Worth; Lord Of Reckoning

by Grace Burrowes

  “Boon?”

  “I told myself to be patient.” He stood and crossed to the braided rug before the hearth. “I told myself sooner or later, I’d catch you in the pond, or reading late at night, or in some situation where we’re guaranteed privacy.”

  “The rain should let up soon,” she said, a sense of unease rising at his words.

  “I can be very quick,” he went on, casually unfastening his falls. “When I want to make a point.”

  He stepped out of his damp breeches and hung them from a nail on the rafter nearest the fire. And that gesture, that simple reaching, without a stitch on, was so blatantly, masculinely beautiful, Jacaranda wanted to tell him to hold the pose so she might memorize it. His skin was darker above his waist, but the musculature of his arms, legs, belly, and back was all of a smooth, powerful, healthy male animal piece.

  Blessed angels, he was beautiful.

  He took the towel he’d been sitting on and wrapped it around his waist, and Jacaranda wanted to weep.

  “Like what you see, Wyeth? I like what I see, too.”

  “You will not come any closer,” she said, holding up a hand.

  He stopped in his tracks. “Suppose not. I’d like it much better were you the one to do the approaching.”

  “In God’s name why?” She couldn’t keep her eyes averted, much as common sense was screeching at her to do just that. When she looked, she wanted to touch, and if she touched, she’d want to be touched.

  “A fellow needs to know his attentions are welcome,” he said, subsiding onto the raised stone hearth. “What better sign of welcome than when a woman makes the overtures?”

  “I thought you understood I am not interested in your overtures.” With the last of her resolve, she turned her face so the brim of her bonnet took him from her sight, and that was…a mercy.

  “You’re interested in my overtures. You’re not interested in earning coin by returning them. I applaud your scruples. The alternative makes a great deal of sense to me upon sober reflection.”

  Sober reflection eluded Jacaranda where Worth Kettering was concerned. “A great deal of sense?”

  “I’m not without sense, Wyeth, but I am without clothes. Why don’t you come investigate the bargain I’m offering?”

  “What bargain?”

  She was reduced to inane questions, in part because he’d chosen that moment to cross the room and crack a window, the better to help the fire in the hearth catch. The Italian masters hadn’t sculpted a man as breathtaking as Worth Kettering. He was a mature David, he was Vulcan, he was the exponent of all that was attractive and dangerous in a healthy adult male.

  And he was nigh naked in a secluded cottage with her.

  “That should draw better,” he said. “I’d suggest getting you out of your wet things, but then you’ll stay in them until lung fever carries you off. I’m not sure what motivated you to keep your bonnet on indoors, though.”

  She resumed tugging at the infernal bonnet, but the ribbons were damp, which made working the knot difficult. “I’m not as wet as you. You were out in the rain longer.”

  “If you need help with your bonnet, I am happy to oblige.” He bounced down onto the bed, and the creaking of the ropes had Jacaranda’s insides bouncing as well. “You brought a brush in your reticule, didn’t you?”

  “Comb. I can see to myself.” Though when she removed her bonnet, she would look a fright.

  He flopped back on the mattress so his legs hung over the side of the bed, and his words were addressed to the rafters.

  “I may not have moved in quite the highest circles, but I am gentleman enough that you must know I wouldn’t force you. Let me get rid of that bonnet for you, Wyeth. You fancy it, and it’s fetching, in a rural sort of way. At the rate you’re going, you will soon be bald and the bonnet fit only for consumption by William the Famous Draft Sow.”

  He wouldn’t force her. Jacaranda could be stark naked and the only woman left on earth, and he wouldn’t ever force her. That realization settled her down enough that she gave up ruining her bonnet and her coiffure.

  “Come here, closer to the fire.” He sat up and patted the bed beside him, hiking a knee onto the mattress.

  “How can you be so casual about being nearly…about being undressed like that?” She lowered herself to the mattress as if it were not up to her weight, as if it might start moving without notice.

  He shifted, and the bed bounced. “I can strut about as God made me because I am a man in the presence of a female who likes the look of me unclothed. Then too, my clothes are wet, and wet clothes don’t flatter much of anybody. Damned uncomfortable, too, and in the most inconvenient locations. How many pins do you use, for pity’s sake?”

  “My hair is thick and takes a lot of pins.”

  But not so many that his deft fingers couldn’t work under the brim of the bonnet to withdraw the offending pins that snared the bonnet onto her head. He set the pins on the bedside table, lifted the bonnet away, and her hair went tumbling down her back in a single thick braid.

  “You have the knack of smelling luscious, Wyeth.” He buried his nose in a handful of her hair. “Diabolical of you.”

  “You have the same knack. Few men do. Will you sniff at me all afternoon, or surrender my bonnet?” She’d prefer the sniffing, of course. Vastly prefer it.

  He rose and hung her bonnet on a nail along the same rafter that held his clothing, then returned to the bed. “You’re still sporting a few pins, and when attending a lady, I am nothing if not thorough.”

  She didn’t feel so much as a tug or a yank on her scalp as he withdrew the last pins from her braid. He was that careful with her—or that experienced at tending to a woman’s hair. She was still marveling at his skill when a boom of thunder literally shook the cottage.

  “I hate storms,” she said, hunching in on herself. “In Dorset, we don’t get the Atlantic storms they do in Devon and Cornwall, or not so many, but we get the Channel weather, and it’s bad enough.”

  “You’re safe here, Wyeth.” His arm came around her shoulders, and his lips applied themselves to her temple. “Perfectly safe.”

  He sat back a moment later, and Jacaranda wondered what that embrace had been about. Reassurance? When he was wearing only a towel? His arms had been warm and strong about her, and the reassurance in his voice had been convincing.

  “My mother died in a storm,” she said, back to him. “She was out on the water with a boating party, and the weather came up suddenly. Some of them made it back, but she wasn’t a good swimmer.”

  He brushed a hand over her nape. “I am sorry, love. How old were you?”

  “I was nearly three, Grey was six, Will about five.”

  “I was eight when my mother died. There’s no good age for a child to lose a mother.”

  “You think about Avery losing Moira, don’t you?” She did not glance over her shoulder, for the conversation had taken an unlikely turn, though she preferred it to his ridiculous banter.

  “Of course I do.” Another caress, this one pretending to tuck a lock of hair over her ear. “I think of Yolanda, losing both parents, and I realize whatever differences I might have had with my father, he at least did me the courtesy of surviving until I was able to make my own way in the world. Parents are supposed to see to that much.”

  He regretted the terms on which he’d parted from his father. Jacaranda could hear his regret, could feel it in his hand tracing the curve of her shoulder.

  “I had my papa until I was seventeen, and my step-mother is still at home.” Though Jacaranda wondered who was running Grey’s domicile, for dear Step-Mama hadn’t the knack.

  “She was left with a lot of children. A lot of boys.” Another slow caress, this time under her damp braid, over her nape.

  “She was, but Grey was down from university before Papa died, and Step-Mama hasn’t had to manage all the boys herself. Grey takes his responsibilities seriously.”

  “As do you.”

 
; “Papa did too.” She stifled a yawn, because those little touches of his and the rain on the roof were combining to send an insidious languor through her. Then too, the fire was warming the interior of the cottage nicely. “Papa told me he remarried to ensure Will and Grey wouldn’t be overly burdened managing the family’s holdings.”

  “You believed him?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Five extra spares, Jacaranda?” His tone held humor, and when she glanced at him over her shoulder, his eyes did as well.

  “Papa was very conscientious.” While Step-Mama was very delicate, if her letters were to be believed.

  “Just as you are conscientious about my house?” His arms went around her again, and he pulled her back against the warmth of his chest.

  “I try.” Though he would have to find a successor for her soon. She ought to tell him so.

  “You succeed beautifully.”

  When he complimented her like that, and held her this way, Jacaranda felt beautiful, too.

  Trouble invariably had the ability to entice and please while promising certain disaster.

  “The rain isn’t letting up.” She made the observation to fill the silence stretching between them, though she didn’t move. He didn’t either, but remained sitting behind her on the bed.

  “Which means that rickety little excuse for a bridge might be washing out,” he said. “If I were you, I really would get out of that wet dress, Jacaranda Wyeth. Keep your chemise on if you want, but don’t take a chill for the sake of modesty. I first came upon you in sopping wet nightclothes, if you’ll recall. I’ve seen your treasures, you’ve seen mine, and nobody has gone insane with thwarted lust.”

  He had seen her treasures, or all but, and the dress was damp.

  “I do not want to encourage your wrongheaded notions,” she said, getting off the bed. “Neither do I consider myself the stuff of insane lust.”

  Or even sane lust.

  “I could not imagine encouraging your wrongheaded notions.” He lifted the covers and scooted under. “What? My clothes are wet, and unless you want me prancing about in a towel—which I’d be happy to do, so greatly do I seek to court your notice—then the least ridiculous place for me to be is under these covers.”

  He tossed his loin-towel onto the hearth and made a great display of getting comfortable under the covers.

  “What am I to be doing, prancing around in my shift while you stay warm and cozy?” She started to unbutton her bodice, back turned to him, when his voice came floating over her shoulder.

  “You should join me in this nice, cozy bed. We’ve much to discuss.”

  “Such as?” Her impending remove to Dorset wasn’t something she’d bring up unless she was fully clothed and her hair neatly pinned.

  “How you like your pleasures, for one thing. How I like mine, for another.”

  “I will not be your mistress.”

  “No, but that leaves sensible alternatives, which I am prepared to offer you. Come to bed, love, so we might discuss them like sensible, if nearly naked, adults. It’s time you had a little of what you want out of this life.”

  That was such a startling pronouncement, Jacaranda had no ready retort. With her back to him, she mentally reviewed his words, for a trap lurked among them somewhere—and a truth.

  “I have a great deal of what I want in this life,” she said, getting back to her unbuttoning.

  “I’m sure you’ve told yourself that.” A pillow suffered a solid blow. “I’ve kissed you, my dear, more than once. You’re hungry for a man, you might as well admit it.”

  Love. My dear. “I’m hungry for a— You are beyond audacious.” Though he was not wrong. She was hungry for one man in particular, drat him.

  “Taking you a long while to get out of a simple walking dress, Jacaranda Wyeth.”

  “Just Wyeth will do. How can I share a bed with you when you’re talking such rot?”

  “How can you not?” She heard the bed creek and suspected he’d rolled over to inspect her progress. “You take a chill easily, and I give off a deal of heat. Come to bed, and we’ll talk.”

  “Close your eyes.”

  He did, the soul of docility, as she peeled out of her damp dress, hung it on yet another handy nail, got off her damp stays—thank God for old-fashioned jumps—and gingerly lifted the covers to climb in.

  “Don’t make me regret this.”

  “I said we’d talk, Jacaranda. You know my mouth is good for at least that.”

  She saw no point in arguing with him when he wasn’t making any sense, neither did she scold him for the use of her given name.

  “So talk to me, my dear.” He rolled to his side, closer to her. She ought to flop to her side, give him her back, and start discussing the Damuses’ marriageable daughters. “Tell me what pleasures you enjoy the most.”

  What sort of question was that? “I adore a perfect cup of tea. You?”

  “We’re English. Of course we must have our tea. Tell me something you like that you haven’t shared with another, ever.”

  His voice blended with the patter of the rain and the crackle of the fire to invite confidences Jacaranda might yield to him, if she could only figure out his objective. “What is this in aid of?”

  “Because we’re to be intimate, Jacaranda Just-Wyeth-Will-Do. I’ll not talk of coin, I’ll not pester and flirt, I’ll simply give you the pleasure you want, on your terms. You’ve won, love. I’m capitulating to your very sensible view of the matter. Have your way with me.”

  “I’ve won?”

  “That’s right.” He traced her hair-line with a single finger. “From this moment forth, my duties include your regular and profound pleasuring, so start my instruction.”

  Regular and profound pleasuring? “When did you make this decision?”

  One moment he was lying at her side, sleepily perusing her, the next he was over her, crouched like a tiger guarding a juicy meal. She had only an instant to meet his gaze, to see the startling heat and purpose in his eyes, before his lips were firmly moving over hers.

  He tangled a hand in her hair to prevent her from evading him, but when the first moment of surprise wore off, the worse shock set in: Jacaranda didn’t want to evade him. She didn’t want to talk, she didn’t want to reason, she most assuredly didn’t want to flirt.

  She wanted him.

  And he was offering himself on her terms.

  His kiss gentled as that realization brought her arms around his shoulders and had her seeking his mouth with her own.

  “Better,” he muttered.

  It was better, better without many clothes, better in a bed, better with the rain pattering steadily on the roof and all the privacy in the world. Her hands went questing all over his back, learning the smooth, warm map of muscle and bone. She curled her fingers over his biceps, holding on hard as his tongue made teasing forays into her mouth.

  And legs! A revelation, to learn that a kiss could even involve her longest, strongest limbs. The ones she’d wanted to twine around him on the bridge, the ones she could clutch about his flanks so tightly now.

  The kiss built, like a fire finding a nice, cool draft to feed on, spreading out through her body, taking over her reason. She sank her hands into his hair and arched her hips up, only to meet a hard column of flesh against her belly.

  “Easy,” he murmured against her neck.

  “We have to stop,” she said, even as she got a hand over his muscular backside and clutched him hard.

  “We do?”

  “We’re not married.”

  He smiled against the juncture of her shoulder and her neck. “Then we’ll stop soon, but because we’re here for your pleasure, we’ll see to a few details first.”

  Jacaranda had seven brothers. She’d overheard a lot, and she knew there could be pleasure for women, for some women. Wicked, lucky women. She went quiet beneath him and smoothed a hand through his hair.

  Worth Kettering would give her this pleasure, on her
terms.

  She shouldn’t.

  She absolutely shouldn’t.

  But his discretion was utterly trustworthy, and when would Jacaranda Wyeth, aging spinster, rural housekeeper, ever have the chance to learn of these pleasures, if not with him? It wasn’t that men like Worth Kettering came along so seldom, it was that they never came along. Never. Not in Dorset, not in Surrey, not in London’s most fashionable ballrooms, not anywhere Jacaranda Wyeth had been or would be in the future.

  She repeated the caress, not for him, though he seemed to like it, but for her. She found pleasure in simply stroking his hair, feeling the silky clean abundance of it slipping through her fingers. He closed his eyes and moved into her hand.

  “You will show me these details, Worth Kettering, but we cannot… That is, I don’t see how, without…”

  “Bless you. Trust me, we won’t. I won’t. This is for you.”

  His voice had changed to a husky whisper, his body above hers became somehow languid, his muscles softer and more sinuously powerful. Under the covers Jacaranda went from warm to hot.

  Wonderfully hot with a slow, spreading excitement that started in her middle and had her sighing against his chest.

  “I’ll show you.” He sipped at the spot below her ear. “You’ll let me show you.”

  She tucked a leg around his hips. “Show me soon, please?”

  “Not soon.” He lifted up, and no smile lit his handsome features. “This is for you, and we’ll do it right. I promise you that, and I keep my word.”

  She hid her face against his throat as one of his big hands cradled the back of her head.

  He held her like that, sheltered by his warm, naked body and tucked snugly against his strength. In the middle of all the pleasure and wonder and curiosity, Jacaranda withstood a spike of…hurt, of loneliness for herself, for all the times she’d needed to be comforted and treasured and known thus, and it had been denied her.

  Daisy had this precious intimacy. Had had it whenever she pleased for the past five years.

  “Hold on to me.” His voice was raspy, and then he rolled them so she straddled him.

  She burrowed down onto his chest, for if she sat up, her breasts would be very much on display, despite her shift. “This is novel.”