leave— checking her gloves, adjusting her bonnet.
"It is only dinner I offer, Miss Ashford. Not an unbridled orgy."
Her lashes lowered, and he saw her chewing on her lip, struggling for an answer. Ransom stood.
"I'll send a message to that sister of yours and let her know you're in safe hands. Then we can dine together without causing anybody undue concern."
"No," she said firmly. "Thank you, but I cannot."
He stood. "What if I was to tell you that your sister will eat very well this evening and manage perfectly without you?"
"I must still tell her where I was and with whom."
"For pity's sake, woman, you're here now—"
"So you thought that if you had me kidnapped and brought here I'd dine with you?" Her eyes twinkled up at him. "I suspected before that you'd seldom heard the word 'no', but your sister failed to warn me of the steps you would take to get your own way."
"I don't know why you make such a fuss," he muttered, digging his hands into the pockets of his riding breeches. "It is only pork chops with apple sauce on a Friday. If we're lucky there might be a pudding. By nine o'clock I'll be back at the club, so I won't bother you for long and you'll be safely home, tucked up in bed in a chaste, maidenly nightgown by the hour of ten."
"Surely you haven't run out of other ladies to entertain you?"
"Surely you have nothing better to do in your predictable world. Or has the gallant but dithering doctor staked his claim finally?"
Her lips wobbled and parted. Beneath her lashes there was a flare of something— anger? Frustration? Amusement? He couldn't tell. Never had concerned himself overmuch with the thoughts and feelings of women in his company. But he wanted to learn all about this one.
"As you heard me tell your mother, I have the charge of my younger sister. It is my dearest hope to find her a steady, marriageable gentleman and then to see her comfortably settled. Since I have sole responsibility for her now, I must set the example. I cannot have my sister knowing that I dined alone with a man who has no intention to marry. A man who infamously prides himself on having no principles. She will then think there is no harm in it for herself, and that would be a dangerous path to set her on. But please understand, I am concerned for her heart, her health and her future happiness, not how others would perceive the idea of my dining with you."
He squinted. "So you sacrifice your own pleasure just to teach your sister a lesson. Very noble of you."
"I prefer to think of it as practical, sir. A peck of caution saves a pound of misery, as they say." She made for the door, edging around him with her basket between them.
"And I must wait until your sister is safely married, before you would spare a moment for me? Or for yourself."
"She is my first responsibility."
"But why shouldn't you and I be acquainted?" he exclaimed. "It could be perfectly innocent. Friends. Like you and my sister Raven."
She looked askance.
"Perhaps not entirely the same," he added with a rueful smile. "I shall admit I find you intriguing, Miss Ashford, and I have thoughts that are not entirely innocent when I look at you. Damn! See, you already force me to be honest. Whatever next? Scruples?" He shuddered dramatically. "Ugh
!"
There was a soft pink tint to her cheeks as she backed away toward the brighter light of the hall.
He followed. "You worry about my possible influence on you and your sister, but what if it works both ways? You might do me some good, Mary Ashford."
"I know very well that you prefer ladies like your French companion," she exclaimed in a voice not much above a whisper. "They are better suited to your way of life."
"What way would that be?"
"Late hours, expensive tastes, high wagers, the pursuit of your pleasure at the expense of all else."
Ransom lengthened his stride to pass and cut her off, standing in the open doorway and blocking her exit. "What choice do I have since a well-behaved lady like yourself won't give me the time of day?"
She stopped, a look of confusion passing over her face beneath the brim of her bonnet. The temptation to catch hold of her around her waist and steal a kiss was almost overwhelming. For so many years he had looked up at the portrait on the wall of his bedchamber and wondered about his "Contessa", making up stories about her life, all the while thinking her long since dead and gone. He imagined he'd known her in a previous time, a previous incarnation. Yet she was here, all the time, almost under his damned nose.
His voice scraped over his tongue, the words forming jagged tears all the way up his throat as he felt that powerful desire take hold. "If I had a good woman, Mary Ashford, to put me to rights, I might become a worthier man. In time." He took a breath and suddenly his fingers were tugging on the grosgrain ribbon under her chin. "Don't you think?"
As the bow came apart under his determined fingers, she apparently puzzled over his question, too distracted to know what he did, or how to stop him.
"Do you believe that my wickedness is stronger than your good?" he added. "That I might change you for the worse, before you could help me?"
She shook her head slowly and raised one hand to his, halting its progress. "I am not that good, Mr. Deverell. I am no better than anybody else and not without my share of sins. I am just an ordinary woman, trying to live the best way I can, without causing anybody any harm."
"I doubt you'd know a real sin if it bit you on the nose," he grumbled. "You need a little of my wicked misbehavior in your life for balance."
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