Had his sister been forlorn and mournful it would have been easier to take than that matter-of-fact statement. But this reminder of the luxuries he couldn’t and hadn’t been able to provide his sister hit him like a fist to the gut.
“Absolutely not!” Edwina insisted, gently but firmly disentangling Cailin’s grip on that ribbon. “Why, there doesn’t have be a reason to have articles that one likes or wants to wear.
Still, it was a battle of the wills between his sister and an impressively stubborn Edwina.
“You should take it back,” his sister said, trying again to remove that satin scrap.
“I’ll do no such thing,” Edwina insisted. “I’ve any number of ribbons.”
“Of course you do,” he muttered, attracting a glare from Cailin. Edwina, however, gave no indication that she’d heard that petty and bitter rejoinder from him.
And in the end, it wasn’t an Audley who proved triumphant but this peculiar stranger who’d stormed their lives.
“There!” Edwina said happily, and assessed the satin ribbon she’d woven through Cailin’s hair.
Clearing his throat, he headed for the hot stove, and proceeded to make himself another cup of stiff tea.
Edwina and Cailin resumed working, quietly chatting as they did, their words low enough that he strained to hear.
Not that he wanted to, necessarily.
Of course he didn’t.
At all.
It was just—
“. . . Pigeon au Poivre . . . it really is quite clever,” Edwina was saying.
From where he stood at the stoves, Rafe blew on the hot brew, and used the opportunity to study the duke’s latest emissary. As Cailin stoked the fires, Edwina cut up strawberries, handling the knife with surprising ease. His sister set down the poker, and next checked the flame under the small cast-iron stove.
When she’d finished, she gathered up another small bowl of strawberries and carried them over to Edwina. She set them down. “Is this enough?” And equally surprising, that question was directed at . . . Edwina.
Edwina assessed the clay bowl. Using the tip of her blade, she sifted through, her lips silently moving as she counted. “Perhaps a bit more.”
Smiling, Cailin rushed off and collected the wicker basket hanging from the wall. Making her way past Rafe, she let herself out into the back gardens.
He narrowed his eyes. What in hell was happening here? His sister was taking directives from . . . the high-in-the-instep governess? The same governess who was humming softly to herself and cutting fruit. And all the while, he wasn’t for once at the coalfields. Yes, there was nothing else for it. The world had been flipped upside down.
But . . . his sister was smiling again. And it had been Edwina who’d managed to penetrate the numb way in which Cailin had been moving about life since the coalfield accident.
And as Edwina continued slicing the strawberries there, it occurred to him just how very much of the lady was a mystery. And ratcheting up terror was the realization that he, for some strange reason, wanted to discover those secrets.
With a forced calm he did not feel, he set aside his tea. Strolling over to her, he plucked one of the berries from her bowl. As Edwina made quick work removing the stems and slicing up the strawberries, he picked up a knife, and proceeded to cut the bowl of fruit with her.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Edwina stop, and watch him several moments, before resuming. They worked that way, in companionable silence.
As she worked, he studied her with the same scrutiny she’d given him. She moved effortlessly, skilled in the kitchen with every tool she’d held, and every task she’d been assigned. “You’ve got me,” he said, placing the berries he’d cut into her bowl. “I’m intrigued.”
The lady paused, and with the crook of her elbow, she brushed back the errant dark curl that had fallen across her brow, and alarming him once more was the overwhelming envy to see to that task himself. “And I’m confused as to why—”
“Who are you?” he asked bluntly. He set his knife down.
At that little clatter, she looked up. Confusion filled her eyes. “I’ve already told you. My name is Edwina Dalrymple and—”
He cut her off. “What is your story?” She continued to look back blankly. No one was this naïve. When it became apparent she needed further clarification, he volunteered the possibility that made most sense. “You were a poor relation taken in by unkind relatives and had no choice but to seek out a lady’s work.”
She snorted. “My, you can have a prosperous career as a gothic-tale writer with those manners of speculation, Mr. Audley.”
Rafe leaned across the table, and Edwina’s body stiffened. “You’re being deliberately evasive.” Grabbing an apple, he took an enormous bite, before holding the partially eaten apple out to her.
Horror paraded across her all-too-revealing features, as she shook her head, rejecting that offering. Or was her response a product of his observation? His curiosity redoubled. With a shrug, he spoke around a mouthful of fruit. “Well? What is it?”
Her expression as she took in the half-eaten apple was pained. “It is impolite to speak with food in your mouth, Mr. Audley.”
This was going to be entirely too easy, and shockingly, even more enjoyable than he could have ever imagined. In an attempt to hide a grin, Rafe took an even larger chomp of his apple.
She licked her lips, and against all better judgment, fueled by illogic and desire, he suddenly had a taste for an altogether different crimson fruit, the same one he’d tasted in her rooms just last night. When she’d been screaming his name to the rafters—and his shaft strained uncomfortably at the wicked memory of her as she’d been. He reminded himself to swallow his latest bite of apple.
Edwina set her knife down, and reaching for the rag left behind by Cailin, she dusted the remnants of the red berries from her palms. “My mother was of the gentry and my father was a nobleman.”
That immediately killed his lust. There it was. Confirmation of everything he’d assumed about her birthright.
“And I take it they were in love.”
Edwina paused, her unblinking eyes focused on the edge of the discarded knife. And then, she nodded. “Yes,” she said softly. “Very much so.”
Rafe rested a hip on the side of the table, waiting for her to say something more.
Only to find the chatterbox at last silenced.
As she made an exaggerated show of working, Rafe honed his eyes on her. The lady had secrets.
And against all better judgment and reason—Rafe wanted to know them.
Chapter 13
Edwina had always welcomed the time she spent in the kitchen.
For all the heat, there’d been a calm she’d found there. That this time . . . escaped her.
He was . . . working in the kitchen, alongside her. Handling a knife and slicing strawberries as if he’d done it countless times before.
And what was more . . . he was also asking questions about her.
No one asked questions about her, in short because no one cared about Edwina Dalrymple.
The only information that mattered to the families that hired her were her credentials, her previous clients, and the success she’d had in transforming sow’s ears into silk purses.
And not only had Edwina preferred that lack of probing, but she required it.
Because the world didn’t take instruction from banished bastard daughters, no matter how lofty those lords were. Illegitimate daughters weren’t ones anyone would take any manner of instruction from, let alone hire to tutor cherished daughters, with reputations to be guarded at all costs. No, if the world learned who her father was, she’d never be hired. At least, not for any job that was respectable.
And now, this man should be the one to probe her, questioning her about her past and her origins and everything t
hat was dangerous to her. For he could never understand. He wore his bastardy like a badge of pride, as if he taunted the world with it.
Perhaps that was an advantage afforded him as a male? Perhaps he well knew that Cailin had his and his brothers’ protection. Edwina, however, had neither of those luxuries.
As such, her secret was and would forever remain just that—a secret.
“And do you have siblings?”
She jumped. “Siblings?” Her mind raced to formulate a reply. A lie. Anything to keep from thinking of the time four years earlier when her mother died, and she’d gone off to London to meet her father, only to have him send his son—his legitimate child—to meet her. And turn her away, with a request that she not come back. The shame and pain of that ripped at her insides, still.
Rafe stared at her, with a growing question in his eyes.
She shook her head quickly. “Not like you,” she settled for, an evasive lie at best. “I always . . . wanted siblings as you have.” She made herself go quiet, lest she say anything else revealing.
“Why so quiet of a sudden, Edwina?”
Of course, he’d not let her have that silence. It would have been easier if he had been taunting her again. Not this. Not this somewhat gentle delving.
“I’m working.” She hastily grabbed the knife, and a strawberry, and resumed slicing and dicing the piece of fruit.
“Ah, but that has never stopped you from chattering away, little bird.”
He knew that detail about her? Her mother had oft called her little bird, because she was chirping away from the moment the sun was climbing to the sky, until it made its final flight, and found its nighttime rest. And she didn’t know what to do with a person wondering about her life and her past, because no good could come of it were it to be discovered that she was in fact, a bastard—
The tip of her knife slashed through the soft flesh of her thumb.
Edwina’s breath hissed from between her teeth as she hastily dropped the blade. It clattered to the counter, knocking against the clay bowl.
She applied pressure to the bleeding wound, hiding the injury within the apron Rafe’s sister had lent her.
Rafe immediately abandoned his relaxed pose and came quickly around the side of the table. “Let me see,” he ordered in what she would wager were his foreman’s tones, the ones that brooked no tolerance of gainsayers from the people who worked for him.
To what end? So he might confirm exactly what he’d already believed about her being incapable of undertaking tasks? And she didn’t know why she should care so much about his low opinion or his ill opinion, anyway. For some reason . . . she did. “It is fine,” Edwina said evenly, refusing to yield her hand for his study. She resented that he should treat her with disdain because he believed she was of an elevated station . . . when nothing could be further from the truth. “There is no reason for you to—”
“Let me see it, Edwina.” He frowned, and contained within those downturned corners was the hint of not the expected annoyance, but . . . concern. “Please.”
She hesitated, caught entirely off guard. People, as a rule, treated her as though she were at their beck and call. They made demands, as even Rafe Audley had done numerous times before this. But no one ever allowed the final decisions over any matter to belong to her, as he did just now with that single-syllable plea.
Edwina released the hold she had on the now-crimson-stained apron and unfurled her tightly twined hands.
He caught her hands in his, raising the injured one close for inspection. Unnerved by both his gentleness and the concern in his scrutiny, she stumbled about for words. “I am so sorry for the state of your sister’s apron. I know you believe I don’t have experience in the kitchen.” But she did. So much of it. And she’d convinced herself she’d not missed moments such as those she’d shared today with Cailin, only to find the lie that she’d told herself. She’d missed this. “Despite how it may now appear, I am, in fact, more capable, and rarely make such a mistake. I just . . .” Was distracted by you. By the thought of you learning anything about me . . . “I just . . .”
Rafe touched an index finger to her mouth, silencing that second attempt on Edwina’s part. “It is fine. I am not concerned with the apron. Here . . .” He gently guided her over to the oak chair. And as she complied this time, taking the seat he offered, her heart tripped over its beat, as she realized she was, in fact, the one he was concerned about. It was also an unfamiliar way for her to find herself. People didn’t care about her. People used her. People needed her. People hired her.
They didn’t care about her or for her, as this man was now doing.
As if to accentuate that very point, he dropped on a knee beside her, pulled a faded white kerchief from inside his jacket, and snapped it several times, unfolding the linen. With quick, meticulous purpose to his movements, he wound that fabric about her injured finger.
Her breath caught.
Rafe immediately stopped and raised a concern-filled gaze to hers. “Forgive me. I’ve hurt you.”
“It was . . . just an unexpected . . . feeling,” she hedged, which wasn’t altogether untrue. All the while, she prayed he mistook the breathless quality of her voice for pain, and not . . . whatever mayhem now affected her senses.
“Apply pressure. Like this.” He immediately folded his calloused palm over her knuckles, enveloping them in such warmth, even the sting left by her carelessness receded.
As he strode about the kitchen, quickly and efficiently filling his arms with a bowl, a pitcher, and a rag, she watched him. This riddle of a man, steeped in incongruities, that she didn’t know how to solve.
She studied the old kerchief he’d wrapped about her palm. Upon inspection, the embroidered silk was not an ivory or white fabric, but rather contained hints of gold and autumn orange shades that had since faded to a pale yellow, revealing its mark of age.
Edwina peeked up, and finding him still busy hurrying about the kitchen gathering supplies, she swiftly unfurled the kerchief.
In a dark gold silk embroidery, three letters adorned the now-stained fabric:
FH, D of B
She flared her eyes.
A cabinet closed, and she startled, looking up. But Rafe continued moving about with his back to her.
Her heart knocked against her chest at the significance of the revelation.
It was his father’s kerchief. And he might be adamant that he despised the man, and had no intention of joining him, but he’d also retained this small scrap that had once belonged to the duke . . . and that said more than all the words of disdain he’d uttered about his sire.
Edwina froze.
It was clearly a cherished piece, as he’d held on to it, and even so, he had thought nothing of giving it over to her. Knowing it would be ruined the moment he wrapped it about her bleeding finger, but he’d done so anyway.
She hastily rewrapped the makeshift bandage as he’d left it.
At so many times, in so many exchanges they’d had, it was as though he’d gone out of his way to be as miserable as possible. It didn’t fit with this thoughtful gentleman, worrying after her slight injury. Just as when he’d carried her back after her fall, insisting there wasn’t more to his actions.
And then there’d been last evening, when he’d helped her straighten her room.
Yes, he might insist he was cold and heartless. Saying it, however, didn’t make it true. For, at every turn, he revealed through his actions he wasn’t the beast he was determined to have her think he was.
All these details were important for her research, and belonged in her notebook, for the purpose of her assignment. And yet, as she recalled each kindness and consideration shown her, it didn’t feel very much like she was thinking about her work. At all.
Rafe returned, startling her from those disquieting musings. He reached for the hand that wa
s injured.
Edwina cradled it close to her chest, not knowing how to turn it over to his care. Or his attention. Once more, unfamiliar with anyone wanting to attend her or even noticing her discomforts. And more, uncomfortable with this continued tender look on him.
Collecting the pitcher, he poured enough water to fill half the bowl, and then grabbed a chair. Rafe dragged it closer to Edwina and sat. “May I see it?” As he asked he was already reaching for her, as if it was simply expected and understood that she would allow him those liberties.
“No,” she blurted out. Because the last thing that seemed safe or sane at this moment was placing her hand in his, and allowing this intimacy. Or, for that matter, any further intimacy between them.
His coal-black brows came together. “No?”
And by the scowl he wore, he was a man unaccustomed to being told no. Good, that was a familiar, and safer, Rafe Audley whom she knew what to do with. “It really is fine,” she insisted, as she held her hand out for his inspection. “See.”
They looked as one at her covered hand.
Except blood had already drenched the makeshift bandage made about her left index finger, turning the yellowish material crimson and black, and effectively making a liar of her.
“Yes. Everything looks quite normal there,” he said dryly. He leaned in, close enough that their noses nearly kissed and her mouth knew envy. Close enough that their breath mingled. “Let me see,” he said abruptly, a harsh quality to his already deep baritone, and when he spoke that way, she couldn’t have denied him anything. And was grateful that it was just her finger he requested, or she’d have meandered back along the happy path he’d shown her last evening.
She held her hand out.
He proceeded to unravel the bandage.
“Y-You know, we really are making something of a habit with this. Your tending me, that is.” She could no more stop her more-than-usual prattling than she could stop her heart from racing under his attentions. “I know you’ll likely not believe it, but I’m generally not so careless. At”—Rafe removed the kerchief, and tossed it onto the table so that her naked fingers rested upon his—“a-all. There have been many times when people have remarked upon my . . .” grace . . . He turned her hand over in his, inspecting her injury, and she promptly let the remainder of her thoughts go unspoken.
Along Came a Lady Page 16