Page 3 of A Rogues & Gentlemen Christmas

Chapter 2

“Wherein the discovery of a lovely intruder.”

13thDecember 1817.Corry Brook Farm. Devon.

From his position in the doorway, Chance could not see who was invading the kitchen, but he could hear them moving about. Creeping in as quietly as possible, he moved farther into the room, to where his ghostly companion was hidden behind the pantry door.

“Good morning,” he said.

There was an audible feminine squeak and the sound of something dropping to the floor. An apple rolled from out of the pantry and bumped gently against his boots.

“Thank you, I’ve already had one,” Chance said amicably. “Might you come out now and introduce yourself?”

A moment later, a young woman peered around the door. She had an elfin face, a tumble of wild brown curls and eyes the colour of chocolate. Chance’s breath snagged in his throat.

There was a long, drawn-out silence while the girl stared at him with obvious horror and Chance tried to make his brain work.

“Good morning,” he said, aware that he was repeating himself, but too dazed to think of anything more sensible to say.

“Bonjour,” she replied, still staring at him.

“You’re French!” Chance exclaimed in surprise.

The girl snorted.

“You are English,” she said, with a pretty accent and obvious contempt.

“Well, you’re in England,” Chance retorted. “I’m not the only one, you know.”

She made a dismissive sound and rolled her eyes.

A little wrong-footed by this glorious creature, who looked at him as if he was something she’d stepped in, Chance decided he’d best discover what she was up to. Nice young ladies did not wander about the English countryside unattended. French ones must be even rarer.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“What are you doing ’ere?” she countered, folding her arms. “I was here first.”

“Yes, but….” Chance almost told her that he had a right to be.

The property was part of his father’s estate, after all. Yet, he’d recently been on the receiving end of an enterprising young lady’s scheme to get him snared in the parson’s mousetrap. It was bad enough his father was trying to get him married off at every opportunity. He wasn’t getting entangled by accident to some strange French woman, no matter how fetching she was.

“But I got caught in the storm and was about to freeze to death. What’s your excuse?”

She shrugged, avoiding his eye. “The same.”

Chance didn’t believe her. Not for a moment. She’d been here long before the storm set in.

“You can come out of the pantry,” he said, realising that she was still hiding behind the door and was regarding him warily. “You are quite safe. Word of honour as a gentleman.”

She made a sound of disgust, and Chance was quite taken aback.

“What do you mean by that?”

Another dismissive shrug was her reply.

“Why are you so contemptuous of English gentlemen?” he asked, rattled.

“Because they ’ave no honour,” she snapped.