Regency: Rakes & Reputations (Mills & Boon M&B) (26 page)

‘Oh, I’ve known worse, I assure you!’ he said, flashing a mischievous smile at the now somewhat rosy-cheeked Sophie. ‘Nevertheless, I daresay another
cushion or two would be most welcome—I’ll bring them into the parlour after I’ve eaten, if I may—although I rather fear that my being obliged to commandeer the room for my own personal use will disadvantage your other guests to some extent.’

‘Can’t be helped,’ retorted Mrs Webster, getting to her feet and moving towards the pantry. ‘Needs must, as they say—now, what do the pair of you say to a nice dish of bacon and scrambled eggs?’

‘I say yes, please, and thank you very much,’ replied Marcus with a quick nod of his head, as he spooned the last of his porridge into his mouth. ‘Best porridge I’ve tasted in years,’ he then averred, fixing Sophie with another of his slightly lopsided grins and causing her to experience all sorts of problems with her breathing processes. ‘Although I feel bound to confess that I haven’t touched the stuff since I was in leading-reins!’

‘It’s amazing what one will eat if one is hungry!’ she returned somewhat distractedly, gripping her hands tightly together under the table in an effort to still the frightening rapidity of her heartbeat. ‘My brother and I were often obliged to eat all manner of strange concoctions during our years with the military—but it certainly taught us to appreciate good food when it was offered to us.’

‘I appreciated every mouthful, I promise you,’ he assured her quickly, his sharp eyes not having missed the rather forlorn look that had suddenly crept across her face as she spoke of her past. ‘However, I cannot help but wonder about these strange concoctions of which you spoke. Pray enlighten me.’

Pushing back her chair, she stood up, affecting an airy little laugh. ‘Best not to describe such delicacies in detail, I assure you, and certainly not while you are
about to eat Mrs Webster’s delicious breakfast!’ she said, determinedly busying herself with the collecting up of the empty bowls before carrying them over to the kitchen sink.

His eyes following her progress across the room, Marcus’s lips curved in appreciative recall of the softly rounded curves that dwelt beneath the ill-fitting grey gown she wore, the memory of which brought about the all too familiar clenching of his gut followed by the usual pulsating throb of his loins. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to concentrate his attention on the very appetising-looking meal that Mrs Webster had placed before him, ruefully reflecting that any sort of casual dalliance with the comely governess in these present conditions looked to be very much against the odds. Not only had it transpired that Miss Flint was sharing her room with her young charge, but—even given that his chances of persuading her to venture there a second time were probably a hundred to one against—his own accommodation hardly lent itself to the sort of activity he had in mind.

Heaving back a sigh of regret, he did his best to dismiss the several enticing images that were beginning to crowd his brain and, reaching for his knife and fork, endeavoured to apply his concentration to the heaped platter of eggs and bacon in front of him, being very careful to avoid looking directly at the object of his lustful thoughts when she returned to the table and took her place opposite him.

‘At least the pump hasn’t frozen,’ she remarked cheerfully, as she reached across the table and helped herself to one of Mrs Webster’s hastily cooked griddle scones. ‘I was afraid that we might have to resort to melting buckets of snow for our water!’

‘Lor’ bless you, no, Miss!’ chortled the landlady. ‘That’s one thing we won’t have to worry about, thanks to the fellow who built this place originally. Comes up from the well right next to the back wall, the water does. We have to wrap the outside pipe with a bit of sheepskin every winter to be on the safe side, of course, but apart from that we’ve never had a hap’orth of trouble.’

‘I dare say you’ve been obliged to do that as well,’ remarked the Viscount, chancing a quick look at Sophie.

She looked puzzled. ‘Wrap pipes with sheepskin, you mean?’

He shook his head and a reluctant grin crept across his face. ‘No, I was referring to your reference to the melting of buckets full of snow—I assumed that you must have been involved in such an activity during your days with the military.’

‘Once or twice.’ She nodded, her face clearing. ‘It can get very cold in the mountain areas of Spain and Portugal.’ She paused, as a little furrow creased her brow. ‘I take it that you chose not to volunteer your own services?’

There was a moment’s silence, then, ‘I had my reasons,’ returned Marcus curtly, as he pushed back his chair and rose from the table, his meal scarcely half finished. ‘If you will excuse me? I really ought to go and check my horse over.’

‘Touched a sore nerve there, it seems,’ murmured Mrs Webster, after he had exited the room. ‘Yon driver told me he’d fed and watered all the horses first thing, before him and his mate cleared the yard. Our Mr Wolfe looks to be sufferin’ from a bit of a guilty conscience, if you want my opinion.’

‘Probably just not cut out for that sort of life, Mrs
Webster,’ said Sophie. ‘Judging from the quality of his boots and the cut of his jacket, I should imagine that Mr Wolfe spends most of his time lounging in the high-class drawing rooms of the rich and famous—although I feel bound to admit that his undoubted expertise with the axe did come as somewhat of a surprise to me.’

‘And may the heavens be thanked for it,’ returned the landlady, with a slight shake of her head. ‘Where we would have been without the lad, the Lord only knows. Your old driver and his mate have been workin’ nineteen to the dozen keepin’ the yard clear of snow, as well as seein’ to the horses, but I doubt if either of them could chop up a log to save his life. Even my Walter would be hard put to it these days—our potboy usually deals with the likes of that sort of thing!’

‘Well, we definitely shan’t go cold, at any rate,’ said Sophie, rising to her feet and beginning to gather up the dirty dishes. ‘And, thanks to your excellent housekeeping, it seems unlikely that any of us will starve. Shall we take a peek into your larder and see what we can conjure up for dinner between us?’

‘I’ve a nice leg of ham hanging there,’ began Mrs Webster, as she made her way across the room towards the storeroom. ‘I had thought of keepin’ it for …’

The rest of her sentence was cut off as the sound of running footsteps on the stairs heralded the arrival of a white-faced Mr Lucan, who burst into the kitchen, calling out for immediate assistance.

‘My wife!’ he gasped, as he clutched at the doorjamb to steady himself. ‘She thinks the babe is on its way! Somebody help her, I beg of you!
Please!
’

Whipping off her soiled apron, Sophie started for the door, only to find herself being pulled back by Mrs Webster.

‘Not you, my dear,’ cautioned the landlady. ‘This sort of thing is not at all suitable for a young unmarried lady such as yourself. I’m not exactly up to the mark myself, but I shall do what I can. You stay here and see to the dinner.’

‘Nonsense!’ averred Sophie cheerfully. ‘I’ve helped deliver dozens of babies—midwives were few and far between on the Peninsula, I assure you!’

Turning to Lucan, she bade him to calm down and then instructed him to make himself useful by filling all the pots he could find with water and putting them on to boil.

‘Why ever ‘ave you set ‘im to doing that?’ whispered the mystified Mrs Webster, as the two of them hastened up the stairs in the direction of the plaintive wails issuing from within the Lucans’ bedroom. ‘I disremember anyone doin’ any such thing when my Jamie was born.’

‘Just gives the poor fellow something to occupy his mind,’ replied Sophie, with a slight chuckle. ‘Expectant fathers are known to become somewhat beside themselves at such times—we always found it better to keep them well out of the way until the worst of the business was over and done with. Speaking of which—do you have some old sheets we could use?’

H
aving spent the best part of the past hour exchanging ribald jokes and anecdotes with Driver Lapworthy and his guard, Marcus was in a far better frame of mind when he eventually returned to the kitchen, only to find himself confronted by the sight of a white-faced Jack Lucan, anxiously pacing the floor of the room, quite oblivious to the argument going on between the Reverend Palfrey and Captain Gibbons who, having finally ousted themselves from their bed, had come down to the kitchen in the expectation of finding a meal waiting for them. Finding no one available to serve their needs, they had raided the larder and were now noisily debating the merits of frying eggs as opposed to scrambling them.

‘Do you actually have any idea how to scramble eggs?’ demanded Gibbons scathingly, as he attempted to extricate the skillet from the parson’s hands. ‘At least I’ve fried a good few in my time!’

‘And nasty greasy things they were too, I’ll be bound,’ retorted Palfrey, determinedly clinging to the
pan. ‘A lightly scrambled egg is far better for a delicate stomach.’

‘Well, my stomach ain’t in the least bit delicate,’ roared the Captain, having finally managed to wrench the utensil out of the weaker man’s grasp. ‘It’s just grumbling from lack of sustenance!’

‘Please, please, gentlemen,’ interposed the distraught Lucan. ‘Have a little consideration for my poor wife in her hour of need.’

Casting sullen looks at one another, the two elderly squabblers ceased their wrangling and did their utmost to appear suitably chastened at his appeal.

Stepping forward, Marcus reached across and relieved Gibbons of his recently acquired trophy.

‘Since there appear to be at least half a dozen cooking pots readily available,’ he commented sagely, ‘it would seem sensible for each of you to have his eggs in whichever way suits him best. If you would care to sit yourselves down at the table, gentlemen, I am sure I can attend to both your requirements.’ Then, turning to Lucan, he added, ‘You too, my good sir, if you please—from your agitated demeanour I must assume that your wife is at this moment doing her best to provide you with an heir. I hasten to point out that you will do the young lady no favours by collapsing at her bedside for want of an egg or two.’

Although he cast a somewhat piteous look in his direction, the young father-to-be obeyed the Viscount without comment, reluctantly sitting himself down at the table while Marcus proceeded to break three eggs into the already sizzling frying pan, before turning his attention to the whipping up of several more prior to tipping them into a butter-laced pot.

What an extraordinary day this is turning into!
he
mused, as he stirred the eggs in one pan and flipped the others over in the skillet.
Chopping logs, milking cows and now—by all that’s marvellous—acting as kitchen maid to as big a set of nincompoops as I’ve ever come across! Damned lucky I spent so much time down in the kitchens at Bradfield when I was a lad. What next, I wonder? Just so long as they don’t expect me to deliver the blessed baby!

At this thought he frowned, having suddenly realised that the continued absence of both Sophie and Mrs Webster seemed to indicate that the two of them were engaged in that very task.
Hardly a suitable occupation for an unmarried girl, surely?
Although, from what he had already gathered from her earlier remarks, it would seem that there were few things at which that particular young lady would demur from attempting, if the need arose.

His lips twisted as Sophie’s query as to his involvement in the country’s recent hostilities returned to haunt him, and, as always, a hot surge of resentment ran through him as he recalled his father’s absolute obduracy over the matter throughout the past six years. Although why it should now concern him what conclusion a virtual stranger might have reached over his apparent lack of participation, he was hard put to fathom. Yet for some unknown reason it did.

The faint smell of singeing alerted him back to the task in hand. Hastily he slid the pan of frying eggs away from the hotplate before any real damage was done, and skilfully tipped the contents on to Captain Gibbons’s plate, then returning to the range to collect the pot of scrambled eggs, which he placed on the table and exhorted the other two men to ‘dig in’ while his offering was still at its best.

Sadly enough, Mr Lucan had barely dipped his fork into the minute portion of the creamy mixture to which he had helped himself before the passage door sprang open and a laughing-eyed Sophie was informing the assembled company of the safe arrival of one Master John Henry Lucan.

‘I believe your wife would like to see you now, sir,’ she said, shooting the new father a mischievous smile. ‘She is rather tired, of course, but has asked if you could manage to spare her a few moments of your time …?’

Dropping his fork, Lucan was on his feet in a flash, had dashed through the doorway and was halfway up the stairs before any of his table companions could even draw breath to offer him their congratulations.

Heaving a deep sigh, the now slightly tearful Sophie turned to look at the coffee-pot, simmering at the back of the range. ‘I believe I have earned a cup of that, if one of you gentlemen would be good enough to pour it for me,’ she murmured, as she lowered herself into Mrs Webster’s fireside chair and, leaning her head back against the cushions, closed her eyes.

Marcus had sprung to attention before either of the other two men had even registered her words, and in no time at all he was at her side, offering the requested refreshment.

Having reluctantly managed to pry her eyelids apart, Sophie was startled to find herself immediately confronted with Marcus’s dark brown gaze, only inches from her face. For a moment it seemed that her heart had stopped beating and her entire body seemed to be flooding with the oddest sensations, the like of which she had never before experienced. An inexplicable feeling of panic ran through her, causing her to shoot bolt upright, and it was only Marcus’s quick reaction to her sudden
movement that prevented her from being deluged with the scalding contents of the cup he held in his hand.

‘Whoa, steady, there!’ he cautioned, as he laid the cup down on the hearth. ‘A breath of fresh air is what you really need, you know,’ he said, frowning in concern as he took in the faint shadows beneath her eyes. ‘I believe it stopped snowing some time ago. If you would care to step outside for a few moments, I should be more than happy to keep you company.’

Sophie rose to her feet, desperately trying to control the violent wave of trembling that still beset her.

‘I—I’ll just get my pelisse—it should be dry by now—Mrs Webster kindly hung it on the drying frame for me …’

She had the distinct feeling that she was talking gibberish but could not seem to get a grip on herself. Before she could even attempt to extricate her pelisse from the overhead frame, Marcus had reached up and unhooked it and was, even now, coaxing her into sliding her arms through the sleeves. Ignoring her muted protests, he proceeded, in the most matter-of-fact way, to pull the coat-fronts together and fasten the buttons, before standing back and regarding her with a quizzical frown.

‘Not exactly the warmest coat I’ve ever come across,’ he observed, with a crooked smile. ‘You had better have my scarf.’

Tucking her arm into his elbow, he led her across to the back door where, after collecting his thick red woollen scarf from the hook on the wall, he wrapped it firmly over her head and around her neck before opening the door and leading her out into the stableyard.

‘Oh, goodness me!’ she gasped, stepping back as the cold air hit her. ‘I’m not sure I wouldn’t rather have stayed by the fire!’

‘A little bit of exercise will soon get the blood flowing,’ he teased and, bending down, he picked up a small handful of snow, compressed it into a ball and gently tossed it towards her, taking great care to avoid actually hitting her.

‘Why, you …!’

Filling her hands with snow, she balled it and flung it at him, missing him by several feet. Stooping to gather up more ammunition, she found herself obliged to dodge the hail of missiles that Marcus had seemed able to conjure up before she had managed to collect even the one—although she quickly came to the conclusion that his aim was no better than hers since very few of his snowballs ever made real contact with her person. Nevertheless, dashing from one side of the stableyard to the other soon had her feeling warmed from the tip of her nose right down to her toes, and it was not long before she was obliged to seek refuge against the cowshed wall where she held up her hands and laughingly begged him for mercy.

‘Only if you pay the time-honoured forfeit.’

He walked towards her, his lips curved and eyes gleaming with unsuppressed amusement. Standing directly in front of her, he reached out his hands and began busying himself with a purposeful rearrangement of her head covering, which had gone somewhat adrift during their boisterous frolic.

‘F-forfeit?’

Sophie cast a wary glance upward and then wished she had not done so, for the look in his eyes as he stared down at her was more than enough to have her heart doing that very same stop/start dance that had brought her out here in the first place. She was almost certain that he was about to kiss her and she was not at all sure
if that was such a good idea. She had been kissed before, it was true—swift, daring pecks on the cheek by bashful sub-lieutenants, for the most part, as her upbringing, though irregular, had been somewhat meticulous in certain respects. But, given what she had experienced the previous night, coupled with the strangely disturbing feelings that he seemed to engender within her simply by catching her eye, she could not help feeling that allowing herself to be kissed by Marcus Wolfe would prove to be a very big mistake.

Carefully easing one hand behind Sophie’s neck, the Viscount, hardly daring to breathe lest he broke the spell that he had succeeded in conjuring up, bent his head to claim his much-desired forfeit.

Quick as a flash, Sophie ducked beneath his arm and spun out of reach, only to find herself suddenly sliding sideways across the snow-covered ground in the most inelegant fashion. With a startled oath Marcus grabbed at her falling figure, whereupon he too found himself sliding on the ice. Concerted cries of dismay emanated from the pair as, wildly clutching at each other and powerless to prevent their descent, they fell headlong into a nearby snowdrift.

‘Deuce take it, woman!’ gasped Marcus, when he had recovered sufficiently to take a breath. ‘What in God’s name was that all about?’

With the full weight of his body on top of her, Sophie was finding it impossible to concentrate her mind on the whys and wherefores of her precipitate action, but, as the melting snow began to make its presence felt through the thin fabric of her pelisse, the need to extricate herself became paramount. ‘Kindly remove yourself!’ she grated through clenched teeth. ‘The snow is soaking through my coat.’

‘Hardly surprising,’ he snapped, as he clambered to his feet and reached down to haul her out of the drift. The whole experience had left him feeling decidedly irritated. Hardly had he had time to react to Sophie’s unexpected rejection of his advances before he had found himself pitched ignominiously into a heap of snow where, to his everlasting shame and annoyance, he been unable to control his all too swift reaction to the soft imprint of her curves as they pressed against his body. The powerful sensations that had swept through him had left him in a state of stunned bewilderment which had, somehow or other, exacerbated his feelings of umbrage towards the wet and shivering creature standing in front of him. ‘You really need to furnish yourself with a much more suitable outfit, my dear, if you will insist on long-distance travel at this time of year,’ he ground out tersely.

Now thoroughly chilled to the bone, Sophie was in no mood for such high-handed observations from someone who clearly had no notion of how it might feel to be inadequately clad and all but penniless.

‘Some of us have little choice in the matter of what we are obliged to wear,’ she flashed back, doing her level best to stop her teeth from chattering. ‘We don’t all have fat purses and wardrobes full of furs!’

He stilled, staring down at her, a mental picture of her sprawled across his bed draped in white furs suddenly filling his imagination. ‘You could have all of that and more if you really wanted it,’ he said huskily, his fingertips reaching across to caress her damp cheek. ‘I have the neatest little cottage in Chelsea—’

‘How dare you, sir?’

An ice-cold hand hard across the side of his face brought the trembling Viscount swiftly to his senses.
Good God,
he thought, aghast,
was I really about to offer a
carte blanche
to an impoverished governess? I must be losing my mind!

Shaking with a curious combination of heart-wrenching desolation coupled with out-and-out fury, Sophie angrily divested herself of the Viscount’s scarf and, after flinging the offending article at him, started back towards the inn, taking very careful steps across the now visibly melting snow. She had almost gained the back door when the faint but unmistakable jingle of horses’ traces reached her ears. She stopped, straining hard to identify the sound. Yes, there it was again! There was traffic moving on the road above. Her eyes shining, she whirled round to face the still rigidly motionless Viscount.

‘There!’ she cried. ‘Do you hear it? The road must be passable again. We must all set to and dig out a passageway for the coach. We could be away first thing tomorrow if we put our backs into it!’

‘Dig out a passageway?’ returned the Viscount, with a disdainful curl of his lip. ‘Who? You, me and those two old has-beens in the stable, I suppose? It would take us until a week next Friday to clear that amount of snow!’

She stared at him in disbelief, then shook her head. ‘You can take it from me that neither Lapworthy nor Hastings will be so faint-hearted when they hear that the road is open,’ she said, before adding disparagingly, ‘It’s little wonder that you chose not to join the military. I doubt that you would have even survived the Channel crossing!’