Free Ransom Redeemed by Jayne Fresina Page B

in my opinion."
    She laughed shrilly. "You are a boy , Ransom Deverell. You are a spoiled, frightened little boy who runs away when he is in trouble. Run, run, run down the street. He does not stay to face the consequence."
    Ransom let her laugh at him. That was better than having her fingernails scratching his face and trying to gouge out his eyeballs. "Yes, you're quite right, of course. I'm a hopeless case. You're better off without me. I'd only make you miserable in the end." He fell back into his chair with a gusty sigh.
    "No, mon ami, you are the one who will be miserable a la fin ! You will never be 'appy, until you become a grown man. Until you stop this running and running. Until you are brave enough to risk your 'eart and love! " She raised her fist to the ceiling as if she was about to storm the barricades in Paris. "To love with all of yourself, not just the one part. When you can say— this is the woman for me. Until you face the bad, not only the good. Until you see there is more to life than your pleasures. Then you will be a man. But I fear it will not be so until you are on your deathbed. Only then will you see what you 'ave missed. And too late!"
    This must be a speech from one of her better roles. It certainly did not sound like something she would have thought up herself, for her deepest considerations usually went no deeper than surface appearances.
    "I see," he muttered. "Well, I'm sure you're right, Belle." He was distracted by that parcel on his desk, still certain he could hear the paper rustling, whispering. You are deliberately evasive, an habitual flirt who uses that skill to get out of anything he doesn't want to do ...
    Nothing to talk about, indeed! Mary Ashford had no idea how much pleasure he could give her without a single word shared between them.
    "Oui! Certainement, I am right, Monsieur Deverell! But do not call for me then, when you lay dying. For I," she gestured with her hand, "will twist the knife deeper."
    "No doubt." He allowed a little smile. "I'll bear that in mind for my final moments."
    "You are impossible."
    "And you are as ill-suited to a permanent relationship as I." He paused and then added thoughtfully, "Did you ever think we ought to talk more? Perhaps we should have."
    "Talk?" she snapped. "Talk about what?"
    Precisely, he mused.
    Her little nose wrinkled. "What is there to talk of between us? You are drunk, I think."
    "Perhaps." What other explanation could there be? Here before him stood the most beautiful and sought after actress in London, a woman whose company other men would die for. Yet he was willing to let her slip through his fingers.
    He could beg for her forgiveness, tell her what she wanted to hear, just to make her content and keep the peace— stopping short of a promise, of course. And she would act as if he was the only man in her solar system again. But it would all be false, nothing more than a temporary bandage to halt the bleeding. He could promise her nothing beyond tonight and before too long they would be here again, with her shouting at him.
    The fact that he had forgotten the date of her return from Paris ought to be proof enough for the both of them that it was time to end this affair.
    "I have enjoyed our time together and will always remember you fondly," he continued. "But as you said, I won't be ready to settle down until I'm on my deathbed. And I'm not dying today, or any day soon I hope."
    "Ha! You do not finish with me! I finish with you!" She looked around— possibly for something to wound— and saw the brown paper parcel resting on the corner of his desk. With one swipe of her arm she sent it to the floor, whirled around in a satin flurry, and stormed out.
    Ransom got up to retrieve the torn package of books from the floor. Now, through the shredded paper, he finally perused the titles Mary Ashford had selected for him.
    Hints on Etiquette and the Uses of Society, with a Glance at Bad Habits .
    A Book of Good Manners for Boys and