Chapter 12 #2
And Graeme. Who she must not expect to rely on. The man he’d become, or, she reminded herself, the man he appeared to have become, was not what she’d expected.
That was the problem. She’d expected the indignant young man who’d called her a whore after discovering her with Archie to have grown even more stiff-necked. She’d expected a pompous, impeccable prig, not this seemingly kind man.
One who kept touching her.
With the kitchen to herself, and their departure only a few hours away, she donned an apron over her dressing gown. One couldn’t have too much food. The children would need to eat. They might all be cramped and uncomfortable but they didn’t have to be hungry.
The men—ugh, Mr. Jarrow was also accompanying them. Graeme wanted to leave early and travel as quickly as possible with stops to change horses. He and Mr. Jarrow might want something they could eat on horseback.
She found flour, the remains of that evening’s roast, and some vegetables from the larder, stoked the fire in the Rumsford stove, and settled into the soothing task of making meat pasties.
Her own father had been an only child and a landless gentleman who died when she was still in the nursery.
Her mother had remarried a spendthrift, gadabout gentleman estranged from his own family and promptly turned Blythe and her new brother over to the care of servants.
Sad though she was at her parents’ unexpected deaths, she’d been relieved to find herself living with Mr. and Mrs. Davies.
She’d been even happier to learn that such a kind man as Mr. Davies had been named her guardian.
She’d never expected to rise so high as to marry an earl, and Mrs. Davies believed that a lady of the gentry ought to have knowledge of cookery, all the business of preserving food for the larder and making remedies for the still room.
Cooking had been one of her favorite pastimes at Bluebelle Lodge.
Some biscuits were needed also, she decided, and perhaps some hand pies made with the last of the winter apples.
“It smells delightful in here.”
Blythe jumped and dropped the spoon she’d been holding. Graeme was not supposed to return until the morning.
She bent to find the spoon in the shadows and saw his buckskin clad legs as he reached for the dropped utensil. He picked it up first, and when she took it from him their hands touched, sending her heart into a gallop.
His gaze swept over her, his eyes widening at her deshabille.
“Apologies for startling you.” He glanced at the table where the first batch of pasties were cooling. “Those look delicious. Oughtn’t you to be in bed?”
She waved the spoon. “There are dishes in that cabinet over there. Help yourself and then take yourself off to bed. I can sleep in the carriage tomorrow, but you’ll need your rest if you’re planning to ride all the way to London.”
She turned back to her task, picked up an apple and her knife, and heard the clatter of a plate and a bench drawing back.
“May I sit?” he asked. “This reminds me of the time I visited you here. Mrs. Davies insisted we have cakes where she was working and could keep an eye on us.”
Graeme had been one of the younger lads coming around every once in a while. She’d had her eye on another lad—until of course, Archie. How different might her life have been if she’d made a life with one of the boys she’d grown up with.
Wiping her hands on her apron, she went to draw a mug of ale and plopped it down in front of him.
“Thank you.” His hand shot out and took hers. “A countess who can cook. I had no idea.”
She pulled away and went back to her dough, her thoughts all a jumble. In the shadowy kitchen he looked like the young man who’d visited her, so young then, and now, so very virile as he devoured the pasty with gusto.
“It is not a criticism,” he said. “I think it is admirable that you can make something so delicious. In point of fact, I’m very hungry.
I was too busy at Risley Manor to have much of a dinner.
Stockwell and I put our heads together to arrange the post riders and horses.
Lady Hermione and your maid and my valet will be here before dawn. ”
“And Mr. Jarrow?”
“Yes, him as well.”
A shiver went down her spine. Graeme had spoken those words directly into her ear, the warmth of his breath tickling her.
“Can I help you?” he whispered.
Her hand slipped, the knife pricked her finger, and she dropped it.
He took her hand and produced a handkerchief, pressing it against the wound and bending to examine the spot of blood.
“It’s nothing.” She tried to tug her hand away.
“You’re right,” he said. “It’s nothing. But I’ll hold this to it a bit longer, and then maybe you’ll let me slice the apples. Are we making apple pie? Wasn’t it apple pie that Mrs. Davies served us that day?”
“We are making nothing. You are going to get some rest. And it was rhubarb pie she served.”
“Ah,” he said on a long sigh. “You remember that day in as much detail as I do.” He touched her waist and turned her to face him. “Blythe,” he said, leaning closer. “Blythe.”
His lips touching hers, he pulled her close until her breasts pressed against his broad chest, their hearts beating together.
A soft nibble, a gentle press, and then he angled his head and took the kiss deeper, bending her back against the counter.
Heat flared and spread through her, wings of desire fluttering inside her.
The kiss was gentle and seductive and then firmly inviting, his mouth opening and coaxing, and she shook off his handkerchief and threaded her fingers through the hair at the back of his head.
She wanted to fly away on that kiss, to submerge herself in sheer pleasure; the sheer pleasure of kissing a man who, if she was honest, she’d been wanting to kiss since he’d walked into the drawing room four days ago. Or had it been five days?
Cool air touched her shoulder and she looked down. He’d loosened her apron and robe and was touching her breast through the cotton of her nightgown, gently, each stroke sparking rivers of molten desire straight to her nether regions.
She leaned back and covered her gasps with one hand and pressed the other flat against his chest. She must stop him.
But maybe not yet. It had been so long, so very, very long since she’d felt anything like desire.
And it wasn’t safe. He wasn’t safe.
His eyes glowed darkly as he watched her. “I’ve wanted this for years.”
I’ve wanted this for years.
Another voice rang in her memory. Lips crushing hers, a body pressing against hers.
No, she heard her own voice cry the word inside her head as her body began to tremble.
His hand froze. He stepped back and secured her robe and apron.
“You’re not ready,” he said.
Summoning her courage, she tried to speak calmly. “This is fraught… fraught, Graeme, with… with the kinds of problems, complications neither of us wants.”
“Who will know?”
Her blood turned to ice in her veins. Who will know. Lord Vernon’s words. Archie’s words.
She opened her eyes and saw that he was watching her.
“You’re right, of course,” he said. “It’s complicated and if people don’t exactly know, they will speculate. I am not Lord Vernon. Or Archie, or the other fellow who turned over his phaeton. I want you, Blythe. And I care for you.”
His intense gaze moved from her eyes to her lips, and her knees went weak.
“People have said, I should take a l-lover…” She cleared her throat. “now that I’m widowed.”
And oh, how I want you in this moment.
“But it can’t be you, Graeme. If Diddenton prevails, if I lose Bluebelle Lodge, I will have to sue you and how awkward will that be?”
“You won’t have to sue me, my love. You will never have to sue me.
” He smoothed a lock of hair behind her ear.
“I’ve wanted to kiss you since I was twelve years old.
Yes.” He nodded at her skeptical grimace.
“At the village fayre when I bumped into you and your lemonade spilled all over your white gown with the blue flowers—”
“I wanted to box your ears.”
“But you didn’t. You laughed. In that moment, I fell in love with you.”
“You had a strange way of showing it.”
“I spent my school holidays here in Hampshire with my friend Lionel, do you remember? If we didn’t find you in the village, or out walking, we would always come visit you at Bluebelle Lodge. I was always trying to spend time with you.”
She shook her head. “I only remember the last time we spoke. You caught me in the lane, and you called me a—”
“I’m sorry.” He pressed a finger to her lips. “It was brutal. I was wrong. I made you cry and…”
“A whore, Graeme. And that was after you pulled Archie off of me and started a fight that drew everyone out of the ballroom before I’d put my bodice right. Archie came to our wedding with a black eye that hadn’t quite healed.”
“I’m not sorry about blackening his eye. I am sorry they made you marry him.”
“They made me marry him, and I wanted to marry him. More fool I.”
“I was crushed, Blythe. I wanted, I hoped, that when I was old enough, you would still be unmarried. I thought, you ought to have waited. I was too proud to say that, so instead…” He took in a breath. “I loved you, and then I hated you, and now—”
“Now you want to swive me.”
“No,” he said, emphatically. “There’s nothing ugly in what I feel, in what I want from you. I tried to put you out of my mind. And I almost succeeded.”
“You will try again and this time you will succeed.”
“Yes.” The heat in his eyes made her toes curl and told her they were talking at cross-purposes. “I won’t stop trying.” He kissed her again, briefly, tenderly, and stepped back. “I’m very good at peeling apples. How many do you need?”