Love With the Perfect Scoundrel Read online

  “It’ll wait a little longer. Now tell me what this is about. You were to take supper with all of us tonight. Mrs. Kane and others, especially that little girl, will be hurt if you don’t stay. Not very polite behavior for someone who esteems such notions now, is it?”

  “I will send my apologies to Mrs. Kane on the morrow. And I’ve already planned a special treat for Lara Peabody. But, I assure you that the others will not be hurt in the slightest by my absence. Victoria Givan will keep everyone’s spirits merry along with your help.”

  He looked at her long and hard. And then a smile teased the corner of one side of his lips. “You’re jealous.”

  “I most certainly am not!”

  “Grace,” he murmured. “You honor me so.”

  “You presume a great deal,” she muttered. “And don’t you dare look at me like that.”

  “How exactly am I looking at you?”

  “Like I’m some sort of disagreeable child to be mollified.”

  “You’ve never been very good at reading minds, sweetheart,” he said, his voice dropping. “And you know very well I’ve never thought of you as a child. Far from it.”

  She said not another word.

  It warmed the heart that she still cared, even if she would not fight for him. “I’ve known Victoria Givan since I was a boy—since the day I walked through these doors.” He picked up Grace’s bare, delicate hand in his. “She was always exasperating, and always trying to goad me and Sam Bryn into trouble. I’ve been wondering what sort of miracle Mrs. Kane conjured up to transform Victoria from a willful child to a tireless, caring teacher.”

  “You don’t have to explain. And I do thank all of you for this invitation. But I must go now. It’s for the best.”

  “Well, if I can’t convince you to stay…”

  “You can’t, I assure you.”

  “Then, there’s only one last thing to attend to before you go. You see, I promised Mrs. Kane…” He escorted her toward the door. Her blonde hair gleamed under the light of the chandelier, the candles lit above the greenery swagged all around. A tiny cluster of waxy white berries peeked out from between the boughs. He blocked her exit at the last moment.

  “Botheration. Michael, what are you doing?”

  “So you do remember my name,” he murmured close to her ear. “Was beginning to worry you’d forgotten it, since you’ve not said it in so long.”

  She pushed at his arms as he enfolded them about her.

  “Don’t ruin the moment, Grace.”

  “What moment?”

  “The moment under the mistletoe.”

  “Oh, pish,” she said, looking up at the greenery. “There are other females here who would help you do it properly.”

  “Yes, but they’re not you.” He lowered his lips to hers and she turned her face away. He kissed her temple instead. “You’re the one I want. And yes, damn it all to hell, I’ll come tomorrow night. I find that where you’re concerned I just can’t stay away…can’t get enough of you,” he growled.

  Startled blue eyes stared up at him, and he seized the chance before she could evade him yet again. His arms tightened about her and he claimed her lips, pouring all the pent-up passion he’d curbed for so long. Ah, she tasted of heaven and sweetness, and pure femininity wrapped in a rosy pink package. Locked tight against her, he deepened the kiss and her fisted hands un-clenched against his shoulders. He knew he only had another minute at best before the porter returned, but his head was too full of her. Her elusive scent, her softness, her every last drop of goodness.

  His tongue twined intimately against hers; seeking—no, demanding a response. And she did not deny him.

  Tentatively, oh so tentatively, she gave back in her own irresistible, shy fashion. As soon as her tongue curled to meet his, he groaned and wound his hands further about her delicate frame. God, how he had dreamed of this. God, how he wanted her—damn his loutish hide.

  The problem was that she’d had all the next day to think about what he’d said to her. Nothing could distract her, save for the hour she’d spent finding the only shop still open where she could purchase a Christmas doll for Lara. Packaging it carefully with a note telling the little girl how much she had enjoyed spending a portion of the evening with her, Grace had felt a fissure open in her tightly guarded heart.

  But the rest of the day, Grace’s mind could not be quieted. She’d dissected every sentence, every look, every nuance of every action of Michael Ranier. And it all came down to the fact that apart from sheer lust, which gripped them both with a vengeance each time they were alone, they had absolutely nothing in common. Their worlds could not be more different if they tried. And he had made it patently clear that while he desired her, he envisioned no future with her. And the husbands of all her friends had made it equally clear that they agreed. And so Grace deduced that nursing this impossible fascination would only lead to further heartbreak.

  Her thoughts shuffled in her mind as swiftly as all the widows dashed about the kitchens within Helston House. Last year’s Christmas had also been spent thusly, in a frenzy absent of every last servant save Luc’s butler, Mr. Phipps, who had nowhere else to go.

  Grace removed the last of the stems from the hothouse strawberries and placed them in a bowl. Ata and the rest of the widows knew better than to ask her to do any foodstuff preparation involving fire. Sarah and Elizabeth were the true geniuses in the kitchen, while Georgiana supplied cakes she had learned to bake from her mother.

  “Grace,” Sarah said, behind her, “would you mind beating the cream for the strawberries?”

  “Of course.” Pride swelled in her breast as she took over the task.

  “Rosamunde and Georgiana went above stairs to help Mr. Phipps arrange the table. This is the last of it.”

  Elizabeth came down the stairs again to retrieve a steaming plum pudding on an ornate silver platter. “Goodness. I think we’re ready. The wassail bowl has enough spirits to make even Luc happy. The fumes nearly overcame me.” She giggled and used the edge of her apron to dab at the cream that Grace splattered on her arm. “He just arrived,” Elizabeth informed her quietly.

  “I see.” She beat the cream a bit faster.

  Sarah rushed into the gap. “Is there anything you want us to do while he’s here, Grace? Would you like us to keep him slightly apart from you? We can switch the place cards if you like. Or perhaps you would like to speak to him privately again?” Anxiety lined Sarah’s kind face.

  As Grace glanced between the two women, she realized how very blessed she was by their friendship. “No, that’s not necessary. And you are worrying far too much. Mr. Ranier and I are perfectly capable of meeting without any qualms.” Right. Sarah and Elizabeth stared at her with doubt. “Really. Let’s go up now. I think this is done.”

  The three women looked down at the bowl, only to find the cream overchurned, the peaks now dense and on the verge of turning to butter. “Oh, how ridiculous,” Grace muttered.

  Elizabeth giggled. “Don’t worry, it’s not important.”

  “Well, if you really want to do something,” she said, looking at the two of them, “I would ask you never to allow me near a kitchen again after tonight. For everyone’s sake. Now please go up before me. I’m determined to try again.”

  Michael sat on the fragile settee, feeling more than a little like a bull perched on a bamboo fence. How on earth did lords and ladies expect a person to sit on a dainty thing like this without breaking it to bits?

  The Duke of Helston paced in front of the fire as he glanced from time to time at his lovely raven-haired wife, who held an infant in each arm. The man finally came to an abrupt halt and then swept the room with an annoyed hauteur, his eyes narrowing as they came to rest on Michael.

  Where was she? He wouldn’t have come so early if he had known she wouldn’t be in evidence.

  “Yes, Phipps?” Helston barked as someone entered the doorway.

  An elderly man dressed in an elegant style of the last decad
e stood with a large silver bowl, flanked by two of the widows. “The wassail bowl, Your Grace.”

  “Very good. Offer it around, if you will, Phipps.”

  “Oh yes, let’s do,” said the dowager duchess with a gleam in her dark eyes. She turned away from a beautiful gilded cage, which housed a vibrant canary. “And I must thank you again so much, Charles, for helping me bring Pip from Grace’s townhouse. My sweet bird sometimes gets bored staring at the four walls of my private rooms, and it is a holiday.”

  “Delighted to be of service to you, Ata,” Beaufort replied. “Pretty little thing, she is.”

  “Oh, and she sings so beautifully. Especially in the mornings. You must hear her.”

  “That would be entirely inappropriate,” Mr. Brown ground out. “As I remember, she sings at eight o’clock in the morning. And since you have not risen before noon a day in your life, madam, I find it hard to imagine how the duke will manage to hear your dear Pip sing.”

  “Well!”

  Helston barked with laughter. “He’s got you there, Ata.”

  The petite dowager, who was wearing outrageously high heels for her diminutive stature, tottered over to Mr. Phipps and drained one of the cups he offered. She then gave the cut direct to Mr. Brown, by picking up a second cup and turning her back to him. “My dear Quinn, I know I can count on you to share a bit of this delightful concoction with me.”

  “No thank you, Ata,” the marquis said. “I think I’ll refrain.”

  “You must be joking,” Helston said, stopping dead in his tracks again. “Not even on Christmas? Surely, that’s blasphemous. Well, Georgiana, may we not tempt you?”

  The new marchioness tried to hide a smile unsuccessfully. “Perhaps later.”

  “Later? Good God, later is never better than the present,” Helston said, turning back to the marquis. “Are you hinting that you’d prefer one of those blasted throat torches you favor so bloody much? I was hoping you’d hold off until after dinner.”

  “No, that’s quite all right,” Quinn Fortesque replied.

  “What’s this? Given up those nasty Portugese cheroots? And here after I went through all the trouble to track them down. Spirit of Christmas and all that.”

  “Your effort takes my breath away. Never knew you cared, Helston.”

  “This friendship of ours is far more draining than I thought possible. I shall have to reconsider the terms of our agreement if this contrary nature of yours continues.”

  “It’s my fault, Luc,” the lovely marchioness murmured.

  “Don’t be silly. Nothing is your fault,” the dowager insisted. “It’s the gentlemen who are always at fault.” She skirted a glance at Mr. Brown and looked away quickly.

  “The smoke leaves me a bit queasy, you see. And Quinn has quite kindly given it up for the time being.”

  “For the time being?” Helston asked brusquely. “And why is that?” All eyes focused on the chestnut-haired marchioness.

  Ata jumped up and rushed to the lady. “Oh, Georgiana, are you?” She left the question to dangle.

  “Yes.”

  Helston’s wife looked at her with a warm expression. “Oh, Georgiana, I’ve longed for this. Our children will be the best of friends in all of the world!”

  The duke strode to the wassail bowl, accepted a cup from Mr. Phipps, and passed it to his grandmother. “Well, I’m certain I can count on you, Grandmamma, to celebrate the occasion properly.”

  The dowager smiled. “Oh, Georgiana! So delighted, dearest. Now I feel better knowing I gave up an entire bottle of my Armagnac for this occasion. Wouldn’t want to waste a drop. Mr. Ranier, may we offer you a cup, then? Luc—”

  “Thank you, but no,” Michael said.

  “What? You, too?” Helston said incredulously. “Good God, am I fated to be surrounded by abstainers? When, on earth, did sin go out of fashion? Well,” he sighed, “more for me.”

  Mr. Brown leaned in from the other end of the settee. “You mustn’t take offense, Mr. Ranier. Remember, the blacker the scowl, the softer the heart.”

  “And the harder the apology,” the Marquis of Ellesmere murmured.

  “What’s that, Ellesmere?” the duke muttered. “Can’t have you forever talking behind my back.”

  “Just providing a bit of advice for my new friend Mr. Ranier, here, on the delicate task of forming bonds with a hotheaded sailor.”

  “Don’t worry. I’d never hold my breath waiting for an apology from His Grace,” Michael replied.

  “Well, it appears Ranier is, indeed, smarter than he looks,” Helston said with a dark smile.

  “Actually, I was talking about your future apology, Mr. Ranier.” Ellesmere’s eyes were hooded.

  “My apology? I—” Michael stopped dead when he noticed Grace hovering in the door frame. He unconsciously rose to his feet. Ah, yes. He was glad he had decided to come. It was worth every bit of danger and nonsense within this madhouse for the simple chance to see her again.

  She walked toward him and his vision tunneled to only her as she glided forward in a pale pink satin gown, her signature pearls clustered about her slender neck. They lay gleaming against her flesh in a bodice cut lower than Michael had ever seen in his life. The knowledge of what lay underneath all that opulence made his mouth dry.

  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—”

&nb
sp; 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.”