Love With the Perfect Scoundrel by Sophia Nash Page A

bit for the table?”
    “Oh, please do,” the lovely countess said, with something more than desperation in her voice.
    He smiled. Toasting fork in hand, he speared a block of cheese and placed it before the fire, expertly turning and catching the melting sections with chunks of bread while she ladled stew from a pot and placed the shallow dishes on the table with ill ease.
    Michael seated the countess and came around to his place across from her. He looked at the dish in front of him and it was all he could do not to make a sound. A glutinous quagmire of grayish matter was before him. He regarded the enticing platter of melted cheese and bread but for a moment before he resolutely picked up his spoon.
    It not only resembled something one might find mired in a bog after a century, but he imagined it tasted like it too. It took a mountain’s worth of determination to swallow a mouthful and to take another. “Delicious, Mrs. Sheffey,” he rasped. “Absolutely delicious.” He glanced at Timmy, whose face had turned as ashen as the color of the stew. His estimation of the boy’s character was rising by the minute.
    “Oh, please stop,” she moaned. “It’s revolting. No, worse. I beg you to stop eating this instant.”
    Timmy’s spoon stopped in midair and he gratefully looked at Michael and replaced it in the morass of burnt stew. Michael silently offered the cheese and bread to Grace and Timmy before taking a portion for himself.
    “Oh, I don’t understand. I put everything in the pot as you said, the mutton, the flour, the carrots, and potatoes. I added some water and then put it over the fire. And, and—”
    “And it’s a rare cook who can turn out a meal in an unfamiliar kitchen.” He clamped his lips to stop them from trembling with laughter.
    “I had a difficult time carving the mutton, it was partially frozen.”
    “Of course.”
    “And I think I added a bit too much flour.”
    He nodded, his eyes smarting with held-back mirth.
    “The vegetables seemed to melt after a few hours.”
    “It appears so.” He offered the platter to her and to Timmy again before surreptitiously wolfing down three more pieces of cheese and bread.
    “Oh stop it!” she said, her face drawn from fatigue. “Go ahead, and say it. I’m useless. I’m so sorry I made such a horrid meal and a huge mess in the process.”
    “That’s all right, ma’am,” Timmy spoke up. “Me mum always makes one o’ us clean the pots after dinner, and that’s nothing I haven’t seen afore wot with seven brothers and sisters tryin’ their hands at the cookin’.” His accent was poor, but Timmy’s heart was rich, and that counted more than anything at that instant.
    At that exact same moment Michael noticed a pattern of blood seeping through the front of the countess’s gown. He abruptly stood. “Thank you, Timmy. I’ll join you for evening chores in a bit.”
    “No need, sir. The barn looks better than it ’as in months. I can do the milkin’.” Pride laced Timmy’s plain words.
    Michael nodded and offered his arm to the countess. “May I beg a moment of your time in the front salon? Straightaway?”
    She looked up at him, her face pale and her eyes reflecting the edge of pain in their deceptive blue depths. “Of course.”
    As soon as he had escorted her past the kitchen door, he scooped her up into his arms and headed for the stairs.
    “What are you doing? Put me down, Mr. Ranier!”
    “You know, I think this is becoming a habit. Not that I’m complaining, mind you.”
    “I don’t see why you feel the need to—to carry me about like some sort of child. I was disentangled from leading strings more than two decades ago!”
    He bounded up the last of the steps, taking care not to jar her. He kicked the bedchamber door shut with his boot heel. “I know, sweetheart, I know. But humor me, will you?” He glanced at the jumble of the unmade bed and placed her in the padded leather armchair next to the fire, which had gone