“Grace?” he supplied for her.
She nodded before recalling he wasn’t even looking at her, and was therefore incapable of seeing that gesture. “I-Indeed.”
And as he lightly probed the flesh around her injury, she briefly closed her eyes and fought to control the flutters in her belly that came from the gentleness of his touch.
She’d never been angry at her mother for loving where she shouldn’t. She’d regretted that her mother hadn’t chosen more wisely, and given her heart to someone who was deserving.
But she’d also not understood her mother. For that matter, she’d not understood what madness compelled women to forget themselves and toss away their virtue and reputation and hearts. And yet, here she was, just a handful of days of knowing this gentleman, and she understood those things in ways she hadn’t before.
Edwina went absolutely motionless.
Not that she was losing her heart to this man. That was utterly preposterous. They barely knew one another. And he barely liked her.
Except, caring for her as he did now, it didn’t quite feel that way, and she was all the more confused.
Guiding her palm over the bowl he’d fetched, Rafe dunked it under the surface, the clear water instantly going red. “You’re not squeamish,” he remarked.
“Should I be?”
“Aye. And you shouldn’t be able to handle a knife in the kitchen as you do.”
She smiled. “Yes, but one might argue, given my current circumstances, that I’m less skilled than you’re presently giving credit for.”
He glanced up, and that assessing glint, the one that threatened to pierce and penetrate her every secret, pinned her to the spot. “You weren’t unskilled; you were distracted by my questions. That is altogether different.”
Yet again, he’d seen that, and known that about her.
Edwina tensed in anticipation of those questions he’d put to her before . . . that, this time, didn’t come. Instead, he resumed washing her wound. Then lightly, gently squeezing, and then applying pressure. Repeating that pattern with the familiarity of one who’d done this many times before.
Which, by his admission the day they’d first met, was, in fact, truth. He was a man capable of caring for injuries, and himself wasn’t put out or nauseated by the sight of a wound. Yet again, so . . . different than all the men in all the households she had worked within.
While he attended her, she studied the top of his bent head, those thick, luxuriant black tresses that she’d wound her fingers through the night before while he showed her body the pleasure it was capable of. Her body heated, burning up with a blush at the reminder of his touch and the peak he’d brought her to. Yet again, that proved to be another incongruity with the cynical, mocking, and rude gentleman who so delighted in teasing her. Not once had he taunted her about what had transpired between them last evening. He had not sought to shame her for it.
And she would be forever grateful to him for it.
Rafe removed her hand from the water. The flow of blood had slowed to a mere trickle, with only the errant drop squeezing from the flesh wound, which he continued to wipe away. He shoved back his chair, the legs scraping along the stone floor. Crossing over to the cupboard, he fetched a rag hanging from the hooks there and returned. “So you don’t want to talk about it?” he asked as he wound the cloth about her finger.
Edwina furrowed her brow.
“How you, the daughter of a woman from the gentry and a father who is a lord, are equally capable of curtsying and cutting up berries in a kitchen.”
And to earlier accusations he’d leveled at her, it was as he’d pointed out . . . unfair to share nothing when she expected him to freely reveal. Studying her wrappings, Edwina carefully chose her words. “My mother enjoyed baking. She didn’t think there was anything untoward about being in the kitchen and . . . I came to find and feel the same.”
She held her breath, waiting for him to ask more. Dreading it. Fearing it.
Dissembling hadn’t been a chore for her over the years, not because she was skilled in lying, but because people didn’t ask the questions of her that this man now did.
Rafe worked his gaze over her face. “You are a mystery, Edwina Dalrymple.”
And it needed to stay that way. For the sake of her reputation, which was exhaustingly linked to her employment.
As such, all closeness with this man should be discouraged. It needed to be.
So why, then, as he leaned closer, did her lashes flutter, and she lean up, offering her mouth once more to his?
The door exploded, saving her from temptation when Eve had so been failed.
“Forgive me.” Cailin came streaming in, with a basket looped over her arm. “I—” The remainder of whatever she would have said abruptly ended as her focus landed on Rafe kneeling beside Edwina. And then, her hand in his. The young woman’s brow dipped.
Rafe immediately surged to his feet. “Miss Dalrymple was injured,” he explained to do away with any questions or reasons for his earlier closeness to Edwina.
Cailin gasped. Hastily disentangling the basket from her arm, she dropped it by the door and raced over. “You’ve been hurt!”
Edwina stood. “I’m afraid I was clumsy and careless.”
“She wasn’t,” Rafe put in, with a surprising defense that brought her up short. “But given the injury to her hand, perhaps it is best that Miss Dalrymple’s time in the kitchen be concluded for the day.”
She should be relieved. He had provided Edwina with her second out since his sister had arrived.
So what accounted for this latest irrational disappointment? “It would hardly be fair for me to leave Cailin on her own with the recipe I provided,” Edwina said, in an attempt to remain. To learn more about her charge, of course.
Liar.
“I can see to it,” Rafe offered.
He’d . . . help his sister in the kitchen? At every turn, she was left with more and more questions. “You cook?” Edwina blurted, before she could recall that stunned exclamation.
He opened his mouth to respond, but his sister beat him to it. “He is ever so wonderful in the kitchen.”
And wonder of wonders, a blush filled the sharp planes of his cheeks. Blushing! The gruff, tough, and rude Mr. Audley was blushing? It was alternately intriguing and endearing.
He shifted on his feet. “You are just saying that because you hate cooking.”
“That is only one part true.” Cailin looked to Edwina. “He is being entirely modest,” Rafe’s sister said in an exaggerated whisper. “One time, there was a contest in the village for—”
“She doesn’t want to hear this,” he interrupted. And as one who clung to her secrets, she recognized the effort he now exerted.
Edwina smiled encouragingly at Cailin. “Oh, I most certainly do.”
“She’s being polite.” Rafe looked to Edwina. “Tell her you’re being polite.”
“As a rule, I am polite.” Edwina dipped her voice to a teasing whisper. “This, however, is not one of those times.”
Cailin beamed. “See?” the younger woman said for her brother’s benefit. “She does. Where was I?”
Rafe and Edwina spoke at the same time.
“You were agreeing to say nothing else.”
“You were mentioning the contest,” Edwina said, raising her voice so that her response was heard over Rafe’s.
“Oh, yes, the contest. The prize was a cameo necklace for the best-made pastry, and Rafe was the only man to enter. All the women were vying for the necklace. And he won!”—The gentleman scrubbed the back of his hand across his eyes, charming once more in his modesty—“He was the envy of all the village women for that prize, but he only entered so that he could give it to me because he knew there was no way I could win.”
“That isn’t true,” he protested, with a tel
ltale devotion that spoke volumes once more about the manner of brother . . . and man he was.
“I love you, but you are a liar!” Cailin clasped the chain at her throat and revealed the small trinket, a paste bauble, and yet, for the story that had been told, which went with that piece, the cameo of the queen herself could not have been finer.
While brother and sister teasingly bickered back and forth, Edwina freely observed Rafe—this new version of Rafe Audley, that was.
Later that day, when he’d escorted her back to the inn, with a neatly wrapped piece of the strawberry tartlet made by the gentleman himself, she found herself thinking that it might prove best after all if she left Staffordshire. Because those intimate moments she had spent with him had no place in her work, and were only dangerous.
The moment she was alone in her room, Edwina shut the door behind her. She headed for her makeshift desk and dropped her reticule on the floor. Sitting down, Edwina proceeded to set out paper, and reaching for the pen, she dipped it into ink, and dashed off the update the duke would be expecting.
This time, however, unlike with all her previous correspondence to Rafe’s father, words proved elusive. This time, there wasn’t the cataloguing that had come so easily before.
Because at some point, Rafe had become more than . . . her charge. He’d become a man who . . . fascinated her. And tempted her.
Edwina abandoned the pen, and her efforts.
Switching her attention instead to the pastry, she carefully unwrapped the packed treat Rafe had assembled for her.
The sweet scent of strawberries immediately wafted about, filling the air, and she breathed deep of the sweet smell.
Opening her eyes, she stared at the masterful confectionary creation, the gently rounded crust, perfectly formed. The finest London cook could have been responsible for such baking.
Not only did he not scoff at working in the kitchen, and alongside two women . . . he was capable and skilled in ways that men generally weren’t.
And the truth of that brought a crushing weight of terror down on her chest.
Because she didn’t know what to do with this new version of Rafe Audley. A man who did dangerous things to her heart . . .
Dropping her chin into her palm, she stared forlornly down at the strawberry tart. With her other hand, she raised the pastry, and took a bite.
She stilled, and of their own volition, her eyes slid closed as she savored the ambrosial taste of Rafe’s masterful efforts.
Edwina made quick work of the tart, and when she’d finished, with a shamefulness that would have seen her unemployed forevermore, she licked the remnants of sugar from her fingers.
Yes, the sooner her assignment was done, the better off she would be.
Chapter 14
Later that night, the crowd in the taproom was even more raucous and rowdy than usual.
Even at the second floor of the inn, the noise was deafening.
As such, any young lady unfamiliar with the ways of miners and the ways of the country village would have turned tail and run at the prospect of joining that fray.
Rafe, however, should have learned by now the woman who’d been haunting his steps here in Staffordshire was unlike any other woman he’d ever known. Nay, unlike any person he’d ever known.
Edwina’s door opened, and she stepped out of her room, wearing a smile, a bright yellow ruffled gown, and a ridiculous lacy bonnet. “Hullo, Rafe!” she greeted him, shouting loud enough to be heard over the racket.
And from her outfit on down to her elegant attire, he may as well have been collecting her for a fancy curricle ride about Town than belowstairs to a tavern. “Are you ready?” he called back.
It was a nonsensical question, given the fact that she clearly was. But something about her left him all twisted and tied.
Her smile widened, dimpling her cheeks. “Indeed.” She drew the door shut behind her, and removing a chain about her neck, she inserted the key and locked it. “Never let it be said that I don’t learn,” she said as she put the makeshift necklace on once more, and tucked the rusty brass key into her dress, in that V between her breasts. And he swallowed hard as his gaze went to the place that now hidden key rested.
Edwina started down the hall with a jaunty little sway to her step, and he remained there several moments, appreciating that subtle glide of her hips. Recalling when they had been shifting, in a similar way, toward him. Desire flared uncomfortably, his shaft stirring.
Edwina stopped and looked back. “Is there a problem?”
There were. Many of them. So very many of them. All of which had to do with the very determined, tenacious Edwina Dalrymple and his unexplainable interest in her.
Rafe followed after her. She waited, and when he reached her side, resumed walking. “I must admit, and you are going to find it truly scandalous, that I am exceedingly intrigued by what happens down there.” Excitement filled her voice and colored her cheeks red. And as they descended the stairs to the taproom, apparently no input was required from him. The chatterbox was content and capable of carrying the conversation for the two of them. “I have wanted to see what happens, but it seemed neither proper nor safe. And as such, I was ever so glad when you stated that this was one of your terms.”
“How . . . fortunate for you,” he drawled. He gave his head a wry shake. Only he would have come up with terms intended to send her away that had done just the opposite.
She nodded enthusiastically, the smile she lifted up to him ever wider. “Oh, yes.”
And for all the ways in which she’d proven adroit in so much, sarcasm entirely escaped her. And he’d sooner cut off the arm he used for mining than admit as much, but it was rather endearing.
She baked.
She made her own bed.
She didn’t cry over injuries.
And now, she’d join a roomful of coalfield miners.
And he was intrigued. He was done denying it to himself. He had questions that he wanted answered. And they were all about her.
They reached the crowded main floor; smoke from too many pipes hung like a haze over the taproom. Men were crammed into every corner. Every table was occupied, every seat filled.
The excited glimmer in Edwina’s eyes dimmed.
Aye, now this was the expected—
“I fear we are too late!” she shouted over the pandemonium too much drink had resulted in. “There are no tables left.”
That was her worry? Not the idea of being here, but rather that there wasn’t space for her to take part in the revelry?
Mr. Ward shot an arm out and waved at Rafe. “Audley!” he bellowed loud enough to be heard over the din.
“Come,” Rafe urged, and motioned Edwina on ahead of him. They cut a path through the crowd, men knocking into one another and splashing drinks on them as they went.
And through it, Edwina remained unwavering.
They reached the back corner table, and Mr. Ward. There was a brief flash of confusion when his gaze landed on the tall woman at Rafe’s side, but the man knew better than to probe. He tugged out one of the chairs. “Saved your table, I did. I’ll fetch you a drink.”
“Two, please,” Rafe called after him. He waited until Edwina had seated herself before claiming the chair across from her.
An excited flush stained her cheeks, and her eyes darted about the room, taking in everything and everyone around her.
Leaning back, Rafe folded his hands and rested them on his stomach. “Different than your usual pastimes, no doubt.”
“Oh, very much so. There’s of course the theater, which gets quite loud, but nothing such as this.”
A few days earlier, he would have expected her disdain for the Staffordshire way of life. He would have never anticipated that she would freely immerse herself in this world. And it had been decidedly easier rejecting her request that he join he
r in London when she’d looked down upon his way of life. Instead, she had done precisely what he asked.
And what did that mean for him . . . and the very reason for her being here—his attempt at fitting in with Polite Society?
Saved by those unnerving thoughts, he looked up as Mr. Ward reappeared. The innkeeper set down two steel tankards, and then raised the pitcher of ale in his other hand and proceeded to pour.
“Thank you very much.” Edwina flashed another blindingly bright smile at the older man, earning a blush. And then muttering to himself, Mr. Ward shuffled off.
“He likes you,” Rafe remarked.
“Not enough to not destroy my rooms,” It was the first hint of droll sarcasm he’d heard from the lady, and it roused guilt for his role in enlisting Mr. Ward as he had.
“I am . . . sorry for that,” he called over the noise.
Surprise sent the thin dark line of her eyebrows flying up. “Well, war was declared, Rafe.”
They shared a brief smile, the moment interrupted by the rolling thunder of men stomping the floor with their feet, and then one of the patrons broke out in song.
Oh my name it is Jack Hall,
Chimney sweep, chimney sweep,
Oh my name it is Jack Hall, chimney sweep.
Oh my name it is Jack Hall,
And I’ve robb’d both great and small,
And my neck shall pay for all
When I die, when I die,
And my neck shall pay for all when I die.
Edwina widened her eyes. “That is . . . terrible,” she called over the ribald song being played.
“Aye,” he agreed. Collecting his tankard, he sipped his ale and surveyed the crowd. “This one is more grim than—” He narrowed his eyes, as his focus landed on the leader of the first of the evening’s songs.
Along Came a Lady Page 17