Love With the Perfect Scoundrel (21 page)

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 blanket. “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.”

“You must agree, it was a stroke of brilliance on my part to send a note to Mr. Ranier to meet us an hour earlier so we could avoid all that male posturing—although…it does feel like dawn, something I’ve surely never seen,” Ata said with a laugh.

Grace pursed her lips. “This will only lead to disaster.”

“My darling, haven’t you ever noticed that sometimes disaster leads to happiness?” Ata’s blind confidence radiated from her petite frame.

Grace conceded a smile. “Well, in that case I, out of all of us, should be radiantly happy shortly.”

“Give it time,” Ata said, readjusting the angle of Grace’s feathered hat, “I have faith, even if you do not.”

The carriage lurched to a stop in front of the boxwood hedge separating them from Ranelagh’s ornamental lake. Grace peered out the window and spied one of Quinn’s smart curricles, driven by Mr. Brown, drawing near. A small gray horse was tied to the rear.

The instrument of torture.

She prayed Mr. Ranier would not come. It was spineless, she knew. But then it would be so much easier. She could simply refuse to see him if he dared lift the Sheffield brass knocker on Portman Square.

All at once, there was a rap on the carriage door and it opened. Mr. Ranier’s face was silhouetted against the crisp, pale blue winter sky. His large black mare with the white blaze stood a few feet beyond. It had been apparently too much to wish for freezing sleet or at the very least a miserable drizzle.

He bowed, and looked up with a wink. “Your servant, ladies.”

He handed out Ata, Elizabeth, and Sarah, who thanked him graciously. His face reappeared in the carriage.

“Countess?”

“Yes?”

“Would you do me the honor?” He held out his wide, gloved palm.

“Oh, all right.”

“Such excitement. Such transports of delight.”

“You are lucky I am here.” She placed her hand in his only to remember how large and solid it was.

“I know,” he purred into her ear as she alighted from the carriage.

A fine mist hovered on the ground, nearly obscuring the great rotunda in the distance as well as the Chinese pavilion. What had always looked like an enchanted castle in the glow of lanterns at night now revealed its man-made small flaws with the daylight.

Mr. Brown was untying the gray horse from the other carriage when Ata gathered the party around her. “Mr. Ranier, Sarah and Eliza will walk the gardens while you give Grace her lesson. And I will try this new team Quinn has so graciously offered for my use.”

“I’ll drive,” Mr. Brown insisted quietly, walking up.

During the long pause that followed, only the sound of two geese honking in the distance could be heard.

“Actually, Charles asked to accompany me,” Ata informed him, her eyes steeped in challenge.

“Did he, now?” Mr. Brown placed the reins of the small mare in Mr. Ranier’s hands.

“Yes. While
I
take the ribbons.”

“Really?” Mr. Brown said, deceptively calm. “Ladies, Mr. Ranier, would you excuse us? The dowager duchess and I must have a word.”

Everyone inched away.

“Absolutely not,” Ata said, instantly on her guard. “You are all to stay. There is nothing that cannot be said among my friends.” She seemed not to notice that Sarah and Elizabeth had managed to disappear, presumably down one of Ranelagh’s many paths.

“All right,” Mr. Brown said. “Then I am forced to remind you in front of your friends that you made a promise not to drive a carriage ever again.”

“No. I promised never to do it
alone
again.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes,” Ata replied, peevishly.

“Was that after ye nearly killed yourself with a runaway team in Cornwall? The one which left Quinn’s phaeton in matchsticks?”

“Yes. Rather like your carriage when you left my dearest girl to die in a blinding snowstorm in Yorkshire.”

Grace cleared her throat.

“No, Countess, this is not your affair,” Mr. Brown stilled her before returning his gaze to Ata.

Grace met Michael Ranier’s glance and nodded to a small domed folly a few feet away. He took the hint and slowly, ever so slowly they backed away from the infuriated couple. But it was not nearly far enough away to avoid overhearing the heated conversation.

Mr. Brown stared at the petite dowager. “Is this truly what is behind your ill humor and behavior of the last month? Is this why you’ve taken a sudden interest in Beaufort? And here I’d taken to heart your letter. I’d thought you too shy or proud to admit your sensibilities when I saw you again. Your letter said that you might reconsider—”

“I said I would not forgive you if you did not bring Grace back to me,” Ata interrupted.

“You did, indeed.” Mr. Brown raised his chin, his eyelids at half mast. “You will always be looking for reasons not to forgive me for not meeting you over the anvil all those years ago, won’t you? It would be more honorable if you would just have done with it and admit you canna and willna forget or forgive, Merceditas. Och, I’m a fool.”

“Now is not the t—ah, there is Beaufort now.” Ata’s gray curls bounced as she waved to a gentleman astride a horse in the distance.

Grace sensed Michael Ranier’s lips near her ear. “Come with me,” he whispered. “Please—now’s our chance.”

She didn’t want to go. She really didn’t. But she also did not want to witness any more of the heartbreaking encounter between Mr. Brown and Ata. She nodded.

Grace inched ahead of Michael toward the clearing on the other side of the tall, manicured boxwood hedge, while he retrieved the other horse. They were out of sight and out of earshot when Grace finally halted.

“Look, I know I agreed to ride, but really there’s no need to play out this farce. I know you just want to speak to me about something. So, say it and then I will return to Portman Square and you can be on your way. In fact, I shan’t even require you to beg my forgiveness for your crass words in Yorkshire. I know it was an awkward situation. You wanted me to end what we had begun and I didn’t let you off the hook. And so, as a gentleman, you used pride as the tool to avoid being reeled in. Luc or Quinn had just struck you, and obviously insulted you, and—are you laughing at me?”

“Absolutely not, sweetheart.”

“You
are
laughing at me.”

“Why would I dare laugh at a woman man enough to forgive me for something I’ve not even had to grovel for? You’ve even saved me the trouble of inventing excuses.”

“Well, Mr. Ranier, most women are pushed to the task as few men ever admit guilt with any sort of finesse. Oh, and by the by, I have not forgiven you.”

“I am very willing to admit I behaved abominably toward you. There was no excuse.”

She didn’t know what to say in the face of such blatant acceptance of blame. “Well, this is inconvenient.”

“And why is that?”

“Because I’d planned to rail against you quite a bit longer.”

He chuckled. “Do you always chatter on like this, or are you just trying to avoid getting on this horse? You know, you might enjoy riding her.”

She would rather endure another failed engagement, truth be told. But she’d also do just about anything to avoid admitting such. “There’s no mounting block.” She shivered despite the unusually warm winter day.

His face grew serious. “Are you chilled? Would you like my coat?”

“No. I’m perfectly fine, except for the fact that you seem perversely determined to furthering disaster in my life whether we’re in Yorkshire or London.”

His face eased into a smile and he moved close to the mare. Grasping her waist, he looked down at her veiled face. “Ready?” he murmured.

Grace couldn’t breathe, torn between the strength of his hands and her nearly lifelong irrational fear. Her fingers numb, she reached for the front of the side saddle when he lifted her onto the seat. She froze. Her limbs lay in a tangle below the leg horn.

“I would have preferred you to ride astride,” he said, his attention on fitting her foot into the stirrup. “I’ve always thought it much safer. But this will have to do.”

She was dead still in the saddle, unable to move, unable to speak, waiting for an unknown, yet gruesome catastrophe to unfold.

“Grace? Hey…hey. Here, let me help you.” He was moving her knee over the horn. But maybe not. She really couldn’t feel anything. All she could see was the horse’s ears lying flat back and she suddenly foresaw what would come next. The horse would run away before she could pick up the reins, and then it would all get worse. A lot worse.

Michael’s harsh voice floated through the tunnel of her mind. “Grace, look at me.”

She stiffly turned to his voice, unseeing.

Without warning she was blessedly being lifted from the cursed saddle and found her feet on solid ground again. And he was holding her to him. “Christ, I shouldn’t have made you do this.” He held her tighter. “Grace, I shouldn’t have said those things to you at Brynlow.” He lowered his voice, “I should’ve left well enough alone.”

His words burned through the fog of her consciousness, leaving her slowly but surely furious. “That’s what I’ve been saying all along, Mr. Ranier.” She shoved him away and hissed, “What do you want from me?”

His lids lowered over his golden eyes. “To see you.”

“Well, you’ve seen me.” She held her arms out wide for his examination. “Now what? Perhaps the scenery has changed, but the circumstances remain the same.” She rushed on, “Or has your neck become itchy? Perhaps the idea of a collar has suddenly become more appealing?”

“Never really liked the idea of a noose, sweetheart.”

The small mare pawed the ground in boredom. “You are truly beyond the pale. If you’re here because you think I’d consider resuming our—our—” The word stuck in the back of her throat.