Too Scandalous to Wed (6 page)

“Would you like me to come ashore and help you with your skates, Ravenswood?”

“That won’t be necessary, Miss Ashby,” he all but growled, as he set to work strapping the bothersome skates to his boots once more. Blast it! How the devil had he gotten himself into this mess—again?

With an unsteady air, Sebastian made his way back onto the ice, and quickly found himself surrounded by Henrietta.

“Here,” she said. “Take my hand.”

And before he could protest, she clasped him by the hand and secured her other palm to his waist.

Sebastian stiffened at the intimate embrace. Never before had the girl touched him in such a way. He’d been so careful in the past to avoid physical contact, not wanting to encourage her misplaced adoration. But now that she had him in her arms, a bewildering warmth seeped through his blood.

“You and I have never danced before,” she said, as she waltzed across the ice with him—leading, at that. The impudent chit. “Why is that, Ravenswood?”

Because you’ve always hounded me for your husband, that’s why
.

But he fibbed instead. “I’m a very poor dancer, Miss Ashby.”

“A poor dancer. A poor skater. Poor company. Do you expect me to believe you flourish at nothing?”

“That’s right, Miss Ashby.”

“Rot!” Her eyes sparked, a dark fire burning in the bronze pools. “I think you flourish at a great many things, my lord, and I wish you’d share your accomplishments with me. We are friends, after all.”

Sebastian glowered at her, not really sure what to make of her request. If only he could think straight. But with the girl’s elfin fingers caressing his waist, stirring a fiery storm in his belly, there wasn’t much chance of that happening.

Brushing her palm away from his midriff, Sebastian set it atop his shoulder—where it belonged.

Belatedly he realized that wasn’t a very wise move, for now
his
hand would have to go on
her
waist. Bloody hell.

“Miss Ashby?” he said with firm purpose.

“Yes, my lord.”

And that was another thing. What the deuce did she mean by calling him “my lord” and “Ravenswood” at every turn? It’d been a quaint diversion the first night of his return, but now it was a bloody distraction to hear her call him by his title. He had the feeling the girl was funning with him each time she used the appellation.

“Ravenswood?”

He blinked. “What?”

“You had something to say to me, I believe.”

That’s right, he did. He had a great many things to say to her.
Why aren’t you married yet?
for one. And
What the devil has come over you?
for another. “Is that jasmine I smell?”

“Why, yes, my lord. Do you like it?”

Like it? He could wallow in it. It was his favorite scent. Not that he’d ever told the girl so. Certainly not. It was a mere coincidence she was wearing the one fragrance that could make his head spin.

Devil take it, that’s not what he wanted to talk to her about. “Miss Ashby—”

“Do you realize you’ve not stumbled once, my lord?”

Sebastian reflected upon her words. She was right, he hadn’t.

“You are a very good teacher, Miss Ashby.”

“Rubbish. You’re just not that poor a skater.”

No, he was a very poor skater, which made the balancing act all the more mystifying.

“You’ve misplaced your confidence in me, Miss Ashby.”

Slowly she shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

Sebastian watched the gentle sway of her locks, a dark auburn in hue. Her curls were tucked beneath a fetching fur cap, a few stray tendrils bouncing with each twirl on the ice.

She really did look like a snow faerie, so whim
sical and fearless. Her bright eyes gleamed with laughter and life. And for just a moment, he could see himself in the honey brown pools. It alarmed him.

“It’s getting dark,” she said softly, her russet red lashes fluttering. “We should head back to the house.”

She broke away from the embrace and skated to the pond’s edge, leaving Sebastian feeling curiously cold in the center of the ice.

A
disgruntled Sebastian made his way through the house and scowled. Henrietta’s penchant for tardiness was rubbing off on him, it seemed. He had snored right through breakfast!

Stifling a curse, he stepped into the dining parlor.

“Morning, Seb.” Peter was sitting alone in the room, reading a paper. “’Bout time you roused your sleepy head to join us.”

Sebastian ignored the quip and poured himself a cup of lukewarm tea. He was hungry, but the serving plates on the table were dusted with crumbs. He looked at his brother.

“Oh, sorry, Seb.” Peter rustled the paper. “But you know how it goes: the early bird gets the worm, and all. There might be a few scraps left in the kitchen.”

With a sigh, Sebastian set his teacup aside and quit the room in search of the kitchen.

He stifled a yawn. He hadn’t nabbed a wink of
sleep the other night, he was so restless. Had the baron changed the bed since his last visit? Sebastian didn’t think so; the bed looked the same. But something was keeping him awake.

He moved through the house to the servant stairwell and strutted down the dark steps.

It was a large underground system of tunnels, leading to the kitchen, all lit by candlelight. Sebastian strolled past dish racks and dry sinks, a wine cellar and the cook’s bedroom before he happened upon a warm, roasting fire…and Henrietta.

She was at a long wood table, her auburn hair twisted in a tight chignon. She was wearing an apron to protect her day dress—and rolling dough.

Sebastian sniffed the air.

Ginger.

She was making gingerbread.

Henrietta picked up a small sack of flour, tipped it, and dumped most of the powder on the breadboard.

She gasped and quickly scooped the extra flour back into the sack, stirring up a white cloud.

“
Achooo!
”

He shouldn’t be alone with the chit; it wasn’t right…but he was hungry.

“Bless you, Miss Ashby.”

She bristled. “Oh, good morning, Ravenswood.” She stuffed the rest of the flour into the sack, wiped her powdery fingers across her apron—and smiled.

The warm glow of the fire brightened her cheeks,
the soft dusting of a rosy blush making her all the more winsome.

“What are you doing here, Ravenswood?”

Sebastian stooped to pass under the short door frame. “I’m hungry, Miss Ashby.”

There was a look in her eyes, a smoky look. The kind of look a wanton mistress would offer when she was gripped by a
carnal
hunger.

Sebastian blinked. It must be the shadows in the room, fooling his eyes.

“I’m afraid I missed breakfast this morning, Miss Ashby.”

There was a wooden bowl on the table, covered with linen. She flipped back the cloth. “Cookies, my lord?”

Sebastian approached the table and peeked into the bowl. “Did you bake the cookies?”

“Just now.”

A bit dubious, Sebastian picked up a piece of gingerbread. “Why are you baking cookies, Miss Ashby?”

“Oh, I bake them every year at Christmas.”

“Do you?”

She nodded. “For the children in the village.”

Sebastian eyed her, then the cookie again. Well, it looked edible.

He popped the spicy treat into his mouth and found it to be…“Delicious.”

She beamed. “Thank you, my lord. Have another.”

“I think I will, Miss Ashby.”

One. Two. Three. Four treats later—maybe more—Sebastian’s belly was thoroughly filled and satisfied. The chit really was a splendid cook.

“That was very good, Miss Ashby.”

There was something shifty about her smile. “I’m glad you think so, Ravenswood.” She plunked another breadboard on the table. “Here. You’ll need this.”

He eyed the culinary accouterment with curiosity. “For what?”

“Well, since you ate all the children’s cookies, you’ll have to make some more dough.”

He blinked. “Miss Ashby, you’re not—”

A large bowl landed on the breadboard. “Put in three cups of flour.”

Sebastian just stared at her. She wanted him to bake? Cookies?

“Miss Ashby, I don’t know the first thing about making cookies.”

“That’s why I’m here, Ravenswood.” She passed him a cup. “Three cups, remember.”

Sebastian took the cup and stifled a growl. He had to
work
for his food. How ignoble. If he’d known the price of those blasted cookies, he’d have starved instead.

He divested his coat and rolled up his sleeves.

“You tricked me, Miss Ashby.” He dumped the flour into the bowl. “That wasn’t very good of you.”

“Perhaps I did, my lord…a cup of brown sugar next…but it’s lonely down here; I need the company of a friend.”

He humphed and mixed in the brown sugar.

She handed him two small vials. “Now for a pinch of cinnamon and a dash of ginger.”

He tossed in the spices. “What happened to your sisters?”

Henrietta worked at her end of the table, rolling a ready batch of dough. “My sisters took the children in the sleighs for a winter trip.”

“What about the servants?”

“Tomorrow’s Christmas, Ravenswood. The servants get a holiday. Besides,
I
volunteered to bake the cookies.”

“And yet here
I
am, helping you.”

She grinned. “I really appreciate the assistance, my lord.” She took a round tin cookie cutter and sliced up the gingerbread. “If we work together, we’ll be done by luncheon.”

He paused. “Luncheon? How many cookies do you intend we bake?”

“Oh, a few hundred or so should do it…the wet ingredients are next.”

She pushed a jug of brown goop his way.

After he’d recovered from the shock of having to make a few hundred cookies, he looked into the jug and grimaced. “What is that?”

“Molasses.” She picked up a spoon. “Here. Use this to scrape it out; the molasses is very thick.”

Sebastian sighed and poured in the gummy ingredient. The wily chit had hoodwinked him thoroughly. Again. How did he keep getting tricked into skating trips and cooking parties?

But it was hard to be vexed with the girl when there was a dusting of flour on the tip of her pert nose.

“I didn’t know you were so generous with the village children, Miss Ashby.”

She put the rest of the gingerbread cookies on the iron griddle. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Ravenswood.”

“I’m beginning to realize that.”

Henrietta picked up the griddle and a scrap of black wool, and sashayed over to the fireplace. She reached inside the hearth with the wool, pulled out the crane, and set the griddle on the S-hook.

She swung the iron arm back over the fire. “That should take just a few minutes.”

All the while, Sebastian studied her lithe movement. He pondered her skill in the kitchen and wondered what else he didn’t know about the girl.

Henrietta returned to the table and checked on his progress. “Now for the egg, my lord. Try not to get the shell into the bowl…on second thought, let me do it.” She cracked the egg on the side of the dish and dropped in the yolk, discarding the shell. “Now mix it all up.”

Sebastian glanced across the cluttered table, spotted a wooden spoon, and picked it up.

“Oh no!” She whisked the wooden spoon away. “With your hands.”

He looked down at the sloppy mixture. “I’m not touching that.”

She sighed. “Let me show you, Ravenswood.” She took his hands and pushed them into the gooey blend. “Like this.”

Sebastian’s outrage fizzled the moment she started to work her fingers over his. In deft strokes, she kneaded the dough with him, pushing his hands together, forcing him to press and squeeze the supple compound.

There was something very familiar about the movement of her hands. A pulsing rhythm that warmed the blood in his veins.

Perhaps he should bake cookies more often?

Sebastian could hear her soft breath, a slow beat. Smell the sprinkle of jasmine at her throat. He looked into her eyes as she molded the dough, such a deep toffee brown. Dots of flickering candlelight reflected in the glossy pools.

Sebastian must be standing too close to the fire, for he could feel the flames licking…

“Smoke,” he whispered.

She flicked her pretty lashes. “What’s that, my lord?”

He sniffed. “I think the cookies are burning, Miss Ashby.”

“Oh no!” She quickly wiped her fingers on her apron and rushed over to the hearth. With the scrap
of black wool, she snatched the griddle from the flames and carried it back to the table.

Henrietta set the griddle on the iron spider and inspected the cookies. “They don’t look too bad.”

With a knife, she picked up a cookie to check the underside.

Black as pitch.

“Oh dear.” She tsked. “I’ll feed these to the hounds. We’ll have to start anew, my lord.”

Sebastian took in a deep breath to dispel the balmy heat in his belly.

Finished by luncheon, indeed.

“Be careful, Henry!” Penelope cried. “You’ll burn your sleeve!”

“Give the boy some room,” said the baron, and waved a hand. “Step back everyone. Step back.”

Henrietta pursed her lips in concentration. She eyed the floating raisin in the fiery bowl—not an easy task in the darkened room—and licked her fingers to moisten the tips.

“Oh, I can’t look!” The baroness covered her eyes with a kerchief, but still peeked through the stitching in the fringe.

As swift as she could, Henrietta dunked her hand into the shallow bowl, grabbed the fiery raisin, and popped the brandy-soaked fruit into her mouth, much to the jubilation of the crowd around her.

“Hurray, Aunt Henry!” the children shouted in unison. “Hail to the Queen of the Snapdragon!”

Devilishly pleased with herself, Henrietta mimicked her best royal curtsy. “Why, thank you, my dear lords and ladies.”

The baron clapped his hands together and beamed. “What a good show, my boy!”

“Thank goodness that’s over with.” Fan fluttering, the baroness clutched her large bosom. “Lights!”

The attending footmen whisked about the room, lighting candles, tweaking oil lamps, and stoking the dwindling flames in the hearth.

A bit breathless herself, Henrietta separated from the family and ensconced herself in a window seat, resting her warm brow against the chilled glass. It was Christmas Eve, the parlor a flutter of activity. But she needed a moment of repose. She still had a seduction to orchestrate—and tonight she intended to move the courtship along.

With a discreet pinch, Henrietta assured herself the little velvet purse was still tucked up her sleeve—and had not drowned in the fiery bowl of brandy. It concealed a gift for Ravenswood: one she hoped would warm the viscount to her. Next she peeked at the doorway, and was pleased to see the mistletoe still in place, for it would come in handy later in the night.

With a confident smile, she rested her brow against the window again. Across the room stood Ravenswood, conversing with his brother. Henrietta did not look directly at the viscount. Instead she
fixed her eyes on the pane of glass and watched him in the reflection of the room.

He looked so dashing, she mused. And he was watching her closely, she could tell.

But she would not acknowledge his stare. It was another one of Madam Jacqueline’s cardinal rules: ignore the man as much as possible. Make
him
come to you.

And it wasn’t long before Henrietta’s heart fluttered at the movement in the glass.

Ravenswood was approaching.

She scrunched her feet beneath her posterior, making room on the window seat should Sebastian wish to join her. He didn’t sit next to her, though. Instead he paused by the window, drink in hand, delft blue eyes perusing her figure in that familiar lanky stare.

“How fare your fingers, Miss Ashby?”

Tingles of pleasure rippled along her limbs at his low and husky drawl. “A bit tender, my lord.”

She quelled a shudder when he took the seat next to her. “Let me see your hand.”

It was a gruff command, and she all but squeaked in delight to see how much he cared for her. Oh, he loved her all right; she’d suspected it for years. But the mulish man had never made a public display of affection. This was a most favorable boon.

She offered him her hand. Gently he clasped her
palm, and Henrietta all but toppled off the window seat.

With exquisite tenderness, he stroked her fingers, glaring at the flushed flesh as though willing the injury away.

But the slight burning sensation in her hand intensified the more he caressed her, and it wasn’t long before the rest of her body was feeling the heat as well.

“Perhaps you should retire as Queen of the Snapdragon?”

It took her a moment to gather her wayward thoughts and reply, “Perish the thought. The children would never forgive me.”

He let go of her hand, let it slowly slip between his strong fingers. “I will get you a cold compress, Miss Ashby.”

She delved deep into his stormy eyes, shivered at the loss of his touch. “No, wait!”

Sebastian looked back at her. “What is it?”

“Stay, Ravenswood. I have a present for you.”

He eyed her curiously. “A present? For me?”

Henrietta removed the small trinket from beneath her sleeve and presented him with the gift. “Here.”

Sebastian stared at the satchel with obvious confusion. “What is it?”

She thrust her hand forward in encouragement. “Open it.”

Setting his drink aside, he accepted the black vel
vet purse. For a moment, he did nothing but hold it. But soon he stretched the golden cords and opened the little sack.

Carefully, Sebastian removed the ring and lifted it to the light for a better look. It was a gentleman’s ring, crafted from gold, the emblem on the surface a Celtic love knot.

Did he recognize the symbol? She hoped not. She didn’t want to frighten him off with a clear show of her affection. But he didn’t look alarmed. In truth, he looked very surprised.

“Do you like it, Ravenswood?”