By Sophia Nash
Just a guy with a mysterious earlier may possibly tempt the Countess from the Isle of Ice . . . two times jilted, Grace Sheffey has given up on love. not able to holding her stylish facade together with her intimate circle of associates, she has little selection yet to escape . . . correct into enamel of a snowfall. but if her wretched carriage experience leads to catastrophe, a rugged, enforcing stranger is ready to avoid wasting her lifestyles . . . and her center. Michael Ranier is a guy of many secrets—secrets which can position the countess in bad risk. yet hid within the wilds of Yorkshire, he can not help yet unharness her hidden reserves of hope and fortitude—and problem her to blossom into the girl she was once destined to turn into . . . a girl prepared to sacrifice all to discover love with the fitting scoundrel.
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Extra info for Love with the Perfect Scoundrel (Widows Club, Book 3)
Oh, she was no virgin. John had regularly engaged in conjugal relations with her. It had made her feel very married, and secure, and content that she could offer this to her husband, who had delivered her from her former spartan existence on Mann, of which few of her friends knew. But John had always been apologetic about his needs, which had left her confused. She had wanted to please him, wanted to be proud. Yet his words had dimmed her womanly self-esteem. Mr. Ranier had drawn in a series of short breaths, clearly in the midst of a dream, and unconsciously pressed himself against her.
She whispered unevenly. “You’re a fraud. Your avowed cowardice is outrageous. ” He cocked his head and revealed an irresistible smile, one corner slightly lower than the other. The stubble of his beard carved a dark pattern on his face. “You’re the bravest patient I’ve ever had the privilege of serving, sweetheart. ” He chuckled. ” She jerked away. “A twitch? ” she asked faintly. “Or sheep. A cow or two on occasion. ” Her voice sounded reedy and thin to her own ears. “And most recently a farmer.
He continued without pause. “A cup of tea is not enough to warm you at this point. ” She stared at him. ” She couldn’t make her fingers work properly and he finally took over the job of unbuttoning the ivory heart-shaped buttons at her wrists and peeling off the sodden pink kid gloves. Her hands appeared so small in his work-worn palms, the size of butter dishes. Faint streaks of scarlet marred her pale hands and fingers, which felt like wooden pins. He shook his head. ” He muttered something that was probably an Indian curse.
Love with the Perfect Scoundrel (Widows Club, Book 3) by Sophia Nash