Love With the Perfect Scoundrel (11 page)

He peered into the small bucket, which was nearly full.

“She drank about one half of the first bucket. Actually, she took precisely an inch more than one half of a bucket. I measured it. But she won’t take any from this new bucket. And, and…”

Michael covered one of her hands with his own to still the trembling. “And?”

“And I think she’s dying.” Her voice strained to continue. “I couldn’t bear—”

“Sweetheart,” Michael said unable to keep a smile from his lips, “that lamb’s not dying. It’s doing exactly what I would expect it to do when
drunk
on cow’s milk—sleep.”

“Are you certain?”

“I’m surprised you got the lamb to take as much as you did.” He didn’t tell her the animal’s stomach was probably twice as full as any other newborn’s. “If Pearl lives, it will be because of your ministering.”

Such transparent joy, with a tinge of uncertainty infused her face. It was almost painful to witness. Like a child long denied great happiness and still disbelieving. Like the rare child at the orphanage who left arm in arm with a new mother or father. Like Sam.

“Do you think the cow’s milk will hurt her?”

He scratched his jaw. “I’ve seen odder things. I once saw a whelping hound adopt a piglet. But, you mustn’t get your hopes too high. Nature always has her way, as everyone knows. It’s the strongest who survive.”

“I know that lesson well.”

“Do you now, Countess?” He eased to his full height, refusing to give in to the urge to lean forward and kiss her. She was just so damned beautiful.

“Yes.”

Michael retrieved bread, the remaining cheese, and butter from the larder. “And where did you learn this? I hadn’t thought you were raised long in the country.”

“Oh, it’s worse in town. One of the tenets of society is that aristocrats always manage to weed out the less vital offspring of their peers—innocent or not—to keep the upper ten thousand to its proper number.”

He shook his head, “And why must it stay at that particular number?”

“Well,” she said wryly, “I suppose everyone thinks upper
eleven
thousand does not sound nearly so fine.”

He laughed. “Obviously they have too much time on their hands, if they’re wasting it on such nonsense. But I remember it thusly.” He went still, shocked he had let the words spill from his mouth and praying she was too engrossed in the lamb to have taken notice. “Come, the eggs are ready.”

He carefully deposited the sleeping lamb in a nest of blankets despite her protestations.

“You once lived in London?” She seated herself at the table.

His neck hairs prickled. “Yes. Like many.” He cracked open a coddled egg in a swift motion.

“Why do you avoid telling me about your life?”

“Nothing interesting to relate, unless you want to discuss smithing and farming, that is.”

He could almost feel the wheels turning in her mind, and he stymied her efforts by changing the subject. “Where were you raised, Countess?”

“The Isle of Mann and a few seasons in London. Generations of my mother’s and father’s families lived on Mann. I was actually on my way there when the accident occurred.”

“That explains it.”

“Explains what?”

“You’re heartier than you appear at first glance,” he murmured, quickly polishing off three more eggs before turning to the bread and cheese.

“I’m sorry?” Her spoon stopped in midair.

“Viking blood.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Wasn’t Mann raided and settled by Vikings? You certainly look like a blonde, blue-eyed norse-woman, albeit a petite one. Do you have any hidden desire to go raiding that I should know about, Lady Sheffield?”

Her eyes had widened with each word. And then she let out her breath. “Oh, for goodness sakes.”

“Your oaths show little variation.”

“Well, yours would too, if you were a lady.” The warmth in her eyes had returned, and his tension over her questions eased. Too soon.

“I’ve told you about my childhood. And yours?”

He stood up, his chair’s legs raking against the floorboards. “A little here and there.”

“So you spent part of your youth near here?”

She was never going to quit. “Yes, and as you know, in London and Virginia too.” Their plates clean, he removed everything from the table. She drifted to his side.

“What was it like there?”

“Virginia?”

“Yes.” Her voice was tentative and soft, obviously afraid of being cut off.

“It’s a land of much raw beauty. The life there is new, and uncertain. You can’t imagine how red and boggy the clay mud becomes during the March rains—especially in Georgetown, a drummed-up trade village. Makes the bogs here look tame,” he said, meeting her eyes. “But in Virginia, the woods and mountains go on forever and a day. The wild flowering trees of spring—especially the redbud—make up for the harsh winters, but the fine weather of fall does not make up for the hordes of summer mosquitoes.”

She was silent next to him. She’d finally learned how to move about the kitchen with ease. While he washed, she dried.

“Thank you,” she uttered.

“For what?”

“For describing it to me. I can see it perfectly.”

There was such gentle goodness to her, he longed to lean down and kiss her senseless, and remind her exactly how ungentlemanly he could be when provoked by her generous spirit and beauty.

“Well,” he said, seizing the chance to turn the conversation. “This is the first moment we’ve had with nothing to do but amuse ourselves. What shall it be, then? And no, Pearl is going to be looked after by Timmy tonight.”

“I would prefer to see to her myself. It’s no trouble, really.” She arranged the two cups in the cupboard and moved to the other dishes to dry.

“I’ll extract a promise from Timmy to watch over her as well as you have done. You know, you’ve such a rare gift with animals, I’ll have to give you horsemanship lessons next.”

Her expression froze and he grinned. “I can see you’re delighted by the prospect. But I’m certain you’d make a fine horsewoman.” He chucked her under her chin. “It’s your luck there’s too much snow to consider it. Hmmm. Let’s see. We could play cards. Wagering has always been a favored vice of mine.” He chuckled at her raised eyebrows. “But not my favorite.”

“You’re a gambler?” she asked, her voice strained.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart? All men, even gentlemen, enjoy a wager here or there. Indeed, it helped me gain my supper many a fortnight.”

“But it can also worsen your lot in life if you’re unlucky.”

“Well, one does what one has to do to survive.”

“I detest gambling.”

“And why is that, sweetheart?”

Her gaze rested on her hands as she continued to rub the last plate even though it was already dry. “My father won and lost our family’s wealth twice over. The first time I was young and we were on Mann. I remember the servants leaving and the bare spots in the rooms where furniture and paintings had once been. The second time, another foreign canal scheme…Well, I was nearly twenty and…and it’s a common-enough story.”

“And?” he encouraged.

“And I had just been paraded about London with a promised dowry in excess of thirty thousand pounds.”

“Is this when you married Sheffield?”

“No.” She halted and appeared to waver in her decision to tell him more. He refused to urge her to continue.

“Our townhouse in London and all items within were sold at auction along with the gowns, the horses, and the carriages. And now you are going to say that you feel certain I didn’t really care about the horses.”

“No, Countess. I would not say that.” He hated her wretched story. There had been too much sadness in his own life, and he preferred not to dwell on misery in any corner.

She had become silent, but then continued. “Before then, I’d been declared a vision and the catch of the season. I’d found it amusing to be compared to a fish. Yet after a while it had been hard not to feel like one when eight gentlemen tried to reel the fat dowry into their coffers,” she glanced at her hands. “I don’t know why I am telling you this. I need to write a few letters to my friends in Cornwall. They will be very worried.”

“Whatever you’d like, Countess.”

Her lovely blue eyes looked to his. “I am boring you.”

“You have yet to bore me.” Her expression told him everything she did not. “Go on.”

“When we retrenched, I was abruptly remeasured, came up short, and was declared a bit old. The ton’s new opinion was best expressed by the Countess of Home, who dismissed me as
ordinary
. This was worse than being a complete failure. I was packed back to Mann before my parents fled for yet another foreign city, in search of yet another grand scheme.”

“And how came you to marry the earl?”

“When my parents died a few years later, my cousin, the heir, arrived on Mann with his good friend, the Earl of Sheffield. And while many assumed I married him for avaricious reasons, for he was much older—”

“You did not do that. I’m certain of it.”

She bowed her head. “John Sheffey was one of the finest gentlemen I have ever had the honor to know,” she finished.

The countess knelt before the lamb and stroked its head. “We returned to London, but while my husband’s will was strong, his heart was not, and he succumbed to a fever shortly thereafter. Many whispered I was lucky to have secured a solid foundation of financial security locked behind the doors of London’s most venerable banking institutions—all in four short months.” Her glittering eyes met his. “They were right.”

“Sweetheart,” he shook his head. “You can try to convince me all you like that you were a conniving female on the hunt for a fortune, but unlike those fools in town, I’ll never believe it.”

“It’s a well known fact that fear of destitution breeds motivation. But I was indeed lucky—very lucky—to have been granted the happiness I found with Lord Sheffield.” She said it so quietly, he had to lean forward to catch it.

“I’d bet my last farthing that the earl would have given you his wealth twice over again just for the pleasure of being with you those few months.” He couldn’t stop the heat from entering his words.

When she didn’t reply, Michael leaned over and collected the lamb to return it to the barn. “Come, we’re finished here.”

Her attention fixed on the creature, she changed the subject. “If you don’t mind, I would very much like to write those notes.”

“Hmmm.” If he had cared less for her, he might have suggested something more to his liking. Something that would involve sheets of linen instead of sheets of pressed paper. “All right. I’ve a mind to glance at the books in the library after I return the lamb. Shall we?”

He gallantly offered his arm to her but she arose unaided. She clearly had no wish to continue what they had begun last night.

An hour later, Michael rather thought he might go mad. The silence of the library was broken only by an occasional snap from the fire, and the faint scratching of her quill on the paper he had found for her. Distraction, in the form of the delicate beauty before him, ruled his thoughts and his imagination. He tried yet again to concentrate on an excellent book describing the various types of sheep to be found in England and Scotland.

He’d always devoured books whenever he’d had access, which had been rare. Apparently, Sam had loved books too, given the overfilled bookcases. Michael imagined many comfortable yet solitary nights ahead, spent in this room.

The gloaming shrouded the view beyond the heavy drapes. Michael pressed his aching shoulders into the padded leather chair and tried to resist glancing at the woman before him, without success.

He studied her elegant profile as she applied words to the page. Her loveliness was boundless, her heart no less. And he wanted to pound to hell and back all those nobs in London who’d suggested she was a callous fortune hunter. Good God, she was everything innocent, everything fine, and everything a man could want, and so much more. And for him, she was everything he would dream of and everything he could never, ever hold on to.

He would go after Brown tomorrow.

She sanded the note and carefully cleaned her fingers with a cloth. He trained his attention on his book. The smoky scent of molten sealing wax curled in the air between them before he heard her chair push back from the small escritoire.

She held the missive before him silently, and he gazed at the extraordinarily beautiful script of the directions she had written. Of course she had taken as much care in forming the letters as she had making the delicate stitches in his clothes, feeding the lamb, and touching him last eve. He placed the letter on the side table next to him.

“The snow will have melted by half in the morning at any guess. I’ll take this to the village then and also make inquiries.” He rubbed the ache between his eyes. “You shall be on your way soon after.”

Unexpectedly, he heard the rustle of silk and he realized she was kneeling in front of him.

“I’ve been uncertain how to say something.” High color crested her cheekbones.

“Yes?”

“My injury is much improved, and—and I’m feeling much stronger. Must be the porridge, or the excellent care you’ve—”

“I’m glad to hear it,” he cut in.

There was a long pause before she continued. “Well—that is—I just thought I would assure you…” She stopped, the crackling of the pitched pine in the fireplace deafening in the silence.

Her eyes skittered away from his scrutiny, but she soldiered on. “Last night you said you didn’t like regrets and couldn’t offer any promises, and—and…”

“And?” he prodded.

“And I said I held no expectations.”

“Yes.”

“Well, do you think it would be very wrong—or truly
sinful
to…I mean to say, I’m a widow. I still revere the memory of my husband, and have mourned him. But do you think it would be disrespectful to…That is—if you would even still be inclined to—”

He cut off her stream of nonsense with his lips and drew her into his lap in one long motion. There was a rushing in his veins each time he touched her, making it very hard to think in an orderly fashion. He tried to regulate his thoughts before he was consumed by her.