Thus, Jacaranda spent the afternoon pretending she enjoyed helping with the preserves, pretending her step-mother had always made a day of such things, when in truth Step-Mama ventured no closer to making jam than when she applied preserves to her perfectly toasted bread each morning.
“Step-Mama is no fool,” Jacaranda muttered when the jam was made and she could finally take off her apron. Evening had fallen, the long, soft hours of gloaming when the sun had set but the earth held on to the light.
“Your back troubling ye?” Cook asked. She’d been in Surrey for decades, but the broad vowels of the north abided in her speech.
“A twinge,” Jacaranda allowed. “Putting up the fruit makes for long days.”
“Raspberries is the worst for spoiling,” Cook replied. “Good to have it done. Apples and pears is more forgiving. Even the cherries ain’t so finicky.”
“Raspberries are fragile, but we’ll have preserves to put in everybody’s basket at Yule.”
“And shortbread.” The gleam in Cook’s eyes was particularly satisfied, because she’d conspired with Jacaranda to have their dairyman stagger the breeding of the heifers so they didn’t all freshen at once. Staggering the herd meant Mr. Morse didn’t get three months off with no milking, but it also meant the estate always had fresh milk and butter without having to buy from the neighbors.
“Did I smell shortbread baking this very morning?”
Cook’s wide face split into a smile. “That you did, in anticipation of the blessed event.”
“He isn’t supposed to arrive for another day or two. The house hardly needed much attention to be ready to receive him.”
She stated a simple fact, though Simmons’s footmen had been putting in long days, indeed.
“Maybe not on your end.” Cook retrieved a plate of shortbread from the pantry. “I haven’t cooked for the Quality for going on five years. The larder needed attention, and I’ve yet to work out my menus past the first meal.”
Jacaranda accepted a piece of shortbread, only one, though Cook had cut pieces sized to appeal to hungry footmen, bless her. “I don’t suppose you’d show me what stores are on hand?”
“Put the kettle on, Mrs. Wyeth.” Cook popped a bite of shortbread into her mouth. “This might take a cup or two of tea.”
By the time Jacaranda had a week’s worth of summer menus planned with Cook, full darkness had fallen and bed beckoned. The moon was up, though, and rather than make the tired staff lug a tub and water up to her room, Jacaranda threw towels and soap into a wicker hamper, along with a dressing gown and summer-length chemise.
The pond nearest the house wasn’t merely ornamental. With a pump, cistern and an elaborate set of pipes, it served the stables, the laundry, and several other outbuildings. The pond was, however, relatively private, being ringed by tall hardwoods and fringed with rhododendrons on three sides.
On the fourth side was a grassy embankment, and there Jacaranda settled with her hamper. She’d done this before, usually on nights when she couldn’t sleep.
On nights without a moon.
On nights when dreams were something to avoid.
Tonight, even tired as she was, sleep wasn’t yet close at hand. She was ready for Mr. Kettering’s arrival, but others at the house were excited, as if some handsome prince had kissed the entire staff awake. Their anticipation was like that of unruly children—impossible to ignore—and resulted in an excitement foreign to Trysting’s usually placid demeanor.
Jacaranda resolved to swim away the staff’s vicarious nerves, get clean, and enjoy a little privacy.
Her dress came off, then her shift and stays, then sabots, leaving her naked in the moonlight and comfortable for the first time in a long, hot day. She dove in from the rock God had positioned for that purpose and made a long, slow circuit of the pond. When she’d done her lap, she put the soap to its intended use and prepared to leave the water.
Hoof beats interrupted her consideration of the next day’s list of things to do.
Hoof beats, coming up the driveway at a businesslike trot.
She was in the shallows before she realized the rider would come right past her corner of the pond on his way to the stables. Probably a truant groom who’d stayed too long at the posting inn in Least Wapping.
She toweled off hastily and shrugged into her nightgown and dressing gown, hoping the man’s guilty conscience and the befuddling effects of spirits might conspire to keep her from his notice.
And they might have, except the beast was apparently a Town horse. The handsome gelding looked like that type whom squawking chickens, crossing sweepers, runaway drays, and rioting mobs wouldn’t deter from his appointed rounds, but a pale blanket spread on the grass in the moonlight had the creature dancing sideways.
“Everlasting Powers, horse, it won’t eat you.”
A splash, as some frog took cover underwater, might have suggested to the horse his master was flat-out lying. Either that, or the animal sensed the proximity of hay, water, and fellow horses.
“Damn and blast, Goliath, would you settle?”
Goliath settled, albeit restively.
“Around to the stables with you, and at the walk if you know what’s good for you.” The beast must have known exactly that tone of voice, for it walked daintily on down the driveway.
Jacaranda blew out a breath of relief and folded her towel into the hamper. She did not recognize the horse, or the groom’s voice, but the stable master, Roberts, knew what he was about. Housekeepers might use a pond late at night, and the occasional stable lad might go courting.
A few minutes later, a lantern sparked to life in the stable yard and voices drifted across the water. Working quickly, Jacaranda began to plait her wet hair. Whoever had wakened the stables would likely quarter with the grooms at this hour, but she wasn’t about to be caught in dishabille.
“You there,” a masculine baritone said from the shadows of the rhododendrons. “Explain what you’re about, and explain now.”
The tone of voice—imperious, vaguely threatening, definitely intimidating—arrived at Jacaranda’s brain before the content of the words did. What registered was that she was alone, barely dressed, after dark, outside, with a strange man. The shadow detached itself from the surrounding darkness and proved to be of considerable size. She opened her mouth to scream, but nothing came out.
Her legs were not as unreliable. She would have pelted barefoot for the house, except the day before had been rainy, the bank was grassy, and Jacaranda’s feet were wet.
At the last instant before she toppled into the pond, her foot slipped. Instead of a graceful arc over the water, she tumbled and fell, pain exploding in her head as she went under with a great, ungainly splash.
Chapter Two
“Breathe.” Kettering pushed dark, wet tendrils of hair off the woman’s forehead and spoke more sharply. “Madam, I told you to breathe.”
She coughed and rolled to her side, bringing up water and yet more water. Then she shivered, even as she tried to scramble away from him.
“None of that, or you’ll be back in the pond, and I am not rescuing you a second time.” He eased his hold, his mind insisting she was well, despite the galloping of his heart.
“Rescuing me?” This time she got as far as a sitting position, her mouth working like an indignant fish’s. “Rescuing me, though you all but pushed me into the water when I tried to evade your unwelcome company? I’ve never heard the like.”
Her pique was almost humorous, given that her nightclothes were sopping wet and her curves and hollows tantalizingly obvious in the moonlight.
And yet, she had dignity, too. Damp, disheveled dignity, but dignity nonetheless.
“Madam, you panicked,” Kettering said, retrieving his riding jacket from the grass farther up the bank. His coat was dusty, but he knelt and draped it over her shoulders in aid of her modesty, which would no doubt soon trouble her—for it already troubled him. “If I hadn’t hauled you out of the water,
you’d be bathing with Saint Peter as we speak.”
“I am an excellent swimmer.”
“You are an excellent scold.” He settled his palm on the side of her head, brushing his thumb over her temple. “You’re also raising a bump the size of Northumbria. Nobody’s an excellent swimmer when they take a rap on the noggin like this.”
He took her fingers and gently guided them to the site of her injury.
“Angels abide.”
He rose, and she gaped up at him. He wasn’t that tall. He knew of at least one belted earl who was taller, several men who were as tall, and still the gaping abraded his nerves. He extended a hand down and drew her to her feet.
And gaped.
“I must look a fright,” she said, but to him…
She was tall for a woman, wonderfully, endlessly, curvaceously tall. When dragging her from the water, only vague impressions had registered—some size, some female parts, not enough breathing. His coat had slipped from her shoulders as she stood, and he might as well have seen the woman in her considerable naked glory.
He picked up his coat and dropped it over her shoulders again. “I’ll carry your effects, you keep the jacket, and we’ll find some ice for your bruise.”
“The ice stores are always low this time of year.”
“Then we’ll put the last of it to good use,” he said, gathering up her hamper and his boots. “I’m Kettering, by the way, at your service.”
When courtesy demanded that she give him at least one of her names, she remained quiet as they moved along the garden paths toward the back of the house.
The names he had for her would probably get his face slapped.
She came up almost to his chin, a nice, kissable height, and she moved with confident grace, though he kept their pace slow in deference to her injury. Truth be told, he rather liked that she didn’t chatter. He could only hope she lived on one of the neighboring estates and enjoyed the status of merry widow.
Worth Kettering had a particular fondness for merry widows, and they for him, over the short term in any case. He was good for an interlude, a spontaneous passion of short duration—short being sometimes less than a half hour but invariably less than a week.
He’d studied on the matter and concluded women wanted more than a little friendly, enthusiastic rogering—that was the trouble. They wanted gestures, feelings, sentimental notes, bouquets, and passion, and he was utterly incapable of all but the passion.
He was so lost in a mental description of the follies resulting from females embroidering on passion—the notes and waltzes and flowers and whatnot—that he nearly didn’t notice when the lady at his side preceded him into the back hallway leading to the kitchens.
Sconces were lit along the corridor, so he let her lead the way and used the time to admire the retreating view of her confident stride.
“You will please sit,” he instructed his companion.
Her lips thinned, but she plopped her wet self down at the long kitchen worktable, one that had been scarred and stained when Kettering had been a lad. He was pleased to note his initials had not been smoothed off the far corner in the years since his childhood.
“I suppose tea would be in order,” he decided, hands on hips. Thank a merciful God, the hearth held a bed of coals and a tea kettle ready to swing over the heat. He quickly assembled the required accoutrements, aware of his guest watching him the whole while.
“Perhaps you’d better speak,” he suggested, “lest I conclude a blow to the head has stolen your faculties. I’ll put some sustenance on a plate, if you don’t mind. The ride out from Town is damned long—pardon my language—and I didn’t intend to finish my journey with an impromptu rescue at sea.”
“You certainly make yourself at home in the kitchen,” the lady remarked, and her tone said clearly, she did not approve of his display of domesticity.
“I’m a bachelor, and most kitchens are organized along the dictates of common sense.” He demonstrated his bachelor savoir faire by opening drawers and cupboards rather than leering at Trysting’s cranky mermaid. “One learns to manage or one starves. Even the best staff is somewhat at a loss for how to cosset a man of my robust proportions.”
Her gaze drifted over him, calmly but thoroughly. He was nearly as wet as she, and he didn’t mind the inspecting—inspecting was all part of the dance—but he did mind being ravenous.
“You’ll pardon me while I nip out to the ice house to find something cold for your head.”
“That really won’t be necessary,” she said, starting to rise, only to sit right back down, her hand going to her temple.
He scowled in a manner guaranteed to silence prosy barristers and conjure files gone missing in the clerks’ chambers.
“Fainting on your part would be a damned nuisance all around, madam. Keep to your seat. No head wound can be considered trivial, and the welfare of guests is taken seriously at Trysting.”
“I’m not a guest.”
He cut her off with a wave of his hand as he made for the back door. “Guest, trespasser, vagrant, tinker, what have you. I’m off to fetch some ice, and you will await my return.”
* * *
Could she make it as far as her quarters unaided before Captain Imperious of the Surrey Mounted Flotilla returned?
Likely not—not yet.
This Kettering-at-your-service must be some arrogant younger relation of Jacaranda’s employer, an opportunistic nephew thinking to sponge off the old gentleman for the summer’s visit, or an heir eyeing his expectations. She’d set him to rights when her head stopped throbbing and the room stopped expanding and contracting every time she moved.
The fellow wasn’t entirely without use, though. He came back into the kitchen bearing a bowl of chipped ice, an incongruously cheerful red-checkered towel over his shoulder.
“Plenty enough ice left for our purposes,” he said. “I’ll have to speak to Simmons about ordering more.”
Jacaranda had printed a reminder for Simmons regarding the ice not two days past.
“Hold still, madam.”
That was all the warning Mr. Kettering gave Jacaranda before he held a towel full of ice firmly to the side of her head. The resulting pain caused her meager shortbread dinner to rebel and had her ears roaring again. When the roaring subsided, she was aware of the discomfort traveling even into her shoulder and of how the ice against her wound made her head both freeze and burn at the same time.
“Woman, you will hold still. You’re in no condition to be delivering set-downs or lectures or whatever it is you’re planning to deliver. Soon, your head won’t hurt so badly, I promise.”
His voice was brusque as he held the towel against her throbbing skull with one hand. With the other, he cradled her jaw, imprisoning her cheek against a washboard-firm stomach. His shirt was damp, of course, but through the dampness the heat of him warmed her jaw. Jacaranda should have shot to her feet with the indignity of it.
Should have scolded him smartly for his presumptuousness.
Should have delivered a set-down wrapped in a lecture tied up with a sermon.
She leaned closer to his warmth.
“Better, hmm?” He took the towel away. “Bleeding has stopped, too, thank the Everlasting Powers. Hold this here.” He took her hand in his and anchored the towel to her temple again. “I’ll fix us a spot of tea. You’re pale as a felon awaiting sentence.”
He moved off—a relief, that. Jacaranda held the melting ice for as long as she could, but the cold penetrated her hand as effectively as it had her head, and her teeth threatened to chatter. She distracted herself from the chill by watching Kettering bustle around the kitchen. For a big, rather wet man, he moved silently. He was in stocking feet—he must have left his footwear in the back hall for the Boots—breeches, waistcoat and shirt, and his clothing left nothing to the imagination.
This exponent of the Kettering male line wasn’t a retiring, scrawny functionary holed up at the Inns of Court with a flannel around h
is dear, wattled neck. This fellow looked like he split wood, shod horses, and loaded sea-going vessels in his spare time.
His height was the first thing Jacaranda had noticed. Added to his height was his darkness: dark hair—particularly when wet, of course—and a burnished cast to his neck and forearms that suggested he frequently went without his hat—and shirt.
Beyond his appearance, he bore an energy that would have had Jacaranda scooting out of his path, if dignity would allow such a thing. Coupled with that energy was a brisk competence, which, at the moment, she appreciated.
“Drink.” He put a cup of tea before her, as if she were a recalcitrant denizen of the nursery.
Jacaranda did not touch the tea cup.
“Oh, now.” He set the tea tray down and lowered his presuming self right beside her. “Settle your hackles, duchess. What self-respecting Englishwoman refuses a nice hot cup of tea?” He wrapped her hands around the cup, his own cradling hers on either side of the mug. “See? Feels good. Now, don’t be contrary when you know you’ll enjoy your tea.”
He took his hands away, having made his point, and Jacaranda’s inchoate chill was abruptly supplanted by a peculiar heat rising from her middle.
“You’re blushing,” Mr. Kettering informed her. “I’m charmed, but you’re still not drinking your tea, and until you have a sip, I can’t touch mine.”
She drank her tea, a cautious taste at first, but he was right: The tea was hot, strong and sweet, and the first cup of tea she’d ever had prepared by a man. The taste was disconcertingly good.
“Better, right?” He set his empty cup on the table. “I should have a housekeeper around here, and she might have something dry you could borrow to wear. It’s dark out, thank the Deity. No one need see you in a servant’s attire if we wrap you in a dark cloak and take you home in a closed carriage.”
“I beg your pardon?” Servant’s attire?
“I’m rather fond of the old dear,” he went on, “and one doesn’t want to give offense to loyal retainers. Mrs. Wyeth is the closest thing to a decent female on the premises, unless you want me canvassing the neighbors for some clothes?”
My Favorite Rogue: 8 Wicked, Witty, and Swoon-worthy Heroes Page 46