What a Reckless Rogue Needs Part 11

"You're right, of course."

He opened up the hamper and retrieved a container of lemonade and two gla.s.ses. They sat next to each other where there was a patch of warm sun that made her want to curl up like a cat. They dined on cold chicken, ham, cheese, bread, and biscuits for dessert.

"Would you care for more chicken?" he asked.

She placed her hand over her stomach. "I'm full and fear I'll be lethargic all afternoon if I eat any more. May I serve the rest to you?"

"Lord, no. I'm stuffed."

She started packing the food, and he set the plates inside the basket. When she handed him the leftover bread wrapped in a cloth, their hands brushed. The accidental touch stirred something inside of her. She caught him looking at her with slightly parted lips. Then he took a deep breath and looked away.

Angeline told herself she was imagining the heightened awareness between them. At any rate, she could not afford to make a misstep. He was a family friend, and she was here only to a.s.sist him. Nothing else could or would ever transpire between them.

Unbidden, she recalled his strength as he'd swung that ax two days ago and the dark hair on his chest and forearms. He was the sort of man who made women forget to breathe, but she reminded herself that he was a rake, a man who pursued pleasure first and foremost. There were probably dozens of women he'd left in his wake. She'd made one bad mistake; she had no intention of making another.

When she closed the hamper, there was an awkward silence.

He cleared his throat. "Shall we investigate the drawing room now?"

"Yes, I'm curious to see what we'll find."

When he offered his arm, she took it and immediately discerned warmth from his body and the scent of him. She glanced at his profile. Although she was tall, he still towered over her. The cleft chin, straight nose, and strong jawline were familiar and yet somehow more p.r.o.nounced. One dark curl fell just above his brow. She remembered that he'd despised his wavy hair, but his untamable curls were definitely part of his appeal.

After they reached the landing, he led her inside a drawing room. She surveyed the overall s.p.a.ce and thought it had potential. "The carpet escaped fading here," she said.

He opened shutters. "You can see the reason."

"It is unfortunate they weren't used in the other rooms."

He leaned his head back. "The ceiling appears to be in good shape."

She looked up as well. "Is that a portrayal of Hercules?"

"I'm unsure."

"Your sisters will be delighted if you tell them it is."

"Well, let's not tell them yet," he said. "Otherwise they'll hound me, if you'll forgive the pun, to let them see it."

He went to investigate the fireplace and squatted.

If she was a proper lady, she would not dare admire his bottom, but what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

"The hearth has a hob grate. You can heat a kettle," he said.

"You would ring for a maid."

He rose. "I didn't care about the basket grate in the anteroom, but I like to make tea on the hob."

She stared at him. "You do it?"

"I only have one manservant in my rooms at the Albany," he said. "On his half day, I have to do for myself."

"You're joking," she said.

He turned to her. "No, but tea is the limit of my domestic talents."

"Your resourcefulness will see you through the transformation of your house."

"It isn't mine, and may never be."

He'd sounded a bit testy. She ought to be more careful with her words.

"My guess was right," she said. "The furnis.h.i.+ngs are Georgian."

"How can you tell?" he asked.

"The oval cus.h.i.+ons and the red damask fabric covering the chair and settee are distinctive of the period." She walked to the wall. "Mark the wainscoting. In the previous century, it was used to protect the walls from the chairs. These days no one uses such an arrangement."

"The furniture is entirely too feminine. I need something st.u.r.dier."

"Your future bride might like it."

He fisted his hands on his hips. "Why do I suspect you are purposely trying to needle me?"

She bit back a smile. "Since you have no immediate plans to occupy the house, I recommend you keep the present furnis.h.i.+ngs. You may find there are more pressing issues that need immediate attention."

"Let us go up to the bedchambers," he said.

He led her up the next flight of stairs. She couldn't help noting the lack of family portraits on the walls, though she could discern where they had once hung. She told herself they were only rooms, and she was here to a.s.sist him with the inspection. Yet she thought of how her father would react if he learned she'd gone into a bedchamber with Colin. Oh, for pity's sake, her father would never know, and Colin certainly wouldn't mention it when they returned to Deerfield.

She never used to be so skittish, but she'd disappointed her family. Her guilt was like the fog. It inevitably rolled in.

The first bedchamber was a well-appointed room with tall mahogany bedposts and rose-colored bed hangings that matched the drapes. A chaise longue with rose-colored cus.h.i.+ons was angled in the corner.

"Was this your mother's room?" she asked.

"I imagine so," he said. There was determination in his expression as he opened the drawer of a night table.

She didn't think much of it at first and walked to the window where she drew the draperies open. "I think you could have a wonderful flower garden in the spring."

Footsteps alerted her. Colin was opening and closing drawers in the dressing table.

"Are you looking for something?" she asked.

"Yes."

He strode to the wardrobe and opened the doors.

She thought it was odd that he'd not told her what he was seeking.

He released an exasperated sigh and checked the other night table.

"Perhaps I can help," she said.

"Everything is empty." He walked through the connecting door.

Angeline followed him, concerned about his strange mood.

"This must have been your father's room." The bedposts were enormous and the bed hangings were a dark crimson. In the corner was a mirrored mahogany shaving stand.

He began searching through the wardrobe and the chest of drawers.

"Colin?"

He said nothing at first. When he spoke, his voice was rough. "It's as if she never existed."

Her heart felt as if it had fallen to her feet. "If you tell me what you're looking for, I will help you find it."

"I don't know if you can."

"Perhaps if you describe it to me, I will have success."

"It's a miniature...of my mother."

Oh, dear G.o.d. She took a shaky breath, needing to compose herself for his sake. "When did you last see it?" she asked.

"It was on her dressing table, but I might be mistaken. It was long ago." He sighed. "I have nothing to remember her by."

She swallowed hard. "It's bound to be somewhere in the house. Was there anything special about the miniature?"

He frowned. "I'm imagining smooth stones for some reason."

"You were very young," she said.

He walked to the window and planted his hands against the wavy gla.s.s.

"Colin, what troubles you?"

He turned toward her. "I can't remember her features."

She bit her lip, because her tears wouldn't help him.

He blew out his breath. "It's been too long."

She inhaled slowly. "I imagine servants moved everything to the attic."

"Probably." He paced the room. "I should have stayed in London and let it be."

"No," she said. "Sommerall is important to you."

"I could have investigated the property years ago. I just a.s.sumed I would inherit. G.o.d only knows what has rotted or fallen apart."

"Colin, your father is still the owner, and as such, it was his responsibility."

"You miss the point. I ignored Sommerall until my father expressed his intention to sell."

"You mustn't criticize yourself," she said. "You could not have predicted that your father would decide to sell."

He huffed. "If my father hadn't sent that letter informing me that he meant to sell, I would have made excuses to avoid the house party. Make no mistake, Angeline. I'm a selfish man. I've done bad things, but I won't sully your ears. Believe me, I have earned my rakeh.e.l.l reputation."

Angeline recognized self-loathing, because she'd experienced it. How many times had she silently rebuked herself for falling for a man she'd known was trouble? Instead, she'd believed his claims that he was a new man because of her. "None of us can change the past, but we do not have to be slaves to it, either."

He huffed. "Here is something you ought to know. Rakes are irredeemable."

"I have no intention of trying to reform you. I have made mistakes, and so have you. That doesn't mean that you don't deserve to find your mother's miniature, and that doesn't mean that you don't deserve Sommerall."

"If you had any sense, you would demand I return you to Deerfield immediately."

"I'm not afraid of you, Colin."

"You should be," he said.

"Yes, you are a big, bad rake."

He narrowed his eyes. "Why do you want to help me? Do you imagine it is akin to taking hampers to the poor?"

He was proud and probably regretted admitting his mistakes. "There is an old saying: Do not look a gift horse in the mouth."

"You are bored with needlework and are only interested in renovating this house."

"I thought I had made that clear. I have no interest in renovating you."

A laugh escaped him. "That's just as well. You are likely to find nothing salvageable in me."

She had not told him the real reason. She'd tried to imagine how it would feel to lose her family and move away from her childhood home at such a young age. That year in Paris without Penny and Papa had been so hard, and she'd been an adult. At least she'd known she would see them when she returned home.

How would it feel to never see her mother again? How would it feel to never hear her voice ever again? How would it feel to have nothing concrete with which to remember someone you loved? She could not even contemplate the pain for a young child.

He'd been only six years old when he'd lost his mother. Now all he wanted was to find her miniature and preserve her resting place.

"Are you certain you want to do this? You might regret it," he said with a mocking smile.

You might regret it. Her neck p.r.i.c.kled. The night she'd first agreed to dance with Brentmoor, he had uttered those very words and smiled as if he were sharing a good joke with her. He'd warned her, and she'd not taken him seriously.

Angeline met Colin's gaze and knew a moment of doubt. She couldn't make another mistake. Once was bad enough. But this time was different. Colin didn't want her; he only wanted her help with the house.

"There will be nothing to regret," she said. "If you truly want to see the house restored to its former beauty, I will do all in my power to advise and help you. If you do not, tell me now."