Worth; Lord Of Reckoning

by Grace Burrowes

  “I do miss my home, and my family. I’ve missed them for years, and that’s why after all this time—”

  He must have sensed that her words would be unwelcome, because he kissed her again, thoroughly, lingeringly.

  Jacaranda subsided to her back, all thoughts of disclosures and partings tossed out of the bed like so many more cold bricks.

  She kissed Worth back, cuddled with him, and conversed for another few minutes, but in truth Worth’s hand, or his company, or something about his visit had relaxed more than Jacaranda’s body. As she drifted off, Worth spooned around her and her discomforts considerably eased, she had the traitorous thought that it was fortunate she was returning to Dorset, for she could grow accustomed to his nocturnal company.

  Sheer folly, that, but what wonderful, pleasurable folly.

  * * *

  “Do you miss having a wife?” Worth put the question to his brother as they rode out, no grooms, no steward to hinder their privacy. Thanks to Jacaranda’s carping, Worth knew how to get around on his own land, knew which bridle path led to what lane and which fields had the best footing before their stiles.

  “I do not miss the wife I had,” Hess said. “I’m sorry if that offends.”

  Worth shortened his snaffle reins. “You might offend the lady’s memory, but your words can’t offend me.”

  “Why haven’t you married?”

  Hess might be shy, he did not lack courage.

  “I’ve wondered that myself lately.” Worth settled his weight into the stirrups. “Shall we let them stretch their legs a bit?”

  They raced the entire three miles remaining to Least Wapping. Hess was at a slight disadvantage because he didn’t know the terrain, but Worth had put his brother up on a former steeplechaser and Hess was an excellent rider.

  Hess thwacked his horse’s neck when they trotted into the yard of the posting inn. “What a prime fellow. Don’t tell me he’s for sale. I’ve no need of another gelding and Alfred’s feelings would be hurt. This one has tons of bottom, tons of it.”

  “You truly love it, don’t you? The cross-country romp that would frighten the hair off most people?” Worth swung down and handed Goliath off to a stable boy to cool out. “I haven’t let Goliath have his head like that for months, but he enjoyed it.”

  “They weren’t put on earth to pace their stalls, looking handsome and bored.” In the hint of wistfulness in Hess’s voice, Worth gathered an insight into his brother.

  “Autumn will soon approach. Why not linger here for some of the informal meets and then stay to attend the lords?”

  Hess’s features composed themselves into a bland mask. “What of the harvest at Grampion? Is the corn to bring itself in off the fields?”

  Why can’t you all have each other?

  Jacaranda’s words echoed in Worth’s mind, and he let the subject drop, but in the part of his brain that couldn’t resist a complex negotiation, he began to plot and plan and strategize.

  “Let’s grab a pint,” Worth suggested. “The horses can catch their wind before they tackle the five-mile jaunt back to Trysting, and you haven’t told me of the staff at Grampion. Is Homer Gentry still your land steward, and does his wife still make those butter biscuits that melt away all of a small boy’s troubles?”

  “And leave him with a bellyache into next Tuesday,” Hess finished the thought.

  To Worth’s surprise, Hess allowed himself to be interrogated about each and every person Worth recalled from his boyhood.

  Two and a half pints later, Worth mentally conceded it had more likely been a matter of Worth allowing himself to ask.

  * * *

  “What is Francine up to?” Grey hated having to ask his brother, but her ladyship’s correspondence had reached flood stage.

  Will tossed a stick dutifully dropped at his feet by a brindle mastiff larger than some of the ponies used in the mines.

  “I am not in Step-Mama’s confidence, Grey, for which I give daily thanks to my Creator. I did see her casting spells over the teapot with Mrs. Dankle.”

  The dog waited at Will’s feet, adoring gaze turned on its owner. When Will gave some signal visible only to the beast, it bounded off across the green between the gardens and the home wood.

  “Francine is ever imposing on Dankle’s good nature,” Grey said. “You need Ash to invent you a machine for pitching sticks into the next county, lest you tire your arm.”

  The dog was back in a half-dozen happy, ear-flapping bounds, the stick deposited at Will’s feet as the hound dropped to its haunches.

  “Step-Mama wants to spend the rest of the summer in Bath,” Will said, petting the dog’s great head. “If not Bath, then Lyme Regis. The older set likes to congregate where they have fond memories and to leave the house parties to us.”

  Where were Will’s fond memories? He was a handsome fellow in the tall, dark-haired, violet-eyed cast of his siblings and had read law with the same ease some people read the Society pages of the London Gazette.

  “I cannot afford to send Francine to Bath, and I’ve told her as much on several occasions.” Painful occasions, for them both.

  “I know that. Good boy, George.”

  “You name the largest dog in the realm after our sovereign?”

  “I named the largest bitch in the realm after our sovereign. Her full name is Georgette. You should ask Daisy what her dear mama is up to. If Francine burdens anybody with her schemes, it’s her own daughter.”

  At the mention of her name, the dog’s ears swiveled, for she, like most females, was apparently eager to do Will’s bidding.

  “I’d be nervous, were I you, Will.”

  “She won’t eat me, will you, Georgie dearest? She eats only meddling older brothers who won’t send Step-Mama away for a few weeks so we can all enjoy some peace and quiet.”

  “Which is why I’d be worried,” Grey said, letting the dog sniff at his hand. She was surprisingly delicate about it, for all her size. “I fear Francine’s scheming again to get one of us matched with an heiress. I’ve the title to protect me, because Francine won’t presume to choose our next countess. You’re the next oldest, the best looking, and too fond of the ladies to tell Step-Mama to mind her own business.”

  Will tossed the stick again, sending it clear into the home wood. “You’re saying if you deny Mama a house on the Crescent in Bath, she’ll seek revenge by flinging heiresses at me?”

  The dog disappeared after the stick, her path marked by rustling bushes.

  “I don’t know what exactly Step-Mama’s about. Francine is a woman who’s been discontent with her station for some time, and I haven’t the knack of divining her plots. She was after me to bodily fetch Jacaranda home, claiming that this time Mrs. Dankle truly will leave us for the charms of her son’s small holding.”

  “Dankle has earned her rest, and four grandchildren is rather a temptation.”

  Three grandchildren had done nothing to improve the lure of home for Francine. With each of Daisy’s babies, her ladyship seemed to grow more desperate to distance herself from her children.

  “Be careful, Will. If you’ve a notion to attend some house parties, I won’t stop you.”

  Will gave him an odd look. “I thought you hated house parties.”

  “I most assuredly do. They are the delight of the unhappily married and the downfall of many a contented bachelor. You’d best see what’s keeping that puppy of yours. Mr. Springboth’s hound occasionally gets loose, and as far as he’s concerned, your Georgie would make a prime bit of sport.”

  “I’ll be careful, and I’ll keep an eye on Step-Mama. See that you do likewise. You’re not bad looking, you have the title, and for some women, that’s enough.”

  Will loped off, his expression promising severe consequences for any presuming hound who trifled with his Georgette.

  * * *

  “It occurred to me,” Worth said as he settled in beside Jacaranda, “a storm is brewing tonight, and you might appreciate some compan
y. No bricks, my dear?”

  “No bricks.” The comment was literal and figurative, because she wasn’t hurling writs of ejectment at him either. Tonight she laced her fingers through his and let his hand rest over her midriff.

  His patience was paying off—finally.

  “You’re feeling a bit more the thing?” He stole a kiss to her shoulder, the happiest occasion of thievery.

  “A bit. That tickles.”

  “This?” He ran his nose along the top of her shoulder again. “You’re like a bouquet, you know. Your shoulders have one fragrance, your hair another, you hands yet another. I could cheerfully sniff you for hours.”

  He had, in fact. When last he’d called upon her under the covers, her scents had quieted his mind as much as her company had.

  “You’d get no rest.” Jacaranda sounded happy to contemplate his misery, and her happiness meant a great deal to Worth.

  “You’re either coming to trust me”—he kissed her nape—“or you’ve secreted a frying pan under your pillow and you’re confident you can subdue me with it if I get out of line.”

  She rolled to her back, and in the moonlight her features were breathtakingly lovely. “Are you soon to get out of line?”

  And there it was, the Jacaranda Wyeth battle flag, demanding honesty and a surrender of privacy from him. He hadn’t been sure even a few days ago that the sacrifice would be worth the reward, but now… He was willing to sacrifice much to have her honesty and her surrender. Willing to wait, willing to campaign all summer.

  Except summer was half over, and his dear Wyeth was increasingly restless, for reasons he could not fathom.

  “I will never cross the lines you draw for us,” he said. “I’ll push, I’ll tease, I’ll negotiate, and I’ll dare, but you hold the reins, Jacaranda. You will always hold the reins.”

  “If I didn’t, what would you do, were you at liberty?”

  Bold question. Clever, bold question.

  “Honestly? I’m supposed to say I’d ravish you blind, make love to you until neither of us can walk, and those would be sincere sentiments. I desire you until… Well, I simply do.”

  He shut up in defense of his beleaguered dignity.

  “But?”

  “I desire more than a quick tumble, a tickle and a poke. I’m not sure what exactly I mean, but I conclude your timing on the matter is to be trusted more than my own.”

  He watched her digest that, not even sure himself what he’d said, what he’d been trying to say.

  “Explain something to me,” she said, rolling over to her side again. “When can we pursue this ‘matter’ with the least risk of conception, were I so inclined?”

  He couldn’t help himself, he cuddled closer, a hot spike of lust giving the lie to his earlier more philosophical words. He’d meant those words of course—one did not dissemble with Jacaranda Wyeth—but her question boded well for his objectives.

  Whatever they might be.

  He opened his mouth to breathe in the scent of her neck. “After a lady’s indisposition has departed, it’s reasonably safe for a few days, a few nights. I would love to pleasure you, Jacaranda, all night.”

  “Yes, I know, until we’re both lamed, though how that results from pleasure escapes me.” She fell silent as Worth pushed her gently to her back, settling his mouth over hers before she could offer more tart, frustrated observations.

  “You want to know, Jacaranda,” he murmured against her mouth. “Your curiosity is consuming you. What would we be like, together? How would I feel, inside you, over you? Under you? Behind you? Just how much pleasure could I bring you with my mouth on your privy parts? Or maybe you’d like to put your mouth on me?”

  He cruised that mouth of his over her features, gathering tastes and textures with his tongue: her delicate, delicate eyelashes, the exact curve of her brows, left then right, the span of the bridge of her nose, the soft buttery substance of her earlobes, the pulse at her throat.

  “You are delicious, an edible bouquet.”

  “Stop. Worth, you must stop, now.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Worth paused, hoping Jacaranda had ordered him to a parade rest, not the onset of yet more sexual frustration.

  “You’ll overwhelm me,” she said, hiking up on her elbows. “I have not decided to—”

  “Join,” he suggested, “to join with me intimately.”

  “I haven’t, but you said…” She traced his eyebrows with her index finger, as he’d traced hers with his tongue. “I intended that you and I should have a certain difficult discussion, and I still do. But for now, lie on your back and behave, Worth.”

  He rolled to his back as obediently as one of Hess’s hounds and prayed to a merciful God this behaving was a form of progress for them. As for the difficult discussion, he could only hope that meant she was reconsidering his proposal. Difficult for her, to admit she’d erred, though in victory he would be gracious and charming. Why, he’d even—

  She took up where she’d left off, imitating him, tracing her fingers over his features, then following with her mouth.

  “You bathed tonight. I can smell the flowers on you.”

  “You like that,” he said, “that I bathed for you. I get hard when I’m bathing, thinking of you doing what you’re doing now.” One of many times throughout the day that arousal afflicted him.

  “Oh, please hush.” Not her usual dismissive admonition, more a moan, a prayer, and she settled her mouth over his, ensuring his compliance.

  He stayed on his back, where she’d told him to stay, and he resisted mightily the urge to roll her under him and the need to snug her body to his so he’d have something to thrust against.

  He instead put all that lust and longing and frustration into his kiss, sealing his mouth to hers, cupping her head in his palm and sending his tongue foraging into her heat. He explored, he plundered, he teased, he feinted, all in aid of encouraging her own forays. When the tip of her tongue limned his teeth, his cock leapt and his belly tightened.

  He dropped away from the kiss. “Too much.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  She was frowning again. Frowning wasn’t good.

  “Hell and the devil.” He took her hand and drew it down, to the arousal rampant against his belly, rampant, straining, weeping with the need for completion. “You do this to me, Jacaranda. I’m close.”

  “Close.” She kept her hand around him as he drew his away, leaving her to grip his shaft lightly. “I see.”

  “Close your fingers around me. Please.”

  She did, her grip still too tentative.

  “Tighter, love. I’m begging.”

  “I don’t want to hurt you.” But her marvelously competent hand closed around him securely, and the pleasure of it stole his breath.

  “If you move your hand, fondle me, stroke me, put your mouth on me, I’ll spend. I’ll leave if you ask it, Jacaranda. I don’t want to, but I can manage to abandon you now if I must.”

  A fine lie, that, and when honesty was one of the aspects of Jacaranda Wyeth he treasured most dearly.

  She held him firmly, while he willed her to find the fortitude to take this step with him.

  She sleeved him and moved her hand up and down about an inch. “Like this?”

  “Higher.” He got both syllables out through clenched teeth. “Not like… Here.”

  He showed her with his own hand, a few loose strokes, enough to get most of the length of him and enough that his ballocks threatened to draw up.

  “Draw my stones down,” he said. “Gently, yes… God’s dancing slippers.” The cool, soft slide of her fingers, the surprising assurance with which she complied with his request surprised him.

  “You like this?” She had her hand on his cock again, letting the circle of her fingers slip up to the crown and down the shaft.

  “Love…it. Jesus at the wedding feast.” He had to move his hips, had to, but he kept his undulations slow, wanting to savor the torture, wanting it t
o build and build. Knowing she was watching him by moonlight, though, watching the tension in his face, watching his body become a mindless, pleasure-maddened beast, made the whole experience so much more intimate.

  She was learning about sexual intimacy, yes, but she was learning about him, too.

  He grabbed the pillow on both sides of his head to keep his hand from fisting around hers. Bright, hot pleasure roared through him, out through every particle and sinew he owned and on into the dark, summer night. He groaned, he bucked, he strained to withstand the bliss and strained harder to surrender to it, on and on, until he couldn’t hear, couldn’t see, and couldn’t move for the pleasure wringing him out.

  When he was once again aware of crickets chirping and the breeze billowing the curtain, Jacaranda’s cheek was pressed to his abdomen, and her hand cupped his rapidly softening cock.

  Words. Women wanted words at such times. Worth had none. Couldn’t imagine when he would find any, either.

  Jacaranda rose and fetched a flannel and basin from the bureau across the room. She swabbed him off and took a few brisk swipes at her fingers.

  “A man’s pleasure is indelicate.” The most blissful indelicacy Worth had ever endured. “I’m sorry.”

  She set the towel and basin aside. “It’s intense. I suppose you’d like to sleep?”

  “Sleep, when I’ve just…? I’ll sleep later.”

  “I’ve never seen a man do that before.” She gestured vaguely at the cool air over his genitals. “My brothers were forever being coarse when they thought I couldn’t hear them, but I’ve never…well. I was afraid I’d hurt you.”

  She was so brave, and so shy about climbing back into bed with him.

  “Some people enjoy an element of pain. I’m not one of them, but stop looking at me as if I grew horns. I am in want of affection.” He was a little alarmed at his admission, for that was the truth coming out of his idiot mouth.

  Sex scrambled the brains; this was scientific fact, he was sure of it.