"There was never anything to be achieved
by dwelling on the past, or on what one didn't have. It was not a practical use
of a person's energies, as she would remind her sister. One must look ahead,
plow onward."
But while Mary
always looks where she's going, Ransom Deverell is less attentive. One morning,
when hasty escape from an angry lover causes collision with a lamp post, it
changes his course and puts him on a path he's never before encountered.
Seeking shelter from his irate pursuer, he hides in Mary's dusty, cluttered book
shop.
And is
eventually forced to buy books. Oh, the horror of it.
"I
thought, perhaps, you might like to buy a book. Or two. While you're here."
"How
can I buy a book this morning? I'm quite without funds. As you observe, I do
not even have a shirt on my back, Miss...what is it again?"
"Ashford,"
she repeated steadily. "And we can send you the bill, if you find yourself
currently insolvent." Mary did not believe for a minute that he was one of
the poverty-stricken. Even half dressed
he exuded an unmistakable air of privilege, and his clothes— the pieces in
existence— were well made of very fine material, perfectly fitted. A fact she had
tried her hardest not to notice. "It is the least you could do, sir,
considering I saved your life this morning."
"Saved
my life?"
"Save
me. Those were your words, sir. Since I'm not in a position to save your soul,
I assume you referred to your life. Or, at the very least, some necessary parts
of your anatomy."
He
exhaled a blustery sigh and folded his arms. Like a tall, slowly falling tree,
he tipped to one side, resting a shoulder against the door. "But I don't
need any books."
To
Mary, that was like saying one did not need air. "Everybody needs
books," she exclaimed.
"Had
my fill of 'em in the schoolroom and at university." He shuddered and
brushed dust from his sleeves. "Ugh. Quite put me off opening another dull
tome as long as I live."
"Then
you're missing out and I pity you. But I suppose not every man wishes to
enlarge his mind to fit the size of his head."
The
stranger's eyes sparked, spidery cracks in the ice of their practiced
indifference suddenly letting the light through. "Just because you've got
a ton of the blasted things you're trying to be rid of—"
"And
most men, in my experience, do not keep their promises, so I shouldn't be
surprised that you now intend to renege on yours."
"Well,
I don't make promises, so if you heard one from me it was a mistake."
"Mine
or yours?"
Still
leaning against the door, he glowered at her for a long moment.
"Fate
can lead a fool to a bookshop," she added with a sigh, hands clasped
before her, "but it cannot make him read."
Eventually
a low groan rumbled out of his bare chest. "Very well. I'll take some of
these dratted books off your hands." But despite this weary tone, a
cunning, wicked amusement had come into his eyes and stayed there, slowly
thawing the ice. "I'll say this for you, you're determined. Don't give up
easily, do you?"
"It's
a vexing quality that comes to women in advanced age."
Although a long-time
friend and confidant of Raven Deverell, Mary has never been introduced to any
men in that notorious family. Having now met Raven's elder brother she begins
to understand why her friend kept them apart.
There
was a time when arrogant, good-looking scoundrels like this one were two or
three a penny in Mary's life. They were men who rose late and went to bed even
later; they had a never ending supply of vitality and saw no cause to slow
down. Back then she was an eligible debutante, someone with whom these men
teased and tried to flirt. But that was before her brothers went away to war
and never returned, and when the Ashford family still had an estate of their
own. Before their fortunes were severely reduced and her bereaved father had to
sell it all to settle his debts. Before her uncle died in prison, having
confessed to murder by oyster fork. Before the Ashford name was, in the minds
of a great many, utterly ruined.
That
naive, sheltered youth seemed so long ago now. Another era, a sunshine-glazed
past that belonged to somebody else.
And as for Ransom Deverell, he is less assured in his
ability to read character, and does not know what to make of her at first.
Something
had drawn him to her, and it wasn't great beauty or charm or any seductive
quality. She did not gaze up at him with shy admiration or coy invitation. Her
expression, in fact, was akin to that of a woman who had just turned in the
street to see a large, muddy, wolf-hound galloping playfully toward her with
its eager, slobbering tongue hanging out. She did not know whether to flee or
brace herself.
Of
all the ways women had ever looked at him, that one was hitherto unknown.
But, after
years of being kept carefully apart by his sister, these two opposites suddenly
find themselves colliding more often. And neither can figure out whether it's
by chance, or due to their own fascination with something different. Is Mary
Ashford really only interested in getting Ransom Deverell to read a novel? Is
Ransom really what he claims to be— a man without a conscience or a heart, an irredeemable
sinner?
Are they
merely a challenge to each other?
At twenty
six Mary feels as if she has seen and done everything— well, almost everything.
She's not even perturbed when her sister calls her an old maid. There is
something safe and comforting about being an unimportant player on the edge of somebody
else's stage. Mary is content to be the quiet observer, rather than the character
who has to make all the grand speeches. There are advantages to not being
noticed.
But there
is something about Ransom Deverell and the way he notices her, that even a
"moderately sensible woman" can't resist.
* * * *
RANSOM REDEEMED (The Deverells Book Four) - Coming August
3rd, 2016
Catch up with The Deverells family saga
here.
