Worth; Lord Of Reckoning

by Grace Burrowes

  Her kiss—her very body—had said yes.

  How long would it take for her mind to realize that?

  * * *

  The week went flying by for Jacaranda. She was dragooned into the tenant calls after lunch, and worse, into calls on neighbors. Mr. Kettering was as stealthy about his tactics as a drunken draft sow.

  “Doesn’t the Damus holding lie between the Tarmans’ farm and Trysting?”

  “Why don’t we nip in and say hello to the…Stevens? No, Steppins?”

  “That’s Squire Brent’s place, isn’t it? I think Goliath could use a drink.”

  And there she’d be, smiling and curtsying to the Damuses, the Steppins, and the Brents—and their myriad daughters.

  “You are a fraud, Mr. Worth Kettering.” They were returning from a call on the Wilders, who were tenants of longstanding, and the Kerstings, local gentry whom Jacaranda knew mostly from market and churchyard pleasantries, though she could hardly keep straight the names of their four daughters—the twins were not identical, thank God.

  “Fraud is a serious offense.” He steered Goliath around a turn in the lane. “In what regard do I stand accused?”

  “You are afraid of young ladies.”

  “Flat terrified. Will you take the reins for a moment?”

  He handed her the ribbons before she could protest, and then she had to sidle closer to the middle of the seat in fairness to the horse.

  “They can’t truss you up and drag you to the altar,” Jacaranda said. “This horse has a lovely mouth.”

  “So do you.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Your mouth is lovely, when you aren’t pinching up your lips to scold a defenseless single man for his perfectly understandable fears. The young girls can’t tie me up, but they can waylay me in the rose arbor, or stumble against my person in the garden, feel faint as we’re dancing at the local assembly. They know how to set tongues wagging, and many a man has been ruined for less.”

  “You account yourself irresistible.” She didn’t bother keeping incredulity from her tone.

  “I account a net worth of several hundred thousand and climbing irresistible.”

  “Boasting of such a thing is vulgar.” They tooled along in silence for about a quarter mile. “Vulgar, but impressive.”

  In truth, he’d been complaining more than boasting. Another quarter mile went by, and Jacaranda began to relax, because Goliath was as steady as he was magnificent.

  “Is that why the opera dancers trust you? You’ve made yourself wealthy, so they conclude you can help them?”

  “I don’t know why, but it’s like that story of the widow’s mite. Those ladies trust me with what little they have, and I will be God-damned if I’ll let it come to harm. The lordlings trying to stretch their quarterly allowance so they can gamble deeper and wench away every night don’t seem nearly as worthy of my attention.”

  “Robin Hood, then, with a dash of arrogance thrown in.”

  “Where have you put your mite, Wyeth?”

  He might have been sliding a hand up her thigh, so silky and intimate was his tone. The topic of her hard-earned coin was in some ways more personal than, well, kissing.

  Some ways.

  He wasn’t teasing, not about her money. So while he pretended to study the barley fields ripening around them, Jacaranda told him which investment projects had some of her coin, which funds a little more, which ones she’d discarded as poorly managed or too speculative.

  “Prudent choices, though if you diversified more, you might see a faster gain with only a slight increase in risk.” He went on to suggest a modest revision to her investment strategy, and before Jacaranda knew it, they were approaching the covered bridge.

  “Pull him up,” Mr. Kettering said. “He’s been tooling around like a good lad. He’ll appreciate a chance to blow in the shade.”

  “You’re not about to kiss me again, are you?”

  Because it would be like him to lull her into lowering her guard with talk of funds and interest and projects, then ambush her with another one of those lovely, devastating kisses.

  “Kiss you? Why, Mrs. Wyeth, for shame, and me such a virtuous lad and quite timorous where the ladies are concerned.”

  He popped out of the gig and came around to hand her down, except when Jacaranda gained her feet, he cupped her elbows and stood entirely too close.

  “Would you like me to kiss you?” His eyes were grave, not a hint of humor in them, and his scent came wafting to her on a warm summer breeze. “Don’t answer me with words, Wyeth.”

  He dipped his head, and then he was kissing her again, but this kiss was different. The first time he’d kissed her, he’d been making a point. She still wasn’t sure what exactly his point had been, something about her judgmental nature and how much he missed his sister, probably.

  This kiss was about mouths, and bodies, and the unholy pleasure of being caught up against his solid, muscular length on a soft summer day. His mouth moved over hers as deftly as an artist’s brush, leaving hues of longing and unnamable sensations in its wake. He worked his kissing slowly, a seductive gentleness to every touch, even as he held her more firmly to him.

  Jacaranda tucked up as close to Mr. Kettering as she could get, going up on her toes despite the warnings clamoring forth from her common sense. Those warnings weren’t a matter of conscience, or morals—she was indulging in a mere kiss, and in more-or-less private—what was imperiled was her very survival.

  Somehow, though, survival did not weigh in on the side of storming away in high dudgeon. Survival had nothing to do with indignation, but had everything to do with clinging to the man whose tongue was probing along her lips in delicate entreaty.

  “You’re too good at this,” she said against his teeth.

  “We’re good at this, and we’re barely getting started.”

  His one arm went around her shoulders, while the other settled low across her back, anchoring her more snugly and angling her so he could get a hand on her derriere and his mouth back where it belonged. He didn’t clutch at her, though, he secured her so she could kiss him back without having to worry about remaining on her own two feet.

  He tasted good. Like spearmint and heat, and he had the knack of asking permission with his mouth, of inviting with his tongue, and assuring with his big body. She could kiss him for a long, long—

  “Mr. Kettering, what are you doing?”

  He’d scooped her up and hefted her to sit on the bridge railing, bringing the sound of rushing water closer, which was somehow appropriate.

  “I’m experimenting. Such an important matter wants a bit of science.”

  Then his mouth was back, but Jacaranda sat a shade higher than she’d stood, so she could wrap her arms around his magnificent shoulders and sink her hands into his dark, silky hair. Then he wedged himself between her knees, and oh, it felt imperative that she bring at least one leg around his hips and show him exactly—

  He broke the kiss and captured one of her hands. “We’re at risk for indiscreet behavior, my dear. This is a public thoroughfare.”

  She dropped her forehead to his shoulder while he took that hand of hers and stroked it over his falls.

  Angels abide!

  He was a generously proportioned man in a particular state of reproductive anticipation. His hand dropped away. Hers did not.

  “Getting even, Wyeth?”

  “Getting acquainted.” She shaped him carefully, telling herself this was the only occasion she’d be permitted to indulge her curiosity. She was tempted to linger, but he drew in a sharp breath near her ear.

  “Did I hurt you, Mr. Kettering?”

  He shifted his middle back a few inches. “You torment, but I don’t think you understand that. Did I hurt you?”

  She lifted her head to frown at him, to fathom his meaning.

  “You did not injure me, if that’s what you’re asking, though why such an inquiry is germane, I know not. This was a stolen kiss,
and they are not, by reputation, painful.”

  “Please don’t tell me this is your first stolen kiss.”

  “Kisses have been stolen from me,” she said, considering him. “Not with me.” She lifted away from him, but had to keep a hand on his shoulder for balance.

  “I’m to be your first in at least this?”

  “It’s your height,” she said, turning her head to watch the water below.

  “Let’s get you down, and you can explain that remark.”

  She hopped off the railing, but his hands were anchored on her hips, and all over again, she endured the strange puddling of heat in her middle that his kiss—their kiss—had caused.

  “Naughty woman.” He still wasn’t smiling, but he seemed pleased.

  She turned her back to him to study the freshet below. Was she naughty?

  “Shall we negotiate now?” He made himself comfortable beside her, elbows on the railing. “Or would you prefer to settle your nerves first?”

  “Negotiate?” She rather enjoyed the present state of her nerves.

  “Surely it hasn’t escaped your notice we’re suited to a certain type of liaison, Wyeth. I’d compensate you handsomely, enough that you could put off your housekeeping and go about in Town.” He watched the water, not her.

  “Were it to our mutual liking,” he went on, “we could even move you into Town, though there’s no telling how long these things will last. I’m a decent protector, though it’s been quite a while since I took on the role. I’d see you got out, to the theatre, Vauxhall, the shops. Life can’t be work all the time, even for me. I suppose that’s rather the point, on my end.”

  Inside, where Mr. Worth Kettering’s piercingly blue eyes would not bother to see, Jacaranda’s luncheon took to heaving disagreeably.

  “No, thank you, Mr. Kettering. Shall we be on our way?”

  “No, thank you, Mr. Kettering?” His brows knit, in consternation or indignation, she cared not which. “That was not a Mr. Kettering kiss, Wyeth.”

  “And I am not a whore. Goliath is sufficiently rested, and I must see to your dinner preparations.”

  “Not fair, Wyeth. I did not force you.”

  “No, you did not, nor will you, ever. I rely on that remaining artifact of gentlemanly sensibility when I ask you to take me home now.”

  “You’re not interested in at least hearing the numbers?”

  “For God’s sake, I know you are a man, but I did not take you for a very stupid man. I am insulted, you dolt, not by your kiss, which was lovely, dear, sweet, and generous, but by the implication I would whore for another like it. I enjoyed it, I thank you for it, but I have no interest in your jewels or in being your fancy piece. Think of your opera dancers, Mr. Kettering.”

  She climbed into the gig and sat, hands folded in her lap, forbidding herself to say more. He must have grasped the fundamental point, for he climbed in beside her.

  “Shall I drive?” she asked.

  He nodded, tersely, and she tried to make charitable allowances, for he was a man and one likely used to getting his way.

  Several hundred thousand times over.

  And yet, he sat beside her right up to the Trysting front door, silent, unreadable, and looking like he cared not one whit for the fact that a mere housekeeper was driving him around the countryside, and refusing his offer of protection.

  * * *

  He’d blundered badly—and with a woman.

  Worth was comfortable making the occasional shaky investment, though less and less as his instincts and information-gathering skills had been perfected.

  But with a woman…

  He’d made two errors, in fact. At least two. The first was offering Jacaranda Wyeth a more or less permanent position as his mistress, when Worth had learned long ago that mistresses were a tricky lot. They became bored, and even jewels and outings weren’t enough to placate them. Eventually, they resorted to provoking his jealousy, or worse, trying to get with child. No matter their skill in bed, their beauty, their wit or other charms, he parted from them at that point, with stern admonitions to himself to choose more wisely.

  Wisely had come to mean temporarily. He sought the short-term, and very short-term, and very, very short-term liaison, and everybody was happier all around.

  So he’d blundered and undertaken a negotiation of terms for an extended liaison.

  The heat of the moment accounted for that lapse, aided by Wyeth’s kisses, by her boldness, by her hand on his falls, getting acquainted.

  Then the second, worse blunder. He’d offended the lady.

  What had happened?

  His housekeeper sailed into his house ahead of him, her skirts swishing. Her magnificent body had happened. Her lush, naughty mouth. Her common sense and quietly relentless compassion. Her sweet, summery scent, her phenomenal derriere, those perfect breasts, her heat, her hands…

  Then that prim, hurt tone. Think of your opera dancers, Mr. Kettering.

  He was on his horse and headed for London before the dinner bell sounded.

  Chapter Six

  Jacaranda was nothing if not ruthlessly honest with herself, and thus she admitted she missed her employer. He’d taken a proper leave of the children, conferred briefly with Simmons, and then decamped.

  She’d driven him off, perhaps with her kisses, more likely with her speeches about his jewels—angels abide!—and his money. A fine, upstanding speech at the time, but it did nothing to help her sleep at night. She took a few nocturnal swims, doubled her vigilance regarding her housekeeping duties, and prompted Simmons to new heights of fussing and clucking over his footmen.

  All for naught.

  She missed Worth Kettering. Missed the scent and feel of him standing too close to her, sitting too close beside her in the gig, sending her his silent “time to go” look when the neighbors’ daughters took to batting their eyes. She missed him presiding over the dinner table, teasing, entertaining, and gently chiding Avery for her manners. She missed the sound of his solid boot heels thumping along the corridors and missed his voice, bellowing for her when it was time to depart for their afternoon calls.

  Missed kissing him and scolding him.

  This missing was a bodily ache, different from the way she missed her siblings, or her home, or her departed parents.

  All the while she inspected linens, made lists, drew up menus, and supervised the staff, she was aware of a sense of Worth Kettering’s eyes on her—or somebody’s eyes. The sense was strongest outside, when she took cuttings from the scent garden, or the color gardens, but it followed her into the house sometimes.

  She wished her employer really had been that aged, diminutive cipher dithering away in the City. That would have been much easier.

  Much.

  But staying busy had long been her antidote for every ill, so she headed back up to the third floor. She’d yet to make her morning rounds there, and both girls were downcast at Mr. Kettering’s departure. She opened Avery’s door after a brisk knock, only to find Yolanda sprawled on a chaise with a book of Wordsworth’s poetry.

  “Avery’s off to ride that pig, or fly a kite, or give the pig lessons in French,” Yolanda said.

  “I’m so bored I almost joined her.”

  “We haven’t toured the house yet. Would that alleviate your boredom?”

  “Touring the house would at least get me off my backside.” Yolanda closed her book and rose. “Has the post come yet?”

  “The post arrives by nine of the clock, if the stages are running on time,” Jacaranda said as they left the room. “He didn’t write today.”

  How odd to have this small grief in common with a schoolgirl.

  “Again.”

  “You could write to him, or to your older brother.”

  “To tell them what?” Yolanda stopped at the top of the steps. “I haven’t tried to kill myself lately?”

  “Did you?” Jacaranda wanted to drag the girl a few steps back, but instead began their progress down the stairs. “
Try to kill yourself?”

  “No.” That was all, no explanation, no emphasis.

  “Well, then, not much to write about there. You might tell your brother what Avery is getting up to.”

  “Wickie will do that,” Yolanda said, moving down the stairs at Jacaranda’s side.

  “She will do a version of it,” Jacaranda countered. “A version that leaves out pigs and probably emphasizes penmanship. Then too, you might ask your brother to retrieve fripperies or notions from London.”

  This was really too bad of her. No man enjoyed trolling the ladies’ shops.

  Though Mr. Kettering should have written to his sister.

  “Retrieve fripperies such as?”

  “You embroider beautifully,” Jacaranda said. “Have him pick up a particular shade of thread or a hard-to-find measure of hoop. Some sketching paper or special pencils.”

  “So he won’t feel so badly for abandoning us here?”

  “So you’ll have something to do.” So his sister would approve of him, even if his housekeeper could not.

  Yolanda paused with her hand on the crouching-lion newel post at the foot of the steps. “He’ll think I’m glad to see the thread, or the hoop, or the lurid novel, not him.”

  No, he would not. “He might pretend he’s that thick-headed. You’ll know better.”

  “I should make a list.”

  Such a Kettering, this one. “I frequently find a list useful. For example, while I don’t trespass in the kitchen, per se, I do keep track of the larder and the cook’s pantry.”

  Daisy had had no interest in learning to run a household, and Jacaranda had learned not to expect her younger sister to share those tasks with her. Step-Mama had been more preoccupied with managing her offspring and her torrents of correspondence than with household details.

  “There’s a great deal to know. The laundry and the medicinals alone take organization,” Yolanda said as they finished up in the still room some time later.