Lucy Muir Read Free

that, thought Anne, but instead she felt intrigued. After all, this was her first meeting with a real rake. Charlie’s rackety friends had not merited such a distinction.
    “Indeed not, Lord Stanton. I am not so missish to prefer frostbite to the warmth of a fire simply because that fire is in your home. Although perhaps I should be concerned on behalf of my cousin,” she added.
    “Let me set your mind at ease, Miss Southwell. I have been informed that your cousin is quite young, and I have no taste for cradle robbing, no matter how beautiful the occupant of the cradle.”
    “I wager you may change your mind after you see her,” Anne said, not believing any man could remain immune to her cousin’s beauty.
    “You would lose again,” Lord Stanton replied. “My taste runs to more mature women,” he added, looking at her meaningfully.
    Lord Stanton found himself becoming even more attracted to this woman by her common-sense acceptance of a situation that would have sent most gently reared ladies into a fit of vapours or spasms. He smiled at her again and she returned the smile spontaneously.
    A footman entered and set a tray with two glasses and a decanter on a table. Lord Stanton poured a small measure into one glass and offered it to Anne.
    “Brandy, Miss Southwell? It will help to stave off a chill.”
    Anne hesitated a moment before accepting the strong spirits, then decided her ordeal in the storm made it acceptable to have some. Their fingers touched slightly as she took the glass, causing a tingle to run from her fingertips up to her spine. She sensed the touch had been intentional, although perhaps she was unfairly judging him because of his reputation.
    “Please be seated if you have warmed yourself sufficiently, and tell me how you came to be travelling in such inclement January weather,” he said. “Miss Amberly and your servants have been attended to, so you need not concern yourself on their account.”
    Anne sat down in a red velvet chair near the fireplace and Lord Stanton seated himself across from her, his legs stretched out casually, booted feet crossed. Anne found that his relaxed attitude put her at ease, as well. The brandy was already taking effect, warming her insides and making her receptive to his charm. Before long she was freely relating to him something of her’ life in Bath as the motherless daughter of an army officer. A small voice in her mind cautioned that she was telling too much to a relative stranger, and a rake at that, but Anne ignored the voice. The brandy had loosened her tongue, and she discovered that she was starved for masculine company—someone to listen to her and give advice the way Charlie had.
    A wistful look came over her face at the thought of Charlie, and she stopped speaking a moment, remembering her devil-may-care brother. He hadn’t looked anything like Lord Stanton—Charlie had been of very slender build, with merry hazel eyes and wavy golden hair—but they both had the same indefinable masculine charm.
    Lord Stanton noticed the change in Anne’s expression and prodded softly.
    “What are you thinking of, Miss Southwell?”
    “I was just thinking of Charlie,” she replied, her eyes losing their unfocussed look and meeting her companion’s.
    “Your brother?” Lord Stanton inquired, referring to an earlier part of their conversation. “You must have been very close. He was of an age with you?”
    “No,” Anne said, her glance slipping past Lord Stanton’s again and staring beyond him into the past, “he was older than I. Charlie helped Papa raise me after my mother died.”
    A smile touched Anne’s lips and she laughed softly. “I daresay some of the things Charlie thought it necessary to teach me were not quite proper for a young girl, but he and Papa never made many allowances for my being female.”
    She took another swallow of brandy and savoured the warmth it engendered in her body and mind. It made it easy to talk with Lord Stanton about