Love With the Perfect Scoundrel (15 page)

She put her hands out to stop him. “No. Don’t say it.”

For the barest instant, his expression revealed the strain of withheld emotion before it closed off again.

It was so horribly unfair. The temptation was just too great. She had to know if he spoke the truth or if he was like all the rest…a man who uttered sentiments all in the name of chivalry. It was easy for him to pretend emotions when she had promised to reject him. But what would he do if she did not keep her end of the bargain?

Grace ignored her ill ease and took her decision before courage deserted her. And she would do it on her own two feet, without the easy comfort of his arms. “Michael…you once told me men base their self-worth on their fortune and station in life. I just want you to know that I care not a jot about those two things in a man—or in a future husband.”

His eyes filled with pain and something else. Something very like fear.

Grace’s fingers moved unconsciously to her pearls. “Look, the truth of it is that I possess a fortune great enough to keep several peers and their families in lavish comfort for longer than one lifetime.”

He paused before he asked quietly, “Are you proposing that your future husband will live off of your generosity, Countess?”

She tried to inject humor in her tone but knew she fell flat as she cared too much for the outcome. “Well, did you not suggest my desirability lies in my fortune?”

“No. I suggested you should start thinking like a man, Countess.”

“Well, you must know the gentlemen of England never hesitate to elevate their stations by marrying ladies for their fortunes. Wives are actually the primary contributors to the gaming houses in town. It’s truly extraordinary, the largess gentlemen fish for in the well-lined pockets of heiresses.” She took one long last look at his closed-off expression, and the pain of rejection filled her, yet perversely encouraged her to continue on, toward complete and utter humiliation. “Unless, of course, there is something irrevocably off-putting in the female. Then, I’ve found lately—very lately, that is—that the man will decide to become noble and too proud to accept that sort of windfall.”

He grabbed her arms and shook her. “For Christ sakes, if last night didn’t prove to you how much this godforsaken blacksmith desires you, then there’s just no hope for it.”

“Well then, is it your pride that…” She just couldn’t voice the rest of it.

An odd light appeared in his eyes before he tamped it down. “Is that what you call it when a man refuses to fawn over and feed off a rich woman?”

“Yes.”

“Well then…yes, it must be bloody pride.”

“There’s no need for blasphemy.”

“Damnation, this is exactly the time for blasphemy. I warned you I’m not a man of pretty words, even if those silk and satin lords in London do well by them. You’re correct. You should go back there, sweetheart. It’s where you belong, not mucking about the northern shires.”

Emotion surged through her. “I will not apologize for my life—for the riches my husband left me. Your acquaintance bequeathed this house to you and you accepted it.”

“True. But you’ll never find me at the end of a leash in London, dancing about like a
prize stud
. Go back to your world where dreams are bought and sold on a whim. I’ve no place for you here.”

With a strangled sound, Grace cracked her hand against his cheek with enough force to snap his head to one side and then whirled toward the door. She was two steps from freedom when strong arms gripped her waist and turned her into his arms to kiss her quite senseless, despite her resistance.

He shouldn’t have pulled her into his arms. He knew it. But he couldn’t bear the last memory of her to be one of anger. He was just too selfish. And so for one short moment before she could react further, he poured out every last drop of his passion for this perfect woman in his arms.

His eyes still closed, she shoved hard against him and dashed through the door before he could see her clearly. Damn, his eyes were leaking. All this mingling with dapper nobs was rubbing off on him.

Michael moved to the fire again and listened for the sounds of her departure. His feet felt like they were mired in a bog.

God, he had hated saying what he did. But it was better for her to think him a crass idiot than for her to understand the truth of the matter. What was it about confounded aristocrats and their stupid pride?

He would never allow the deadly threat of discovery and vicious truths to ruin the life she deserved. A life beside a true gentleman with everything and the sun to give her.

Panic surged inside of him. The clinking of the traces on the duke’s carriage horses penetrated the fog of his mind. He didn’t even know her direction in London. Perhaps it was better that way. She had promised to tell him if there was ever a child. Hell, if there was a child, he had no doubt those two lords joined at the hip would track him down.

He closed his eyes, listening hard until nothing could be heard except the sparks crackling before him in the grate. And suddenly, the memories of another fire, so long ago, obliterated all thoughts of Grace Sheffey.

G
race wasn’t sure what force pushed her to go down to dinner at Beaulieu Park that evening. Perhaps it was that she knew she might just go mad if she indulged in another minute of reflection.

He had said he didn’t want her—didn’t want to be a
prize stud at the end of a leash
. Good God. The bile rose in the back of her throat and she stopped on the stair. She knew of such women. There were several very rich, slightly aged widows in town who were whispered to welcome the attentions of handsome gentlemen with pockets to let.

His words echoed repeatedly in her mind and balled themselves into a black fury growing within her.

The unmitigated gall of Michael Ranier.

She pushed back her shoulders to continue down the wide carpeted stairs of the Duke of Beaufort’s extraordinary castle. She concentrated on the magnificent fresco on the domed ceiling above, and the gold leaf applied to almost every surface of relief. Elegant antiquities had apparently dripped from the family tree for centuries. Everything reflected painstaking refinement. The pathos of the ages echoed from the violent battle scenes depicted on nearly every enormous canvas buffeting the walls.

Grace encountered two motionless footmen dressed in pale blue and silver livery at the foot of the stair.

“Good evening,” she murmured.

Both servants appeared flustered to be addressed without a request attached. “Your Ladyship,” they replied in unison and bowed.

She followed the drift of voices farther down the wide main hall to peer from the shadows outside the salon’s doorway.

They were all assembled, Luc, Quinn, Ata, and Mr. Brown, as well as Elizabeth Ashburton, Sarah Winters, and their host, the Duke of Beaufort. The latter held the rapt attention of all of his guests as he told an absurd story concerning a poacher found on his land.

“I told the man this morning that he had two choices. I would either give him over to the constable in York or he could save both of us quite a bit of trouble by allowing me to shoot him straightaway,” the tall, elderly duke said.

“Pray tell, what did he choose, Charles?” Ata was hanging on his every word.

The duke chuckled. “He relieved himself into my care as well as the tangle of fur and feathers and informed me as cool as you please that I was touched in the attics.”

Ata dissolved in laughter while Mr. Brown remained unmoved.

“Ah, Lady Sheffield,” the elderly duke said, spying her. “Delighted you joined us after all, my dear. Shall you take a glass of ratafia before we dine?”

“Thank you, but no, Your Grace.”

“No, no, my dear. You must call me Charles. Makes me feel young again to have all of you address me so.”

Two shadows fell on either side of Grace and she turned to find her friends, Elizabeth and Sarah, beside her. Grace took comfort in their silent companionship.

“Charles,” Ata said, laughing, “you are entirely too free with us. And we shall never be able to repay you for taking us in at a moment’s notice.”

“It is I who am grateful to you”—he stared down intently at Ata—“for relieving the tedium here. I hadn’t known I was bored until you quite effectively removed the blinders from my eyes.”

Mr. Brown coughed while Luc and Quinn appeared vastly amused.

The butler chose that moment to enter and announce dinner.

“Come, my dear Ata, you must sit beside me again and tell me more about this Cornwall of yours. Is it really as warm as you say? Does such a place exist in England?”

All of them fell into two orderly lines as they strolled into the dining room. The racks of generations of horned beasts adorned what seemed to be every square inch of exposed wall between tapestries depicting all manner of hunters and their prey. Candlelight reflected from the crystal and porcelain placed with precision on the vast table covered with crisp white linens. The duke lived the life of a man who enjoyed the privilege bestowed by generations of kings and barbarians before him.

And it left Grace cold. Colder than all the layers of ice to the north and all the frozen caverns below. But at the same time, she was comforted by the familiar feeling. Had not cool reason been the guiding hand throughout her life?

Mr. Brown held her chair as Grace eased onto the elegant embroidered seat. He leaned down to whisper, “The man tells too many stories by half. Don’t trust him an inch.”

Grace smiled and waited till Mr. Brown seated himself beside her. “Perhaps you should do something about it.”

He raised his gray eyebrows, as thick and unruly as gorse bushes. “What do you suggest?”

Elizabeth Ashburton leaned from his other side, her melodic laughter turned to a whisper. “Don’t waste your breath, Grace. He wouldn’t take any of our suggestions.”

“Eh? What’s that you’re saying?” The Duke of Beaufort asked from the head of the table.

Grace gazed at the overabundance on the table as a servant placed a steaming bowl of turtle soup in front of her. For a moment she was reminded of nutty porridge before she firmly pushed away the thought and proceeded to engage in what she did so well—banal conversation. It was just too bad the duke would have little of it.

“Your hospitality knows no bounds, sir. How did you come to meet my friends?” Grace unfolded the napkin, stiff with starch.

“Why, I was hunting in the westerly corner of the Park yesterday and spied them clustered about that wreck of a carriage. Not surprised it fell to splinters. Why the thing should have been taken to the chopping block two decades ago. Not safe. Not safe at all.”

Grace’s hand found Mr. Brown’s arm and he cursed under his breath.

“Charles invited us all to stay as soon as he heard of our predicament,” Ata said, gazing at the duke.

“Of course I did,” he replied. “And I hope you’ll stay a fortnight at the very least. The countess must regain her strength, after all.”

Grace looked at the faces around the elegant table. Such a comical array of expressions. Luc and Quinn were very ill at ease each time they glanced at her. “You are very kind, sir, but we shall not inconvenience you. There are two ladies in London who are probably very worried, and their husbands should return to them,” she said. “
Tomorrow
.”

Mr. Brown squeezed her hand.

“This will not do at all,” the duke replied. “Ah, but I have it, by Jove.” He appeared vastly pleased with himself.

“What is it, Charles?” The outlandish glint of flirtation shone in Ata’s dark eyes.

“I have the famous idea of joining you. Hate town…but I have an enticement, now. And there is something to be said for spending Christmas among friends.”

Mr. Brown muttered something not fit for female ears. Grace only wished she knew what it meant.

The rest of the meal passed without much participation from her, the Duke of Beaufort’s garrulous ways a blessing in disguise. With the exception of Ata and the duke, each of the others at the table appeared to have not the slightest interest in conversation. Quinn Fortesque most of all. She was going to have to make an effort in that guilt-stricken corner.

Much later, as she sat before an ornate looking glass in the lovely bedchamber she had been assigned, Grace stared at her reflection. She was surprised to see the same visage staring back at her. She felt as if a lifetime had passed and she thought it should have at least marked her in some fashion.

Suddenly, her many layers of soft nightclothes, recovered from Mr. Brown’s carriage, seemed for the first time suffocating. She rose from her perch and flung open the window. A vast expanse of starry sky filled her vision. She stared to the east. Just three miles away stood a very small manor, tucked into a cluster of trees.
He
would be reading again in the cozy library, which would appear far too small for a large man such as he. Or perhaps he would be in the barn with Timmy Lattimer. She wondered in a rush if the lamb had survived the night, and sent up a small prayer for Pearl’s sake. Oh, she was being such a stupid little fool about all of it.

Everyone knew that lamb was going to end up in a stew pot in the coming months, or forced into a lifetime of annual birthing before ending up in the stew pot. She exhaled. They had agreed it was but a simple joining of bodies. Mutual pleasure.

But for her it had proved to be something else entirely. It had been an awakening. The world appeared cold and raw and new, instead of sedate, ordered, and comfortable.

She should be grateful to Michael Ranier. But she could not be. The time with him had been too poignant, and the breaking away had not been done well.

She just had not known how to go about it. She never should have dared utter a hint that she might welcome sharing a life with him. Her throat tightened in remembrance. How on earth did people conduct affairs with any sort of decorum?

She knew time and the comforts of her well-ordered, easy life would ease her as they had done in the past. Soon, she would be able to untangle the disorder of her thoughts and feelings and put them into organized compartments. Under lock and—