Snowbound With the Notorious Rake (3 page)

He spoke lightly, but Rose heard the underlying bitterness in his voice. She caught the fleeting shadow of pain in his eyes.

‘Perhaps you would like me to prepare some coffee?’

‘No, we will save that for the morning.’ He was smiling again. ‘
I
shall make us some hot punch!’

T
he fragrant aroma of lemons and cloves greeted Rose when she returned to the drawing room a short time later. A small iron pot was suspended over the fire and Sir Lawrence was leaning over it, thoughtfully stirring the contents. He did not look up immediately and she took the opportunity to watch him, noting the way the dark coat strained across his broad shoulders, admiring the long, powerful legs encased in buckskins and topboots. The firelight glinted on his black hair and heightened the strong lines of his handsome face.

Many women would envy you.
His earlier words flitted through her mind.

He looked up and smiled as she approached.

‘I thought you might have fallen asleep.’

‘I went to speak to Evans.’

‘And is he comfortable?’

She chuckled.

‘Very. Especially so since you gave him leave to help himself to the cider!’

‘I hope he will not regret it in the morning.’

‘I trust Evans not to drink too much; he knows we will need to be on our way as soon as may be once it is light.’ She sat down in one of the two armchairs he had pulled close to the fire. ‘You are shaking your head, sir. Do you think I am too optimistic?’

‘If the snow continues, then the roads may well be blocked.’

She shrugged. ‘Then we will ride across the fields. I have done that before.’

Lawrence filled a rummer with hot punch and handed it to her.

‘What a resourceful woman you are, Mrs Westerhill.’

‘I am a widow, sir, and needs must be resourceful.’

Rose settled back in her chair, savouring the hot, sweet punch. What had happened to her resolution not to drink more than one glass of wine? She pushed the thought aside.

The wind had dropped and the only sounds in the room were the steady tick of the clock and the crackle of the fire. Lawrence occupied the chair opposite, his booted feet resting on the hearth. His gaze was fixed on the leaping flames, but Rose sensed that his thoughts were far away. The drooping curve of his mouth re minded her of his earlier words.

‘What did you mean, sir, when you said you wanted to drown your sorrows?’

She thought for a moment that he would not answer
or would change the subject with a careless word. She was about to offer him an apology for her impertinence when he spoke.

‘Some fourteen months ago, my fiancée died of a fever.’

‘Fiancée!’ She flushed as his scorching glance swept over her. Her incredulous exclamation was insulting. After all, she knew nothing about the man, except gossip. ‘I b-beg your pardon,’ she stammered. ‘I thought— I did not know—’

‘How should you? It was never announced. The betrothal was of very long standing. Even her death was accorded no more than a line in the society pages, easily missed. Our betrothal was not a secret, but it was unremarkable.’ He held up his glass and stared at the dark liquid. ‘It has always amazed me that my indiscretions are emblazoned throughout the society news sheets, but my sweet Annabelle, whose short life was so full of kindness and charitable acts, was not considered worthy of a paragraph.’

‘You say it was a private arrangement, sir. Were her parents against the marriage?’

‘Oh, no. Why should they be, when it would mean the combining of our two estates? It had been arranged between the families when we were children. We are neighbours, you see, and it was always understood that a marriage between the Cravens and the Dauntons would be most advantageous.’ His lip curled. ‘But I was not to be constrained. I would go to London, sow my wild oats, then return to Hampshire to the family seat and
marry my childhood sweetheart. Only before I could do so, she caught a fever and…died.’

‘I am very sorry.’

‘So, too, am I. Last Christmas I returned to Daunton House. It had become the custom, you see, for both families to be in Hampshire during the winter season. My parents died some years ago, but there are the aunts, uncles and cousins, as well as the whole Craven family. They descend upon Daunton and the Craven estate to spend Christmas together. But with Annabelle gone—’ He broke off, giving his attention to refilling his glass. ‘It was the condolences,’ he said harshly. ‘Everyone was so dam—dashed sympathetic. What had I ever done to deserve their compassion? Instead of commiserating with me on my loss they should have berated me for neglecting poor Annabelle, condemning her to her quiet life with her charities and her good works while I scorched my way through society like a—a comet, bent upon my own destruction. That is why this year I determined I would not go back. I would come here and—’

‘Wallow in self-pity.’

His head shot up.

‘Why should I not?’

‘No reason at all.’ Rose held out her rummer, not speaking again until he had refilled it. ‘What was she like?’

‘Annabelle? An angel. Patient, forgiving—’

‘She sounds more like a saint,’ observed Rose. ‘To sit at home year after year while you spent your time on routs and revels! Good heavens, if
we
could read
about your…exploits here, so far from London, surely she must have done the same?’

‘Of course.’

‘And she never once took you to task over your wild ways?’

‘Never.’ His black brows snapped together. ‘And just what does that look mean?’

‘I beg your pardon. It is none of my business.’

He pushed himself upright in his chair.

‘You are quite right, of course,’ he said, fixing his hard eyes upon her, ‘but since we have come this far, pray do not stop now. Explain yourself.’

Rose hesitated.

‘I do not understand why her family—or yours—did not express their disapproval at your excesses. I admit they make very entertaining reading—my mother is an avid follower of the crim. con. and the latest
on dit
—as is my aunt and most of her friends!—but I think they would feel very differently if it was anyone connected to us. The lady’s family must have been aware of the damage you were doing to yourself.’

‘Of course they were. Annabelle’s brother George spends his time in town and he knew exactly what I was about. But as long as I did not damage my
fortune
, they were all happy to turn a blind eye.’

Again she heard the bitterness behind his words. Pity stirred, but instinct told her it would not do to show it. Instead she said thoughtfully, ‘Well, I think it is a very good thing that you did not marry her.’

The silence that followed Rose’s announcement was as brittle as glass. She sipped at her punch, trying to
look unconcerned while a pair of piercing blue eyes bored into her.

‘Would you care to explain?’

His voice was dangerously quiet. She had the impression of sitting opposite a tiger who was ready to spring and she had to steel herself to continue.

‘I cannot see that you would have been happy. Unless, of course, you intended to live apart.’

‘That is not at all what I intended.’

‘So you planned to settle down with a woman of whom you knew nothing—’

‘I beg your pardon! I told you we were neighbours. The families had known each other for years.’

‘Truly? Did you grow up together, like brother and sister?’

‘Of course not. I was sent off to school before Annabelle came out of the nursery.’

‘Perhaps you played together during the holidays?’

‘Well, no. George and I were friends, but Annabelle did not enjoy good health…’

‘And once you had reached your…
understanding
, she was quite happy to let you go off and…sow your wild oats.’

‘By heaven, ma’am, I am no worse than her brother, or most of the men in town!’

‘Pardon me, sir, but if only half the reports I have read are true then you are
much
worse than most!’

He gave a savage bark of laughter.

‘Only because I do not hide my peccadilloes. In actual fact, they are not so very bad—my worst crime is that I enjoy the company of beautiful women and
they seem to enjoy mine. But I will not pay to have my name kept out of the news. I am not such a hypocrite.’

‘That, of course, is to your credit, sir.’

Rose returned his furious gaze with one of limpid innocence, but she noted how those long, lean fingers whitened around his glass. She thought it just possible that he might strangle her.

He drew a deep breath, as if containing his anger. ‘I never lied to Annabelle. She knew what I was.’

‘It seems you made no effort to conceal it.’

‘She also knew I would change when we were wed.’

‘Hah!’

‘The devil, madam! You dare to dispute with me?’

‘Well, there has certainly been no shortage of news about you this past year, sir.’

‘With Annabelle gone I have had no reason to change my way of living.’ When she said nothing he put his rummer down with a snap. ‘Do you think a man cannot change?’

She fixed her eyes upon him.

‘A snake may shed its skin, Sir Lawrence, but it is still a snake! If you had married this poor woman, then one of two things would have occurred: you would have been heartily bored within a month or you would have continued your wild career and broken her heart. You might even have managed both.’

With a smothered curse he leapt out of his chair.

‘Confound it, how dare you say such things to me!’

‘Well, it is about time someone said them,’ Rose retorted. ‘It seems to me the poor girl was to be married without any consideration for her happiness, or
yours. Do you honestly believe she was content living her solitary life, waiting for you to decide when it was time to settle down?’

‘Yes! Yes, she was. In fact…’ She waited, watching him as he strode about the room. After a while he stopped and rubbed a hand across his eyes. ‘I admit I was surprised that she was so content with her lot. I sometimes wondered if she really
wanted
to marry me.’

‘Perhaps she did not.’ She added drily, ‘Charming as you may be, a libertine does not make a good husband.’

He came back to his chair and threw himself down again, slanting a quick glance towards her. ‘You really do not think very much of me, do you?’

Rose looked away.

‘You do not think enough of yourself, sir.’ She finished her punch. ‘It is getting late, I should retire.’

Immediately he was on his feet.

‘I will escort you.’

‘Oh, no, that is not necessary—’

He was already at the door, holding the lamp. He tilted his head, listening as the long-case clock chimed the hour.

‘I remember how nervous you were earlier. How much more so will you be now it is midnight?’

His kindness surprised her. She had angered him, criticised his way of living, yet still he could consider her comfort. She did not argue, merely took the proffered bedroom candle and allowed him to lead her up the stairs. Their conversation rattled around in her head. Perhaps she had been too outspoken, but he was a rake and she despised rakes. But it was no business of hers
how he chose to conduct himself. Still, she was a guest in his house and she did not like to think that she had been impolite. A fleeting glance at his face told her nothing.

‘This is your room.’ He stopped. ‘Goodnight, Mrs Westerhill. Let us hope the snow has eased by the morning and you can continue your journey.’

‘Sir Lawrence! What I said earlier—if I offended you, I am most sorry.’ The look he bent upon her was unfathomable, but the flickering shadows made his features seem harsh and uncompromising. She hurried on, ‘I was taught never to let the sun set upon a quarrel.’

‘I thought what you said to me was more in the nature of…home truths.’

She dragged up a smile.

‘You are regretting your kindness in giving me shelter.’

The harsh look fled from his eyes. He said with a touch of humour, ‘I cannot recall I had any choice in the matter.’ He reached for her hand and raised it to his lips. ‘Goodnight, Rose Westerhill. Content yourself with the fact that you have given me much to think on.’

Rose stepped into her room and leaned her back against the closed door. She was trembling, but not with cold, or the effects of their harsh words. It was shock at the bolt of wanton lust that had shot through her when he had pressed that final kiss upon her hand.

Lawrence opened his eyes and lay very still, watching the play of light upon the ceiling. Something was amiss.
He was at his hunting lodge, it was Christmas Day, but his head was unusually clear.

Then he remembered.

He slid out of bed and reached for his dressing gown. He had a visitor. A respectable schoolteacher who dared to lecture him—him!—upon how he should grieve for Annabelle. Well, the sooner Rose Westerhill was on her way and out of his life the better.

It took only a glance out of the window for him to know she would not be going anywhere today. The snow had fallen heavily all night, covering the ground with a thick white blanket and piling heavy drifts against the walls. There was a knock at the door.

‘Come in!’

Evans entered.

‘The mistress’s compliments, sir. She sent up hot water. Said as how you would want to wash and shave before you came down to breakfast.’

‘Did she, now?’

‘Aye, sir.’ The groom fixed his eyes somewhere over Lawrence’s shoulder. ‘She also said you shouldn’t dress too fine, even though ’tis Christmas Day. She said there’s work to be done!’

The clock was chiming ten when Sir Lawrence strode into the kitchen. Rose heard his impatient tread and turned towards the door. Her heart, which had become very unreliable recently, leapt to her throat and then began to hammer against her ribs.

I knew it. I knew he would be unbearably handsome!

When she had seen him last night with his hair
untidy, clothes dishevelled and a day’s growth of beard upon his cheek she had thought him a rogue, albeit one with kind eyes and a blinding smile. Now he appeared before her clean-shaven, his hair brushed until it gleamed glossy as a raven’s wing and she was sure the snowy whiteness of his starched neckcloth would not have looked out of place in a London salon. His brown jacket appeared to be moulded to his frame, but no more so than the tight buckskins that clung to his thighs. She had heard that some gentlemen deliberately shrunk their breeches to make them fit so tightly. His certainly left little to the imagination. Her mouth was so dry she could not speak.