“I bow to your common sense.” He rose and captured her hand in his to kiss her wrist. “I don’t plan to make a habit of it, though, so stop feeling so smug.”
“I do not feel… Oh, be off with you, lest your brother catch you with your hair sticking up in all directions and your feet bare.”
He looked interested in that picture, so she took the tray, carried it to the sink, and began putting the tea things away, only to feel long arms slip around her waist.
“I missed you.” A soft kiss to the place where her neck and shoulder joined, a tender, private, much-taken-for-granted place with a mysterious connection to her knee joints. “Every hour I was gone.” Lips again, soft, sweet, warm. “I missed you.”
He swept his fingers over her jaw, and then he was gone, and Jacaranda had to brace herself on the counter to remain upright.
Chapter Ten
Worth’s plan had misfired spectacularly.
Instead of giving Wyeth breathing room, time to accustom herself to courtship—to having an affair, if her crack-brained perspective was to be humored—leaving her to her own devices only had her doubts in full charge.
Women, vexing creatures, were strangers to logic.
A hot bath was not vexing, but having no one to share it with…
Worth had filled the hours in the saddle with daydreams of Wyeth attending his bath; Wyeth, waiting naked in her bed for him—she couldn’t very well wait in his bed, not at this stage of the proceedings. He’d wanted another of those secret smiles from her, but she’d blessed him with one welcoming hug and a little shyness before she’d pokered up and turned housekeeper on him.
He shed his clothes as the last of the hot water was dumped in the tub and directed the footmen to be ready to empty the bath within the hour. His footmen were moving smartly, and he didn’t doubt Jacaranda Wyeth had put the fear of dismissal in them should they shirk.
Jacaranda, not his butler, the estimable Simmons of the Fussing Eyebrows. Why Worth should suspect this to be the case, he couldn’t say, but he more than suspected it. Hell, she had him second-guessing himself and tearing about the realm in all directions.
He lingered at his bath, hoping some calamity, such as his brother’s arrival in the dead of night, would necessitate that his housekeeper interrupt him, and then he lingered out of sheer fatigue.
Given the hour, the Regent being in charity with his princess was a surer bet than Hessian’s arrival, so Worth climbed out of his tub, toweled off, brushed his wet hair down—thank you very much—and put his feet into house slippers.
Then, of course, a knock on his door.
Jacaranda stood in the hallway a decorous two paces away from the door. “If you’re through, the footmen can take the tub away.”
“I’m through.” He stepped back and opened the door wide. “Perhaps you’d join me in the library, Mrs. Wyeth?” He’d used his best condescending, lord-of-the-manor tone, the better to impress the footmen.
“If you insist.” She spun on her heel, and he was left admiring the view while the footmen offered him sympathetic smiles, and did a little admiring of their own.
He didn’t blame them. She was too magnificent not to admire.
“Look at her again like that, and I’ll fire the lot of you.”
The smiles became outright grins, so he left his insubordinate staff wrestling with the tub and trying not to lose their composure entirely.
It was a near thing, no doubt, because the lord of the manor was now occupying the same position with respect to his housekeeper as every other male on the property: right beneath her sturdy heel.
She’d gone to the library, as requested, and that had to count for something. When Worth joined her, she was standing by the long windows with her back to the room.
“I had enough moonlight to travel by most of the way,” Worth said. “I saw not a single highwayman on my way here.”
“You don’t cross any heaths, and Goliath could likely outrun most any highwayman’s horse.”
“Then you don’t worry when I’m on the king’s highway in the dead of night that harm will befall me?” He did not lock the library door, the better to inspire his own good behavior.
“I worry.”
She even tossed him a fulminating over-the-shoulder glance when she said it. She worried; she didn’t like that she worried, but she wouldn’t lie about it either.
God bless an honest woman. “Jacaranda.”
Another glance, this time for presuming to use her name, he supposed, but it was late, he’d ridden to exhaustion to see her, and they would be disturbed only if his blighted brother showed up.
“What has you in such a state, Wyeth? Matters are no different from when I left, and if you’re not interested in my company, you have only to say so.”
“Your company?”
“My company, as in, my person sharing the same surrounds as yours. To wit, the present situation. You might as well tell me what burr is under your saddle, or I’ll stoop to interrogating the children, and children see and hear everything. You know this.”
Another look, exasperation tinged with misery.
“Your company, proximate to my own, was all but observed by one of your tenants at the cottage during the storm.”
God’s knickers. No wonder she was in high dudgeon. He mentally rearranged his chess pieces into a defensive posture.
“Was somebody peeking in the windows, then?”
“Somebody might as well have been.” She turned, finally, to face him, and her expression was more hurt than peevish, and that…that drove a lance through his middle. A hot, miserable, piercing ache, of inadequacy and protectiveness.
“Come.” He held out a hand. “Tell me, and I’ll deal with it.”
“You can’t deal with it.” She spat the words and glared down her magnificent nose at his proffered hand. “Thomas Hunter is a good man. He’s widowed, and he doesn’t begrudge you your dalliances, but he knows my perfume, and he saw…” She gave him her back again, shoulders hunched, arms wrapped around her middle to hold in the mortification—or her temper.
“What did he see, Wyeth?” Worth approached her with a greater show of confidence than he felt. “We dallied under the covers, nothing more.”
“He saw the bedclothes were rumpled, and he knows we were there.”
Worth wanted to be reassuring, to be kind, to be understanding, but for God’s sake, a dalliance was her brilliant idea. Not his. Not this time around anyway.
“Do I take it we’re engaged now?”
Her jaw started working like a pump handle priming itself for a torrent of words. All that came out was one rusty syllable: “No.”
“Right.” He walked up to her, stood directly before her. “We’re not, because we were not caught in flagrante delicto, my dear. As sins go, what we did barely qualifies, if at all. You won’t have me for a husband, need I remind you, so we’re both back to wondering what exactly you seek from me, Wyeth. You describe this Hunter fellow as the pick of the litter, and I’d think a minor indiscretion safe with him. I’ll speak to him, and you will be assured of this.”
“You can’t speak to him. If you speak to him, it will only confirm his suspicions.”
“Which you no doubt entirely allayed with some fanciful tale of having been there without my company, perhaps?”
Her mouth closed with a snap. Then, “I did not.”
He could see her silently castigating herself for not having been clever enough to concoct that lie on the spot for this nosy tenant, and some of his anger drained away.
“Wyeth.” He risked a finger traced up the length of her forearm, pushing the sleeve of her nightrobe two inches closer to her elbow. “Cut line. Nobody saw anything, nobody will say anything. You’re making a tempest in a teapot and tormenting yourself as well. In his widowed state, your neighbor has allowed himself the same pleasures, I assure you.”
Possibly in the same small dwelling.
“He said as much.” As concessio
ns went, it was minuscule, but it heartened Worth enough to keep that finger moving on her forearm. Her wrist bones were so fine, so sturdy but feminine.
“Come sit.” He took that wrist and tugged her to the sofa. “We’ll watch the sunrise, and you’ll tell me what transpired while I was absent. Did the girls behave, and has Simmons’s gout flared up, and which maid is making eyes at which footman?”
She sat, not touching him, hunched forward on the couch, as if her shoulders were weary of a burden.
“The staff is all behaving well in anticipation of our guest’s arrival,” she said. “Simmons’s knees wait until September to start bothering him. The cold mornings make it difficult for him to get under sail.”
Worth smoothed her hair back over her shoulder and used that gesture to start rubbing her back, slowly, as much to soothe himself as to comfort her.
“Does anybody know where we came by Simmons? I should think he’d be out to pasture by now.”
“He came down from Cumberland with your great-uncle, he says, but that would have been more than sixty years ago.”
“Why haven’t I pensioned him off to some snug little cottage on the South Downs?”
“I haven’t asked you to, neither has Reilly, nor will we.” She let out a breath and relaxed under his hand. “Simmons does well enough, and the footmen, porters, boot boys and such all take up for him when his infirmities subdue him.”
“So protective.” He applied a slight pressure to her neck, until he felt her sigh and give up more of her tension. “When I’m old and doddery, will you be protective of me as well?”
“I’ll be in that cottage on the South Downs.” Her words held no heat, no animosity. If anything, she sounded wistful.
“Tell me about this cottage,” he said, moving his hand down her spine. “What color are the roses, and how many cats?”
She didn’t give him a tolerant look, which he’d expected. She closed her eyes and described a fairy-tale cottage, one that smelled of fresh flowers, sheets aired in the sun and lavender sachets. She moved her hand once on her thigh, as if she were stroking the fat black cat she envisioned sunning himself on her stoop, and she spoke longingly of having all the daylight hours to read and walk and putter in her garden.
Homesick.
He knew the signs, knew the particularly tender brand of melancholy it brought, knew the futility of it.
“You have your cottage picked out, don’t you?” He scooted up so he could put an arm around her shoulders and bring her close to his side.
“I do, but it’s in Dorset, not on the Downs. My cottage sits in a lovely valley, and it’s called Complaisance Cottage. My great-grandfather named it.”
“Glass windows?”
“Mullioned, to let in the light and provide a view right down the hillside of the grand manor and all the formal gardens and the park and the maze. Staying in the cottage is like being at the great house but having privacy.”
“You deserve this cottage,” he said, realizing he knew nothing of her dreams, nothing of her aspirations besides tidily folded sheets in the linen closet and windows that didn’t stick in the damp.
There was more to Jacaranda Wyeth than ruthlessly competent housekeeping, much more—but did she know that?
“Someday I will have it, if I mind my pence and quid.”
He expected her to get to her feet and bid him a brisk good night on that common-sensical line, but the pull of her cottage was such that she merely turned her face to his shoulder and tried to hide a yawn.
“Carl’s on duty?” He sneaked a nuzzle of her temple.
“And Jeff. They’re cousins, and they’ll take turns napping, but the front door is manned.”
He patted her arm. “Then let’s to bed, my dear. If Hess shows up at first light, we’ll at least have had some rest, and as to that, you will permit me to escort you to your room.”
She didn’t fuss, a measure of her fatigue, or her longing for that solitary cottage. She took his arm and let him walk with her to her room. He lit a single candle for her and paused inside her sitting room door to assess her, now that she wasn’t hissing and spitting and suffering paroxysms of mortification.
“I’m sorry about the rumpled bed,” he said, “but you’re flagellating yourself over it because you think a housekeeper should have noticed, aren’t you?”
She nodded, a little sheepish, a little defensive.
“I count it a measure of success that for a few moments, Wyeth, you weren’t a housekeeper, able to take pleasure only in well-beaten rugs and sparkling windows. For a few minutes, you were able to take pleasure in yourself.”
He saw her try to reject his reasoning, but like that snug, peaceful little cottage, a woman’s right to some pleasure had a quiet, compelling allure, and she conceded his point with a nod.
“Off to bed with you,” Worth said, “and my thanks for keeping the garrison on high alert. Hess will show up, and you’ll be ready to take him on.”
He didn’t risk kissing her, didn’t risk angering her with the presumption, and didn’t risk his own self-discipline failing him should she decide to put aside her reservations.
She kissed him, though, a buss on the cheek, of apology for her mood, he suspected, and simple weary friendliness.
“Good night, Worth. Rest well.”
He waited until her door was closed to touch the spot on his cheek she’d pressed her lips to.
She’d called him Worth.
Good night, indeed.
* * *
“You have a caller, sir.” Not Carl, but Jeff the cousin who shared porter duties, disturbed Worth’s breakfast and eliminated the likelihood he could linger until Wyeth appeared.
Well, damn and blast.
“Where did you put him?”
Over at the sideboard, the footman’s gaze slid away.
“He were that dusty, sir. I put him in the second parlor. Tea tray’s on its way.”
“Have a tray sent up to Mrs. Wyeth, too, would you? The commotion last night likely set her schedule on its head.”
“Mrs. Wyeth is in the gardens, sir. She’s been up since the moon set. Said the flowers needed freshening in the boo-kays.”
“Then take the tray to the gardens.”
Just like that, Worth’s staff was smirking again, staring at the ceiling or out the window.
“Fired without a character, you lot.” He glared at both Jeff and the footman minding the sideboard, and for good measure at the scullery maid bringing up a fresh tea service. “Make sure it’s a substantial tray, not merely tea and scones.”
“Yes, sir.” In unison, but to Worth’s ears, their subservience had a tell-tale singsong mocking quality. Wyeth would not have countenanced such cheek.
Except, she did. However she ruled, it wasn’t with an iron hand. Nobody at Trysting was in fear for their position, and nobody slacked. Worth approved of that. He did not approve of tenants reeking of the barnyard who came calling by dawn’s early light to disturb a man bent on serious domestic campaigning.
Unless that tenant was this Hunter fellow, the one who had had the gall to intimate to Jacaranda she might be an object of gossip.
“Now see here,” Worth began, sailing into the unprepossessing parlor only to stop in his tracks. “Hess?”
“You recognize me,” Worth’s guest said. “I’m encouraged.” He held out a deliberate hand.
With equal deliberation, Worth put his hand in his brother’s and shook, civilly, all the while repressing an urge to smile from ear to ear. Such an urge was not born of sense or logic. Hess had stabbed Worth in the back as cruelly as one sibling could betray another, and all the shared boyhood years before that one gesture couldn’t wipe out the circumstances of their parting.
“I’m glad you’ve safely arrived.” Worth could say that honestly, so he did. “Will your coaches be following?”
“No coaches,” Hess replied. “My bags should have arrived, but I’m traveling alone to make better time.”
&
nbsp; “You want to return to Grampion before harvest, perhaps, or simply wanted this errand completed.” Worth had not made this remark a question, though he’d meant to—hadn’t he?
In the space of a sentence, the chasm between them loomed wider and colder. All it had taken was a few words tossed on years of near silence and some bitter history.
“I wanted to assure myself Yolanda is well. The school sent an alarming report, full of implications and innuendo. Then too, I would like to make Avery’s acquaintance. You did intend to tell me about her?”
“I sent a note.” Worth was saved from truly bickering by the arrival of the ubiquitous tea tray. He served his brother, glad for the distraction, glad to have something to do while he tried to recall exactly why he’d summoned the earl south.
Hess hadn’t aged since early adulthood so much as matured. His hair was the same golden blond, his eyes a piercing northern blue, and his form as elegant and rangy as ever, but with more muscle, less pointless movement. Hess was a man now, the earl, not the young heir trying to fit into his papa’s boots.
Women, always drawn to those golden aristocratic good looks, would be unable to resist this version of Hess. No wonder he’d left his Cumbrian moors at Worth’s invitation. If Hess was interested in acquiring another countess, that variety of game abounded in the south.
“I haven’t been to Trysting since we were children,” Hess said, taking an armchair as Worth did likewise. “The place looks to be blooming, and your farms are thriving as well.”
A compliment, Worth allowed, as he poured his tea, but what did it mean?
“I am fortunate to have good managers and excellent staff at all my households,” Worth said, groping for what Hess was aiming at. Hess had been subtle but not sly as a younger man. Maybe age was honing his nasty side, for he had one. He most certainly did.
“I called on you, you know.” This was offered as Hess ventured a lordly sip of his tea. “A fine gunpowder. Did you recall I prefer it?”
Yes, he had. “My housekeeper inquired. When did you call on me?”
“Two years ago.” Another slow, savoring sip. “I vote my seat occasionally, when the issue matters to me or somebody makes a specific request. I’d heard you had word of Moira’s death, and it seemed appropriate to express my condolences.”
Worth; Lord Of Reckoning Page 18
