Love With the Perfect Scoundrel (26 page)

Grace offered her fingers and he bowed to press his lips against the back of her hand. He looked up from his bent position. “What’s this? Your hand is chafed, Lady Sheffield.” The conversation had resumed behind them but he ignored it all, preferring to rest his gaze forever on the angel before him. “Don’t say you’ve been below stairs cooking all this time.”

She nodded. “Luc always chases all the servants away for a day or so. But don’t tell him I told you. He prefers that everyone think him black hearted.”

“He does a fine job of it too.”

She smiled, and her face took on the radiant quality that Michael wanted to gaze at every miserable day of his ruined life.

“My dear Grace,” the duke said, “do come in and join us. It’s so tiresome to pretend not to notice you and Mr. Ranier chatting away as if the rest of us don’t exist.”

“Now, Luc, we were making progress,” Ata replied. “And one would
hope
you would not be so foolish as to pick another fight with such a wonderfully handsome man with the sort of strength only a blacksmith possesses.”

“I’ve always found hope is rarely answered the way one would like,” Luc retorted annoyed.

“Well, my tuppence would be on Mr. Ranier, after seeing the results of the last round. You had best just get used to him, Luc.”

The Duke of Beaufort broke away from his study of Ata’s canary. “A blacksmith? The man’s a blacksmith? Won’t do at all, I say. Thought he was one of us. Has that look about him.”

Michael clenched his hands involuntarily.

“Now, Charles. Mr. Ranier is now a man of property, as you well know.”

The Duke of Helston cleared his throat. “Well, if everyone has had enough of this scintillating chitchat, perhaps we should adjourn to table.” Without waiting for an answer, he motioned to encourage everyone toward the dining chamber.

Ata ignored her grandson’s offered arm and tottered toward Michael. He had noticed she was in the habit of wearing the most outrageous ensembles. Tonight was no exception. Scarlet silk and black lace draped her diminutive frame.

“Mr. Ranier? I have a favor to ask.”

He’d liked the petite dowager from the very start. “Anything, ma’am.”

She tapped her intricately carved black lace fan on his arm. “I shall hold you to that, sir. The grandson I hold most dear—”

“Am I not still your
only
grandson, Ata?” Helston interrupted with a devilish smile as he herded everyone into the massive chamber.

“As I was saying, Mr. Ranier, the grandson I sometimes hold dear, while other times I do not hold dear a’tall,” the dowager said shaking her head, “is to turn another year older and I’ve planned on—”

Helston interrupted again while everyone seated themselves. “Bloody hell, I thought we’d agreed to stop that annual bit of insanity.”

“No, you asked me not to do it and I did what I always do each year, which is not to listen. In any case, pray, may I continue?”

Helston sighed heavily and insisted on taking both of his infants onto his lap while his duchess ensured that everyone was given portions of the fragrant foods on the table: roast pork surrounded by baked apples, pheasant in gelatin, gingerbread, curried eggs—an assortment of far too much.

“Mr. Ranier, I shall get straight to the point lest I am interrupted yet again,” Ata said lifting her napkin to her lap. “My grandson’s birthday falls on Childermas and I would like it very much if you would be part of our circle that evening. I should explain that there are three things to entice gentlemen to put in an appearance. Actually, there’s really only one thing that has gained a devoted, or rather fanatical follow—”

“Cards. The best game of faro and whist in town,” Helston drawled as he kissed with incongruous gentleness one of his progeny. “But then again, Ranier, I don’t suppose you play.”

Michael kept an iron grip on his countenance. “It can be an amusing pastime.”

Grace interrupted. “Luc, please, you’re not being fair. I beg you to stop. Truly, Mr. Ranier cannot afford to…” She stopped, mortified.

“How deep is the play?” Rainier asked softly.

“Too deep, if you have to ask,” Ellesmere murmured, slightly embarrassed.

“Well, I for one am willing—no, by God, I
insist
on staking Mr. Ranier,” Mr. Brown said. “I owe you, lad. Owe you for saving Lady Sheffield.”

“Then, I shall have to throw support in your grandson’s corner, Ata. Dukes must unite against…well, dukes must be united,” the Duke of Beaufort blustered, narrowing his eyes in Michael and Mr. Brown’s direction.

“I suppose it’s only fair to remind you, Your Grace,” Mr. Brown said with a sour expression, “that Childermas is also Bad Luck Day, and Luc has never been particularly blessed on that one day a—”

Helston interrupted, “Remind me why I invite you to these affairs, Brownie.”

The dowager’s small mouth
V
’d into a pert smile. “Good. It’s settled. Mr. Ranier is to come.”

Michael opened his mouth to dodge the invitation, but the dowager refused to notice.

“Come promptly at seven, Mr. Ranier. We start early and play long.”

“I shall do my best, ma’am,” he said cryptically. “I should tell you it will most likely be the last you will see of me. I return to Brynlow the following day.”

He didn’t need to turn his head to see Grace’s expression, for he sensed her stiffening beside him. If it was the last thing he did, he would find a way to speak to her tonight in private.

Helston’s face brightened considerably at the news. In fact, for the first time ever, Michael saw the man smile, one tooth crooked enough to make him appear even more devil-like. How did the lovely duchess tolerate him? At that moment he witnessed a look of tenderness pass from the duchess to the duke, and he idly wondered if it was Helston or Ellesmere who favored billiards tables for seduction. He would bet his last farthing it was the duke.

Michael planned his next move toward Grace as methodically as a pickpocket in the rookeries. While the others sat stuffing themselves like plump chickens, he mulled over the possibilities. Grace refused to meet his eye each time he glanced at her beside him.

At long last, the meal concluded with nary another insult implied or otherwise. The excellent food had lulled even Beaufort into complacency.

Michael grasped Grace’s arm as the gentlemen fore-went the pleasures of an after-dinner brandy to lead the ladies back to the original salon. “Would you not offer me a tour of the house, Lady Sheffield?” Michael raised his voice loud enough for the dowager to hear. He knew he would find aid in that corner.

“Oh do, Grace. You must show him the gallery. It’s much improved with Rosamunde’s addition of an imposing lady from her family tree.”

Rosamunde laughed. “I vow the Countess Edwina glowers at all who pass except for Luc. For some reason she appears to smile when he walks by.”

He sensed Grace’s hesitation.

“Please? You would do me a great honor,” he whispered in her ear.

Grace looked rather desperately from Ata to Rosamunde to Michael before she relented. “I would be delighted,” she lied through her teeth. “But Ata, would you be kind enough to pour my tea? We shall return in but a moment.”

“Of course, my dear, of course.”

Grace led, or rather dragged him down a long corridor once the others retreated. He stopped short at the first door and peered inside. The library. He allowed her to lead him further down and pulled up at the next door. Some sort of feminine sitting room. He continued along.

“What are you doing?” she asked, eyebrows raised.

“Taking a quick tour. That’s what you promised, isn’t it?”

She sighed and continued down the gilded corridor, Michael darting glances in each of the rooms as they went along.

He halted again. Ah. It was here after all. He pulled her into the room and closed the door. She whirled around. “What are you doing!”

“This is what I wanted to see. No need to show me the moldy old portraits.” He smiled. “All that talk at Brynlow…Well, I’d hoped…” He backed her against the felt-covered table and with great tenderness looked down at her extraordinary face. “Can you blame me? I was never going to be given a moment alone with you since those lords were watching you like dogs guarding a henhouse.”

“And why would you need a moment alone with me? There is nothing that needs to be said without my friends nearby.”

“No?” He teased her temple with his lips. “Well, I’ve never particularly cared for an audience when I wish to be alone with you. Defeats the purpose, don’t you think?”

Her eyes darkened with pain and she pushed against him. “Don’t. Please, don’t make light of everything. I loathe flirtation. And you’ve done nothing
but
, since you arrived in town.”

“That’s what happens when you’re idle and rub shoulders with nobs all day long instead of laboring. And here I thought you favored lordly fops.”

When she refused to reply, he released her and brutally cut away the façade he’d so carefully cultivated since arriving in London. His voice slowed and became deeper. “I can’t continue the farce any longer, Grace. I’ve decided you would be happier knowing the truth about my past.”

Grace took a step away from him. “Look, this isn’t necessary. You’re leaving in a very few days. You just said you were. And I would like us to part amicably, since you’ve made it abundantly clear that is what you want and there cannot be, ultimately, anything more. I feel precisely the same way. I really think it best if we refrain from any more of this, this…”

“This what?” Michael asked.

“Nonsense,” she finished, brokenly.

“Nonsense?” He wanted so badly to have her come to him, but she would not, and he could not blame her. “I think I liked it better when you called it connubial bliss.”

“I can’t stand this.” Her lower lip was caught between her teeth and he longed to soothe it, but instead he forced himself to say what he had come to say.

“Grace, I wanted a moment alone to explain why I cannot offer you marriage.”

Hurt eyes darted to his. “It’s not necessary.”

“It absolutely is necessary. And I beg you to accept my apology for not telling you—for not
trusting
you enough to say all of it before you left Brynlow.”

She must have seen something in his expression for all at once, her blue eyes softened. “What is it, Michael? I know you don’t bestow your trust easily, but I owe you my life. And I promise, despite everything, that I won’t let you down.”

“Grace,” he said so quietly she leaned in. “I—I…God. You see, the thing of it is, I’ve committed a terrible crime…I’m a fugitive from justice.”

Shock registered in her expression but he continued. “A warrant and a huge reward were issued for my apprehension many years ago.”

“But what did you do?” she whispered.

He forced the words past his teeth. “I killed someone.”

“I don’t believe it,” she breathed.

He drew back from the evidence of horror in her expression; bitterness invaded his soul. “Well, you should. I’m guilty and on a list for the gallows. It’s the reason I left England. I would still be on the other side of the ocean if not for Sam’s will.”

Her shoulders slumped. “Oh Michael.”

He rubbed her arms. “There. Now you know the truth of it. Now you can say good-bye to me and be glad. And you can understand why I must return to my corner of Yorkshire. And why you will continue on here. And I shall promise to never invade your circle of friends again—or see you—much as I would like to do otherwise. It was foolish of me to come. But Grace…God, I just couldn’t stay away from you. I had to see you to try and take the hurt from your expression. To make you understand that you are cherished—even if it isn’t worth much being adored by a bloody murdering blacksmith.”

He edged away from her and moved to the edge of the billiards table, picking up two of the ivory balls and absently sending one of them skidding across the felt surface. “You should return to your friends now. Let us say good-bye, then. I can see my way out. Give my regrets to Ata about that gathering. Your tea is probably cold.” He stared at the second ball as he sent it cracking into the other one, which shot into a corner pocket. He came about the end of the table to retrieve it and Grace’s slim arms circled him from behind.

“Michael…you cannot make me go away that easily.”

He went still and dropped his head.

“You don’t have to tell me what happened. There’s no need. I’m certain you had a very good reason for what you—for what happened. And I’m equally certain you’re not to be blamed for it. Any of it. It was surely an act of self-preservation.”

He felt an involuntary twitch in his jaw. “Don’t fool yourself. I killed someone, plain and simple. And if I’m ever discovered, I’ll taint anyone caught in my circle. You hate scandal, Grace. You were running from it when I found you. Believe me, two broken engagements will look like child’s play compared to being found cavorting with a murderer. You’d never be able to hold your head up again in any drawing room in town. And even if I was never caught, can you really see yourself buried in the back of beyond with only me for company? Although, if I may say”—he tried valiantly not to show how much the conversation affected him—“the thought does hold some appeal.”

“Stop it! Don’t make light of this.” She hesitated but a moment. “I’ll never believe you black hearted. And, Michael, I understand why you don’t place your trust in anyone—you’ve probably had too many people disappoint you when it came to the point.” She quickened her words, “You told me a while ago not to trust people, but you see, I placed my trust in you the day I allowed you to pull me on top of your horse in the middle of a blinding snowstorm. And I cemented it when we were together. And I’m not afraid of the future, because—my God, Michael can’t you guess what I feel for you in my heart?”

His mind went blank. And then he moved her soft hands away from him. “Don’t become a tragedy, Grace.”

“Don’t you dare tell me what to do or what to feel. Don’t you know how tired I am of everyone trying to protect me? It should be my choice what I’m willing to risk.”

He burst out with pent-up emotion, overwhelmed by her courage and her faith in him. “Grace, you’ve had a mere quarter of an hour to think about something I’ve lived for a lifetime. Don’t be a fool about this.”