Free The Saint Who Stole My Heart: A Regency Rogues Novel by Stefanie Sloane Page B

her?
    “Miss Barnes,” the marchioness countered, setting her spoon down and looking at Elena with concern. “It is of great use to me, I assure you. How else am I to avoid repeating whatever disasters occurred that sent you running back to Dorset? You’ll not fail a second time, my dear. Not with me as your chaperone.” Her firm nod and determined expression clearly conveyed her conviction.
    “Oh,” Elena murmured, suddenly ashamed that she’d assumed the worst of the woman. “Well, I don’t know that there was one instance in particular, my lady. Butthis,” she paused and gestured to her hair, then her face, and finally her body, “did not help matters.”
    The woman was a marchioness, and apparently a kind one at that. Surely she’d politely avoid Elena’s revelation and that would be the end of it.
    “Am I to assume you believe yourself to be at fault?”
    Or nearly the end of it.
    “Obviously,” Elena answered, lifting a second bite of pudding to her mouth and forcing herself to chew.
    Lady Mowbray continued to stare at her. “I’ll not lie, as it would only be a waste of my time and yours. Your gowns number among some of the most unfortunate I’ve ever set eyes on. And your hair? Well, it’s glorious, but the coiffure is not. Tell me, who sponsored your season?”
    “Lady Hastings,” Elena managed to get out around the bite of sponge.
    Lady Mowbray rolled her eyes in response. “Well, that explains quite a lot. Lady Hastings is atrocious. You’re a beautiful woman with an impressive mind and a quick wit. It’s all there, underneath the lamentable packaging. And now you have me. So there is nothing to fear, my dear. Nothing at all.”
    Elena wanted desperately to believe the woman. But she’d have to believe in herself first—in a way she’d never managed before.
    “You look skeptical, Miss Barnes,” the marchioness noted, taking a bite of her pudding and pausing to savor it. “What if we made a wager?”
    Wagers always ended badly in books. In fact, Elena had never read a single volume involving a wager where tragedy had not struck the poor, unsuspecting mortal a mighty blow.
    Still, she was curious. “What might you have in mind, Lady Mowbray?”

     
    “My lord.”
    Dash swung about at the unexpected sound of Bell’s voice. “Bell, I’ve just arrived home from the club, which explains my being awake at such a late hour. But surely you should be abed by now?”
    The butler’s hair was slightly mussed and his eyes bleary, as though he’d just been roused from sleep. “My lord, Cook sent for me. If there’s anything that you require?”
    Dash looked over the butler’s shoulder, but the round, gray-haired cook was nowhere to be found. “Cook?”
    “The woman has the uncanny ability to sense when someone is in her kitchen. I don’t know how she does it. But she does—with regularity,” Bell explained.
    Dash turned back to the milk he’d poured into a tankard and added the almonds, egg white, brandy, and rum. “Just making myself a posset, Bell. Care for some?”
    He walked to the fireplace and reached for the poker whose end rested in the low, glowing embers. Holding the tankard waist-high, he slowly lowered the tip of the poker into it, a satisfying hissing emitting from the fragrant brew.
    Bell retrieved a wooden spoon and gestured for the tankard. “No thank you, my lord.”
    Dash handed the tankard over and returned the poker to the fireplace. “My father used to make this very posset for me when I was a child.”
    “And for himself, my lord,” Bell replied fondly, sleep clearly having lowered his guard. He joined Dash at the table and began to beat the ingredients together with the spoon. When a foamy froth appeared at the top, he pulled the spoon from the tankard and gave it back to Dash.
    Dash leaned against the table and took a sip, thehot, creamy drink sliding easily down his throat. “Did he now?”
    “Oh yes, many times,” the butler confirmed with a hint of