Redeeming Lord Ryder

by Robinson, Maggie

  Nicola pointed to the kitchen table, which was overloaded with plates and serving dishes. Jack scooped up a basket full of rolls and a quivering aspic studded with peas and carrot slivers and brought them to the glass conservatory.

  What with the heavy clouds, not much sunlight slanted through the glass roof. The room was frigid indeed—they’d better eat fast. The potting bench had been made over to be a buffet and was covered by what appeared to be a bedsheet. Jack made several trips while the Countess conserved her energy in the kitchen, chatting with Nicola.

  A round table was set with much prettier china than Jack had at his cottage. A glass bowl of holly branches served as a centerpiece. He picked up a wine glass and sniffed—not a Moselle but water. But there was an abundance of food—scalloped oysters, ham with raisin sauce, rosemary-sprigged roast potatoes, the afore-mentioned aspic and rolls, green beans, Brussel sprouts, cranberry compote, rice croquettes, cheese, wafers, and a fruitcake which was soaked in so much brandy he imagined the neighbors across the lane could smell it.

  Food. Real food. But it would taste better if it was shared between two rather than amongst three, not that he had anything against the Countess. Under other circumstances, she might be very amusing. It was obvious she was sophisticated and had a story to tell.

  Nicola entered with the Countess, apron gone, her golden hair a bit flyaway. She pulled her notebook out of her pocket.

  All I did was reheat things. Except for the raisin sauce. It is my mother’s recipe. Please help yourselves.

  “And a magnificent job you’ve done,” Jack said with real appreciation. He hoped he wasn’t drooling, piling his plate high with food once the ladies had their turn.

  They settled themselves around the delicate bamboo table, and Jack was alarmed when the Countess clasped his wrist just as he was about to spoon a succulent oyster onto his tongue. “We should say grace. Will you do the honors, Jack?”

  He was not at all certain God would pay attention to him, but he did the best he could, including a plea for the health and happiness of all the residents of Puddling, native and temporary. Nicola gave him a grateful smile and gave his hand a squeeze. He was being manhandled by both sides, and it was not unpleasant.

  He let the Countess rattle on while he shoveled food into his mouth. Each morsel was a delight, even the raisin sauce, and he didn’t like raisins much. He presumed the feast had been prepared by their three housekeepers, so evidently they did know how to cook on special occasions. Jack wondered if the Countess was also on short rations. Probably not. By her account, she had come here voluntarily, more to rest than reform.

  But then, so had he. Why was he being punished?

  And then Jack wanted to slap himself for being ungrateful. He had a roof over his head. Well-tailored clothes on his back. Adequate, if barely edible, sustenance. He was alive, where others were not so fortunate.

  “Do you think everything happens for a reason?” he blurted.

  The Countess put her fork down. “What an intriguing question. Usually one has imbibed several bottles of wine before such a discussion. And is, perhaps, a decade or so younger.” Jack figured the Countess was about his age, and had never had a metaphysical doubt in her pampered life.

  What would be the purpose of me losing my voice?

  Usually, Nicola’s handwriting was elegant, but she had written with a kind of quick fury.

  “I don’t know. Maybe you are in Puddling to meet, um, the Countess. A friend for life.”

  “Or someone else altogether,” the Countess said, giving Jack an arch look. “Are you asking if there is fate, or some sort of divine plan?”

  “I don’t know what I’m asking. Just that horrible things happen, and I wonder why.”

  Are you saying my luncheon is horrible?

  This is why Jack liked Nicola so much—she lightened his mood.

  “As if I’d be so crass to criticize this ambrosia. Really, it’s the best meal I’ve had since the peaches in your pantry.”

  “‘Peaches in your pantry?’ Is that a euphemism I haven’t yet heard of?” the Countess inquired, her lips quirking.

  Jack could see why she drove her family mad. “No, my lady. We are talking about jarred fruit. In syrup.” He turned to his hostess. “I don’t like to appear greedy, but might more be on offer this afternoon?”

  Nicola smiled and picked up her notebook from the table. You might be too full.

  “Never. I am like a squirrel storing up nuts for the winter. Or for the next fifteen days, anyhow. Mrs. Feather is determined to starve me.”

  “Will you be leaving us then?” the Countess asked.

  “I think so.” Even if nothing changed, he couldn’t see himself signing up for another stint of self-denial. “How long have you been a Guest?”

  A deep V appeared between the Countess’s dark brows. “Hm. I arrived near the end of the July. Or perhaps August. One month is very like the next. I know I was here for the fire.”

  “What fire?”

  “At this very cottage. There was a mishap in the kitchen, and lots of smoke damage. It’s all been refurbished, much nicer than my little bolt-hole. And yours too, I expect, Jack.”

  “You’ve been here for months? How do you stand it?”

  “I find it very restful. Soothing. And as I said earlier, I am out of the reach of my grasping family. Wellington and I are quite content. My dog, not the late duke. I find dogs preferable to people at this stage, present company excepted.”

  I have a dog too. I miss him.

  “You should arrange to have him sent here,” the Countess said. “Perhaps our dogs can become friends on our daily walks, as we will be.”

  The implication was that Nicola and the Countess were to be Guests indefinitely. Jack didn’t like the sound of that.

  “Maybe I should get a dog as well.” His mother had not been fond of animals, so he’d grown up petless.

  “Only if you have the time and affection.”

  Jack had plenty of time, and was an absolute reservoir of untapped emotion. Who knew? A dog might be the cure to all his ills.

  Chapter 11

  The Countess had excused herself with excessive charm before she could be drafted to help clean up. Nicola was not at all annoyed to be left alone with Jack to do the drudge work, and suspected the woman had an ulterior motive to absent herself besides reluctance to get her soft white bejeweled hands wet in soap suds.

  Nicola had not missed the Countess’s shrewd, speculative glances and teasing repartee throughout the afternoon. No doubt by leaving, she thought she was facilitating an affair between Nicola and Jack.

  Nicola had never contemplated having an affair in her life. Her future had been planned out since she was in her teens—an eventual marriage to Richard, a family if they were so blessed, a useful role as her husband’s helpmeet on the political trail.

  All that was lost to her now, and apart from the children component, she couldn’t really say she was too broken up over it.

  She had been hurt at first, of course, watching Richard step back inch by inch as she was so slow to recover. It had come as no real surprise when he finally withdrew his offer of marriage. To be truthful, her mother had been more devastated than she was. Nicola had seen his impatience and, yes, indifference long before he had come to her with nervous excuses.

  Did things happen for a reason? A train accident resulting in fatalities was a rather dire way to break an engagement and be saved from a conventional existence.

  Richard was a boring man, if she was to be honest.

  Nicola imagined life with Jack would never be boring. He was so full of ideas and energy. Why, look at him scrub the pots and pans, as if he was trying to rub the enamel and copper off.

  She couldn’t picture Richard washing dishes for any reason whatsoever. He would consider it all far beneath his dignity, even
if he fashioned himself a champion of the working man. Lord knows, Richard had as much dignity as two or three men combined. Always aware of the impression he made, he was close to being humorless and smiled only when it was politically expedient. Nicola couldn’t even remember what his teeth looked like.

  She mustn’t think uncharitably of her former fiancé—it was Christmas, a time for peace and forgiveness. Wonder. And the current man in her kitchen was creating a wonderful impression all by himself.

  Jack’s sleeves were rolled up, exposing a light dusting of dark hair. One would not think wet bare forearms would be so appealing, but one would be wrong. He had seen at once that the tight fitted sleeves of her best dress were unsuitable for this kitchen task and had plunged right in, chattering away. Complimenting her on the lunch. Ruminating over the exact nature of the Countess’s dispute with her relations. Laughing over the undeniable over-soaking of the fruitcake—Nicola felt a little drunk from the two pieces she’d consumed.

  Reminding her about the peaches. He must have a bottomless stomach. Nicola was so full she barely had the strength to dry the dishes and put them back in the Welsh dresser. She would send him home with a jar, her Christmas present to him.

  “There! I think we’re done! Here, hold still.” His voice was cheerful, his hand warm from the hot water as he tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She felt her cheeks flame from the contact.

  “Thank you again. It was quite the loveliest Christmas I’ve ever had.”

  That couldn’t be true. Yes, the luncheon was filling, but all the usual trappings of Christmas were missing. There had been no paper hats and crackers, no pile of gaily-wrapped presents, no carols, no fir tree strung with cranberries and popcorn.

  She was about to write her shortcomings down when he propelled her out of the kitchen and into her snug little sitting room. And there, in a dented bucket on her piano, was the oddest thing she’d ever seen. A raggedy shrub sported bits of builders’ wire and bent nails and loops of paper. Nicola looked at Jack in stupefaction.

  “It’s meant to be a Christmas tree. Not my best effort, I admit. My resources were limited to what I swept up at the end of the day at Primrose Cottage. And I need to put the bush back into my garden before it dies or they fine me for stealing it. But I thought—” He shrugged. “I know it’s a poor substitute for the real thing.”

  Nicola was so overcome she was stock still, then felt the tears form. She had stopped crying months ago, mostly—it was a worthless endeavor that solved nothing, just stuffed up her nose and made her eyes red. But she couldn’t stop the flow now and didn’t want to.

  Jack had cared enough to bring a bit of Christmas to her, ungainly as it was. She thought back to the presents she’d received this year—the lush fur stole her parents had sent, her older nephew’s attempts to draw her terrier, Tippy, who had gone to Scotland with all of them, to her relief, and the shell-covered box Frannie had decorated herself. The tree beat them all.

  She opened her mouth to say thank you, but of course no words came out.

  She would just have to kiss Jack instead.

  It was certainly not a difficult task. He stood close, his face a mix of pride, concern, and embarrassment. He was reaching for her face to wipe the tears away, so she kissed his work-roughened palm first. His brown eyes widened as her lips brushed against the web of lines.

  Perhaps one’s fate was visible on one’s hand as the Travelers claimed. Jack had questioned the reason behind life events earlier. Could they be predicted? Avoided? What would a palm-reader say? Was the train accident a sharp branch on Nicola’s life line, a detour from a simple straight line that would have led to a normal life?

  Such as a marriage to Richard. Her role as a political wife would have had neat boundaries. Expected duty and circumspection and virtue would fence her in, her own opinions unexpressed in the service to her husband’s career. No thoughts of women’s suffrage or questioning “this is the way we’ve always done it.” Nicola would have come second to his ambition, if that.

  That second-place Nicola would not be thinking of kissing a man’s hand or imagining what he looked like without his shirt. But that Nicola had disappeared on the way to Bath on a gray March day.

  She had no duty to anyone now but herself. She was free to make a mistake if she chose, and would live with the consequences.

  Jack had teased her that it had been she who’d made all the advances between them. She would continue to do so. Even if she couldn’t speak, the man couldn’t miss her signals.

  She stood up on tiptoe and cradled his face, his beard as smooth as her new fur stole. He gazed down, tiny wrinkles crinkling at the corner of his dark eyes.

  “You like the tree that much, eh?”

  She nodded, staring at his lips.

  He focused on hers. “You are driving me mad.”

  I do hope so.

  She didn’t have to fish her notebook out of her pocket and write it to make her intentions plain. Drawing his face to hers, she licked the seam of his lips, sweeping from one upturned corner to the other. He groaned and opened, and she took control.

  She couldn’t stand forever on her toes—she was no ballerina. Jack seemed to understand, holding her steady as the kiss took flight. Their tongues glided together in the slowest of dances, circling and swooping as if they had forever.

  They almost did. Mrs. Grace wasn’t coming back until tomorrow morning, nor was Mrs. Feather returning to Jack’s cottage. The nosy neighbors should be preoccupied with their own Christmas festivities. Who was to know that Jack was still here?

  Earlier, he had walked the Countess down to the front gate and then to her cottage a few doors away. As it was late afternoon, it was already dark. Maybe no one saw him come back up Honeywell Lane, through the path to Stonecrop, ducking beneath the bare branches. Nicola’s cottage was fairly private, set back high from the road by a long stone path through its neat front garden. They weren’t in the glass conservatory any longer, and no one could see through the parlor’s closed velvet drapes.

  The couch was just a few steps behind her. A bed would be an even better place in which to explore the absence of Jack’s shirt, though Nicola was not sure she could make it upstairs without stumbling. Her head was spinning, her breath catching, her heart erratic beneath the black-frogged bodice of her best dress. The kiss was a dream, a solemn promise of an unknown journey that she was entirely willing to take.

  So it came as a shock when Jack’s hands came to her shoulders to set her aside.

  Don’t stop.

  He blinked down at her. “What?”

  Had she made another noise? The blood was rushing so loudly in her ears, she couldn’t tell.

  Don’t stop.

  Nothing. She stamped her foot in frustration.

  “Yes, you spoke! Or sort of spoke. I take it you wish to resume kissing?”

  Nicola nodded.

  He walked over to the misbegotten Christmas tree and twirled a metal circle. “I don’t know if that’s wise. We are unchaperoned. The Puddling governors were perfectly correct to invite the Countess to join us to prevent anything untoward. I’m not sure I can be a gentleman.”

  I don’t want you to be a gentleman, you idiot. Perhaps her phrasing was undiplomatic, but it was heartfelt.

  He gave her a rueful smile. “You don’t know what you are saying. Writing, I mean.”

  I do too! I am an adult woman, not a child.

  “You are not a child, that much is true. You are…so lovely, a man cannot think around you. But someone has to. There are consequences to our actions if we keep kissing. I don’t want you to be sorry later.”

  I won’t be sorry.

  He shook his head as if she couldn’t possibly know her own mind. “You don’t know what tomorrow will bring.”

  Exactly. I could slip on the ice again, roll down Honeywell Lane, and
drown in the stream.

  “Good God. I hope not. And anyway, I hear the stream has frozen solid. First time in a century, according to Tom. Do you skate?”

  Nicola stamped her foot again. Do not avoid the subject.

  “I’m not sure what the subject is.”

  Take me to bed, Jack.

  One could not be any plainer than that.

  Chapter 12

  Was she drunk from two pieces of fruitcake? Jack had had three himself, glutton that he was, and couldn’t detect any substantial change in his brain. No unusual loss of judgment or flight of fancy.

  He wasn’t woozy from drink, just kisses. His lips tingled as if he’d been stung by generous and loving bees, a whole hive of them. Every hair on his body was standing alert, and another part of him had stirred in an embarrassingly obvious manner. His eyes functioned so he could read, although he could make no sense of Nicola’s blunt and unexpected demand.

  Take me to bed, Jack. Five single-syllable words. Easy enough to interpret, yet somehow Jack could not get his mind around them. She couldn’t possibly mean it; she must be making one of her jokes.

  He had intentions toward Nicola. Honorable ones. Ones that didn’t include taking her to bed just yet. He had wanted to court her somehow, if he could figure out how to do it from the freedom of Ashburn. It was closer than London, and he might move unnoticed through the Cotswold countryside. Sneak into Puddling somehow. Even if he wasn’t “cured,” he couldn’t stay in Puddling beyond the requisite twenty-eight days.

  Could he?

  It was true he was dwelling less and less upon the accident. Keeping busy building Primrose Cottage for the past several days had helped. He was so exhausted after working from dawn to past dusk in the bitter cold that he fell into bed and was sleeping for two or three uninterrupted hours at a stretch, a very welcome alteration to his routine.