The Reluctant Countess by Wendy Vella Page A

ground? Still … how dare he make fun of her?
    “If I wish to sit on this ledge all evening, my lord, then that is my choice. And I … I did not give you leave to call me by my first name, sir.”
    The deep rumble of laughter from below had Sophie gritting her teeth.
    “Ah, but remember, Sophie, I have seen your lovely satin knickers. Surely that gives me some rights,” the earl said.
    Sophie pressed her lips together. She would not speak to him.
    “I am afraid I cannot let you perch on the ledge a minute longer, my little bird. You see, you are in imminent danger of falling.”
    As if to strengthen his argument, Patrick watched one of the countess’s dainty feet move closer to the edge.
What the hell was she doing up there?
It was only by chance that he had chosen this small balcony to find some peace from the matrons, who were firing their daughters into his path with all the finesse of a drill sergeant. It also gave him the opportunity to think about the irritating shrew now perched above him. Had he not looked up then and there, he would have missed her completely. It was almost beyond belief that the haughty Countess of Monmouth was sitting on that ledge like a naughty child.
    “I can manage quite well on my own, my lord, so please leave and allow me to … ah …”
    “Dismount?” Patrick suggested helpfully.
    Sophie ignored him and once again turned to jump. How was she to talk her way out of this one? Surely he would tell everyone of her escapade and then Letty would be both mortified and furious with her, and her reputation as the ice maiden would be ruined.
    “Take my hand,” Patrick offered.
    “Get down at once, my lord!” Sophie was horrified as the earl climbed nimbly onto the edge of the balustrade, where he balanced himself and then held both his hands out toward her.
    “Take my hand, Sophie,” Patrick said again, this time with a little more force, which the little baggage noticed because her eyes widened fractionally.
    “No!”
    Heaving a very loud sigh, which the woman above him could hear quite clearly, Patrick folded his arms and waited. He knew that it was a long drop to the ground, but he felt no fear. He had grown up scaling balconies and anything else he could climb. Patrick had felt free, away from the control his parents had upon his life. Only when he was soaring above the earth did he believe that one day he would escape the life he was forced to live. The countess, however, did not know that.
    She looked so small, sitting on that ledge. Several ringlets had escaped their pins and trailed over her shoulders. Her eyes were huge in her pale face and she looked like a cornered doe. Patrick had the feeling it was not just his presence that was to blame for her condition. He wondered again which was the real countess—the one who did handstands and stuttered or the cool ice maiden? He had a feeling it was the former, and that made his insides twist, which in turn made him angry, for no woman had ever made his insides twist. From his vantage point he could see the gentle swell of her breasts as she bent over and the primitive male in him was not immune to such a display. Lust bolted through his body like forks of lightning, leaving him hungry for her.
    “What the hell
are
you doing on that ledge?” he asked, because suddenly he needed to know.
    “I … I cannot tell you, my lord,” Sophie whispered. “Pray do not ask me again, and please hold on to something,” she added. Seeing him standing on that small ledge—seemingly at ease with a drop of some sixty feet below him—was making her feel very unwell.
    Patrick could see her gloved hands shaking as they struggled to clutch the downpipe.
    “Cannot or will not?” he questioned softly.
    “Cannot.” Sophie shivered. It was cold and she was clad in a very thin gown.
    “Come, enough of this nonsense. You are shivering and in imminent danger of falling, now place your hands in mine, I will bring you down safely.” His