Snowbound With the Notorious Rake (5 page)

‘Well, that was most satisfactory.’ Rose dusted her hands together, a grin tugging at her mouth, until she realised that Sir Lawrence was about to retaliate.

She turned away, uttering a small scream as his first attempt splashed on her neck, some of the snow finding its way onto her skin. She remembered the adage that the best form of defence was attack and fired off another couple of shots. However, she quickly realised that she was no match for Sir Lawrence’s deadly aim.

‘Enough!’ she cried, laughing. ‘Truce, sir, truce!’

‘Oh, no, this is a duel to the death!’

Another well-aimed shot hit her shoulder and showered her face with icy flakes. Rose picked up her skirts and fled for the shelter of the hedge. Sir Lawrence followed and Rose set off across the field with its covering quilt of snow.

‘Got you!’

The hand on her shoulder sent her tumbling, Sir
Lawrence following as he lost his footing on the icy ground. They sprawled together, laughing and gasping for breath.

‘Unfair, sir,’ declared Rose, when she could at last speak. ‘Do you know how difficult it is to move when one is hampered by skirts?’

‘Hah! Who was it struck the first blow, when my back was turned?’

‘That blow was well deserved!’

She was about to rise, but Sir Lawrence rolled over, pinning her down.

‘Well deserved? What had I done?’

‘It was punishment, for your arrogance!’

‘My—’ His black brows rose. ‘Is it my fault if women find me irresistible?’

‘You are incorrigible!’ She was laughing up at him, finding it quite impossible to disagree and responding unselfconsciously to the humour in his eyes.

They continued thus, smiling at one another, blue eyes locked on blue-grey, for a long, long moment. Time stopped, everything around them was hushed and still, as if the world was holding its breath. Suddenly it occurred to Rose that she had never shared such a moment before, even with her husband.

She realised her situation: stretched out on the snow with Sir Lawrence almost lying on top of her, his lips only inches from her own, his breath feathering her cheek and the faint tang of eau de cologne filling her senses. In her imagination she reached out for him, pulling his face to hers and kissing him passionately. He would respond, of course, but it would not stop at
kisses. Suddenly she knew why she had been feeling so restless… Panic filled her and she struggled to sit up. Immediately Lawrence rolled away.

‘Very well, Mrs Westerhill, let us now agree to that truce!’ He jumped up and held out his hand to her. ‘Will you cry friends with me?’ Even the touch of their gloved hands was unsettling. As soon as she was on her feet Rose pulled her fingers free and turned away, knowing she was blushing, but the thoughts of making love to him refused to leave her mind. He said quickly, ‘I hope I did not hurt you?’

‘N-no.’ She concentrated on shaking out her skirts, speaking sharply to cover her discomfiture. ‘But that was very irresponsible of us. Our clothes will be wet through.’

‘Here, let me help you.’ She started when he began to brush the snow off her back. ‘There.’ He turned her to face him. ‘Forgive me,’ he said gently, ‘I did not mean to alarm you.’

Her eyes flew to his face. She was nervous, overset, but he had done nothing, save be there.

‘Oh, no—that is, it was as much my fault as yours.’ She struggled to smile. ‘I fear the snow has made me a little light-headed.’

‘It makes everything different,’ he agreed, looking around them. ‘It is like living in a fairy-tale world.’ He held out his arm. ‘Friends?’

She nodded.

‘Friends.’

When they reached the kitchen garden Sir Lawrence stopped.

‘It is Christmas Day and I have no present for you.’ He reached across to a snow-covered bush and pulled off a small twig. ‘Here. Rosemary, for remembrance.’

Rose took the spiky little branch and held it to her face, breathing in its scent. She never wanted to forget this day, however dull and respectable the rest of her life might be. The smell of rosemary would for ever remind her of Sir Lawrence.

‘Thank you.’ She tucked the stalk carefully into her pocket. ‘But now I am in your debt.’

He put his fingers under her chin. She yielded to the pressure, tilting up her face, and he kissed her.

‘Now we are equal.’

His kiss was brief, light as a feather, nothing like the impassioned, ravaging embrace of her imagination. It meant nothing, she kept telling herself. It was a friendly gesture, to reassure her that he had no designs upon her virtue. She was not sure she wanted to believe this argument, but as they walked back to the house she made a great effort to regain her composure. By the time they walked into the kitchen she had recovered sufficiently to smile at Evans’s look of surprise.

‘We have been very imprudent,’ she told him, pulling off her cloak. ‘Sir Lawrence will be able to change, but I shall have to rely upon a good blaze in the drawing room to dry my skirts.’

‘Aye, well, I did build up the fire there for you and banked up the fires in the bedrooms, too, but you’ll never sit around all day like that, Miss Rose,’ declared her groom. ‘Why, I can see from here that the back of your gown is soaked through!’

Sir Lawrence had been arranging their gloves on the mantelshelf, but now he turned, saying, ‘If you would like to follow me, ma’am, perhaps we can find something for you to wear while we dry your clothes.’

Rose shook her head. ‘I must put the chickens on the spit to roast—’

‘I can do that for you, Miss Rose,’ said Evans, waving her towards the door. ‘You had best get out of those wet things before you catch your death.’

‘That is the problem with servants one has known since a child,’ she remarked, frowning at her groom, ‘they tend to bully one.’

‘But you know he is right,’ replied Sir Lawrence. ‘Come along, ma’am.’

There was nothing but friendliness to be read in his expression, so with a nod Rose followed him up the stairs, aware that her wet undergarments were becoming increasingly chilly against her skin.

‘This is my bedroom,’ he announced. ‘You may come in or stay outside, but pray do not keep the door open, you are letting all the heat escape.’

Rose knew she should retreat and wait for him in the corridor, but the warmth of the fire was too tempting so she stepped into the room and closed the door. While Sir Lawrence delved into drawers and searched through a large linen press she looked about her. The painted walls glowed ruby red in the brilliant sunshine, matching the red-and-gold bed hangings. The ornately carved chimneypiece depicted hunting scenes that were repeated in the plaster frieze around the ceiling. In the daylight the chamber looked rich and warm; Rose
imagined it at night, with the curtains pulled across the windows and the warm candlelight adding to the fire’s glow. How much more comfortable to lie beside Sir Lawrence on that huge bed rather than in the cold snow…

Her body grew quite hot at the idea. Heavens, did merely being in the company of a rake make one prey to such dissolute thoughts? Rose quickly reached for the door handle.

‘Perhaps I should wait in my own room…’

‘No, no, I have found it now.’

Sir Lawrence came towards her, a floating confection of lace and ribbons in one hand. Despite her nerves Rose laughed.

‘I cannot wear that,’ she declared, gazing at the gossamer-thin nightgown. ‘It would be most improper. And besides, it would afford me no warmth at all.’

Sir Lawrence grinned.

‘One of my—er—guests left it here. And I cannot recall thinking it improper.’

Rose choked. She must not laugh at his outrageous comments. He continued as if he had not noticed. ‘However, I agree it would not be very warm, but you might wear this over it.’ He held up a grey woollen wrap. ‘It is a banyan and a trifle small for me.’ Rose hesitated and he added, ‘Surely it would be better than risking your health by keeping on those wet clothes.’

‘Very true.’ She held out her hand. ‘I will go and change.’

‘Do you need help?’ asked Sir Lawrence. ‘I am not unfamiliar with…’

‘No—thank you!’

Rose snatched the clothes from him and fled.

‘W
ell, it may not be stylish, but it is certainly respectable.’

Rose regarded her image in the mirror. Sir Lawrence’s dressing gown almost wrapped around her twice, held in place by the belt which was knotted tightly at her waist. It covered her completely from her neck to her toes; if she had not folded back the sleeves, they would have hung down past her fingertips.

Thankfully her serviceable leather boots had been laced tightly at the ankle and not leaked, so she was able to put them on and protect her feet from the cold stone flags of the lower floors. When Rose left her chamber she was conscious of the soft silk and lace of the nightgown against her skin. Enveloped as she was in the dressing gown, no one could consider her dress immodest, but without her stays or chemise she felt decidedly underdressed.

The succulent smell of roasting chicken greeted her as she entered the kitchen, making her realise how hungry she was. She reached for the cook’s apron hanging behind the door and was tying it around her when Evans brought in a basket of vegetables from the cold room. If he noticed her unusual garb, he said nothing about it. Neither did Sir Lawrence, who came in shortly after, but she was aware of the way his eyes wandered over her and she had the uncomfortable feeling that he knew exactly what she was—or was not—wearing beneath the enveloping wrap.

‘So you are going to cook Christmas dinner for us, ma’am?’

‘I am.’ She tried to keep her attention firmly fixed upon basting the chickens. ‘I am quite adept at the art of cookery.’

‘I am very glad to hear it.’

He sat down at the big table. Rose frowned.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Nothing. That is, I am watching you.’

She turned back to the fire.

‘I wish you would not.’

‘Why? I like watching you.’

Rose knew it was not just the fire that was heating her cheeks.

‘Well, I do not want you to watch me,’ she said crossly. ‘It is very off-putting.’

He laughed. ‘Very well. Is there anything you would like me to do?’

His good-humoured compliance disarmed her. She stood for a moment, wiping her hands on her apron.

‘Well,’ she said at last, ‘the table will need to be prepared…’

‘Then I shall do that,’ he said promptly. ‘If you are to be cook and serving maid, I will be footman—oh, and butler, of course. I will find a bottle of wine for us to drink!’

The drawing room looked very inviting. The heavy velvet curtains were pulled across the windows to shut out the cold night. On the table, candlelight twinkled on the array of glass and silver, and Sir Lawrence had even collected a few evergreens to decorate the table. A dish of steaming vegetables was placed in the centre and a chicken, golden and succulent, rested on a platter waiting for Sir Lawrence to carve.

‘A simple meal,’ declared Rose, surveying her handiwork as she took her place at the table, ‘but I think it preferable to cold meat and cheese!’

‘Infinitely so,’ agreed Sir Lawrence. ‘I congratulate you, madam. It looks, and smells, delicious.’ He raised his glass. ‘A toast. To the most resourceful woman of my acquaintance.’

Rose was thankful for the dim candlelight to hide her blushes.

‘It is nothing. Any good housewife could do as much. And credit goes to you, too, sir, for the excellent smoke-jack in the kitchen; it turned the spit most successfully.’

‘Ah. That was one of the conditions Mrs Brendon placed upon me when I purchased the place. She said she would not consent to work here unless I improved the kitchen.’

‘When did you buy Knightscote?’ she asked him. ‘It is strange we heard nothing of it at Mersecombe.’

‘I have owned it for a couple of years now, but I have seldom used it, so my coming made little noise.’

‘What, was there no gossip?’ she dared to tease him. ‘Even when you brought your less-than-respectable guests here?’

He frowned at her, but she was not deceived, for she read the laughter in his eyes.

‘Be thankful, Mrs Westerhill, that my disreputable guests
did
visit, else you would have nothing to wear.’

Instinctively her hand went up to the neck of the dressing gown.

‘I had hoped my own clothes would have been dry by now…’

‘I’m afraid we did too good a job of making them damp.’

Rose bit her lip and tried not to recall her wicked thoughts of that afternoon, but they were always there, in her head.

‘At least you are most decorously attired,’ he continued. ‘You have only to cover your hair with that napkin and the result would be positively nun-like!’

She could not resist a retort.

‘Some might suggest it is a necessary defence, sir, given your reputation.’

He bared his teeth.

‘Put away your claws, vixen. I will not fight with you on Christmas Day. Tell me instead about your life in Mersecombe. Do you have a large establishment?’

‘No, a modest house with a couple of servants.’

‘Yet you keep a groom.’

‘Evans has been with me since I was a child. He came with me when I married, and when I sold the house at Exford he agreed to come with me to Mersecombe, although he is obliged to work in the house as well as look after the horses.’ She smiled. ‘They are my one luxury. I will buy a pony for little Sam, when the funds allow. Evans will teach him to ride—he put me on my first pony. I should like him to do the same for my son.’

‘It must be hard, bringing up a boy on your own.’

‘I have my mother to help me. But you are right, he misses his father. Sam was only four when I was widowed, so I am not sure how much he remembers of his papa.’

A good thing, perhaps, recalling the tears and the arguments.

‘How did he die?’

Lost in the past, Rose looked at him, uncomprehending, and he said quickly, ‘I beg your pardon, if you would rather not—’

‘No, no. I have no objection to telling you. A riding accident. His horse slipped on the ice and threw him. He broke his neck.’

She did not add that he was returning from a tryst with his current mistress. Everyone in Exford might know the truth, but there was no reason she should admit it to this stranger.

‘I am very sorry.’

She shrugged as if to evade his sympathy.

‘It was four years ago. We have managed very well
since then.’ She added brightly, ‘And now we have Magnus.’

‘Magnus?’

‘Magnus Emsleigh. He is a shipping merchant and owns a substantial property just outside Mersecombe. He is a pillar of the local society. An excellent example for my son to follow.’

‘And does he wish to become Sam’s father? Ah. I can see by your look that that is the case. Why have you not mentioned him before?’

Rose had wondered that herself. Surely to tell Sir Lawrence that she was betrothed to a wealthy, respected local gentleman would have added to her consequence. It was not a love match, but a prudent arrangement, designed to provide security for her and for Sam. It now occurred to Rose that she was reluctant to admit, even to herself, that she was soon to marry Magnus Emsleigh.

He spoke again, saying lightly, ‘Have you set a date?’

‘Lady Day.’ She pushed a slice of chicken around on her plate. ‘Magnus has no experience of children. Sometimes Sam can be…difficult.’

Lawrence sat back, his fingers playing with the stem of his wineglass. He remembered his own stepfather, a deeply religious man whose repressive regime of sermons and beatings had only made a spirited young boy even more determined to rebel.

‘It can be hard for a young boy to accept another man in the house. It will take time and patience.’

‘Yes,’ she nodded eagerly. ‘That is what I have told Magnus.’

Lawrence took a sip of his wine.

‘But what is this pillar of society thinking of, to let you ride unattended in such weather?’

She put up her chin at that.

‘He is not my keeper. I will not allow him to dictate to me.’ Lawrence’s brows went up and she added, ‘Besides, he is in Bath at present and does not know what I am about.’

Rose turned her attention to her plate and Lawrence took the opportunity to study her. She looked absurdly young in her borrowed dressing gown, but it did nothing to hide her charms. The belt was pulled tight around her tiny waist and accentuated the full, rounded swell of her bosom. The ordered ringlets of yesterday had given way to more natural curls that she had caught back from her face with a wide ribbon, and her cheeks were still delicately flushed from her endeavours in the kitchen.

‘I applaud your wish for independence, Mrs Westerhill, but I pity your suitor.’

He thought she might blush at that, but she surprised him by chuckling.

‘Poor Magnus. He thinks I am not capable of managing my own affairs and he is eager to relieve me of all my burdens. As if I had any! My meagre savings require little effort and, no matter what I say, I cannot persuade him that Sam is
not
a burden! Magnus is a dear, but he is inclined to lecture me and I get quite cross with him sometimes—’ She broke off. ‘I beg your pardon. I should not be telling you all this.’

‘You may tell me whatever you wish. In fact—’ He stopped, slightly alarmed to discover that he wanted to know everything about her. He got up to throw
more logs on the fire. He must be careful; this woman was getting under his skin. He enjoyed her company, enjoyed teasing her, watching the delicate colour mantle her cheek, but she was not of his world. The seduction of a respectable schoolteacher was not something he wanted on his conscience.

When he looked up again she had walked to the window and pushed apart the curtains.

‘We have had more snow this evening. It has stopped now and the moon is rising. Do come and look, it is almost as bright as day.’ She glanced over when he came to stand beside her. ‘Is it not beautiful?’

Almost as beautiful as you.

The words were on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed them, saying instead, ‘If we have no more snow, then the packhorses should be able to get through tomorrow. You can be on your way.’

She looked a little startled at his harsh tone, then the lashes dropped, veiling her eyes.

‘Yes, of course. And this little idyll will be over.’ There was a hint of sadness in her voice that surprised him.

‘An idyll? Is that how you have seen this?’

Her smile not only lit up her face, it illuminated the room.

‘Stranded here, having to fend for ourselves—it has been so different from my everyday life.’ She added shyly, ‘Of course, I was a little frightened of you at first, but you have proved yourself to be most—’

‘Be careful,’ he warned her. ‘Do not make a hero out of me!’

‘—most
restrained
,’ she ended, one corner of her mouth lifting a fraction. She looked back to the window. ‘I wonder what might have happened if you had been less honourable.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Surely he had misheard her? The faint blush on her cheek told him he had not.

‘We have been given this opportunity to escape from our ordinary lives for a few days. Tomorrow, I will go back to Mersecombe and I assume you will soon return to London. It is unlikely that we shall ever meet again. I just wonder what it would have been like…’

For a long moment she held his eyes.

‘Forgive me.’ She looked away, giving her head a little shake. ‘I think I have had too much wine. Please, ignore what I said.’ She turned back to the table. ‘I had best get these dishes to the kitchen. Evans will have finished his own meal by now and will be waiting to clear up.’

‘Let me help you.’

She did not refuse and he followed her through to the kitchen, his mind buzzing with conjecture. Was she really regretting the fact that he had not tried to seduce her? He shook his head. No. She was far too respectable for that. His gaze was drawn to the proud line of her back, the narrow waist and the full hips that swayed so invitingly as she moved. It was unconsciously done and therefore all the more alluring.

Evans had already cleaned the spit and cooking pans and he would allow them to do no more than bring the dishes into the scullery.

‘A kitchen’s no place for the likes of you, Miss Rose,’
he muttered, ‘nor you, sir. If you will forgive me for saying so, I think you’d be more hindrance than help.’

Lawrence laughed at that. ‘I fear you may be right. I’ll go away.’

‘Aye, do, and be so good as to take my mistress with you!’

‘Really, Evans is growing quite autocratic,’ grumbled Rose. She was kneeling before the drawing room fire, jabbing the poker between the logs. ‘He knows I am more than capable of helping him!’

‘Yes, but you should not have to.’

Sir Lawrence reached out and took the poker from her. She shook her head at him, smiling.

‘I want to do
something
!’

He dropped down beside her and finished stirring the fire into a blaze.

‘Then find something a little less harmful to your hands.’ He took her fingers in a firm, warm clasp. ‘Look how rough they are.’

Rose tried to pull away, embarrassed.

‘That is not just from the last couple of days…’

He ignored her and continued to examine her hands. They were trapped in his gentle grasp. His intense scrutiny was unsettling; her heart was pounding, fluttering in her chest like a caged bird.

‘You have even burned yourself.’

‘A tiny mark!’ She tried and failed to keep her voice steady, conscious of how near he was. The tug of attraction was almost palpable. He continued to study the small red weal on the edge of her palm. She swallowed.
‘And one expects that in a kitchen…’ Her words trailed off as he lifted her hand to his lips.

It was a gentle, intimate gesture and it took her breath away. Without thinking Rose tightened her fingers around his. She leaned closer and kissed him full on the mouth. His hands slid up her arms and rested lightly on her shoulders, holding her to him. Rose had closed her eyes, but the next instant they flew open and she drew back.

‘Oh, my! I beg your pardon!’

‘There is no need; I am not offended.’ He was smiling at her in a way that made it difficult to think.