“So what’s the story there? Griggs told me you’ve negotiated with the man on Grigg’s behalf for the last three years.”
Clarice laid the tablecloth in the basket, slowly smoothed it while her mind raced. He might have accepted her advice on the church roster and Mary’s marriage portion, but this—essentially her direct assumption of his authority—was distinctly more touchy. More likely to grate on his male pride.
Why should she care? Men, especially gentlemen of his ilk—of her own class—had never cared about her pride.
She drew breath, and straightened. She met his eyes; this time they’d remained on her face. “The first thing you need to know about Jones is that he’s an outright bully, to those he thinks he can intimidate, at any rate.”
His eyes narrowed. “Not you, obviously. Griggs?”
She nodded, and turned back to the line. “The first year Jones appeared—five years ago—Griggs came to me in an absolute lather. He was close to panicking and consigning the entire crop into Jones’s hands, believing he had no real option.” Her lips thinned as she remembered. “I stepped in and made Jones explain the whole to both Griggs and me again. Needless to say, the situation, and Jones’s offer, wasn’t quite as he’d painted it to Griggs.”
“What exactly was the offer then? This time, it’s a shilling a bushel above the general market price.”
She nodded. “Eight pence above, that year. It’s a swindle of sorts, of course. Not that Jones and those behind him won’t happily pay what they promise, but the intent is to break the long-standing connection between the Avening growers and the Gloucester merchants. Avening supplies more than twenty percent of the Gloucester market. If the crop was sold to Jones instead, the Gloucester merchants would be forced to turn to other suppliers—they couldn’t simply ride out the shortfall. But once they’d established new deals with other growers, then the next season, Avening would have to sell to Jones, because the Gloucester merchants wouldn’t need the Avening crop.”
“So then Jones and his masters could offer whatever price they pleased, and Avening would have to sell for what might then be a shilling less than the market price.”
“Precisely.” She shook out another pillowcase. “The Gloucester merchants have always dealt in good faith. They’re a large conglomerate, and there’s little benefit to them in haggling unreasonably, especially as Avening is one of their more reliable suppliers, both for quality and quantity.”
He was silent for a moment, then he rose. She glanced at him as he stepped closer. Hands in his pockets, he was frowning, but vaguely at the ground, not at her.
“There’s been a premium paid to the Avening growers for the last four years. Griggs said it came from the Gloucester merchants. How did that come about?”
Trickier and trickier. She drew breath, and evenly said, “When Jones turned up the second year, I realized he wasn’t going to go away. So I wrote to the Gloucester merchants, and without exactly stating sums, explained how torn the Avening growers were, that of course we’d prefer to continue to sell to Gloucester, but we needed to make improvements to our orchards, and so on.”
“And so they stumped up the extra.”
“Yes, and no.” She met his eyes. “We worked out a sliding scale. They’ve paid a decreasing premium for the last four years, but over those years, the overall Avening crop has increased. More trees have been planted. We divided up the premium on the basis of the harvest, and then advised all the growers to invest in increasing their acreage under trees. All of them did.”
Jack thought of the figures he’d spent all day yesterday analyzing. “So now…?”
“So now, this year, we’ll be able to sell our usual crop to the Gloucester merchants for the current market price, and at the same time sell a crop of nearly the same size to Jones, at his inflated price.”
It didn’t take much arithmetic to realize just what a windfall that would mean to the local growers.
“And next year?”
“If Jones tries to lower his figure, we don’t need to sell to him—the Gloucester merchants will take the lot, at market price.”
“That’s brilliant.” Jack made the statement spontaneously, but it was indeed the truth. He glanced at her, hesitated, then more quietly said, “I suspect Avening would do better if I reverted more than the responsibility for the church roster.” He drew breath, surprised to find his lungs tight, and forced himself to go on, “Perhaps we’d do best to go back to how things were before I returned. You’ve made such a good fist of things, I can plainly leave all in your hands.”
Those hands, fine-skinned, slender-fingered, until then working steadily folding napkins, faltered, paused. He was standing nearly shoulder to shoulder with her, but she didn’t look up; he could read nothing, no reaction to his words in her profile, all he could see of her face.
He’d managed to keep his tone level, easy, managed to make his statements sound like a straightforward matter, not something that bothered him, affected him, deeply.
Clarice let the silence lengthen; she was very aware of him so close beside her, very aware that, if she was thinking of just herself, his offer had much to recommend it. Her being clearly in charge again would make life much simpler, more comfortable, as it had been before…but what about him?
She glanced at him, knew her gaze was sharp. “You’re leaving?”
He met her eyes steadily. “No.”
She nodded, turned back to the napkin in her hand…then forced herself to look back at him and meet his eyes. Steadily. “I don’t want your position. I have no ambition, absolutely none, to be lord of the manor.”
He blinked, thick lashes fluttering over those changeable, intriguingly complex hazel eyes. But then his lids rose, and he met her gaze, equally direct, equally sincere. “I don’t want your position either.” His lips—lips she was trying hard not to focus on—quirked. “Indeed, after my short adventure tangling with the ladies of the parish, I suspect taking your place would drive me demented within a week.”
She couldn’t stop her lips from twitching, curving. She looked down and dropped the last napkin on the pile.
“Perhaps…” He sounded not precisely hesitant but diffident, unsure—unsure how she would react. “In the interests of Avening as a whole, we—you and I—could come to some arrangement.”
It was her turn to blink. She looked at him; his eyes told her he was in earnest, but, like her, wasn’t at all sure how such an arrangement—between him and her, people like them—might work. Yet he’d spoken her thoughts aloud; perhaps, if they both wished it, they could rub along together…somehow.
“What did you have in mind?” She was under no illusions that he wasn’t an arrogant, accustomed-to-command gentleman of her class; however, she’d already discovered he wasn’t as bad as others of that ilk, and he had suggested it. She wasn’t the sort to cut off her nose to spite her face.
He studied her; there was something in the line of his lips, the cool steadiness of his gaze that assured her her earlier suspicion that he saw her clearly wasn’t wrong. He knew—appreciated—just how strong she was, just how steely her will would be.
He’d made his offer and was going forward with his eyes fully open.
For quite the first time in her life, she felt a touch giddy.
His brows rose consideringly. “All I can suggest is that we play it by ear. You’re hardly the sort to suffer in silence.” His untrustworthy smile flashed. “And neither am I. Why not simply proceed, and deal with matters as they arise?”
The only sensible solution. She nodded, brisk and businesslike, and held out her hand. “Agreed.”
His gaze dropped to her hand, then rose to her face. His hand engulfed hers, then he smoothly wrapped it, her arm and his behind her and drew her to him.
Before she could blink, she was in his arms, breast to chest, eyes widening as he bent his head.
“Agreed,” he confirmed. His lips curved in a wholly male smile, then swooped and captured hers.
Captured her. She didn’t understand how it happened, how he did it, but the instant his arms closed around her, the instant his lips touched hers, the field on which they stood changed, shifted.
She’d started her day distantly hurt, reminding herself his attitude to her was no more than she’d expected. Gentlemen of her class didn’t like ladies who managed, no matter how well they accomplished the task. She’d half expected him to take umbrage at the role she’d assumed in his absence; she hadn’t been surprised by him claiming it back. But she had been, somewhere inside where she hid what she termed her foolish self, been disappointed.
His lips firmed and she met them, and felt that foolish self slip her leash. And dance a little jig.
This—this sensual exchange—had nothing to do with the bargain they’d struck, yet that bargain was both intriguing and, to her, fascinatingly tempting.
Something unexpected.
As was he.
As was this.
His arms locked about her, and tightened, slowly, easing her against him—and she went. Without any missish hesitation, but with foreknowledge and intent. She pushed her arms up, draped them over his broad shoulders, clasped his nape between her hands, and boldly kissed him back. Then she parted her lips and let him take, let him lead her where he would.
Into an engagement that spoke of hunger and need, that promised mutual pleasure.
Pleasure of a sort she’d thought had passed her by, that had long ago drifted beyond her grasp. Pleasure of a sort that despite never experiencing it she understood very well.
He concealed nothing, pretended nothing; he let her see his need, feel his hunger. Let his desire rise unfettered and caress her with fingers of flame.
Evoking hers. Inciting hers in a way that had never happened before. Physical desire wasn’t something she’d felt before; the realization had her mentally blinking, then the challenge—the pressure of his lips on hers, the subtle taunt of his maurading tongue—firmed, and she, not just her foolish self but with conscious decision, responded.
Why shouldn’t she know, experience? Why shouldn’t she take?
She moved into him, deliberately meeting him breast to chest, hips to hips, thighs to thighs. Through the now flagrant mating of their mouths, she sensed his reaction, a brief hiatus while he caught his breath, and his control. Not because she, with her wanton response, had weakened it, but because his response to her action had.
Fascinating. Her newfound interest in physical desire escalated. She twined her arms about his neck and settled to returning the heated caresses he pressed on her.
Jack met her, matched her, dueled with her for supremacy, a tug-of-war that neither could truly win. The exchange—she—held his attention utterly, so completely it scared him; he couldn’t think. With her in his arms, with her lips under his, her mouth freely offered in a scorching, viscerally tempting exchange—a viscerally arousing engagement of lips, tongues, and heated breaths—lust fogged his brain. Only one thought penetrated it, the thought of penetrating her.
Of having her beneath him, arching as she took him deep into her firm, curvaceous body, into her scalding feminine heat.
He wanted her naked and abandoned. Wanted her with a need, an elemental hunger that shook him. That snared him so deeply he didn’t want to look too closely, to examine why it should be, why of all the ladies with whom he’d dallied, or who he now could have, she—a haughty termagent he was going to have to deal carefully with on a daily basis—was the one who struck sparks to his tinder.
All he knew was that with her, for her, he burned.
And not by one inch did she retreat. She encouraged him, not with the eager urging of a younger woman but with the mature, self-assured, almost blatant invitation of a lady who knew what she wanted, who knew she wanted him.
As he wanted her. Hers was the perfect counterpart to his need, the perfect match for his hunger.
The urge to let his hands roam, to take the next step they both clearly wished for, burgeoned and grew…but they were in the open, with the folded laundry beside them. Anyone who walked down the garden past the trees edging the lawn would see them. Some maid might come to see if Clarice needed help…
Stopping, calling a halt, drawing back from the depths of her luscious mouth was one of the hardest things he’d ever done.
He managed to lift his head an inch, immediately felt the loss of the connection keenly. His wits were still locked, still focused on her. Her lashes fluttered, then rose. Her dark, dark eyes met his.
“I didn’t thank you for restoring my mother’s garden.”
Excuse enough to dive back into her mouth, to take one last, long, lingering taste of her, of the passion within her, simmering, very feminine, precisely the right mix of haughty will and heady promise to sate him.
But…he drew back from the flames, from her scorching temptation. Eased her back, eased back himself until there was air between them. He had to force his fingers to release her, to let her go.
She drew breath, stepped back, opened her eyes, blinked once, then studied him; she seemed as puzzled as he, and beneath that, as curious.
Looking into her dark eyes, to his soul aware of the rising of her breasts as she drew in a huge breath, he felt…not as assured as he usually was in such situations.
Presumably because she was who she was—Boadicea. A point he’d do well to bear in mind.
His gaze fell on the washing basket piled high with folded linen. He stooped and hefted it up. “I’ll carry this up to the house for you.”
She met his eyes, but other than a pretension-depressing, amused quirk of her lips, made no response. She fell in beside him, her long-legged stride keeping pace easily as they passed beneath the trees and headed across the lawn.
By the time they reached the back porch, their usual roles had reclaimed them; their customary polite distance had returned. He set the basket on the wooden table by the back door, then faced her. “Jones. I told him to come back tomorrow afternoon. I think it would be best if you were present when I meet with him. Perhaps if you would join me for luncheon tomorrow, we could discuss how best to deal with him?”
She held his gaze, her own steady and direct, then nodded. “Very well.” She hesitated, then said, “As usual, the other growers have given approval for the manor to strike the price for the valley. Griggs should already have estimates from the other orchards—he’ll have a tally of the expected crop.”
He nodded equably. “I’ll get the details from him.”
Again, she hesitated, then asked, “The young man from the phaeton?”
He grimaced. “Still unconscious.” He didn’t add that the longer the man remained so, the more worrying his condition became. “I don’t suppose you’ve had any revelation over why he seems familiar?”
She shook her head. Frowned. “I’ll…look in on him tomorrow.”
Jack suspected she’d intended looking in on their patient that afternoon, but that would mean stopping in at the manor, thus chancing another meeting with him…and that, he accepted, was too soon.
Too soon for her; too soon for him, too.
With a graceful bow, he took his leave of her. He strode away, conscious of her gaze on his back. Passing through the archway in the hedge, he consoled his suddenly uncertain self that, over the matter of whatever was burgeoning between them, at least Boadicea was as uncertain as he.
The next day, Clarice spent what she would normally consider an inordinate amount of time dressing for lunch at the manor. She told herself her filmy apple green muslin with its heart-shaped neckline would distract Jones, and wondered at such self-deception.
She knew precisely whom she wanted to distract, and why. She was amazed at her interest in the hunger she stirred in Jack and in the answering response he drew from her.
“Pure curiosity,” she told her mirror as she checked her plaited chignon. It lay heavy on her nape; she thought of his strong fingers sliding beneath the heavy mass, across her sensitiv
e skin…and shivered.
“A temporary madness—no doubt it’ll pass.” With that firmly stated verdict, she rose and headed for her bedchamber door.
With a wide-brimmed hat shading her white skin, a light shawl draped over her elbows, she walked down the rectory drive and turned into the road.
A form of madness. Her assessment of their state was undeniable; they were walking a tightrope on two planes, and both knew it. That last only seemed to heighten the exhilaration.
The danger.
Neither she nor, she was perfectly sure, he, knew where they were headed, not with the physical attraction that flared between them, not with their “arrangement.” Whether the latter would work was anyone’s guess; neither of them was used to that type of working partnership, and neither was patient, or undemanding. They both had their share of arrogance, of being accustomed to leading, to being in charge.
As for the former…that was a total unknown.
It had been a very long time since anything had claimed her attention as it did, as he did when she was in his arms.
She didn’t know what she thought, had yet to form any view on the activity, on what she was doing, what she wanted. The unvarnished truth was that when in his arms, she didn’t—couldn’t seem to—think at all.
Such a situation should have disturbed her; she certainly thought it should, yet it didn’t. As she swung up the manor drive, no hint of trepidation bloomed, no vestige of even caution dimmed her anticipation. She was eager to see him again, keen to see where next they would stray, to observe how she affected him, to experience again how he affected her.
Shocking.
She was twenty-nine; she didn’t give a damn.
Life had long ago passed her by. As long as neither he nor she were hurt by their exchanges, where was the harm?
Confident, assured, she reached the manor’s door and rang the bell.
Howlett opened the door and beamed.
Clarice smiled back, and spotted Warnefleet—Jack—in the hall, hovering behind his butler.
Almost as if he’d been waiting for the bell to peal.
A Fine Passion Page 10
