Free Love With the Perfect Scoundrel by Sophia Nash Page A

Mr. Ranier. She wondered if Michael Ranier had been an orphan too and met Mr. Bryn at the foundling home. It would explain his reticence about revealing his past. All of it made her want to bury her head in shame. How dare she feel sorry for herself. She only wished she knew if her assumptions were true or not.
    She pondered when and why he had gone to the colonies as she took advantage of the hip bath. True luxury, she decided a short time later, was hot water sluicing away the thick froth of country soap she had lathered over every square inch of her body, taking care with her injury. She’d even washed her hair, luxuriating in the simple, clean scent.
    With a sigh, Grace combed the last of the tangles before the fire, and then gathered up the mended garments. She stood at the doorway, listening for any telltale sounds. When a rush of water echoed from the lower level of the house, Grace tiptoed down the hall to return Michael Ranier’s articles to his finely turned bureau, crafted by Mr. Bryn’s company, at first guess.
    Grace returned to her room, now deliciously relaxed from the bath, and her fingers less stiff from the needlework. She was gloriously at peace, taking comfort in the industriousness of the day. She’d even forgiven herself for her lack of restraint the evening before.
    She had but to face Mr. Ranier one time to beg his forgiveness for plaguing him with her outrageous questions, before she would put it all behind her. And now that the snow had stopped falling…Well, all would be right in her world soon. One long prayer of hope for Mr. Brown’s safety followed by one short one thankful of her blessings, and she fell asleep…blissfully asleep.
    Grace woke three times that night. The first time, she was alone, shivering, the bedcovers lost in a deep puddle on the floor, where she had to retrieve them as usual. She was plagued by strange dreams of her last fiancé, the Marquis of Ellesmere, on one knee begging her forgiveness while her dear friend Georgiana, his bride, whispered something to their other friend, Rosamunde, beside her. The Duke of Helston made up the group, along with Ata and Mr. Brown. They all rushed toward her, a flood of pity unleashed on their faces, and she began to run. She ran so far and so fast that she was back on the Isle of Mann, running on the high cliffs, dangerously close to the edge and not really caring.
    The second time she woke, Grace heard the door close and noticed the fire revived and crackling in the grate. She was freezing, but oddly enough the bedcovers surrounded her. She was so tired of always being cold.
    The third time she was roused from her horrid dreams, she was hotter than the fires of Hades. A mountain of hard flesh surrounded one side of her, and all reason was lost.
    There was not a chance of sleep now. And so she lay awake, drinking in the delicious heat of Mr. Ranier, and praying he would not wake up and initiate a conversation. Silence, indeed, was her consolation.
    His heavy arm shifted under her, and suddenly, inexorably, he was turning and pulling her closer, face to face, into the cradle of his body. His lips pressed against her temple; the bristle of his bearded face sanding her cheek.
    “Sweetheart…” he murmured on an exhale.
    She stiffened.
    And then he fell back into the grip of slumber. Grace knew this because she heard the long, slow catch in his breathing.
    She was now trapped in his solid embrace, her mind spinning with that provocative male scent of his. Her one hand was caught between their two bodies, but her other had involuntarily come to rest on the long line of his hip when he had pulled her to him.
    She had never touched a man’s naked body really. Each time John Sheffey had come to her chamber, he’d extinguished the candle, popped under the covers and raised her night rail to her hips before positioning himself between her limbs, taking care to touch her only where it was absolutely necessary. In the four months of her