Read Online Worth Lord of Reckoning by Grace Burrowes - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Grace Burrowes
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are close?”
She peered down into the roiling water. “In a way. You’re being very kind.”
“How will I know whose pig to throw a saddle on if I let you come to harm in a storm, Wyeth? Besides, we aren’t enemies merely because we’re different genders.”
“Gender isn’t a detail, either.”
Her gender wasn’t a detail. “I like women, I’ll have you know, and not in the sense you’re about to accuse me of, or not exclusively in that sense.” He turned, resting his elbows on the railing, while she kept to her stream-facing position.
“You like women because they cook and clean and sew?”
“I’ve hired men to do those things in my London household, my dear, but no. I like women because they don’t fight stupid duels over inebriated insults nobody can recall the next morning. Women don’t make rude noises in public or relieve themselves against any handy wall. You have seven brothers, Wyeth, I know now you cannot be shocked. I like women—honest women, that is—because they smell good, because they give us babies, because they…what?”
“You are prissy and old-fashioned.”
“You think because I’m such a large fellow I can’t be fastidious?” He let her have her smirk, because it confirmed the weather was no longer unnerving her. “You think because I respect women for their inherent bravery I’m old-fashioned?”
“Bravery in what regard?”
“Leave childbearing to men and the race wouldn’t last a century. All children would have to be born capable of cutting their own meat, washing their own soiled nappies, and talking themselves out of nightmares—twenty times in a twenty-four-hour period, and multiply that times the number of toddlers underfoot. Don’t forget they’d have to teach themselves how to do sums and read, for men hardly know themselves after three years of university.”
She gave him a funny, half-smiling perusal, then pushed off the rail.
“If we keep Goliath to the walk, we can likely find our way home now.”
“You don’t mind the occasional shower when we pass under a tree? I can send a closed carriage back for you.” He didn’t want to. He wanted to settle her right beside him on the gig again, and abruptly, the prospect of visiting his tenants shifted from drudgery to something approximating a pleasant duty.
Particularly if he could manage to dodge a few more storms with Wyeth in the process.
“A little rain isn’t what unnerves me, Mr. Kettering, and I don’t melt.”
He handed her up, having sense enough to keep to himself the thought of circumstances under which she might, indeed, be made to melt.
* * *
Worth Kettering was kind.
The realization disconcerted Jacaranda, because it required her to admit she’d been hell-bent on finding fault with him. He’d handed her down from the gig, bowed over her hand as if they’d been on a social outing, then winked at her and left her in peace.
She understood what that wink meant: The secret of your chicken-heartedness is safe with me .
Oh, but he didn’t know the half of it. Yes, she was uncomfortable out in storms, but he didn’t know she’d heard him call her “silly woman,” and the affection in his tone had sent her insides prancing about. Nobody referred to her as silly, though five years ago, she’d been worse than silly. Nobody held her, stroked her hair, or offered her their jacket when she took a chill.
And nobody on the entire face of the earth wore as enticing a scent as Worth Kettering.
He’d be gone soon, though. Trysting was merely a place to find his balance with Yolanda and Avery under the same roof. If Jacaranda were lucky, a few more weeks and Mr. Kettering of the warm jacket, delicious scent, and rogue’s wink would be on his way.
Then she would be on her way. She’d promised, after all, and the usual pleas and threats in Step-Mama’s last epistle had borne a desperate edge.
“Mrs. W!” Old Simmons’s voice was raised in a quavery approximation of a
She peered down into the roiling water. “In a way. You’re being very kind.”
“How will I know whose pig to throw a saddle on if I let you come to harm in a storm, Wyeth? Besides, we aren’t enemies merely because we’re different genders.”
“Gender isn’t a detail, either.”
Her gender wasn’t a detail. “I like women, I’ll have you know, and not in the sense you’re about to accuse me of, or not exclusively in that sense.” He turned, resting his elbows on the railing, while she kept to her stream-facing position.
“You like women because they cook and clean and sew?”
“I’ve hired men to do those things in my London household, my dear, but no. I like women because they don’t fight stupid duels over inebriated insults nobody can recall the next morning. Women don’t make rude noises in public or relieve themselves against any handy wall. You have seven brothers, Wyeth, I know now you cannot be shocked. I like women—honest women, that is—because they smell good, because they give us babies, because they…what?”
“You are prissy and old-fashioned.”
“You think because I’m such a large fellow I can’t be fastidious?” He let her have her smirk, because it confirmed the weather was no longer unnerving her. “You think because I respect women for their inherent bravery I’m old-fashioned?”
“Bravery in what regard?”
“Leave childbearing to men and the race wouldn’t last a century. All children would have to be born capable of cutting their own meat, washing their own soiled nappies, and talking themselves out of nightmares—twenty times in a twenty-four-hour period, and multiply that times the number of toddlers underfoot. Don’t forget they’d have to teach themselves how to do sums and read, for men hardly know themselves after three years of university.”
She gave him a funny, half-smiling perusal, then pushed off the rail.
“If we keep Goliath to the walk, we can likely find our way home now.”
“You don’t mind the occasional shower when we pass under a tree? I can send a closed carriage back for you.” He didn’t want to. He wanted to settle her right beside him on the gig again, and abruptly, the prospect of visiting his tenants shifted from drudgery to something approximating a pleasant duty.
Particularly if he could manage to dodge a few more storms with Wyeth in the process.
“A little rain isn’t what unnerves me, Mr. Kettering, and I don’t melt.”
He handed her up, having sense enough to keep to himself the thought of circumstances under which she might, indeed, be made to melt.
* * *
Worth Kettering was kind.
The realization disconcerted Jacaranda, because it required her to admit she’d been hell-bent on finding fault with him. He’d handed her down from the gig, bowed over her hand as if they’d been on a social outing, then winked at her and left her in peace.
She understood what that wink meant: The secret of your chicken-heartedness is safe with me .
Oh, but he didn’t know the half of it. Yes, she was uncomfortable out in storms, but he didn’t know she’d heard him call her “silly woman,” and the affection in his tone had sent her insides prancing about. Nobody referred to her as silly, though five years ago, she’d been worse than silly. Nobody held her, stroked her hair, or offered her their jacket when she took a chill.
And nobody on the entire face of the earth wore as enticing a scent as Worth Kettering.
He’d be gone soon, though. Trysting was merely a place to find his balance with Yolanda and Avery under the same roof. If Jacaranda were lucky, a few more weeks and Mr. Kettering of the warm jacket, delicious scent, and rogue’s wink would be on his way.
Then she would be on her way. She’d promised, after all, and the usual pleas and threats in Step-Mama’s last epistle had borne a desperate edge.
“Mrs. W!” Old Simmons’s voice was raised in a quavery approximation of a
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