Love With the Perfect Scoundrel (13 page)

“Why, you were waiting for me,
Grace
.” The first taste of her given name on his lips was unbearably intimate. And as intoxicating as the potent yearning and happiness exposed now in her vibrant blue eyes. Ah, he shouldn’t have told her. It would do nothing toward bringing her a lasting happiness that was not his to offer.

And it made everything that would occur in the next hour all the more bitter.

H
is head heavy but his body drained, Michael knew as he was roused from slumber yet again that he had rarely experienced such profound emotion or exhaustion. Grace lay curled beside him, and he lifted his head, which weighed five stone, to reverently gaze at the astonishing woman beside him. In this twilight of wakefulness, the poignant memories of her tentative and oh-so-achingly tender invitations to take her—over and over again—during the night unraveled in his mind.

And then, with a muffled sound below, all the devils from hell attacked their lost corner of heaven.

With a vengeance.

Long after, Michael wondered which of the two sensibilities he experienced had been worse; the pure terror of discovery, or the flood of relief that a brigade of Bow Street runners hungry for blood money had not found him. Of only one thing he was certain. None of it compared to the feelings he would endure in the weeks to come.

From instinct borne of experience, Michael jumped from the bed with a curse and dragged on his buckskin leggings. “Countess,” he shook her, “wake up.” The sound of many footsteps echoed from the stairs.

He reached for his saddlebag and the pistol he always kept there, but hesitated. He couldn’t risk it. Couldn’t risk inciting an exchange of gunfire that might harm her. He would just have to go without a fight. He envisioned the entire affair in a moment: they’d place him in shackles and drag him down the stairs and she would run behind them, begging to know what he had done.
Good God.

He tossed Gracie’s crumpled shift toward her and roughly pulled her from the bed when she didn’t respond. Her garment slid past her surprised expression when the chamber’s door shuddered and violently gave way to a rash of humanity, none of whom bore the telltale signs of the Bow Street bloodhounds.

Her eyes wide, Grace grabbed her gown and clutched it in front of her as Michael tugged his shirt over his head and attempted to help Grace find the arms of her garment.

“Looks like your lucky day, Ellesmere,” said the dark devil leading the troupe to the unruffled gentleman beside him. “It appears the pleasure of peeling off your sodding hide for letting Grace go will have to be deferred. We’ll draw and quarter this rotter first.”

A tiny old lady dressed in dull black from the tips of her high-heeled boots to her jaunty hat rushed through the gap and grasped Grace so tightly Michael could see the fragile bones through a misshapened hand.

“Oh my dearest, dearest…Oh Grace, I was so worried. We scoured every last dwelling in this parish. I thought you were—” The lady promptly burst into tears.

“Ata,” Grace said, leaning down to accept her into her arms, “I’m perfectly fine. I was very fortunate to be—Oh Mr. Brown, thank goodness you are safe. I—”

A balding old coot stepped forward.

“Brown?” Michael cut in, staring at Grace. “
He’s
Mr. Brown?”

“Why, yes I am,” the gentleman said. “Although I didn’t realize my name was said with such infamy in these parts.”

The tiny virago muttered, “Your name is now synonymous with disgrace throughout the British Isles, you old codger.”

“We all know who he is,” the infuriated dark-haired bloke said loud enough to shake the rafters. “But who in bloody hell are
you
?”

“Perhaps it would be even more interesting to learn, Helston, why he’s lurking about the countess’s chambers in his smallclothes.” Worry lined the brow of the more reserved gentleman.

The darker man gave the other a sour glance. “I don’t give a bloody damn about any of his answers, actually. The only question is whether we bury him alive now or flay his lecherous hide first.”

“Luc, please,” Grace said, mortification warring with relief in seeing Mr. Brown unharmed. “Stop, all of you. Mr. Ranier saved my life. I’m greatly indebted to him.”

The devil-like nob examined Michael’s form with disgust. “Ranier, is it?”

Michael nodded once.

Grace rushed forward. “Mr. Ranier, please allow me to introduce the Duke of Helston, Luc St. Aubyn. Luc, Mr. Michael Ranier.”

The man actually scowled as he tipped his head a fraction of a degree. She’d ruthlessly butchered etiquette by introducing an aristocrat to a blacksmith instead of the other way around.

“And this is my dearest friend Merceditas St. Aubyn, the Dowager Duchess of Helston, Luc’s grandmother. Ata, may I present Mr. Ranier?”

Michael grasped the elderly lady’s good hand and bent to hover his mouth above skin as thin as parchment. “Your Grace.”

The countess continued, “And may I present the Marquis of Ellesmere, Quinn Fortesque and also Mr. John Brown?”

Michael nodded briefly to Ellesmere and turned to shake the elderly man’s aged hand. “It appears I owe you an apology, sir,” Michael murmured.

“Really? I can’t imagine why,” Brown replied with a gummy smile. “And here I wanted to express my un-dying gratitude. Lady Sheffield,” he turned to Grace, “I don’t mean to burden you, lass, but I believe you took ten years off my life when I returned to that blasted carriage to find it empty.”

“And well you deserved it for leaving my dearest Grace to freeze to death,” the duchess added, her visage drawn with fatigue.

The older man’s face drained of color.

Grace shook her head. “Ata, you’re entirely mistaken. Mr. Brown, I hope, in time, you will forgive me. I was chilled and I fear I wasn’t thinking clearly. And well, if not for Mr. Ranier—”

The Duke of Helston interrupted with a disgusted sound. “There is far too much fawning about to my liking, and not nearly enough thrashing. Now Grace, you are to go belowstairs with Ata for the moment while Ellesmere, Brown, and this Mr. Ranier and I converse. Then you are to gather your affairs. We’ll not presume to take up Mr. Ranier’s time any longer than necessary.”

Grace looked at him and then at the other assembled personages. Michael gave her credit. Any other lady of consequence would have been blushing and stumbling with embarrassment for having been caught in the bed of a stranger.

Instead, she calmly walked to Helston and grasped his hands. “Luc, I’m sorry to have caused you such trouble and worry.”

The hotheaded hellion pulled her into his arms and crushed her to him. A lethal desire to wrest her from that bloody aristocrat engulfed Michael.

But in that brief moment, Michael spied an intense combination of relief and something else overspread the duke’s features, before the man hid his face in her hair and whispered something to her.

Grace pulled away slightly and stared into Helston’s eyes, then shook her head.

The duke’s tiny grandmother grasped Michael’s arm. “You’re very tall.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Very large all over.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“I like tall men.”

Mr. Brown snorted.

Michael looked down into her wrinkled face. The dowager had the most remarkable dark, penetrating eyes with penciled eyebrows, and a mass of iron-colored hair that threatened to come undone and tumble down to her shoulders. Her lips were shrewd.

“It’s the short ones you can’t count on,” she shared.

Mr. Brown made an exasperated sound again and rolled his eyes.

Michael glanced at the last man, the one named Ellesmere, silently brooding at Helston’s elbow. The unmistakable air of guilt lurked in his expression. Ah, the jilting bastard in the flesh.

“Quinn,” Grace pleaded, “I must ask you, as the one who possesses the coolest head here, to exert a measure of rational thinking. Mr. Ranier is not to be blamed for what I know must appear, at first glance, very odd. But, you see, the fault is all mine. I was injured and near to frozen when he found me. We were forced to share…” A deeper color rose along her neckline.

“Hush,” Helston said, releasing her. “Grace, you are not guilty of a single bloody thing. Now, please allow me to escort you to—”

“No. If you think I’m going to leave you here to bash each other’s heads, you’re quite mistaken.”

“Ah, lass,” Mr. Brown said, “look at it this way, we’ll all be on our way much faster if you go belowstairs now.”

The dowager held her hands out to Grace. “Come, Grace. Neither one of us has a chance of putting a dent in their stubborn, ill-conceived notions.”

Grace sighed with exasperation.

“Just think of the pleasure we’ll take in reminding them later of their stupidity and how much they deserve every last bruise for not listening to you. Oh, and Mr. Ranier?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“I think it only fair to warn you, since it’s three to one, that my grandson possesses a nasty left hook. Although, I would not underestimate Ellesmere’s right jab—it’s called an uppercut, isn’t it? Well, whatever it is, it left a rather impressive mark on Luc’s jaw last summer.”

Helston glowered darkly, while Ellesmere appeared vastly uncomfortable.

“Grace, fear not,” the dowager continued. “Remember they were similarly idiotic about that affair, but it considerably shortened the end result, don’t you agree?”

Grace was biting her lip, it appeared, to keep from laughing. “Mr. Ranier, I’m so sorry. And after everything you’ve done for me.”

Helston glared at him.

“This is impossible,” Grace continued. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Go on now, Countess. The jack-a-dandies are correct. We do need to parley,” Michael said, keeping his expression deceptively unconcerned.

Grace glanced at the sullen faces and appeared to give up by addressing the elderly duchess. “Do you like porridge? I shall prepare breakfast for all of you.”

The lady’s small mouth
V
’d into a sly smile. “Actually, I’m thinking frozen beefsteak will be more the thing for some of the party.”

Grace linked arms with the dowager. “Ata, I’ve acquired a new art while waiting out the storm—the art of cooking. I’ve quite taken to it.”

If he hadn’t been so ill at ease, her comments would have provoked a curl to Michael’s lips. As it stood, he was lucky to be able to breathe given the tension in the overcrowded room.

Grace collected a few articles and took her leave, the other lady clucking behind her. With the loud click of the door engaging, Helston paced a circle around him.

“You
are
on the tall side, Ranier.”

Michael remained silent.

Helston’s scorn was palpable. “Great in stature, but short in honor. But then, one can never count on that when facing a…a…what
are
you, anyway?”

“Not a tarted-up dandy.”

Helston sighed. “Oh, there was never any doubt of that. Just tell us you’re not the bloody footman or gamekeeper here.”

“I suppose it was too much to hold out hope for a cit, at the very worst,” Ellesmere said, a reasonable under-current in his words.

“So, he speaks.” Michael half-shuttered his eyes.

The Marquis of Ellesmere stepped forward. “What in hell are you inferring?”

“It means that while my attentions toward the Countess of Sheffield were dishonorable in every way imaginable, they did not break her heart. Your original attentions were honorable in every way, I am guessing, but you,
my lord
, broke her spirit quite recklessly.”

He should have paid closer attention to the dowager’s advice. Helston’s left hook was indeed as vicious as she’d suggested. Michael gripped his hands behind his body, refusing to engage the three men before him. He deserved every bloody fist they sent his way.

“Oh, you’re good,” Helston purred in his ear after several blows. “But if you think playing the stoic pillar will gain you an inch of respect after you’ve admitted to dishonoring her, you’re about to be proven quite, quite wrong. You see, there was something about that uncooperative, cowering boy in your stables which bespoke of hasty lies and secrets.”

Michael took a step forward, colliding into the duke on purpose. “I don’t care if you’re the bloody King of England. If you laid a hand on Timmy Lattimer I shall strangle you with your lacy neckcloth and stuff that ornate quizzing glass down your throat.”

Mr. Brown chuckled. “Now wait a minute, lads. This is pointless. Shouldn’t we be discussing Lady Sheffield’s—”

“Stay out of this if you treasure the last few hairs on your head, old man,” Helston bit out.

“Brown’s correct,” Ellesmere insisted.

“Spoken like a true diplomatic bore,” the duke muttered.

“I know I can always count on you to remind me of my place,” Ellesmere replied dryly, “just as I must remind you that a naval commander’s tactics bear little fruit on dry ground.”

Helston looked like a ship’s cannon, ready to explode. “Do we or do we not want to get to the bottom of this?”

“Of course,” Ellesmere replied. “Mr. Ranier, let us state the facts. We could really care less about what you might be hiding. But you’ve compromised a lady high above your touch when she was at your mercy.”

“I say we flog him,” Helston muttered.

“You have precisely thirty seconds to explain yourself, lad,” Mr. Brown warned.

“I never suggested I had an explanation.”

“Did you or did you not seduce the Countess of Sheffield?” Helston barked. “And if I understand it, she was injured, to boot.” He had completed a new circle and was now standing a fraction of a breath away from him.

Michael’s three-inch advantage in height did little to unnerve the bastard. “I see few advantages to commenting on your theories.”

Helston sent him a look filled with daggers. But under it, Michael was certain he glimpsed a similar expression to the one he’d spotted earlier in the marquis. “Ah, I understand the way of it now.
You
are the bloke who jilted her the first go-round, aren’t you?”

Mr. Brown and the marquis grabbed the duke’s arms as he fisted his hands.

“Dash it all,” Mr. Brown muttered. “The lad ’as a bloody death wish.”