by Anne Gracie
“Good morning, Mistress Greystoke.”
Mistress. He said it just to annoy her, she knew. Any opportunity to remind her of that first meeting. I wouldn’t mind a mistress. Are you soon to be my mistress, too, Greystoke?
“Good morning, Lord D’Acre,” she said sunnily, determined to be unaffected by rakish looks or innuendo.
He prowled slowly toward her and leaned down. She braced herself. He bent lower and murmured in her ear so she could feel his warm breath on her skin, “There is a most delectable drop of honey just beside your mouth. If you like, I could lick—”
Grace hastily scrubbed at her mouth and glared a silent warning at him over her shoulder. He grinned and winked and held her chair to help her rise. He’d been teasing her; even he wouldn’t kiss her in front of Mrs. Stokes and Enid. Surely.
“If you’ve finished your breakfast—”
“He’s going to bleed Papa again!” Melly burst into the kitchen, distraught. “I told him not to but he told me to run along and stop bothering him.” She gave Grace an anguished look. “Papa’s already lost so much blood. He’s so pale and weak! I’m sure it’s not good for him!”
“I’ll go.” Grace dashed out of the room. Lord D’Acre caught up with her at the stairs, hooked his hand around her arm, and took her with him, flying up the stairs two at a time.
They reached Sir John’s room just as the doctor was about to open a vein. One glance at Sir John’s face confirmed Melly’s opinion. He lay weakly against his pillows, his eyes closed, the skin around them fragile and bruised-looking. His skin was very pale and waxen.
“Belay that, you damned leech!” Lord D’Acre snapped. “Miss Pettifer has already requested you not to bleed her father any more.”
The doctor straightened. “I am the physician here!”
“Yes, but when it is her father being treated, Miss Pettifer is the one who gives the orders.”
The doctor gobbled with indignation. “I refuse to take orders from some young chit!”
Grace stepped in and said in what she hoped was a calming voice. “Dr. Ferguson, Miss Pettifer is concerned about the amount of blood that you have taken from her father. She feels it is only weakening him, and indeed, that does seem to be the case. If you would just explain—”
The doctor drew himself up and gave her a haughty glare. “I explain myself to no one!”
“Then—” Lord D’Acre strode to the door and held it open. “Miss Pettifer, do you wish to dismiss this fellow?”
Melly looked frightened. She glanced from her father to Grace to the doctor and back to her father, chewing her lip, clearly unable to decide.
Dr. Ferguson decided for her, saying in a sniffy but ingratiating manner, “Well, since you insist, my lord, I will not bleed Sir John today, but be it on your own head. He is seriously ill and I cannot be held responsible if he worsens.” He started to pack up his things. “I have other patients to call on, so I will leave you this laudanum, which you can give him if the pain gets too great.” He snapped shut his doctor’s bag. “I shall return on the morrow—unless he worsens and you send for me. But if you do, I warn you, I shall bleed him, for nothing is so efficacious as bleeding a patient, I find.” He stalked from the room, a picture of affronted dignity.
Lord d’Acre watched him go. “Nothing is as efficacious as the prospect of a fat bill being paid.”
Melly looked frightened. “But I can’t—I don’t have any—”
Lord D’Acre cut her off. “Do not trouble yourself about it. I pay for the care of my guests. Now, are you satisfied with the outcome of this discussion, Miss Pettifer?”
Melly gave him a relieved smile. “Oh, yes, thank you, Lord D’Acre. It is most satisfactory. I do believe Papa could not take another bleeding.”
He did not seem to notice the glowing smile, but Grace did. It gave her pause for thought.
“Do you have everything you need?” he asked Melly.
Melly looked around the room. “I—I think so.”
“Good, then we shall leave you to make your father comfortable. You may order anything you need. Meanwhile, Miss Greystoke and I have a few things to discuss. In private.”
“We do?” Grace didn’t like the sound of that, but she had no time to question him any further, for he took one of her hands in his, and placed his other hand squarely in the small of her back. She found herself swept from the room like an errant leaf.
“What do you need to discuss? I don’t think there’s anything we need to discuss. Especially not in private.”
He refused to answer, just gave her an enigmatic look and marched her onward.
“Thank you for supporting Melly,” she told him.
He rolled his eyes. “The man’s a quack.”
Grace was inclined to agree. He led her to a parlor, badly in need of a good dust and polish, seated her, and drew up a chair opposite, uncomfortably close. His knees just touched hers.
She tried to scoot back in her chair, but he leaned forward. “First things first,” he said and took her hand in his. “You missed a bit.”
And before Grace could work out what he was talking about, he’d lifted her hand and sucked two of her fingers right into his mouth.
She was too surprised to say a word. She tried to jerk her hand back, but he held it firm, his eyes smoldering honey gold above her hand. She scrunched her eyes shut to block off that compelling golden stare but all it did was intensify the sensation of his mouth and what it was doing to her fingers.
He sucked on them in a slow, hypnotic rhythm. Grace had had calves and baby lambs suck on her fingers: they felt nothing like this. Each strong, slow pull arrowed straight to the core of her. Shivers rippled though her with each movement.
At the same time his tongue delicately explored her skin, sending tiny frissons skittering down her arm and backbone. His knees pushed between hers and she felt him move closer.
She felt his warmth, smelled his masculine scent and knew she must resist him.
She recalled that glowing smile Melly had given him and with a huge effort, wrenched her hand from his mouth, and pushed her chair backward.
“What on earth did you think—”
“Delicious honey,” he said in a conversational tone, as if he’d hadn’t just been outrageous. “Reminds me of the wild honey of the Greek mountains. There is probably a lot of thyme near the hive.” He smiled. “And of course there was the added taste of you. Delicious.”
She stared at him, dumfounded by his cheek.
His smile deepened. He reached out with one finger and pushed her chin gently up. Her mouth closed with a snap. “Otherwise I’d think you were trying to tempt me into a kiss. Have I warned you I have no resistance?”
“I know that!” The attempt to be scathing failed miserably.
“Yes, and besides, we need to have our little chat. There are people waiting for us.”
“People?”
“Yes, a dozen or more people waiting outside. When I inquired why they were there, they told me the Gray Lady asked them to come and work.”
“Oh.” Grace swallowed.
“Yes, oh, Greystoke.”
“Ahh,” Grace swallowed. “Yes, I um, met a few people this morning when I went out. And one thing led to another and I, um, offered them work, yes.”
He raised a brow. “You hired staff for my household?”
She flushed. “I’m sorry, I know it was presumptuous of me, but I didn’t think you’d have time to go out and find staff. And you said last night . . .”
He said nothing. She grew more nervous. “I’m sorry. I thought I was helping. And these people really need the work.”
His frown grew. “Do you mean they importuned you—?”
“No, no! They never asked for anything.” She bit her lip, wondering whether to be tactful or truthful. Truth blurted out. “But y—anyone can see they are in dire straits if only y—someone—cared enough to look! There is evidence of poverty everywhere.”
“Evide
nce?”
“The children, to start with. All the children are thin and their clothes are worn, made over, and much patched.”
He frowned.
“And their houses—the roofs leak, some show evidence of damp and decay, and yet these are tenants, and so not allowed to make repairs themselves.”
His frown grew darker. Did he think she was making it up? She redoubled her efforts. “There are people who have worked for your family—the Wolfe family—for hundreds of years! The land is good, so the estate should be prosperous, and yet the people are poor and despairing. Let me tell you about the people waiting outside for a chance to work.”
She began to count people off on her fingers. “Jake Tasker is one of your tenants who was evicted from the farm his family has worked for seven generations after a fire destroyed his barn and the livestock in it. His father was killed fighting the fire. They were unable to pay the rent for the first time in his life, but your estate manager—”
“Not my manager!”
“Very well then, the Wolfe family’s estate manager refused to allow him time to make up the shortfall. Jake Tasker, his mother, and his elderly grandfather now live in a shack on the edge of the forest and Jake and his grandfather take work wherever they can.”
She held up a second finger. “The three Tickel girls support—”
“All right, all right,” He held up his hands. “I’m not blind. And I imagine you can dredge up some sorry tale for every person on the estate.”
She smiled. “Not every person. Just the ones waiting outside.” She was relieved he’d taken her criticism of his family so well. Not all lords acknowledged the responsibilities that went with the position. But even Grandpapa, with all his faults, had never neglected his tenants. A thought occurred to her. “Can you not afford it?” she said, horrified. “Because if you cannot—”
“My financial situation is none of your business.”
“No, and I know it is very vulgar of me to ask. If you don’t want to tell me, just tell me to mind my own business.”
“I just did,” he pointed out.
“Yes, but I was giving you time to think it over again,” she said in a coaxing voice.
He repressed a smile. “Not that it’s any of your concern, but I can afford hundreds of damned servants!”
“Oh. Good,” she said, relieved.
He said, as if she hadn’t spoken, “I don’t know how you’ve discovered so much about the people here in such a short time—”
“To be honest, I don’t understand it myself,” she admitted. “They all just seemed to think I knew all about them already. They just seem to want to talk to me.”
He looked at her with an enigmatic expression. “I can understand that,” he said softly.
For a long time he said nothing more. She had no idea what he was thinking. Finally he said, “So you want me to hire all those people outside?”
“Yes, please.”
“As a favor to you.”
“Y-yes, and because they are your tenants and badly in need. And because the castle needs a good clean.”
“But also as a favor to you.”
Why did he keep stressing it as a favor? She didn’t trust it. Him. She said suspiciously, “If that’s how you like to view it.”
“Oh, I like. I’ll offer you a bargain, then. I’ll hire every one of those people waiting outside . . . for a kiss.”
Hah! She’d been right not to trust him! Grace slowly licked her lips, pretending to consider his suggestion. His eyes followed the movement of her tongue and she felt a frisson of excitement. Playing with fire.
“A kiss, you say?” She looked at his mouth. He stared at hers. She told herself it was foolish to tease a Wolfe, but she couldn’t resist. He was poised, intent. She tilted her head and gave him a speculative, flirtatious look. “For each person you hire?”
“Yes.” His voice was a little thick.
“Just one kiss?”
He nodded. The gleam in his eye intensified. He was certain of her agreement.
She purred, “I have an even better idea.” She smiled at him.
He smiled back. “I’m always open to new ideas.”
“Good.” She stood up briskly and gave him a quite different smile. “In that case, I’ll pay them myself.”
His hand shot out and stopped her. “Pay my workers? Don’t be ridiculous! You can’t pay them!”
She shook his hand off. “Why not?”
“Why not? Because you’re a hired companion yourself, that’s why not!”
She shrugged. “I have a nest egg.”
“I don’t care. I won’t allow it. They are my tenants, as you pointed out, and hired to put my castle to rights.”
She put up her chin and crossed her arms in a mulish gesture.
He changed tactics. “Come, Greystoke, why be such a little prude? What’s so hard about one little kiss per person?” He stroked her cheek with the back of his finger. “A great deal of pleasure and no danger to your precious nest egg.”>
She jerked her face away from the insidious caress. There was no nest egg—she was an heiress. The danger was to her precious heart. His kisses were just too lethal. “No, your price is too high.”
“What about one kiss for the whole lot? It would have to be a very good kiss, of course.”
She shook her head serenely. “No, your price is still too high.”
“You kissed me for free the moment I met you.”
He made it sound like she was a complete hussy, who threw herself at strange men on an instant’s acquaintance! “I did not,” she said indignantly. “You stole that kiss—those kisses—under false pretenses.”
“False pretenses? What pretenses?”
“I didn’t know you were Lord D’Acre when you first kissed me.”
“No, that’s right.” He grinned. “You called me an impossible gypsy, didn’t you? If that’s how you prefer me, I’ll be your gypsy lover, Bright Eyes.”
“Don’t call me that. And I don’t prefer you at all,” she lied. “It has nothing to do with station in life and everything to do with you being betrothed to Miss Pettifer.”
He nodded. “I see. But that doesn’t explain the other kisses. The ones among the wood chips, and in the kitchen. And in the wee small hours with the foal.”
“You stole them, too.”
“No, I didn’t. You knew very well who I was by then. And you can’t deny it, Greystoke, you did kiss me back. With flattering enthusiasm. Or will you deny they were your fingers in my hair, your tongue in my mouth?”
At his words, she felt a wave of heat wash over her. From the smug look on his face he could see it, too. “Nonsense. I was surprised,” she said feebly. “I didn’t realize what was happening.”
He smiled, a slow gleam of white teeth. “In that case I shall take care to surprise you more often, Greystoke. The results are always so delightful.”
And before she could blink, he bent and kissed her full on the mouth. He grinned and licked his lips. “Mmm, wild honey,” was all he said. His smile said it all. That and the blood thrumming through her arteries.
“I w-won’t—” she began, when she could gather her wits.
But he was already gone. Whistling.
DOMINIC EXITED THE SIDE DOOR WITH A GRIN. SHE WAS SO DELIGHTFULLY easy to tease. And such a joy to kiss. The faint taste of honey was still in his mouth. His heart felt lighter than it had in . . . years.
The silent group of waiting people caused the smile to fade from his lips. No matter what she thought, he hadn’t been blind to the dilapidated cottages, the skinny children in their ragged clothes, or the run-down farms in need of new equipment and modern methods. Ever since he came to Wolfestone he’d thought of little else.
Apart from a small, freckle-faced charmer.
His father’s legacy was not what he’d expected. He’d expected a proper Norman-style castle, not some fantastical hodgepodge, part manor house, part castle, part Gothic mansion with a fa
iry-tale turret thrown in. He’d expected it to be luxurious, filled with beautiful things, not empty, stripped bare, with leaves blowing through empty hallways. He’d expected a flourishing estate, peopled with prosperous tenants who revered the name of Wolfe.
Because everything he’d heard about Wolfestone had suggested just that, and the books and the inventories had confirmed it. Only the books had turned out to be crooked and the inventories no longer accurate.
He’d planned his revenge so carefully. He would sell off the beautiful things, break up the estate, and sell it off in pieces. He would let the Wolfe name die, forgotten, probably despised, and let the famous bloodline end with him.
But his father had already done most of it. The bastard had robbed him once again—this time of his revenge.
And now, looking at the faces of the people waiting in the courtyard, Dominic could not walk away. Not with his self-respect intact.
He moved forward and surveyed them, a dozen or so people with wary hope in their eyes, tamped low against the expectation of disappointment. He could see they’d all made an effort to look their best, the men’s hair slicked back with water, the women’s tidily knotted. Their clothes were threadbare but clean, and attempts had been made to furbish them up. Every face and hand was clean.
“So, you’ve come for work,” he said.
A broad-shouldered man of about his own age stepped forward. “Aye. The Lady told us to come.”
Dominic nodded. “And you would be?”
“Tasker, sir. Jake Tasker.” The man held up his head with an odd mix of defensiveness and pride. His eyes met Dominic’s steadily.
“Tasker,” Dominic repeated the name thoughtfully. She’d mentioned the Taskers and it had rung a bell. The name of Tasker featured on the agent’s books and correspondence. “Stand aside, please.” He gestured to a bench on which an old man was sitting. “I’ll talk to you later. Next?” Dominic looked at a pair of young men, in their early twenties.
A cracked old voice called out from the bench, “Served Wolfes for nigh on six ’undred years, Taskers ’ave.” The sound of spitting followed.