Snowbound With the Notorious Rake (2 page)

‘Dash it all, I cannot call you “ma’am” for ever! Besides, I have only to ask your groom.’

Rose imagined an undignified race to the kitchen, where she would order Evans not to disclose her name. It would be too foolish.

‘I…am Rose Westerhill.’

‘Very well, Mrs Westerhill, let me assure you that I have no designs upon your virtue. I came here to get away from the world.’

‘Why?’

‘That, madam, is no concern of yours.’

He sounded irritated, which suited Rose very well—surely there was less chance of him becoming amorous if he disliked her? She replied with great cordiality, ‘No, thankfully it is not. Well, there is no hope of going anywhere until the morning.’ She slanted a challenging look at him. ‘Is there a spare bedroom, or shall I be obliged to sit up here all night?’

‘Oh, there are plenty of bedchambers, but none is prepared.’

‘If that is all, I am sure I can manage to put sheets on my bed.’

‘Yes, but it’s where to
find
the sheets.’

A smile tugged at her mouth.

‘If you will show me your housekeeper’s quarters, I will endeavour to locate them.’

‘Very well.’ He emptied his glass and jumped up. ‘Shall we go and look now?’

She put a hand to her rumbling stomach.

‘I would rather find something to eat first.’

He nodded.

‘To the kitchen, then!’

Rose followed her host through the dark, chilly passages to the kitchen, where they found Evans sitting in a chair beside the hob-grate. He took off his cap and rose as they came in.

‘So you have banked up the fire here—good man.’ Lawrence nodded. ‘You found all you needed in the stables?’

‘Aye, sir. I shall check the ’orses again before bedtime, but they are snug as bugs out there.’

‘You will need somewhere to sleep,’ said Rose, casting an enquiring glance at Sir Lawrence.

‘There’s plenty of space above the stables, but the scullery boy has a bed in the small room off the kitchen—behind the fireplace. You might be more comfortable there.’ Lawrence paused as another icy blast spattered against the window. ‘You would certainly be warmer.’

‘Aye, I spotted the bed.’ Evans nodded. ‘I’ll settle down there, if you’ve no objection.’

‘Just make sure you take your boots off before you climb between the sheets,’ Rose warned him and earned a pained look.

‘I’s lived in a gennleman’s ’ouse for long enough to know
that
,’ the groom retorted.

Lawrence strode across the room and lifted the lid of a small black cooking pot balanced on the hob. An appetising aroma filled the room.

‘I guessed this was for your supper, sir,’ remarked Evans, ‘so I put it in the flames to heat up.’

‘Yes, my housekeeper, Mrs Brendon, said she had left something for me. Hmm. Not much for three of us.’ He went into the larder and began to investigate the pots and tubs kept there. ‘There’s a little bread, and a ham—plenty of rice and flour—and a basket of vegetables. Oh, and lemons.’

Rose had found an apron and tied it over her gown. She picked up a wooden spoon and gave the soup a stir.

‘Is there a hen house?’

‘Why, yes,’ said Lawrence, backing out of the larder. ‘I believe there is, on the far side of the yard.’

‘Then there may be an egg or two, even at this time of the year. Perhaps you would go and fetch them.’

Sir Lawrence’s black brows went up.

‘Me?’

Rose gave him an innocent smile. ‘I would ask Evans, or course, but I need him to fetch in more peat for the kitchen fire.’ She held out a small basket. ‘You may need this.’

Without a word Sir Lawrence took the basket and slouched out of the room.

‘I could’ve done that
and
fetched in the peat, Miss Rose,’ opined Evans, when the door had closed again.

‘I am sure you could,’ murmured Rose, stirring the soup. ‘But it will do Sir Lawrence no harm to cool his—er—head out of doors for a while.’

Lawrence pulled his hat a little lower over his face and tucked his chin into his muffler as he bent into the wind that howled across the yard, throwing icy needles of snow against his cheeks. Damnation, he had been looking forward to a quiet evening, drinking copious amounts of wine and perhaps helping himself to a little soup and bread before he went to bed. Now all that had changed and he was obliged to find enough food for his visitors.

He wished it had been a man at the door; then they might have enjoyed a drink together, perhaps played at cards and made do with the ham and cheese from the larder. Or even a lightskirt—that would have been entertaining! Instead he was saddled with a respectable widow who looked set to take over his kitchen. One, moreover, who expected him to work for his supper! A laugh shook him. This was
not
how he had envisaged spending his Christmas!

Half an hour later Sir Lawrence was back in the kitchen, shrugging himself out of his greatcoat.

Rose counted the eggs in the basket.

‘Half a dozen, how clever of you to find so many, and in the dark, too!’

‘Thank you, ma’am.’

She glanced up at him, her eyes alight with laughter.

‘Oh dear, do I sound as if I am talking to a child? Forgive me, but you remind me very much of my own little boy.’

Lawrence almost winced. A masterly set-down, designed to put him firmly in his place! He looked around the kitchen.

‘Where is Evans?’

‘I sent him to the drawing room with more logs. I thought we should eat there; I had a quick peep in your dining room, but it is so cold it would take for ever to warm up.’

‘You are willing to risk dining alone with me?’

‘It cannot be helped. Poor Evans would not eat a thing if we imposed ourselves upon him here in the kitchen. I shall have to trust you to behave yourself.’

Again that minatory tone.

‘I believe I can remember how to act as a gentleman.’

‘I do hope so. It will be much more comfortable for us all if you do.’ She treated him to a smile. ‘Perhaps you will be good enough to set the table? It will take me but a moment to cook the eggs.’

‘I take it you know
how
to cook?’ he challenged her.

‘But of course. My mother thought it very important that I should learn something of the art. I am going to make a pancake of the eggs and add a little ham. We will follow it with the soup.’

‘Excellent.’ Lawrence realised how hungry he was. ‘I will fetch out a bottle of good wine to enjoy with our feast!’

Sir Lawrence said nothing untoward during dinner, but Rose could not forget his fearsome reputation. Since her husband’s death she had not dined alone with any man and sitting at the small dining table with Sir Lawrence seemed almost indecently intimate. She was disturbingly aware of her companion. With his tall, athletic form and darkly handsome features she could understand why he was so successful with women; even his informal dress and the dark shadow of a beard on his chin did not detract from his charm—if anything, it was enhanced by the element of danger. She sipped at her wine, determined to have no more than one glass: Sir Lawrence might be a model of propriety now, but there were many long hours to go before morning.

As the evening wore on and his behaviour towards her remained perfectly correct, Rose began to relax and their conversation became more natural. He asked her about her life and she found herself telling him about the home she shared at Mersecombe with her mother and her young son.

‘Why did you not stay in Exford, if your husband is buried there?’

She made no comment as he filled her glass again. Should she tell him the truth—that she had wanted to escape from the pitying looks and whispers? That she had found the memories just too painful?

‘I was obliged to sell up to pay his debts.’ That was also the truth. Suddenly it was a relief to talk to someone. ‘Harry was a dreamer. When we moved to Exford he thought the farm would provide a living, but he
would not listen to advice.’ She sighed. ‘He sacked his manager, who was a local man, and brought in another who knew nothing of the land. By the time Harry died there was nothing left but debts and the deeds to Hades Cove, a worthless mine. I sold the house and the farm, but by the time I had paid off the creditors there was precious little left. I took Samuel back to Mersecombe, where my mother has a neat little house. We manage very well and I supplement our income by running the church school.’

‘Ah.’ His eyes glinted as he smiled at her. ‘You are a schoolteacher. That explains your managing ways.’

His smile robbed the words of offence and she found herself smiling back at him, fascinated by the way the candlelight gleamed in his blue eyes. It really was very attractive. A tiny wisp of desire stirred deep inside. She looked away, conscious of the need to maintain her defences.

‘You should be thankful for my managing ways,’ she replied crisply. ‘Heaven knows what would have happened if I had not taken charge of the kitchen this evening.’

‘I would not have been sent off like a lowly scullery boy to collect eggs!’

‘Oh dear, did you really object to that?’ She turned back to him, a laugh gurgling in her throat. ‘But you did it so
well
!’

‘Do not try to turn me up sweet with your flattery, madam.’

The glinting smile in his eyes reassured her.

‘Well, if you had not been such a ninnyhammer as to send all your staff away…’

He laughed at that, a real, full laugh, and Rose thought how much younger he looked. How carefree. Again she felt that little tingle of desire and quickly repressed it. The man was a rake; she must keep her distance.

Their meal over, Evans came in to collect the dishes and carry them away to the kitchen. Rose would have followed, but he shook his head.

‘You prepared the meal, madam, ’tis only right that you should rest awhile.’

She sat back, glancing across the table at Sir Lawrence, who said, ‘I am in your debt, Mrs Westerhill, I do not know when I have dined so well. Since the rest of the house is so chill, I cannot suggest that you withdraw, so instead I will invite you to join me in a glass of brandy.’

It was tempting—the glowing candlelight, the wine, the roaring fire—but Rose dared not relax her guard.

‘That is very kind, sir, but there is more work to do. We have yet to prepare a room for me.’ She spoke as if it was the most natural thing in the world for her to be sleeping in his house. Not by a blush or the flicker of an eyelid would she betray her nervousness. ‘Perhaps we could seek out the linen cupboard?’

She tensed, half-expecting a knowing look or
risqué
comment, but Sir Lawrence merely nodded and pushed back his chair.

‘Come along, then. I am not familiar with Mrs
Brendon’s part of the house, but I am sure we shall find something.’

The house was cold, dark and full of echoes. Rose kept close to Sir Lawrence, who was carrying the lamp. Too close. When he stopped suddenly she cannoned into him. His hand shot out to steady her, but his warm touch through the thin sleeve of her gown made her tremble even more.

‘I—I beg your pardon.’ Her voice was little more than a croak. ‘I stumbled. The uneven floor…’

‘Ah.’ His hand slid down her arm and he caught her fingers. ‘Then let me help you.’

She did not pull away. It was only sensible to accept his support. And she felt so much safer with her hand tucked into his large, comforting grasp.

They walked on in the little pool of lamplight until they reached a corridor with a series of cupboards built along one side. Lawrence began pulling open the doors. One was crammed with pewter dishes and an old dinner service, another held neatly folded suits of servants’ livery. A heady scent of summer herbs wafted over them as he opened a third door.

‘This is it,’ murmured Rose.

Sir Lawrence stood to one side, holding up the lamp to display orderly stacks of white linen.

‘Very well, madam. Help yourself.’

Rose stepped up. Soon she had a pile of sheets, pillowcases and bolster covers in her arms.

‘Let me carry those for you.’

Rose shook her head at him.

‘No, no, they are not heavy. If you will just show me the way to the bedroom?’

He placed his hand under her elbow and guided her back along the corridors.

‘I think you would be most comfortable in the Blue Room,’ he told her. ‘It is one of the smaller chambers, but that will make it easier to keep warm.’ He threw open a door. ‘Here we are.’

Rose did not move from the doorway as he went around the room lighting the candles in the wall sconces. A large tester bed took up most of the floor, the mattress shrouded in a plain white cover.

‘It has no hangings, I’m afraid,’ remarked Lawrence, twitching off the dust sheet. ‘But there are plenty of blankets and an elegant cover, embroidered by some previous lady of the house, no doubt. And the mattress is very comfortable.’

Rose found herself wondering how he knew that—what sort of guests had he entertained here before?

Best not to think of that. She put down the pile of linen.

‘Thank you,’ she said briskly. ‘Now, if you will excuse me, I will get to work.’

‘Can you manage on your own?’

‘Perfectly well, thank you. I am not such a lady that I cannot make my own bed.’

‘Very well. Then I will light the fire for you.’

‘Oh, there is no need. Evans can—’

‘Evans will have plenty to do checking on the horses before he retires.’ He added, ‘I am not such a gentleman that I cannot light a fire.’

‘No. Of course.’ She smiled at him. ‘Very well, then, thank you.’

In a remarkably short time the bed was made and a fire was burning steadily in the hearth. Sir Lawrence stood to admire his handiwork for a few moments.

‘It is still early,’ he said, turning to her. ‘Will you join me in the drawing room for a little while and give the fire a chance to warm the room?’ When she hesitated he shook his head at her. ‘I have nothing more sinister in mind than conversation, madam.’

‘I thought you had sent your servants away because you wanted to be alone.’

‘I did, but your presence in my house precludes me from carrying out my original plan, which was to drown my sorrows in a bottle.’