Worth; Lord Of Reckoning

by Grace Burrowes

  She climbed on the bed and busied herself rearranging the pillows he’d cast into chaos. “We’ve shared affection already. You can’t be in want of affection.”

  He wanted more than simple affection, and the vexing creature would make him admit it.

  “I want to know,”—he paused, gathering his courage—“I need to know you are not repulsed, you aren’t shocked. This wasn’t how I intended to go on. I don’t want you to have a disgust of me.”

  She appeared to consider this, and then subsided onto the mattress, facing him, not touching him, damn it. Because she was closer to the window, her face was obscured by night shadows, and that about drove him ’round the bend.

  But from somewhere, he found the resolve, the courage, to hold his position and keep his hands to himself.

  “What comes now?” she asked, a frown in her voice.

  Let me hold you, he wanted to say, but there was that frown.

  “Jacaranda, what would you like to come now?”

  “Honestly?”

  “Love, you’ve seen me in extremis when I hadn’t planned to be that way. You’ll have to tell me where this leaves us, and yes, of course I expect honesty between us. I adore your penchant for honesty.”

  The frown intensified. “We still need to have that discussion, but can you do that in extremis part again?”

  * * *

  Jacaranda’s face heated as she put the question to Worth, and she battled the urge to flee. What stopped her was the suspicion, the strong suspicion, that Worth’s feelings would be hurt if she tucked tail and ran.

  They would be hurt even more if she unburdened herself of the two deceptions she yet perpetrated on him.

  She was leaving him at the end of the summer, and her name wasn’t Jacaranda Wyeth. She hoped never to burden him with the knowledge he’d dallied with an earl’s spinster daughter.

  “I can manage it again,” he said, studying her in the moonshadows. “I need a few minutes to recover, but I could if you assisted. Is that what you want?”

  He traced her eyebrows with a single finger then let that finger trail down her nose, and chin, and across her collarbones, his expression reverent.

  “Sometime, yes.”

  “Enough of this long-distance negotiating, Wyeth.” He moved across the mattress to bundle her against his side. “Slap me if I’m being presumptuous.”

  “Slap—” As if lying in his arms were more presumptuous than…well. She cuddled down against his chest, though the wretch could probably feel her cheeks heat.

  “On my bum would be nice should the slapping appeal,” he said, gathering her closer. “I’ll happily reciprocate if you’d like a little spanking.”

  “Oh, do hush.” She put her hand against his naughty mouth, but some of the awkwardness of the situation dissipated. She could see him enjoying her hand applied smartly to his backside, too.

  Which gave one reason to ponder.

  “This feels better,” he said, his hand stroking over her hair.

  “Better than what?”

  “Than you, regarding me so solemnly from halfway across the Channel. Erotic intimacy is an odd business, isn’t it?”

  He had a name for what they’d shared. Marvelous.

  “The entire business is strange.” She felt him waiting, listening for her reaction, so she mustered a greater quantity of fortitude. “It’s beautiful, too, and very personal.”

  “Intimate.”

  His was the more accurate word.

  “Do you want to sleep now?” Because if he did want to sleep, she wanted him to sleep in her bed, so she could feast her senses on him while he lay passive, beautiful, and mysterious in her arms.

  “What I want”—he gently shook her head with his hand in her hair, a scolding sort of shake—“is to know you’re not disconcerted by what happened in your bed tonight. What I did was selfish, vulgar, and presumptuous.”

  “I am disconcerted.” She pressed her lips over his nipple and tongued him while she sorted through her reactions and ways to render them into words she could bear to speak. “You taste like spices.”

  “Jacaranda Wyeth.”

  She smiled, letting him feel her mouth curve against his skin. “I felt powerful, knowing I caused the pleasure you felt.”

  “Ah.” Relief in that single syllable. “You’d like that, having power over a man when his defenses were in disarray.”

  “Not just any man, for most of them have their defenses in disarray most of the time. You. I liked sharing that moment with you.” In this, she could be absolutely honest.

  “You’re not disgusted?”

  “I wanted to taste you.” She bit his chin and climbed over him, probably surprising them both with her boldness. “I wanted to taste you, and kiss you, and fondle you.”

  The dear man threaded his hands through her hair on either side of her head and shut her naughty mouth by kissing her soundly.

  * * *

  Jacaranda delighted to waken in Worth’s arms, to see his dark hair against her white pillowcases when the sun’s first rays came stealing in the window. To watch him rouse while the birds outside the window sang to the new day, to see him open his eyes while she drowsed beside him.

  These desires were dangerous. Her longing went beyond merely wanting him, which any woman with red blood in her veins might do. More than that, she wanted memories with him, memories of intimacies that transcended a mere joining of bodies.

  Because she sought those memories, she endured his farewell kiss without embarking on any difficult discussions about Dorset and family obligations and impoverished earldoms.

  She did not want to explain to him that she, of all people, hadn’t been entirely forthcoming with him, and though her secrets were not shameful, exactly, they were falsehoods. Worse, the longer she allowed those falsehoods to live, the more difficult would be the reckoning for her deception.

  With Worth Kettering, further intimacies would be transcendently splendid. Jacaranda knew that now, knew the look and feel and scent of him when he expressed his passion, when he was in extremis, as he’d put it, and she wanted more. With him, she wanted to share that passion, to know if it could ignite her own.

  Which would, of course, do nothing to ensure the maids were at their tasks, the footmen weren’t bothering the maids too awfully much, Simmons’s knees were still working, and Cook wasn’t overwhelmed.

  Dawn came wonderfully early in summer, though when Jacaranda reached the breakfast parlor, she was surprised to find only the Earl of Grampion at the table.

  No Worth?

  “He’s packing,” Grampion said, rising. “I expect he’d be down here at a dead gallop did he know you were breaking your fast.”

  Jacaranda retreated into manners. “Good morning, my lord. I assume you’re referring to Mr. Kettering?”

  “I am. Did you sleep well, Mrs. Wyeth?”

  He held her chair for her, so Jacaranda couldn’t watch his face as he posed the question.

  “I slept wonderfully,” she said, the absolute, bald, unfortunate, naughty truth.

  “You have that look about you.” He took his seat and passed her the teapot, cream and sugar in succession. “You’ve roses in your cheeks.”

  “Thank you for the compliment.” Jacaranda smiled at him, for it had been a compliment, though hardly given with a flourish. “Are you enjoying your stay here, my lord?”

  He took a sip of his tea and wrinkled his handsome mouth. He wasn’t a bad-looking man, though his lanky English blondness was less appealing than his brother’s dark good looks.

  “I am enjoying my stay, yes.”

  “Is there a ‘but’ appended to that grudging allowance?”

  “Worth said you were a woman of substance.” Grampion frowned at his tea now, a stout black breakfast blend Jacaranda had ordered to get the household’s day off to a good start, though he might have ordered gunpowder for himself easily enough. “I should have known by Worth’s lights that substance meant a tendency tow
ard cheek as well.”

  “My apologies.” Jacaranda appropriated a serving of eggs from the server in the middle of the table and some toast. “May I have the butter?”

  This provoked a smile from the earl, which made him look younger and far more attractive—by Jacaranda’s lights.

  “Your apologies, pass the butter. I can see why Worth is so taken with you.” He did pass the butter.

  “Aren’t you eating, my lord?” She went about buttering her toast as if the earl hadn’t made a disquieting observation, hoping that Grampion simply lacked for conversation first thing in the day. She certainly did. “The eggs are surpassingly good.”

  “You needn’t turn up skittish, Mrs. Wyeth. I’m out of the habit of poaching on my brother’s preserves.”

  She put her knife and toast down, for that comment, especially from a belted earl, required a response, regardless of the household’s democratic eccentricities at meal times.

  “Were I, as you put it, your brother’s preserves, then it would be up to me whether I could be poached upon, wouldn’t it? And were I your brother’s preserves, and he mine, I can assure you, your overtures would be soundly rebuffed.”

  “You don’t fancy a title panting after you?” He was merely curious rather than peevish or offended.

  “I don’t fancy a man who would betray his brother at the same table as I am, much less with his tongue unattractively wagging in the wind,” Jacaranda said. “Because you are not such a man, at least not in your present incarnation, we need hardly discuss hypotheticals over our morning tea, correct?”

  “God in heaven.” The words were said with exactly the same inflection Worth used. “You are a veritable Tartar.” He saluted with his tea cup. “We have thoroughly hashed through my dastardly past, and I will have some of those eggs.”

  “You ought to talk to him about it, you know,” Jacaranda said, spooning eggs onto his outstretched plate. He was a big man, almost as big as Worth, so she didn’t stint.

  “You expect me to eat all this?”

  “You aren’t a bird, my lord, and Worth has you riding all over the shire. Eat up, and be grateful. I am.”

  She smiled and gave a flourish with her forkful of eggs. He wasn’t so bad, this earl, but he wasn’t a happy man, and she felt sorry for him.

  Imagine, feeling sorry for an earl. She’d thought to leave that habit behind her forever.

  “I’ve tried talking to Worth,” he said, tucking into his eggs. “He brushes the topic aside. Even as a boy, Worth was plagued by shyness.”

  “Bring it up again. My brothers all require persistence when one wants to parse a delicate subject, and then they want it over with as soon as may be. Cowards, the lot of them.”

  “Are you saying Worth is a coward?”

  “Good heavens, no.” Jacaranda studied her plate to hide the smile that went with the next thought: Worth is very brave. He’s pursuing me. “You both have a capacity for shyness, and Worth is the kindest man I know. I doubt he’d want you to trouble yourself over ancient history.”

  “Less than fifteen years ago,” the earl said, pouring himself more tea. “I am not shy.”

  She reached over and patted his hand. “Of course you’re not.”

  He glared at her, just as one of her brothers might, and she wondered where this great good-humored confidence of hers was coming from. The man was an earl, for pity’s sake, and she was teasing him.

  She wondered if anyone was teasing her own brother like this, for Grey was a man badly in need of teasing.

  “You are a baggage, Mrs. Wyeth,” Grampion pronounced, but he was smiling. At last, he was smiling again. “Worth is lucky to have you.”

  “Worth knows this,” said the man himself. He kissed Jacaranda’s cheek as he swept into the room, tousled his brother’s hair, and appropriated the teapot.

  “Damned thing is empty,” he said, taking a seat beside his brother and helping himself to the man’s tea. “One has to make do. Mrs. Wyeth, my brother and I are removing to Town this morning. I’ve been summoned by a particularly irksome client. We should be back before too long, unless I lose my brother’s company to the flesh-pots of Egypt, as it were.”

  The earl stole his tea back. “Worth, for pity’s sake.”

  “You could have grown lonely up there in the north with nothing but sheep to keep you company. Natures in the south are sunnier, you’ll note, because we have more opportunities to socialize convivially, and winters don’t last ten and a half months. Ah, look, somebody took pity on a poor, starving lad and left me a few spoonfuls of egg.”

  He took the rest of the eggs, winked at Jacaranda, and stoically endured his brother’s splutterings about manners and upbringings and decadent speech. A footman brought in more tea and moved the empty dishes to the sideboard before Worth waved him away.

  The earl rose and bowed to Jacaranda. “I’m sorry to leave you in such company, Mrs. Wyeth, but Worth claims his client cannot wait. I’m off to finish my packing.”

  “Worth claims,” Worth mimicked. “You’d better have your lordly arse down to the stables in thirty minutes or I’ll leave you here to Mrs. Wyeth’s tender mercies. She’ll have you fat as a shoat and standing up with all the local beauties if you’re not careful, and we have a veritable regiment of local beauties.”

  The earl departed, not deigning to reply, and Jacaranda was left smiling at her… Well, he was still her employer, and a little of her glee at the start of the day dimmed.

  “That boy needs to visit some flesh-pots, methinks.” Worth spoke loudly enough his departing brother might have heard him. “But he’ll stay with me in Town, because he hasn’t had time to open Grampion House. You’ll manage?”

  “Without you two? Of course.”

  This earned her a pause as Worth reached for his brother’s tea again.

  “I’ll miss you, Jacaranda Wyeth. I can’t close the door and part with you as I’d like, but I can tell you I will miss you.”

  “When will you return?”

  “You’re supposed to say you’ll miss me, too.” He set the tea down untasted, his morning bonhomie leaving his expression. “I wouldn’t be haring back to Town now of all times if I could avoid it, but this client has a right to be concerned.”

  “His money is at risk?”

  “He doesn’t do well with high-risk investments,” Worth said, clearly choosing his words, “but he needs high returns, and I’ve promised them to him.”

  “Promised, Worth?” He hadn’t made her many promises; but then, she’d given him exactly none herself.

  “Within reason. I don’t like doing it, for no matter how sternly I caution him, he hears only of the potential profit, but so far, we’ve been lucky. Walk me to my room? I’d like to take a proper leave of you, and Hess will be down at the stables in exactly five-and-twenty minutes.”

  “Did you know last night that you’d be leaving this morning?”

  He patted his lips with his serviette. “I did. The messenger arrived as Hess and I were putting away the cards. We saw him fed and bedded down with the grooms. He was on his way back to Town at first light. Why?”

  “You should have been getting your rest,” she said, unhappy with him for reasons she couldn’t sort out. “Not disporting with me.”

  “You are not doing this.” He rose and came around to hold her chair. “You are not picking a silly fight because I’ve been called to Town and you think I’m going happily. I’m going kicking and screaming, my love. I am well aware this timing is execrable, well aware we need to talk.”

  He towed her by the wrist into the hallway then dropped her hand. “Come along, please. We won’t be disturbed in my room, and you should have a chance to throw things at me if it will make you feel better.”

  “I don’t want to throw things at you.” Except he was right: She did want to throw things, things that broke with a lot of noise and mess and sharp edges.

  Good heavens, she was turning into her step-mama.

  “Th
en scream at me like a virago,” he suggested. “Along the lines of ‘Worth, how can you run off to Town when you know I haven’t made up my mind about you? This is exactly why no woman in her right mind should give you the time of day, much less fifteen minutes of her night. You dash off at the worst moment and leave a woman to wonder if she imagined all that…’ Have I got it about right?”

  He’d kept his voice down, which was probably why she hadn’t interrupted him with a sound scolding.

  “I wish you didn’t have to go, though I know your business means a great deal to you.”

  “Less than it used to,” he muttered, and this, for some reason, made Jacaranda feel better. “Less than it should.”

  She could not ask him if he’d consort with his opera dancers while in Town, if he’d haul his brother around to the brothels in a display of fraternal hospitality. Men were capable of living parallel lives, she knew that from being Grey Dorning’s sister, and from the mistakes she’d made five years ago.

  “I hardly need to pack much,” he said as they reached his room. He left the door open, but disappeared into his dressing room, allowing Jacaranda to peer around chambers she’d been in often enough, but never with him.

  “Do you know where my emerald cravat pin has got off to?”

  “I wasn’t aware you had an emerald cravat pin.” She followed him into his dressing room, because a possible theft of emerald jewelry on her watch was a very serious—

  He dragged her up against him and covered her mouth with his as soon as she was across the dressing room threshold.

  A morning kiss, Jacaranda thought as pleasure bloomed. He tasted of sweetened tea and a little of desperation. She preferred the desperation.

  “Damn you.” He pushed her up against a wardrobe. “How can you be so composed when I want to pitch a tantrum?” His kiss became slower, less desperate, more plundering. “I want to consume you, woman, to spend hours in bed wearing you out and then hours longer while you wear me out. Or maybe I’d go first, but what an end, eh? Say you’ll miss me.”

  He kissed her neck, holding her hands stretched above her with one of his and brushing his other down her front.