Love With the Perfect Scoundrel by Sophia Nash Page B

worse in town. One of the tenets of society is that aristocrats always manage to weed out the less vital offspring of their peers—innocent or not—to keep the upper ten thousand to its proper number.”
    He shook his head, “And why must it stay at that particular number?”
    “Well,” she said wryly, “I suppose everyone thinks upper eleven thousand does not sound nearly so fine.”
    He laughed. “Obviously they have too much time on their hands, if they’re wasting it on such nonsense. But I remember it thusly.” He went still, shocked he had let the words spill from his mouth and praying she was too engrossed in the lamb to have taken notice. “Come, the eggs are ready.”
    He carefully deposited the sleeping lamb in a nest of blankets despite her protestations.
    “You once lived in London?” She seated herself at the table.
    His neck hairs prickled. “Yes. Like many.” He cracked open a coddled egg in a swift motion.
    “Why do you avoid telling me about your life?”
    “Nothing interesting to relate, unless you want to discuss smithing and farming, that is.”
    He could almost feel the wheels turning in her mind, and he stymied her efforts by changing the subject. “Where were you raised, Countess?”
    “The Isle of Mann and a few seasons in London. Generations of my mother’s and father’s families lived on Mann. I was actually on my way there when the accident occurred.”
    “That explains it.”
    “Explains what?”
    “You’re heartier than you appear at first glance,” he murmured, quickly polishing off three more eggs before turning to the bread and cheese.
    “I’m sorry?” Her spoon stopped in midair.
    “Viking blood.”
    “I beg your pardon.”
    “Wasn’t Mann raided and settled by Vikings? You certainly look like a blonde, blue-eyed norse-woman, albeit a petite one. Do you have any hidden desire to go raiding that I should know about, Lady Sheffield?”
    Her eyes had widened with each word. And then she let out her breath. “Oh, for goodness sakes.”
    “Your oaths show little variation.”
    “Well, yours would too, if you were a lady.” The warmth in her eyes had returned, and his tension over her questions eased. Too soon.
    “I’ve told you about my childhood. And yours?”
    He stood up, his chair’s legs raking against the floorboards. “A little here and there.”
    “So you spent part of your youth near here?”
    She was never going to quit. “Yes, and as you know, in London and Virginia too.” Their plates clean, he removed everything from the table. She drifted to his side.
    “What was it like there?”
    “Virginia?”
    “Yes.” Her voice was tentative and soft, obviously afraid of being cut off.
    “It’s a land of much raw beauty. The life there is new, and uncertain. You can’t imagine how red and boggy the clay mud becomes during the March rains—especially in Georgetown, a drummed-up trade village. Makes the bogs here look tame,” he said, meeting her eyes. “But in Virginia, the woods and mountains go on forever and a day. The wild flowering trees of spring—especially the redbud—make up for the harsh winters, but the fine weather of fall does not make up for the hordes of summer mosquitoes.”
    She was silent next to him. She’d finally learned how to move about the kitchen with ease. While he washed, she dried.
    “Thank you,” she uttered.
    “For what?”
    “For describing it to me. I can see it perfectly.”
    There was such gentle goodness to her, he longed to lean down and kiss her senseless, and remind her exactly how ungentlemanly he could be when provoked by her generous spirit and beauty.
    “Well,” he said, seizing the chance to turn the conversation. “This is the first moment we’ve had with nothing to do but amuse ourselves. What shall it be, then? And no, Pearl is going to be looked after by Timmy tonight.”
    “I would prefer to see to her myself. It’s no trouble, really.” She arranged the two cups in the cupboard and