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 concessions 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 f
riendliness.
“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.”
“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.”
“She was your sister, too.”
“She was, but you two were closer to each other than I was to either of you, at least in recent years. Shall we make a start on those scones?”
Over scones, raspberry jam, and clotted cream, the talk became less fraught, the teapot was emptied, and a yawning sadness welled up where Worth’s resentment of his brother should be.
He didn’t hate Hess. He’d forgiven him long since, in fact, realizing his brother had likely had little choice all those years ago. Some choice, perhaps, but not much, given their father’s force of character and the state of the Kettering finances.
Still, resentment and mistrust lingered, and more than tea and crumpets would be needed to restore fraternal regard.
“Shall I show you the stables?” Worth asked. “I’m sure Roberts will have your horse settled in, but you were always particular about your cattle.”
“I could use some exercise, and yes, the stables will do nicely. The hours in the saddle take a toll they didn’t used to. What?” He frowned, looking for a moment like their father. “You think I among all men am immune to the march of time? I am not, so don’t give me that look.”
“Beg pardon.” Worth rose and directed his guest to the door, only to find it opening before them.
“Oh!” Jacaranda Wyeth stood in the corridor in a lovely high-waisted summer dress looking about sixteen years old and, for the first time in Worth’s memory, flustered. She carried a basket of flowers over her arm and a crystal vase half-filled with water. “Mr. Kettering, I’m sorry. I was told you were in the formal parlor.”
“Hess is family, so we’re in the family parlor,” Worth improvised, but he had a sneaking suspicion he owed his staff for this bit of good fortune. He took the vase. “Mrs. Jacaranda Wyeth, may I make known to you Hessian Kettering, Earl of Grampion, and my brother, come to enjoy a southern respite. Hess, Mrs. Wyeth is our domestic genius at Trysting. She anticipates most of our needs and has the staff poised to fulfill the rest. You’ll come to treasure her as I do.”
“Mrs. Wyeth.” Hess offered her a slight bow, a gesture of cordiality from a man who had no cause to bow to housekeepers of any stripe. “If you can keep up with this one,”—his gaze moved over Worth—“you are indeed a pearl among women.”
“My thanks for the flattery from you both. The state rooms are ready for you, my lord, and I’m sure the nursery is buzzing with news of your arrival.”
“The girls will just have to wait a bit,” Worth cut in, setting the vase on the gate-legged table. “We’re off to the stables. Perhaps the young ladies might join us for a picnic at luncheon?”
Hess’s eyebrows rose at that suggestion, but Hess knew how to picnic. He might have neglected the skill, but he’d had it once, and he could revive it with practice.
“A picnic it will be,” Jacaranda replied. “If you’ll excuse me, my lord, sir, I will tend to my flowers.”
She ducked pas
t them, and Worth saw the speculation in his brother’s eyes.
“Keep your lordly hands off,” Worth said as they moved through the house. “Perhaps I’m sensitive, because you married my last fiancée, but Mrs. Wyeth is not for you, Hess. I mean it.”
“Getting to the old business directly, aren’t we?”
“You’re the one who votes his seat, so you know the tedium of old business.” Worth positively marched for the front door. “This is new business. Stay away from my housekeeper. She isn’t up to your weight.”
“Worth, I am here to sort out my responsibilities to various dependent females in our family, nothing more. Even so, your housekeeper is a magnificent specimen of femininity, and my own eyes tell me she’s doing a proper job of managing your house. Let’s leave it at that, shall we?”
A nice speech, and really, Hess had his pick of titled women. He had no need to pursue housekeepers, tweenies and chambermaids.
“Let’s take the path through the gardens,” Worth suggested. “The lavenders are blooming, and we can find you a sprig for your lapel.”
“Why should I sport weeds on my person?”
“Because Avery considers the scent reminiscent of her mother, and that’s an association you want her to make.”
Worth adorned himself first with a sprig of true lavender, then found a showier bloom for his brother. Hess held still while Worth affixed the blossom to his lapel, and the moment bore a strong odor of déjà vu. How many times had they attended each other in preparation for balls, assemblies, formal dinners, and outings with the neighbors?
“Does it still bother you?” Hess asked, fingering the sprig. “That I married her?”
“I try not to think about it.” Which was the truth, not all of the truth. “I was having second thoughts, but reassured myself even those were a sign she and I were meant to be together.”
“You were very young,” Hess said, and it wasn’t a taunt or even an excuse. “Both of you, and if it makes you feel any better, she and I took years to arrive at even cordial civility. We didn’t have much of a marriage, Worth.”
My Favorite Rogue: 8 Wicked, Witty, and Swoon-worthy Heroes Page 62