Love With the Perfect Scoundrel by Sophia Nash Read Free Book Online

the trouble I’ve caused you.”
    His large strides ate up the distance between them. He raised one corner of his lips, and then he stripped away any and all notions of decency. “Sweetheart, troubles of your sort are always a pleasure.” She dared to fully meet his laughing eyes, which were as pure and clear as the Irish whiskey Mr. Brown had favored on occasion.
    “Come,” he insisted, retrieving the pails he’d carried in. “Let’s get you closer to the stove. Can’t have you catching another chill. There’s no tea or the sort of breakfast you are probably accustomed to, but I’ve cobbled together something.”
    The warm glow from the new-looking four-plate stove chased away winter’s effects in the kitchen. A long wooden table with turned legs dominated the center of the cozy room.
    He was a study in efficiency, heating milk from the pails and arranging a place for her at the end of the table nearest to the heat source. Within moments he retrieved crockery and honey from a larder.
    She hated feeling so inadequate. Inadequate in so many ways, mostly to the necessary tasks that bespoke a purposeful life. But then, she knew the sensation over well. Since marrying the earl, it had crept up and become a common theme in her life. “May I help in any way?”
    “No, no.” Moments later, he poured a stream of hot milk into a bowl before her and ladled something into a second bowl. “I should warn you, we shall have to do for ourselves. The storm scared away most of the people employed here.”
    She leaned in. Porridge . Grace smothered a giggle. She hadn’t had porridge since her girlhood on Mann. “This looks delicious,” she murmured, meaning every word as the long-forgotten nutty scent reached her senses.
    “I’m glad for there’s a limited variety of goods in the larder.” He moved the honey toward her and she dribbled the sweet concoction into her hot milk and porridge.
    “I’m the last person to complain, Mr. Ranier.” She had so many questions, she didn’t know where to start. “Surely, I would be frozen under a hedgerow if not for you.”
    “Perhaps only half frozen.” He grinned.
    She sipped the fresh milk from the simple earthenware bowl. “So, where precisely are we? Is there a town or village nearby? Perhaps York?” she asked with great hope.
    He shook his head, and she noticed the shadow of last night’s beard was gone. “As far as I know, we’re somewhere between Derbyshire and Yorkshire, about five miles from the nearest village and about three miles from a grand estate by the name of Beaulieu.”
    “So, this is an acquaintance’s property? Not your own?” The man had ridiculously long eyelashes, she observed, as he glanced sideways at her. It was so incongruous, considering the harsh geometry of his features—all chiseled planes and angles.
    “No, it’s mine. Brynlow was recently left to me.” He abruptly stopped.
    A wave of sympathy wound ’round her and she changed the subject. “Do you suppose it will stop snowing soon?”
    “Hard to say, precisely.”
    She began to tap her foot nervously. “Have you always lived in Yorkshire, then? You’ve an accent I’m not quite familiar with.”
    “You ask a lot of questions, Countess.” He silently offered more steamed milk which she refused. “But not the right ones.”
    “What should I be asking?”
    “Perhaps you should ask if your fingers were frostbitten last night or how many days’ worth of food are in the pantry.”
    She looked down, discomfort drenching her.
    “Now don’t look so frightened, Blue Eyes. I’ve enough cows, sheep, and chickens in the barns to keep us for a year or more. The pantry goods will only hold us for a week or so. But cheer up—the storm will let up long before then.”
    “One would hope,” she said, trying to hide her ill ease. “I must ask if there is anything I can do to help. I’ve been nothing but a hindrance so far.”
    “No. You’re to crawl back to bed after you finish