Love With the Perfect Scoundrel (37 page)

Grace felt her lips twitching. “You are a very foolish man.”

“I suppose I should be completely honest with you, should warn you of one last thing.”

“And what is that?”

“As part of the bargain in retrieving your fortune, Rowland insisted he be the one to walk you down the aisle if we are wed. Suggested outrageously about having the right, since he was providing the
dowry
. Even had the audacity to suggest you might prefer him over me.” He leaned in to add, “Said he liked your fire. Imagine the nerve.”

“The trait does appear to run in your family,” she whispered with a smile. Grace studied the document in her hands. The idea of being in possession of the Sheffield monies again felt nothing so much as a burden all over again. “Michael? What would you think if I told you I don’t want this fortune anymore? If I suggested that it never brought me any sort of happiness?”

He looked at her, earnestness filling his face. “I would ask you what you propose to do about it.”

She gazed beyond his shoulder to the sight of a boy leading two horses with one hand and a young girl—Lara—with the other. “I would like to use a good portion of it to rebuild your family’s estate, and to offer the use of Wallace Abbey to the foundling home. The children could live in the countryside where they would have a better life, where we could also provide better food, better everything. Oh Michael…please say yes.”

“You would want to do this, truly?” he asked, amazement warring with adoration in his eyes as he pulled her behind the privacy of a sturdy oak tree.

“Yes.”

“Then you must do it, Grace. For you will create a far better place than I ever envisioned.”

“What place was that?”

He turned to see what she was staring at around the trunk of the tree. As he watched Lara and James laughing together in the distance, he gently clasped her to his warm chest and whispered, “Why, paradise. Now I see it’s anywhere you are, my love.”

Grace stared up into the golden eyes of the only man who had ever inspired her to reach beyond her carefully cultivated orderly life, and very inelegantly pulled his head down to hers. “This is when you’re supposed to kiss me.”

He dazzled her with a grin, and plucked a chicken feather from her hair. “I was trying very hard, just this once, not to rush you.”

“But I want you to rush me.”

He stared at her, waiting. And so she took matters into her own two hands and rose up the last inch to meet his lips.

And then, only then, did he let himself loose on her, prowling, and growling, and nuzzling and nipping to make sure she fully understood the depth and breadth of his love—forevermore.

Dear Mr. Brown,

I am writing to thank you for the new love of my life. I don’t know how you managed it, but a dear little dog, whom I have named Attila, was delivered to Helston House almost a full month ago. He has stolen my heart, quite recklessly, you see, despite the sentiments I still retain for my late husband’s large dogs. Luc tells me his breed has a God-given talent for dragging vicious badgers from their holes, but if he understands any of my late-night whispers, he will develop a taste for portentous, bloodthirsty dukes in their armories. Right now, however, he excels in lap sitting and bed sleeping.

John, I’m certain you will realize how difficult this is to admit, but it was very wrong of me to act as I did this winter. While a proper apology does not include excuses, I beg you to consider my explanation. I have never told anyone why I feel as responsible as I do where it concerns Grace Sheffey, who if there is any right in this world will soon become Lady Wallace. I would beg of you not to tell her, but it was my terrible husband who convinced Grace’s father to invest in that foreign canal scheme that failed so miserably. And Luc compounded Grace’s misfortunes by breaking her heart. Truly the Helston family has brought nothing but suffering to a young lady whose character is far greater than anyone else’s I’ve ever known.

When you left her in your wrecked carriage in the middle of a blizzard, I didn’t blame you. I blamed myself. I held myself liable for not having gained her trust. She turned to you in her darkest hour, not me. That pained me terribly. I had been determined to fix every evil the Helston family had ever done to her.

But I have learned something. I’ve learned that I must stop assigning culpability for other’s mistakes. And I’ve also learned that I must accept blame for my own wretched wrongs.

This is all to tell you that I am determined to change. I have never believed advancement in years may be used as an excuse for ill behavior. I do not blame you for going away without me this last time. I only ask that if you still possess the smallest shred of regard for me, and I am praying that Attila is a testament to that fact, then you will one day forgive me—just as I shall forgive you for suggesting that Attila, who is far more snout and teeth than leg and hair, reminds you of me.

Lastly, I wanted to inform that I am contemplating a possible return to Cornwall. While I had thought to remain in London this spring to broaden Elizabeth and Sarah’s prospects for happiness, it has become blindingly obvious that Elizabeth is everything but happy here. Indeed, she has changed from the fearless, outspoken lady we all knew. And I cannot fathom why. Sarah continues on as always…determined to revere the memory of her heroic husband. And so, I am undecided about remaining in London.

I am, however, determined to put off the decision until I hear news from you. Please tell my dearest girl that if she decides to run away yet again, that it had better be with Michael, the most perfect scoundrel I have yet to meet. And there is to be no talk of special licenses. They had best come to London, for I am determined to arrange a proper wedding at St. George’s with all the trimmings.

Your perfect hoyden,
Ata

Greatest thanks to Executive Editor Lyssa Keusch for her extraordinary editorial guidance. Her encouragement and insightful advice are such wondrous gifts.

And to Anne Kane and Cybil Solyn, endless appreciation for providing critiques of early drafts.

Thank you also to Arthur Huntington Nash and Kim Nash for supplying inspiring ancestral ideas as well as research materials concerning the equine industry in early-nineteenth-century Virginia.

To Ingrid Lindquist, thank you for nurturing my early love of horses via Sioux and all the others.

Nancy Meyer and the Beau Monde provided advice regarding entailed lands and missing heirs, and for that I am grateful.

And as always, special thanks to my family for tolerating life with deadlines and making it all worthwhile.

SOPHIA NASH
was born in Switzerland and raised in France and the United States, but says her heart resides in Regency England. Her ancestor, an infamous French admiral who traded epic cannon fire with the British Royal Navy, is surely turning in his grave.

Before pursuing her long-held dream of writing, Sophia was an award-winning television producer for a CBS affiliate, a congressional speechwriter, and a nonprofit CEO. She lives in the Washington, D.C., suburbs with her husband and two children.

Sophia’s first three novels won eight national awards, including the prestigious RITA
^®
Award, and a spot on
Booklist
’s “Top Ten Romances of the Year.” Readers may contact her via her website:
www.sophianash.com
.

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L
OVE WITH THE
P
ERFECT
S
COUNDREL

T
HE
K
ISS

A D
ANGEROUS
B
EAUTY

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

LOVE WITH THE PERFECT SCOUNDREL
. Copyright © 2009 by Sophia Nash. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Mobipocket Reader January 2009 ISBN 978-0-06-177322-8

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