“Are you sure you’re well enough?”
If I stumble, I expect you to hold me up.
“I believe I can do that.” Jack pictured her in her fur-trimmed hooded coat, clutching his arm. They would walk slowly, and her red coat would brush against his trousers. The wool would be having fun while he thought dampening-and-not-at-all-ardent thoughts. Counted to one thousand and six. Recited the alphabet backwards.
Remembered what he was trying so hard to forget.
“What time will you be ready?”
I like to walk in the morning. Shall we say ten o’clock?
“All right.” His breakfast was served promptly at eight. He was expected to be downstairs and dressed too. No robe and bedroom slippers allowed. It was all part of the routine whose soundness Jack was not entirely sold on. Where was the logic in it? What difference would it make if he ate at eight thirty? One would think Mrs. Feather would enjoy an extra half-hour’s sleep.
Of course, he was not sleeping at all.
He’d even spoken to Oakley about laudanum. The doctor had flatly refused. A crutch, he’d said, one that Jack would soon regret using.
Jack was already full of too many regrets.
She motioned towards his cup and picked up the teapot. Did he want another cup of tea? Not really, but if he agreed, he could extend his visit. And if he was smart, he’d eat up all the treats that were on the tray. Who knew when he’d get another good meal?
And if he had another cup of tea, he could look into Nicola’s blue eyes a little bit longer.
Chapter 5
December 18, 1882
Nicola’s heart was racing. Just a little. No need to call for Dr. Oakley, however. She was only anticipating going for a Monday morning walk.
She’d need to go miles to work off her breakfast—porridge with double cream and honey, poached eggs on toast, bacon, sweet rolls, stewed apples, and a whole pot of tea. She could barely bend over to hook up the new boots her mama had sent so promptly. If food was the answer to her problem, she’d be reciting the Magna Carta by noon.
She hadn’t quite worked out how she was to respond to Jack on their walk—she couldn’t very well bring the notebook and purple pencil along and lurch all over the lanes as she wrote. Maybe there would be no need for conversation, just a quiet appreciation of nature and the quaint charm of Puddling. It had snowed in the night, and the winterberries outside the parlor windows resembled frosted rubies. Nicola would take a sturdy cane just to be sure, but clinging to Jack’s arm would be much more fun.
What had come over her? She was not normally forward. She’d never longed to hang on to Richard’s arm as they meandered around Bath during their long courtship. They had kept a proper distance, a polite gap that neither one of them was especially anxious to bridge.
On the whole, losing her voice might have saved her from a stultifying marriage. Nicola deserved more.
If she recovered—when she recovered—she would look about her for a congenial companion, but perhaps not a husband. Her parents would be horrified if she took a lover, so it might be best if she removed herself from their orbit. She had the means now, and was beginning to feel the motivation.
She was finally waking up. Goodness.
She took one last look in her mirror. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes were sparkling, and she hadn’t even taken one step out of her cottage. She’d managed to coax her fringe to curl, and her wine-colored dress was the nicest she’d brought with her. Its black frogging gave her a jaunty military air, although she supposed soldiers weren’t jaunty at all most of the time. The possibility of getting killed at any moment was bound to be a dampening prospect.
Nicola took the stairs with care, clutching the bannister. Her ankle still twinged, but it was securely wrapped beneath the new boot. She settled herself on the sofa to wait, trying not to watch out the window like a lonely puppy. It was five minutes past ten, and just because Jack wasn’t prompt didn’t mean he wasn’t coming.
And then it was a quarter after. Half past. Feeling a little silly, she rose and went into the kitchen.
Mrs. Grace looked up from slicing carrots. “He’s late.”
Nicola nodded. She’d brought her new notebook with her, and the blue pencil.
I hate to ask, but could you go to his cottage to see what’s keeping him?
The snow wasn’t deep. If he wasn’t coming, she’d go out by herself. She could walk up and down her own front path and be safe enough if it came to it.
The housekeeper wiped her hands on a towel and removed her apron. “I don’t like an unreliable man.”
Nicola was sure Jack wasn’t unreliable. Mostly. She watched Mrs. Grace don her own boots and a heavy cloak.
“You can finish up the carrots if you like. Not too thin, mind. They’re for tonight’s stew.”
Nicola smiled. Mrs. Grace’s stew was one of her favorite dishes.
She sat at the pine table and mangled a carrot. Her kitchen abilities were on par with her knitting, but she enjoyed helping Mrs. Grace most days. Nicola was picking up domestic skills that would be useful once she had her own household.
The clock on the Welsh dresser ticked loudly, and another carrot was brutalized. What was keeping Mrs. Grace? A simple “Yes, I’m coming” or “No, I’m sorry” shouldn’t take so long. She hoped Jack hadn’t fallen ill. Or fallen, as she had. Or maybe Mrs. Grace had slipped? Nicola was worrying too much, something she did more now in the last nine months than before. Danger lurked around every corner. No one and nothing was safe.
Just stop, she admonished herself. Nothing was ever solved by worry. One ruined one’s time needlessly imagining the worst. If the worst came, there was usually nothing one could do to forestall it anyway.
She heard the front door bang open and leaped to her feet.
“Nicola!”
It was Jack. She found him in the hallway, looking like a madman. His face was haggard, his eyes sunken, his hair was windblown, and he wasn’t even wearing a winter overcoat over his rumpled clothes.
What happened? she mouthed.
“I’m so sorry. I was up most of the night working on something, but must have fallen asleep around dawn. Mrs. Feather didn’t have the heart to wake me in my chair—who knew she was less evil than I thought? Anyway, your housekeeper and my housekeeper pinched me to see if I was still alive and here I am. What a way to start the day with those two witches hovering over me.”
Don’t be rude. You can’t go for a walk like that, she wrote.
He looked down on himself in surprise. “No indeed. And I haven’t had breakfast either. Quick, before your housekeeper gets back! What do you have to eat here? Mrs. Feather just feeds me gruel.”
He started to open up the wrong kitchen cupboards. Nicola lay a hand on his sleeve to stay him and felt a pleasurable little zing. She guided him to the pantry, where half a pan of cinnamon rolls sat, covered by a dish cloth.
Jack ate them all. Without a plate or a napkin, he bolted them down as if he would never eat again, licking his fingers—ink-stained fingers—between bites. He gazed at the well-stocked shelves in amazement.
“You have real food here! Just as I thought. They’re not trying to punish you. Maybe I should stop talking.” He colored, realizing his thoughtlessness. “You know what I mean. Please don’t take offense. I’m sure the Puddling people are trying their best with all of us. With the prices they charge I had hoped for better dinners, that’s all. Are those peaches? May I have a spoon, please?”
Nicola opened a drawer and handed him a silver-plated spoon. He proceeded to wolf down the contents of the jar, and she was considering opening another for him when Mrs. Grace rushed into the kitchen.
“Miss Nicola! Are you all right? I couldn’t stop that man.”
“Do I have telltale crumbs in my beard?” Jack whispered, ducking behind the pantry door.
Nicola brushed away a flake of pastry without even thinking first. Heavens. His beard was very soft, like fur. It was neatly clipped and gave him an air of distinction despite the disreputable state of his clothing.
Flushing, she stepped out of the pantry to prove she was unmolested. Jack followed behind, earning a glare from Mrs. Grace when she spotted the empty glass jar in his hand.
“Have you broken the dietary rules, sir?”
“I’m afraid I have, Mrs. Grace. I’ve always been a bit of a rule-breaker.” He’d told Nicola yesterday he courted trouble on a regular basis.
“Well, you’re in Puddling now. The rules are made for a reason. I shall have to report this to the governors.”
“Shall I be made to walk the plank? Face the lash? Return the peaches somehow? I don’t think they would be in pristine condition.”
Mrs. Grace raised a silver eyebrow, which would have terrified Nicola had the expression been directed at her. “Don’t be impertinent. There are consequences for your actions.”
“Don’t I know it,” Jack mumbled. His crooked smile had flattened. “Very well, Mrs. Grace, I shall endeavor to behave myself in the future. No more fruit for me.”
“It’s for your own good, you know. A moderate, wholesome meal plan is the first step to calming one’s nerves.”
Oh dear. Jack did not look like he agreed with her, but at least he wasn’t arguing back. Was he of a nervous disposition? He seemed…busy, but not manic. Full of life.
“I’ll be a good boy. Or try to. Nicola, may I borrow your notebook? I have something to show you.”
She followed him into the parlor, leaving Mrs. Grace to deal with the carrots and her temper. Jack flopped down on the sofa and began to sketch, a frown of concentration on his face. He flipped through several pages, drawing on each one. She took the uncomfortable chair, observing the rapid strokes from his deft if dirty fingers.
“Come sit beside me. This is all because of you, you know. Remember how you fell the other day? Of course you do—you’re still limping. I got to thinking about your shoes. They were next to useless in this weather. But what if one could make a shoe that could have traction built right in for any weather event? See there—it looks like a regular shoe. But with a thicker sole. When you slide this button, lines of steel teeth roll out. You could walk on ice or mud without slipping or getting stuck. Slide the button back, the teeth retract and you’re ready to dance. What do you think?”
She grabbed the pencil. What an interesting idea. They could be used for self-defense too.
“What a bloodthirsty wench you are! I suppose you’d like to go around kicking people with knives on your feet. I’d better stay out of your way.”
He was very much in her way right now, sitting so close, the scent of starch and his masculine cologne inescapable.
The aroma of peaches too. A kiss of forgotten summer. Nicola sighed without sound, then wrote in her book.
Is this what you do? Make shoes?
“Not yet. But I could buy a shoe factory and start.” He sat back. “I wonder if there’s military application—not that they’d go about kicking the enemy, but such footwear might come in handy in all sorts of locations. I’d have to make some prototypes, though. I wonder about the weight of the mechanism. Steel might not be practicable if one is marching for miles.” He dashed off a few words in the margins.
She read upside down. Wheels? Blades? It was pretty clear to Nicola that she and Jack were not going for a walk today. She squelched her disappointment.
Do you want to keep the notebook?
“No, I’ve got a dozen drawings just like this at home. And I can’t do anything about anything for the next several weeks—we’re all sub rosa here. Incommunicado. While the cat’s away, my secretary, Ezra Clarke, is probably sitting at my desk with his feet up, smoking one of my best cigars and hoping I never come home. A fine time to get an idea, buried here.” He looked slightly glum.
I can contact him for you.
Jack raised both dark eyebrows. “What? They give you real food and leave to write letters?”
Nicola nodded and wrote: My father is a solicitor. We write several times a week. I can enclose your letter in mine, and you can trust him to deliver it.
“You are encouraging me to misbehave. Break the rules. What will Mrs. Grace say?” He was grinning now.
Nicola grinned back.
“Oh, you lovely girl!” Jack threw his arms around her and kissed her cheek. Nicola was so startled by the contact that she moved, causing Jack’s lips to slide right over her cheek to her mouth. Their breaths mingled for a second, and then she felt him rear back.
As any gentleman should.
She leaned forward, grabbed his wrinkled jacket, and kissed him full on the mouth.
He wasn’t going anywhere now.
After a bit, his hand was in her carefully arranged hair, fingertips tickling her scalp. His lips were firm, warm and dry, and pressed against hers with the barest pressure. Nicola knew of open-mouthed kissing. Should she initiate it? It was rather peculiar, and she hadn’t much enjoyed it when she and Richard had experimented.
Jack decided for her. His tongue traced the seam of her lips, and she opened.
He was extraordinarily gentle, as if he expected her to object in some way. Bite his tongue. Slap his face. She wasn’t going to. Prickles of sensation raced up and down her spine as his tongue layered over hers. This was entirely different from anything she’d experienced before. It was less, but somehow more. The messy, clumsy, embarrassing wetness was absent; instead, there was controlled heat and purpose to every flick of Jack’s tongue.
Goodness. Although Nicola supposed goodness didn’t have much to do with it. Jack kissed in a reverent yet masterful fashion, and she felt every inch of her skin respond. Hair was lifting, tiny bursts of hot blood scurried to the surface. She must be terribly flushed, but after a quick peek, Nicola knew Jack couldn’t see her. His eyes were closed, his long dark lashes still.
She shut her own eyes again and allowed herself to feel only. Her hands twisted about his loosened collar, pinning him in place. In turn, one set of his fingers stroked her cheek while the other stole pins from her hair. She was coming undone in more ways than one. It was all like a dream, warm, lush, and exotic. It wasn’t winter. She wasn’t stuck in an odd Cotswold village, but cocooned in the arms of a—
“Miss Nicola!”
Oops. Mrs. Grace’s horrified tone reminded her that it was broad daylight, and she was on her sofa, her mouth being ravaged by a relative stranger. No, not ravaged. Nicola couldn’t think of the precise word, her head was spinning so. Feeling was so much simpler than looking for words in her fuzzy head.
Jack leaped up. “Forgive me. It’s not what you think, Mrs. Grace.”
“Isn’t it? I’ll thank you to go to your cottage right this instant and let Miss Nicola alone. The governors certainly will be hearing about this as well as your other infractions.” Oh, that eyebrow.
Heavens. Surely they couldn’t object to a friendship between Guests? Didn’t friends kiss on occasion? But perhaps not quite like Jack had kissed Nicola.
And would do again if she had any say about it.
Chapter 6
December 19, 1882
Jack was in the doghouse; no meaty bone for him. No meat, period. This morning, he’d been visited and lectured by Mr. Fitzmartin, Dr. Oakley, and the head of the board of governors, who’d just returned from his honeymoon abroad and seemed disinclined to waste too much time with a misbehaving Guest so he could get back to his new wife. The man—around his age, someone called Sykes—had blistered him with the consequences of his actions, checking his pocket watch all the while.
There was some mention of scandal, accountability, trust. High standards. Rules and responsibilities. Puddling’s sterling reputation through the ages, eight decades of s
uccess, a duty to reform the unreformable.
Which meant Jack, he supposed.
Quiet and wholesome country living was essential for the rehabilitation of Guests, which apparently did not involve kisses of any kind. Certainly no open-mouthed kissing on the sofa of Stonecrop Cottage.
Blah blah blah.
Jack pretended to agree with everything the three men said so they would go away as quickly as possible. He’d nodded so resolutely his neck ached. He wasn’t exactly under house arrest, but had been strongly admonished to leave poor Miss Nicola alone so she could recover without his dastardly interference.
Jack wondered if he could kiss her into speech. Like waking up Sleeping Beauty or Snow White or another fairy tale heroine. The plot details were unclear—neither his parents nor his nannies had been fanciful people, and his knowledge of children’s stories and magic kisses was as limited as his botanical awareness.
He was more than willing to learn, though.
He had gone back to Tulip Cottage in a daze yesterday, all thoughts of shoes and feet quite forgotten. He hadn’t even noticed the cold, since in his rush to apologize to Nicola for his absence he’d come out without an overcoat. While he was up the lane, Mrs. Feather had picked all his papers up from the floor and stacked them willy-nilly on a table, and he’d been too feeble to complain about the disordered order. There was a method to his disorganization, and he was very particular about it, but how was Mrs. Feather to know that? Jack had done nothing scientifically useful since he’d arrived, just stared off into corners and played solitaire with an elderly deck of cards. It was four days before he’d noticed the queen of clubs was missing.
It hadn’t taken the village drums long to alert his housekeeper to his amatory transgressions. Lunch and supper had been especially atrocious. Cabbage soup. And cabbage soup. One couldn’t call a small hard-boiled egg breakfast, could one? Not even salt and pepper were on the table to make the food more palatable. Those filched cinnamon buns and peaches from Nicola’s pantry would have to tide his taste buds over indefinitely. If he concentrated, he could almost still taste them; they were delightfully mixed up with the taste of Nicola’s lips.
Redeeming Lord Ryder Page 4