The Worthington Wife

by Sharon Page

  Surely.

  “Well, I have soothed Mrs. Feathers’s wounded feelings,” she said. “Cooks are accustomed to being the lords of their kitchens. She could be convinced to stay—if you apologize and tell her she may run her kitchen as she has always done—”

  “Apologize? Isn’t the idea of being the earl that I get to make the rules?”

  “Large houses don’t run quite that way,” she explained patiently. “Servants work for a house for years—often decades. They outlast the peers. The houses run smoothly because servants know their duties and they take charge of them. Zoe—my sister-in-law—says they run like large American offices.”

  “I could hire another cook.”

  “A good cook can be difficult to find. All you have to do is tell Mrs. Feathers she can carry on as usual. Charm her. Then a plan must be made to change her to your way of thinking, but cleverly.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Have you ever cooked anything, Lady Julia?”

  She felt a blush touch her cheeks. “My presence would not have been appreciated in Brideswell’s kitchens. Our cook and kitchen maids would have been thoroughly shocked.”

  “So shock them,” he said. “Or would you just starve to death if you were on your own?”

  She would not give him the satisfaction of admitting she would be without a clue if she had to make her own meal. “I am sure I would survive. Can you cook?”

  “I can. When my mother was sick, I cooked for all of us. When I paint landscapes, I travel out into the wilderness in a canoe. I camp and paint and cook over a campfire.”

  “You do?” That sounded so primitive.

  He walked over to her. He held out the brush. “Would you like to try your hand at painting?”

  “I have painted before in watercolors. And we really should speak to Mrs. Feathers.”

  “What if I’m not willing to grovel? After all, with all the food in the larders here, I’m capable of feeding myself.”

  He watched her as he spoke. Obviously, he was looking to get a rise out of her. “The servants must eat, as well as the family.”

  “I’d be willing to let them look after themselves. Or are you trying to tell me that the countess and her daughters would starve out of pride before they’d condescend to make their own meals?”

  “I don’t know about them but the servants would.”

  “The servants would what?”

  “Starve before they would cook for themselves.”

  His brows lifted. “The servants think they’re too good to make their own meals?”

  “Exactly.”

  He laughed. “Is snobbery bred into all of you?”

  “Everyone is aware of their own position. It’s the way we are.”

  “So I’d have a mutiny on my hands if the cook leaves and I don’t replace her.” His lazy, sensual grin unfurled. “That could be fun. But I have a better idea. I’ll go and make nice with the cook, if you come here and paint.”

  “What about the footman and the boot boy? And your valet?”

  “I’ll help the young men find better work. And the valet was glad to leave. He said it was like dressing a performing bear. I told him a bear would be less dangerous, then he ran.” Cal crooked his finger at her. “Come and paint with me, Julia. You’ll like working with oil paint more than watercolors. It’s more sensual.”

  That word made another shiver rush down her back.

  “It’s thick and tactile and you can build with it, play with it. I bet you were taught to paint timid little pictures. See what you can do with this.” With a palette knife instead of a brush, he scooped up indigo and yellow and layered it thickly on the canvas as if to show her how very much unlike watercolors it was.

  “I’m not dressed for painting and you do not have a smock or a coat,” she said.

  With infinite slowness, his smile lifted the right side of his mouth. That lopsided smile made her tingle deep inside.

  He set down his palette, the knife, the brush. He undid the buttons of his shirt and shrugged it off.

  Leaving his chest, his torso, completely bare.

  Her jaw dropped.

  He came toward her and she simply couldn’t move. A lady shouldn’t look, but she couldn’t tear her gaze away from his beautiful, well-muscled form.

  “Slide this on.”

  “Your shirt? I can’t possibly.”

  He draped it around her. Staring at the shirt, she realized it was finely made. An expensive shirt. But he was supposed to be a poor, bohemian artist. It was like the beautiful dinner clothes he wore last night. Where had they come from?

  She breathed in the scent of him on his warm, luxurious shirt. Heat uncoiled in her, like smoke spiraling from a burning candlewick.

  He pressed the paintbrush against her hand and she clasped it. Then her good sense came back. “Cal, I can’t wear your shirt. I cannot be in here with you in a state of undress.”

  “You’re a grown woman, Julia.” He put his hands on her shoulders, firm and strong. He turned her away from him and toward the canvas. “I’ve painted women in the nude.”

  “You were naked? Good heavens.”

  He laughed. “They were, not me. And I didn’t sleep with...all of them.”

  She knew he was trying to shock her and she calmly said, “That is hardly reassuring.”

  “I suspect my honor is safe with you, Julia,” he teased. He lifted her hand so the brush almost touched the canvas.

  “What if I ruin it?”

  “You won’t. We can paint over anything you don’t like.”

  “You can take your hands off my shoulders.” She felt the warmth of his palms through his shirt and her frock.

  “Not until you make your mark on your portrait, Julia.” He picked up the palette.

  “You are infuriating.” She dipped the paintbrush into a mound of red paint. Then she made a small dab in the corner of the canvas. “There.”

  “You’re not afraid to paint a canvas, are you? I thought you were going to be a tough adversary.”

  “Fine.” She half turned and took the palette out of his hand. Using the kind of style he’d done—modernist dabs and slashes of paint—she tried to do the skirt of her dress. Tried to mimic the way it shimmered in the light. She all but threw paint at the picture. Then she stopped, her chest heaving. It was rather exciting—

  She saw what she’d created. “It’s awful. It isn’t anything like what I wanted to do.”

  “But I got to prove I’m right and you’re wrong.” He leaned forward. The warmth of his breath caressed her ear. “You are passionate.”

  He moved, so his lips touched her cheek.

  The whoosh came again, so startling and swift it almost knocked her back into the picture.

  “You want to kiss me,” he said huskily.

  “I do not.” But her heartbeat rushed up and down as if it was playing a piano scale.

  She thought of Anthony, who she had loved with all her heart. And Dougal, who was so noble and admirable. She had loved those men. She didn’t love this man. She barely knew him. And so far she’d learned he was brash and bold and infuriating.

  But the temptation to kiss him was so strong she almost wanted him to just kiss her and take all the responsibility for it away.

  No, she was modern. Modern women didn’t act like weak waifs.

  She turned, and smacked the paintbrush against his lips. “I do not want to kiss you.” She looked straight into his blue eyes. “Now, if you intend to eat anything today, we had better speak to Mrs. Feathers.”

  She pulled away from him, and grabbed a rag from a small wooden table near the portrait. She tossed it to him so he could wipe the blue paint from his mouth. Then she held out his shirt.

 
* * *

  Cal rubbed the rag over his lips, taking off the paint in one swipe. Grinning as he did.

  If Julia were one of his models, he would put his now-clean mouth to her neck and kiss her until she melted. Until they ended up hot and sweaty in his bed, making love.

  After the War, sex had become a hell of a lot more available. Now women weren’t willing to deny themselves pleasure until they got married. Everyone had seen that life could be a fleeting thing. One moment you were laughing, deep in love with someone, thinking of the future. The next you were in bits and pieces, strewn across some European field.

  Could he coax Julia into his bed?

  He threw down the rag, took his shirt from her hands and shrugged it on. After he buttoned it, tucked it into his trousers, he said, “Let’s go and see the cook.”

  “All right.” Julia walked ahead of him, her trim-fitting skirt swishing efficiently around her hips. It was a modest length, reaching her midcalves. But he liked the way it clung to the curves of her hips and hinted at the sweet voluptuousness of her backside.

  He wanted Lady Julia Hazelton. He wanted to break through her ladylike reserve and release her passion.

  Before he left Worthington for good, he was going to do it.

  5

  The Woman with Shell Shock

  Cal followed Lady Julia through a green door. This part of the house looked different. The walls were plain white; the stairs narrow with worn treads. No need for beauty where the servants worked.

  “Why you?” he asked. “Why didn’t the countess go see the cook? Or Diana, the daughter who’s being forced to flirt with me?”

  Julia looked startled, but then said, in her cool, ladylike tones, “They are both too upset. The countess is living in terror. Diana is—She isn’t well. You have not told them of your plans?”

  “Not yet.” He leaned against the banister, looking at her. God, she was a beauty. Ivory skin. Full lips lightly colored red with discreet lipstick. Stunning eyes with long, dark lashes.

  “You deliberately want to draw it out and be cruel?” she accused.

  “I’ve got my reasons.”

  Lady Julia had the most impressive poker face. She kept her expression serene but he could feel hot anger inside her under that controlled facade. For a moment, he thought about explaining himself. Telling her why he wanted to hurt the family.

  Why should he have to justify himself to her?

  “So you’re trying to save the house by keeping the cook from walking out because the others don’t have the courage.”

  She gave him a cool stare. “I believed I could convince Mrs. Feathers to stay, so I should try. Whether it is my house or not.”

  “And you thought I’d thank you for it?”

  “You must not take your grievances out on innocent people.”

  “Her ladyship and the earl did.” Cal had to struggle to speak as calmly as she did. “Don’t speak to me like I must be scum because I was born poor. I was born to decent and honest parents who helped other people and were charitable, even when they had nothing.”

  He could see the flash of surprise and shock in her eyes. His heart pounded.

  He wanted to kiss her. Wanted to push her back against the plain white plaster wall and devour her with his mouth until she was panting against him.

  But that wasn’t the way to do it with Lady Julia.

  He raised her fingers to his lips. His father used to do this with his mother, and it always made Mam giggle, then melt and sigh and forget worry and despair.

  Julia had soft skin. Pretty hands that smelled like flowers. His head told him to be angry that her hands obviously did no work, but lust shot through him at the idea of having such soft, pampered hands gripping his shoulders as he made love to her.

  She pulled her hand back. “Stop this, Worthington.”

  He loved hearing her speak so primly. It entertained him. “I want to make amends.”

  “Then don’t tear Worthington apart. Your father was disowned and that was wrong. But what others did to you should not dictate whether you behave nobly or not.”

  “You people would say a man can never rise above his birth.”

  “I would never say that.” With that, she turned away from him and continued downstairs.

  “You know what’s funny?” he said. “When I took a tour of the house this morning and came down to the kitchen, the servants assumed I’d gotten lost. Every footman and maid I encountered, the butler, the cook, all thought I must have gotten lost to be down in the servants’ basement.”

  “We refer to it as ‘belowstairs.’”

  He grabbed her arm, stopping her. “It’s a cold, damp, stone basement without enough light. Don’t give it a prim name so you people can pretend that the kitchen staff is happy to be trapped down there day and night, scouring pots.”

  Julia recoiled from his harsh, accusatory words and continued to the bottom of the stairs, but she paused before she opened the door.

  “You want to sell Worthington. Whoever buys it will employ a kitchen maid. Count the number of servants next time you’re at a house belonging to someone who is ‘new money.’ They will have more than us.”

  “New money.” He scoffed at the term.

  But Julia went on, “Inquire about the working conditions of those servants. Find out what their employers do when they can no longer work or become ill. All too often they are let go and replaced. There is no pension, no care, no compassion. We try to take care of our own. We truly do. You Americans champion capitalism, but it can be a harsh thing.”

  She pushed open the door and walked out.

  He let her get the last word. This time.

  Cal followed her through a stone-arched doorway, into a room with a long wooden table. A woman sat at it, sewing. Two footmen where having cups of tea. Two maids sat there, giggling together.

  Their happy demeanor startled him. He’d expected to see girls who were exhausted, who looked like they were being crushed. He never dreamed a girl would sparkle when she was working her fingers to the bone as a maid.

  Had his mother sparkled and laughed like that? He’d rarely seen her do it while they were struggling to survive.

  “Good morning,” Julia said. Every person at the table pushed back their chairs and bolted to their feet to stand at attention.

  “My lady?” The housekeeper hurried out of a room, keys jangling at her waist. “My lord.”

  “My lord. My lady.” The snobby butler hurried in. “May I help you both?”

  “We wish Mrs. Feathers to spare a moment of her time,” Julia said. It wasn’t a question. It was a command, but a sugarcoated one.

  “Of course, my lady.” The housekeeper disappeared into the kitchens.

  A strident voice cried, “What does ’e want now?” Then it went quiet. A moment later, Mrs. Feathers showed up at the doorway. The pudgy woman wore a coat that strained over her ample figure, and a surprisingly stylish hat with a feather.

  Cal was just about to capitulate and agree to a truce with the cook—just to see what would happen if he made nice with Lady Julia and to find out how she would coax Mrs. Feathers to change her way of thinking—when a loud crash sounded in the kitchen and Mrs. Feathers gasped, “Oh Lord, that was the sauce for the duck. Stupid, clumsy girl!”

  Cal couldn’t see why the cook would care since she was walking out the door, but then remembered Julia had led the cook to believe he would apologize. Maybe even grovel.

  And the crash had interrupted them.

  Face reddening with impatience and anger, the cook whirled around and barked into the kitchen, “You daft twit, can’t you be careful? That’s ruined. And here’s his lordship, concerned about waste. Well, we know who’s to blame for most of the food that goes in the rubbish bin. You haven’
t got the wits of a dog.”

  Mrs. Feathers lunged into the kitchen with her hand raised as if ready to deliver a slap.

  Cal had worked on the docks as a young boy. There he’d been hit and abused. No one was going to abuse anyone in his name. He stalked into the kitchen, sensing Lady Julia was close behind.

  Mrs. Feathers gripped a young kitchen maid by the shoulders. Her face was contorted and red with fury. The girl, she’d been introduced as Hannah on his previous trip to the kitchens, was thin—skinny arms stuck out of the sleeves of a beige dress, and an apron was tied around a tiny waist. The cook shook Hannah, who had wide, frightened brown eyes and tears on her cheeks. “It was an accident. I was trying to be careful. But then I turned and the dog was there and I fell over him.”

  His late uncle’s dog, a retriever, let out a whimpering sound and dropped to the floor, gazing up with pitiful eyes. The kitchen maid looked more scared than the dog.

  Suddenly, Mrs. Feathers shook the girl, her face dark red with fury. She lifted her hand—

  He grasped the woman’s wrist and hauled her away from Hannah. “So you are responsible for the bruises on this girl,” he said, his voice low and cold. He pushed up the girl’s sleeve, revealing a row of fading bruises along her forearm. “I noticed them when I was downstairs earlier. But she didn’t rat you out. She insisted she got them because she was clumsy. Now I see what’s been happening.” He dropped his voice lower, so it was nothing more than a growl. “No one hits anyone in my household.”

  The cook had turned white.

  “Apologize to Hannah.”

  “What?” gasped Mrs. Feathers.

  “You had no right to say what you did. No right to touch her. She’s a person, not a whipping boy.”

  “She’s not a person, she’s a kitchen maid. I know how to keep my staff in line. I know what works with them and what doesn’t, my lord—”

  “And I know when I see behavior I refuse to condone,” he said with lethal cool. “I was told to give you an apology to keep peace in this damn house. But you don’t deserve one. I don’t want a woman like you working here, taking out your anger on a defenseless girl. I don’t care if you’ve quit or not, because you’re fired. Now get out.”