Worth; Lord Of Reckoning

by Grace Burrowes

  “I offered marriage, thinking you sought a husband. What honest man of your acquaintance actually wants marriage? Have your brothers galloped up the aisle, one after another?”

  No, they had not, not a one of them, not even Grey, and a wife would spare him much. If Grey were married, his pleas for Jacaranda to come home would carry much less weight.

  Though what woman would marry Grey, knowing she’d have to put up with six other men in her household? Most of those fellows were Step-Mama’s sons, and what they knew collectively about respecting female authority could fill a thimble halfway.

  “I’m only a housekeeper, and you’ll be back to Town in a couple of months at the latest. You’ve your pick of gently bred ladies to marry and married ladies to dally with—or opera dancers. Why are my desires important to you?”

  He put the butter crock into the hamper. “I’ve inspected that inventory, and they’ve inspected me. They’re bored and ornamental, and most of them excessively dainty. Even the taller ladies don’t want their hair mussed on any occasion, and all that dodging about, pretending a mere passing acquaintance on the dance floor, is tedious. Puts a crimp in a fellow’s style to be ignored the moment a title goes waltzing by.”

  I cannot express my passion. What would Worth Kettering’s passion be like? Not merely his kisses, but all of him?

  “What you want, Wyeth, is important to me because I want you. Simple and unflattering to the male of the species, but the truth. Your wants and mine can overlap, though, and to our mutual satisfaction. I leave the decision in your hands.”

  He rose, then leaned down and kissed her forehead, bringing his scent and warmth close for a mere instant.

  “The rain has stopped,” he said, straightening. “Let’s get you dressed, bank the fire, and see about getting home, shall we?”

  And so, for the first time in her life, Jacaranda was assisted into her clothing by a man, one who knew all about tapes and hooks and the proper sequence for attiring a lady. His assistance was impersonal, but not in the same way a maid’s might have been. Worth’s aid was a friendlier version, with a little less detachment, but no more presumption.

  She liked it.

  She liked that he knotted her shawl right under her breasts, but didn’t touch her breasts. She liked that he laced her boots, but didn’t try to move her skirts aside when he touched her ankles. She liked that he tied her bonnet ribbons, but didn’t kiss her as he was leaning down to do so.

  And then matters grew even worse.

  He asked her to heft the second shaft on the buggy, and between the two of them, they managed to wrestle the vehicle around before hitching Goliath back into the harness. Worth—he was Worth to her, at least for now—hadn’t asked her to stand by, pretending her hems weren’t ruined. He’d asked her to lend her strength to get them home.

  All the way back to Trysting, Jacaranda tried to talk herself out of considering this offer made by her employer. She knew the flaw in it—the flaw in herself. She’d said she wanted to know how intimacies with Worth Kettering felt, but beneath that honest admission came another. She wanted to be known, to be recognized and desired as a woman, not as a housekeeper, or useful step-daughter or a sister, bound to return home at summer’s end.

  The first, the bodily pleasure, she had resisted for years. Now that she’d had a sample, she could see the temptation. The sensations were hot, lush, overwhelming, and wonderful—but soon over. The second, though, that yearning loneliness to be known, to be valued and cherished, it had been her downfall in the past, and she’d sworn it wouldn’t be ever again.

  Not ever.

  * * *

  The business of teasing Wyeth into his arms felt all too familiar. Worth was a master of the chase, of the quick riposte and elegant parry, the flirtatious innuendo and sly double meaning. Except this time, the whole exercise was fraught. He wasn’t enjoying it, not the way he should be.

  He wasn’t enjoying the pursuit because he wasn’t engaged in a fencing match only to the first touch. He dared not admit as much to his quarry, but he was courting his housekeeper, and if one activity in his life had ever ended badly, it was courting.

  He announced his intention to depart for London at dinner, then tucked Avery in, complete with an extravagant fuss over the wonderful scent of her Manka.

  Then he sought to take private leave of his intended, whether she admitted of the distinction or not.

  Jacaranda wasn’t in her chambers. He had to search for half an hour, but eventually he thought to look in the logical location on a warm summer night. He was halfway down the garden path when a form stepped out of the shadows.

  “Fine night for a stroll, isn’t it, sir?”

  Roberts, his stable master, emerged from the gloom of a tall privet hedge, a pipe between his teeth. The man was a human mountain, more than competent with farriery, and he had the slow, relaxed movements that soothed fractious beasts of any size.

  Except, perhaps, a fractious employer intent on trysting with the housekeeper.

  “You’re out for a smoke, Roberts?”

  “Most nights.” Roberts took the pipe from his mouth. “So the entire family will be gathering soon?”

  “The entire…” God in heaven, the man was right. When Hess joined them, four Ketterings would dwell under one roof. A veritable gathering of the clans, by their standards. “Yes, I suppose. Well, I’ll be on my way. Enjoy your smoke.”

  “It’s good,” Roberts said, not budging from the path, “when family comes together. Better that way.”

  “For some families. When did I hire you, Roberts?”

  “You didn’t.” He smiled slightly and stuck his pipe back in his mouth. “She did.”

  Across the garden, Jacaranda’s pale nightclothes revealed that her swim was over and she was marching directly for the kitchen door.

  Worth was too late. He considered applying a punishing right cross to Roberts’s smug smile.

  “What do you suppose she was doing out here?” Worth asked. “It’s late to be wandering the gardens.”

  Roberts shrugged massive shoulders. “Perhaps she was in want of a smoke. If you’re thinking to ask her, though, you’d best be waiting until morning. Sleep tight.”

  He sauntered off at the deliberate pace of a plough horse, one that needed no momentum to move a substantial load forward, only sheer strength in telling abundance.

  Jacaranda Wyeth, the housekeeper, had hired the man?

  Jacaranda, who wasn’t a virgin, but who had been disappointed?

  Worth shuddered at the idea of such a brute disporting with Wyeth, though in truth Roberts had no height or reach over him, just bulk.

  Brute bulk, Worth told himself as he repaired to the house. Inelegant, horse-scented brute bulk, such as would never appeal to a lady of Wyeth’s refinements.

  * * *

  Worth—Mr. Kettering was leaving in the morning, and to Jacaranda, his departure would bring both relief and regret. He’d asked her to consider his offer at her leisure, but there was nothing to consider, really.

  She told herself that and willed herself to believe it. The day had been long, tiring, and difficult. Tomorrow, with him gone, would be easier.

  Sleep evaded her relentless pursuit, so she heard the door to her sitting room creak open.

  An intruder? Then a faint, cedary scent came to her.

  Him.

  “What an accommodating little thing you are, Wyeth, curled up on one side of the bed.” The mattress dipped as he lifted the covers and joined her. “Your hair is damp. Surely you could have used my assistance to brush it out for you?”

  “I was sleeping, if you don’t mind.” She rolled to her side, giving him her back.

  “I couldn’t sleep, not without telling you I’ll miss you when I’m away.”

  His hand, slow, soothing and warm, traced over her nape and shoulders.

  She would have decades to catch up on her sleep, to miss him and his touch.

  “You could have told me
at breakfast, or tonight after dinner,” she said, and despite all her intentions to the contrary, a soft sigh followed the words. He wouldn’t miss her. He was just being Worth.

  “I would not have others overhear such sentiments,” he said, moving his hand down along her spine then back up. “Nor would I keep you from your slumbers. Go to sleep, my dear.”

  “With you in my bed?”

  “I’m harmless, Wyeth, unless you command it otherwise. Consider me an errant house cat who seeks to warm himself on your quilt, nothing more.”

  “You’re too good at this, and you don’t belong in my bed.” But a crisp, scolding tone eluded her, and her words sounded as wistful as she felt. Angels abide, that hand of his was melting her bones and weighting her eyelids, and entirely, entirely too wonderful.

  “Hush.” His lips grazed her shoulder. “You need your sleep, and tomorrow will come soon enough.”

  “Sufficient unto the day…”

  She let the words trail off as she sank into a cloud of ease and relaxation. He shifted closer, close enough she could feel his warmth, not so close he couldn’t maneuver his hand all over her back.

  Then he slid that hand down, to knead her backside, and the sheer bliss of it—and the proximity of sleep—had her sighing again. She recalled him slipping an arm around her waist sometime later, but then all she recalled were dreams.

  And he joined her in those, too.

  * * *

  “Wyeth.” Worth couldn’t help a grin, because his lady was dressed, but her hair was unbound, a fly-away dark cloud of riotous corkscrews and ringlets hanging down to her hips and secured with only a simple ribbon. “My, you are a fetching sight so early in the day.”

  He made no move to touch her, because they were at the mounting block before the house, and a dozen pairs of eyes were no doubt glued to the window panes. He’d given his word he’d not jeopardize her reputation, and he always kept his word.

  More to the point, if he put a single toe over that line, she’d dismiss him from her notice altogether. The high stakes were exhilarating, rather like a risky negotiation with several powerful parties at once.

  “You’ve come to see me off,” he suggested. “I’m touched.”

  “Enough of that.” She shoved a wrapped parcel at him. “Take this with you, please. Mr. Henderson delivered it as a sample of Trudy’s work, though she’s capable of fancier pieces. And take this.” A double sack, such as would go on either side of a saddle’s pommel.

  He gave her a puzzled look, but accepted both consignments.

  “It’s food,” she said, crossing her arms. “For your journey. The posting inns have only indifferent fare, and luncheon is hours away.”

  She blushed, while Worth felt uncharacteristically self-conscious himself. With luck, he’d be in London by midday or shortly thereafter. That wasn’t the point. No one attended his leave-takings, not since he’d first gone up to university. No one packed him food, no one came to see him off.

  He was…touched.

  “You’ll keep an eye on the girls, Wyeth?” He turned as if to watch Roberts leading Goliath to the mounting block. “They’ve been here long enough to become bored, and that’s not good.”

  “I’ll keep an eye on them. Yolanda has discovered the library, and Avery is making some friends.” She reached out as if to pat his lapel then snatched her hand back.

  “Am I not quite presentable?”

  “Your cravat.” She loosened a fold of cloth beneath his jaw. “It worked its way under your waistcoat.”

  Then they spoke at the same time.

  “I’ll be back…”

  “When will you…?”

  He recovered first.

  “Walk with me, Mrs. Wyeth? Roberts, I’ll take Goliath now.” He snatched the reins, tossed the sacks over the pommel, checked the girth, the fit of the bridle, then offered his free arm to his housekeeper only when Roberts had slowly ambled a good distance away.

  “I shouldn’t ask,” she said. “The house will be in readiness whenever you return, if you return.”

  “Now what sort of friend would I be if I merely rode down the lane without even a wave farewell? Roberts is watching me like he’s your jealous beau, else I would bow over your hand in parting. If you need anything in my absence, a groom can get word to me in a few hours.”

  “I’ll remind the girls.”

  “I appreciate the provisions,” he added, bending closer as if to hear her, but in truth sneaking a whiff of her hair. “I should be back by Wednesday. I’ll send a note if I’m delayed.”

  “And if your brother shows up?”

  “He’d best not. He’d have to move like lightning to get here so quickly, and Hess believes in enjoying the privileges of his station.”

  “If he shows up, we’ll make him very welcome and send word.”

  He frowned down at her. She was quite pretty with her hair all a fright. “I really would like to kiss you, Wyeth. At least tell me you’ll miss me. I expect that much honesty from you.”

  Oh, she scowled at that. Her swooping dark eyebrows drew together, and her mouth worked, evidence she was composing a wonderfully puritanical lecture regarding proper conduct between employer and employee. Then she curled her arm more closely around his.

  “I’ll miss you.”

  “Beg pardon? I couldn’t quite hear you.”

  “You heard me. Now stop bothering me, and get on your horse.”

  “A stirring declaration if ever one graced my ears.”

  She dropped his arm, but now she was smiling, a soft, private smile that made him want to toss his housekeeper over his shoulder and send Goliath back to his stall.

  “Be off with you,” she said, stepping back. Now she was smiling at him. “Safe journey.”

  He touched the brim of his hat, swung onto his horse and cantered off down the drive. He was still savoring that smile and intermittently grinning like an idiot, when he reached his town house hours later.

  * * *

  Jacaranda had felt like an idiot, standing at the mounting block as if she were someone who had a right to see Mr. Worth Kettering off on his journey. She was nothing, a mere housekeeper, and then he’d called himself her friend, and the early summer morning had become altogether lovely.

  Worth Kettering’s body housed several different men. One was the imperious, brilliant solicitor who expected immediate and unquestioning compliance with his every directive. That man was reasonable, if impatient, but he did not suffer fools.

  Then there was the flirt, a reckless, heedless, strutting louse who in all likelihood left a trail of broken hearts from one end of Mayfair to the other. Jacaranda didn’t approve of that fellow one bit.

  Worth Kettering was a conscientious older brother, too, a man somewhat at a loss to know what duty required of him, but ready to do it for his sister and more than ready to step up to the challenge of raising his niece.

  Jacaranda liked that Worth, and she respected him.

  Then there was her Worth. An absolute puzzle, unlike any man she’d dealt with before. He desired her, intimately, but didn’t force himself on her. He touched her, with his hands, and his body, and his mouth, and the feel of him was wonderful. His scent lingered, his warmth comforted, and his hands… Angels abide, his hands.

  And that Worth—her Worth—was careful with her, and not only physically. He was sensitive to her pride and considerate of her in small, subtle ways, like not taking her hand while Roberts glowered from the mounting block.

  That Worth was an irresistible combination of every naughty, lonely, spinster housekeeper’s most closely guarded dreams. She needed time to gain perspective on him and on his infernal offer. Wednesday seemed much too soon, and an eternity to wait to see him again.

  The solution to this situation was the same solution she’d employed many times in the past: Stay busy.

  The next morning, Jacaranda had a lengthy list in her reticule, and Avery’s hand in hers as they left their gig at the livery in Lea
st Wapping. Yolanda was quiet beside them, but Jacaranda had the sense the girl was every bit as bright as her brother. Yolanda would notice everything and say little.

  “Do you each have your pin money?” Jacaranda asked as they approached the market square.

  Avery dropped Jacaranda’s hand and reached for Yolanda’s. “We do!”

  “Then why don’t you have a look around? I’m easy to spot, and I won’t leave without you.”

  “We won’t be gone long,” Yolanda said as Avery tugged her off toward a table laden with the baked goods perfuming the morning air with their yeasty scent.

  “So those are the Kettering ladies?” Thomas Hunter appeared at Jacaranda’s side, a rangy fellow past the first blush of youth, with serious brown eyes and wavy wheat-blond hair.

  “The older one is Miss Yolanda,” Jacaranda said, though as an acknowledged sister to an earl, Yolanda might make her come out with the same consequence as a Lady Yolanda. “The younger is Miss Avery, a niece. How have you been, Thomas?”

  “Managing. I’ve wondered if himself would pay a call on us.”

  “You’re on the list, I assure you, but on our last attempt, we were thwarted by the weather.”

  He offered his arm, the sort of thing his neighbors wouldn’t know to do, but he did, and Jacaranda let herself be escorted to a patch of shade at the side of the churchyard.

  “Mayhap, Mrs. Wyeth, you and Mr. Kettering did make an attempt to visit, but found your way blocked by a tree?” He looked not at her, but rather at their friends and neighbors laughing, talking, and making their weekly purchases on the green.

  “Thomas, does that hypothetical have a point?”

  Jacaranda had always liked Thomas Hunter. He wasn’t a sheep, waiting to be told where to graze, in what company, and for how long. He was on his way to owning a small holding, she was sure of it, and when he had his own land in hand, he’d make it amount to something.