by Anne Gracie
She found a small pot, and transferred some of the hot water into it. She waited until it came to the boil, then tossed the carrots in and stirred them around. They bobbed woodily. She covered them with herbs.
It must be well past fifteen minutes! The fiend! She returned to her vegetables.
After another ten minutes, the kitchen door opened and the black-browed fiend sauntered in. He’d changed into a fresh shirt and coat and another pair of buckskin breeches—thankfully! They didn’t cling to his form nearly so much as the wet pair had. His hair had been combed back, but it was overlong and a lock of it fell over his forehead. A drop of water glimmered at the end of it. Not that she cared.
“Miss Pettifer was wondering where her cup of tea is, and the doctor would like his with no milk and two spoonfuls of sugar.”
Grace glowered at him. She’d forgotten all about the tea Melly had craved. She seized a brown earthenware teapot and banged it down on the table. He hadn’t even mentioned her dress or . . . or anything.
He sauntered toward her like a lazy big predator. Her pulse leapt but she didn’t turn a hair. She ladled tea into the pot with as serene an expression as she could muster. She would not let it show, she would not.
A muscle twitched in his cheek. “I gather Miss Pettifer likes her tea extremely strong.”
Bother! She’d lost track of how much tea she’d put in. Grace gave him a limpid look. “Yes, she does,” she lied. That drop of water was very distracting.
“Twelve spoonfuls is very strong.”
“Is it?”
“The doctor prefers his tea weak.”
“Does he?”
“But then, I’m sure you’d know how to make tea better than I would. Coffee is more my brew.”
It was infuriating, Grace thought, how the right things to say never came when you needed them. She ought to say something clever and cutting about the devil’s brew. But she couldn’t think of anything clever and cutting, not with that lock of black hair falling over his forehead like that.
“Your hair is about to drip.”
He pushed back the lock of hair indifferently. “How is your hand?”
She thrust it into the fold of her skirt. “All right.”
He nodded at her soup pot. “What is that you’re making?”
“Soup?”
“Really? How enterprising.” He strolled over and glanced into the pot. His mouth twitched. “Made soup before, have you?”
“Frequently,” she lied. “In any case, there is not much choice, is there?” Hah! That was pretty cutting.
He stood watching her chopping at the turnip. “Would you like me to do that?”
“No, thank you. I can manage perfectly well.”
He nodded at her hand, wrapped in his handkerchief. “Is it still hurting?”
“No, it’s much better. Thank you.”
He gave her an enigmatic look. “You’re not cross with me?”
“Good heavens, no,” she assured him in a gracious tone. “It’s not your fault you were brought up a mannerless wretch with no moral standards whatsoever! For the fire and the wood, I’m quite grateful.”
White teeth gleamed. “I don’t want your gratitude, Greystoke,” he said softly. He prowled two steps closer and before she knew it his hands were on her waist and he was pulling her against him. “I want you,” he purred and covered her mouth with his.
Grace stiffened and tried to pull her head away. He took no notice. His lips moved over hers gently, with lazy assurance, as if she were his for the taking. She tried to push him away, but he simply wrapped his arms around her.
She tried to kick him: her brother-in-law Gideon had taught her where to kick a man who was annoying her, but Lord D’Acre blocked her cunning move with ease. Without breaking the kiss he pressed her back against the kitchen wall, covering her body with his in a shockingly intimate move. She could feel every hot, hard inch of him, his mouth firm and demanding, his broad, hard chest crushing the softness of her breasts, his long, hard horse-man’s thighs pressing against her. His heat soaked into her.
She tried to say something, to protest, but the moment she opened her mouth he took shameless advantage, deepening the kiss, his mouth seeking, demanding a response she hadn’t known was in her. She was melting under his heat, spinning, clutching onto him as if he could stop her from falling.
She slid her fingers into the thick pelt of his midnight hair and kissed him back, needing more, more. The taste of him seeped into her, as if it was something she’d craved for for as long as she could remember.
He moved against her restlessly and through the layers of his breeches and her skirts, the hard press of his thighs, of his hips rubbed against her made her legs tremble. It made her want to climb his big, hard body the way a cat climbed a tree, clinging on with her claws, rubbing her soft belly against him.
Her knees buckled and he moved to push his thigh between hers, rubbing and rocking with a rhythm that her body sang to. She moaned and clung and pressed her body and mouth to his, seeking she knew not what . . .
It took her a long dazed moment to realize that he’d released her. A sharp withdrawal of heat that chilled her. Bewildered, unable to take her eyes off him, she touched a shaking hand to her mouth. What had just happened? She was panting like an animal, gasping for breath as if she’d run a mile. He was, too.
His eyes ran over her in a hungry, possessive manner that half thrilled, half shocked her.
She raised a hand to her chest in an automatic, age-old gesture and felt a curl under her fingers. She looked down and suddenly realized her hair had come out of its usual knot and was all over the place. She pulled it back, then realized her skirt was rucked up and caught between her thighs. Thighs that felt trembly and the place between them hot and moist and achy. Hastily she smoothed her dress back into a semblance of order.
Then the realization hit her. She’d just been thoroughly kissed by her best friend’s fiancé. Her best friend’s fiancé! And worse, she’d kissed him back in a way she’d never kissed any man before. With an abandon that frightened her a little. And thrilled her in a way she knew ought to be shocking.
She wiped her mouth with her hand, as if she could wipe away all trace of the kiss. The kiss! Could it possibly have been only one kiss? It had shaken her to the core.
“It won’t do any good,” he said with soft amusement. “My taste is in your mouth forever, now. As you are in mine.”
The shocking claim and the lazy possessiveness in his voice snapped her spine straight. She scrubbed at her lips. “It is not!” It was. She could still taste the hot masculine tang of him. “And—and if it is, a good rinse with vinegar and water will fix it!”
He threw back his head and laughed. Then he said softly, “It won’t work. I’m in your blood, Greystoke. And you’re in mine. And the only thing to do about it is to follow our instincts.”
“Excellent!” she said briskly and when his brow shot up in surprise, she added sweetly, “My strongest instinct is to box your ears!”
He chuckled and shook his head knowingly. “You had that opportunity before, remember?”
She flushed, remembering how he’d caught her hands with such ease, and how later she’d buried her fingers in that thick pelt of glossy hair. His reminder of her weakness flicked her on the raw. “You are a disgrace. You are an engaged man—how dare you make such advances to me while you are engaged!”
“As to that, I suggest you don’t fret about what you cannot change,” he said. “In any case, my agreement with Miss Pettifer is for a marriage of convenience. It is a business arrangement, nothing more. Miss Pettifer has no feelings for me, I assure you.”
She knew that but she was astounded at his casual attitude. “How can you talk of marriage in such a—such a cold-blooded way?”
He shrugged. “Marriage is a cold-blooded institution.”
“That’s a terrible thing to say!”
Her vehemence seemed to surprise him. “It’s a fact of
life. People marry for money, for property, for security, to improve their status, and to beget heirs in order to preserve wealth within a family. If that’s not cold-blooded, I don’t know what is.”
“People also marry for love.”
He made a scornful sound. “No, that’s just what they call it. I can give you another name for it—lust! A financial basis is much sounder.”
“Only for the man,” Grace argued. “Women lose their financial independence when they marry.”
“Exactly, which is why I’ve never been able to understand why so many women so willingly give that up for the sake of being married.”
Grace was surprised. She’d never heard a man take that point of view. “They probably believe love is more important that financial independence.”
“More fool they.”
Grace was inclined to agree with him. It was the way she felt herself—but only for herself. Most women didn’t see things her way at all. She thought of Melly. “Most women want children.”
He nodded. “True enough. The maternal instinct will out. And men want heirs. Property and heirs, that’s what the institution of marriage is for.”
Grace thought of Aunt Gussie’s second marriage, to her beloved Argentine husband. “No, not always.”
She’d never forgotten Aunt Gussie telling her about it: “He could have married a stunning young virgin—he had the pick of Argentine society.” Aunt Gussie had smiled like the cat who ate the cream. “But he wanted me. A short, plump, childless English widow in her third decade. Now that was a grand romantic adventure, I tell you. That man taught me the meaning of passion! We sizzled, my dear, positively sizzled!” And Aunt Gussie had sighed dreamily.
At the time, Grace hadn’t been able to imagine any man making her sizzle. She knew differently now.
The way Lord D’Acre had made her feel felt a lot like . . . sizzle.
Then again, he could probably make any female sizzle, the rat! She had to remember he was a lord and he thought her a paid companion. Gentlemen always dallied with servants, careless of their feelings, as if servants didn’t have feelings, didn’t have hearts that broke. No matter how much he sizzled and made her sizzle, she couldn’t take him seriously. He didn’t even believe in marriage.
She thought of her sisters, who had all found loving, passionate, loyal husbands. “Some marriages are wonderful, full of love, and happiness, and warmth.
Lord D’Acre snorted. “I’d never have thought a girl who carried a knife in her boot would believe in such fairy tales, Greyst—what the devil is your first name, anyway? You don’t want me to call you Bright Eyes, and I can’t keep calling you Greystoke . . .” He smiled like a self-satisfied tiger. “Not after all we’ve shared.”
“I don’t have a first name. Just Greystoke.” She took a determined step away from him and said lightly, “What do you imagine we’ve shared, Lord D’Acre? You know nothing about me. You are betrothed to Miss Pettifer and even if you know nothing about loyalty—and, and love—I do! Now go away and do whatever you were planning to do before I interrupted you!” She shooed him away.
“You’re wrong, Little Miss No-first-name. I know a great deal about—what did you call it?—oh, yes, love.” The sultry, drawn-out way he said the word was almost indecent! “But if you want to instruct me further—”
“Out!” She pointed at the door. Hands on hips, she waited for him to leave. She could not believe she’d just ordered a man out of his own kitchen.
And naturally he wasn’t about to obey her.
He grinned, as if her imperious demeanor amused him, and for a moment she thought he was going to grab her again and kiss her senseless, so when he finally moved, she jumped, expecting him to lunge.
Instead, he fetched a few more loads of wood and stacked them beside the hearth, just to show her who was lord of this castle. And who was the paid companion.
She watched. She wanted to kick him for his obtuseness. And for lighting her fire. And for kissing her. And worst of all, for making her want to kiss him back.
It had all seemed so simple; disguise herself as a companion, and be there to give Melly the courage to tell her father she didn’t want a cold-blooded marriage with a cold-blooded lord.
We sizzled, my dear, positively sizzled!
This lord was far from cold-blooded. She watched him stacking more wood on the fire. He was just stubborn, thick-headed, and idiotic! Marriage is a cold-blooded institution—indeed!
He made a few last-minute adjustments to the fire. “That should last the rest of the night.” He straightened. “Well, I’m off.”
He strolled past her. She held her breath and locked her knees. His coat brushed against her and she caught a faint whiff of his scent. He smelled the same as he tasted. Exotic. Forbidden. Wicked. Irresistible.
She wiped her mouth again, as if it could remove the taste of him from her consciousness. My taste is in your mouth forever. It was not. It was not!
His hand was on the doorknob of the outside door when she remembered to ask, “Where are you going?”
He turned, a sardonic look on his face. “The village tavern does excellent meat pies, I’m told. And after all that wood chopping I’ve worked up a fine appetite. Good evening.”
Meat pies? Grace’s stomach rumbled as he closed the door behind him. She looked at the carrots bobbing unsinkably in green-flecked dishwater. Meat pies?
Lord D’Acre, spawn of the Devil!
“SO THIS IS WHERE YOU ARE. I HAVE SEARCHED AND SEARCHED AND I couldn’t find a soul.” Melly entered the kitchen. “The doctor has gone. He said he wouldn’t wait for the tea, after all.”
“How is your father?”
“Oh, Grace, I’m so worried about him. He looks so ill and he keeps asking for a . . . for a m-minister.” Her face crumpled.
“Oh, Melly.” Grace put down the knife and hugged her friend.
“The doctor has bled him and bled him and—” She broke off, wiping her eyes. “I cannot believe it is doing Papa any good. He’s sleeping now, but he’s so weak—much weaker than he was before.”
Grace frowned. Great-Uncle Oswald had strong opinions about doctors and he was scathing on the subject of those who bled patients at every opportunity. “Have you asked the doctor not to bleed him anymore?”
Melly nodded. “Yes, but he took no notice. You know how it is.”
Grace did know how it was. “Well, let us see how your papa is in the morning. And perhaps there is another doctor in the vicinity—we could get a second opinion.” She picked up the knife and resumed chopping vegetables.
“The doctor said he’d be back in the morning. Perhaps we could talk to him together.” Melly frowned as she became aware of the carnage on the table. “What on earth are you doing?”
“Making soup.” Grace hacked at a turnip. It was a very old, very tough turnip. Her injured hand throbbed and her stomach kept rumbling. The thought of hot meat pies had set it off. Blast him!
Melly peered at the array of old vegetables dubiously. “I didn’t know you could cook.”
“Anyone can cook,” Grace declared, hoping it was true. “Beside, we have no choice.”
“Why not? Is there nothing else to eat? Are there truly no servants? And where is our host?”
The innocent questions made Grace’s blood want to boil. But she couldn’t let it boil over poor Melly. She chopped savagely at a hapless turnip. “Our host”—chop, chop, chop!—“the unmitigated, scoundrelly, callous wretch, has left us to fend for ourselves.” Chop, chop, chop! “He just leapt onto his horse and rode off! To the village inn!” She hurled the turnip pieces into the pot. “Where they make excellent meat pies!”
The turnip bobbed woodily with the carrots among flecks of green herbs. It looked nothing like any soup she’d ever eaten.
“How very peculiar,” Melly declared.
“Yes, I think the vegetables are too old.”
“I meant Lord D’Acre. It’s very peculiar of him to go off like that.” She
gave Grace a half-embarrassed look. “He’s not as bad as I expected, you know. Spending hours out in that terrible storm looking for the doctor for Papa—even if you actually fetched him. And helping the doctor get Papa changed. He even told me not to worry, that everything would be all right.”
Grace stared at her in incredulity. How could Melly swallow such bland assurances? The same man had just spoken of marriage as a cold-blooded business affair—not that Melly knew that. But she did know that the wretch had just walked out on them to feed his own face while they starved.
Misreading the reason for Grace’s incredulity, Melly nodded. “Yes, it was nice of him, wasn’t it?”
“Nice of him?” Grace snapped. “There’s nothing nice about a man who goes off to eat delicious meat pies leaving his guests to make their own—” She looked at the pot with loathing. “Disgusting soup!”
As she spoke there was a knock on the kitchen door. Bemused, Grace went to open it. Outside stood a boy with a large wicker basket. “Please, miss, would you be Mistress Greystoke?”
“I would.”
“Then m’lord sent this up for you and the others.” He shoved the basket into Grace’s hands and gave her a huge grin. “Gave me a shillin’ an all, he did, just for bringin’ it up here!” he confided joyfully and ran off.
“What is it?” Melly asked from behind. She took the basket from Grace’s hands and carried it to the table. The contents were covered by a clean blue-and-white-checked cloth. She pulled it back and the scent of freshly baked meat pies filled the room.
“Mmmmh.” Melly inhaled ecstatically. “They must be the ones he told you about—you obviously misunderstood his intentions. And look, there’s fresh bread, and cheese and apples and a bottle of port—not that Papa is up to drinking port, but still, it’s a thoughtful inclusion.” She beamed at Grace. “See, I told you he was a nice man.”