Kiss From a Rogue (10 page)

“They didn’t welcome you into their midst.” There was no condemnation in his voice, only understanding.

“I probably would have reacted the same way in their position. When Montgomery and I paid our monthly visits, I learned that many of them worked outdoors just as hard as the men, and noticed their hands were just as painfully chapped in the winter. So I started bringing them jars of balm I’d made. Ointments to help injuries heal. Soon after, while he was away at sea, they started inviting me to tea, and to their sewing parties.”

“Social entrée made possible by jars of hand cream.” Tony nodded his approval. “London ladies should be so enterprising.”

“Would London ladies gather together to dye their gowns black after a shipwreck?”

He rested his hand on her shoulder. “Probably not.”

Enough examining the past. The present was far more interesting. “Why are you here?”

“I’m accompanying you back home so Crowther doesn’t doubt our story.”

Sylvia stopped, the roofless shell of the gatehouse behind her, and leaned against the post where a gate once hung so she could watch Tony’s expression. “No, I mean why are you here in Lulworth? I can understand why you stayed last night—the lads can be intimidating at times. But why didn’t you leave this morning? No one could have stopped you.”

“Truly?” He plucked a tall grass stem and stuck the end between his teeth. “I like Marge.”

“Marge—Mrs. Miggins? You’re staying because you like Mrs. Miggins? She’s eighty-nine and claims to have been a mistress to King George.”

Tony tilted his head. “She does seem fond of men.”

Sylvia closed her eyes briefly. “She didn’t pinch you, did she?”

“She pinches, too?”

Sylvia began walking toward the house again, Tony falling into step beside her. She would
not
think about what it would be like to pinch the handsome man at her side, and forced her mind to more practical matters. She made a mental note to cut back the rhododendrons that lined the drive now that they’d finished blooming—there was no longer room for a carriage to pass in some places. They may lack funds to replace things, but the pruning shears were still serviceable. “How did you meet Mrs. Miggins?”

Tony shifted the grass stem to the other corner of his mouth, and took entirely too long to answer such a simple question. “She and a few of her friends said hello to me while we were at the Happy Jack this morning.”

“When? I didn’t—”

“You were inside chatting with Mrs. Spencer. It was just me and seven lovely ladies, all of whom brandished a rolling pin or some other weapon.”

Sylvia paused mid-stride. “Weapon?”

Tony tugged on her elbow, helping her over a wheel rut in the path. “After our kiss last night, they just wanted to make sure my intentions toward you are honorable. Your men are gossips, it would seem.”

And they had the gall to call Mrs. Spencer a busybody?

If not for the audience that had been present, she might have been able to truly enjoy the kiss. Perhaps next time.

Next time? There should never be a next time. Last night had just been a fluke, a mistake. Never to be repeated.

Unless it was necessary for their charade, of course.

She looked at Tony sideways, studying his full mouth, sensual lips. No hardship there, should they have to kiss. For appearance’s sake, for their charade. After all, husband and wife would do far more intimate things with each other. And as a widow, didn’t society grant her a little more leeway, as long as she was discreet?

Jimmy hailed them just then, as he emerged from the rhododendrons that hid the shortcut to the cliff path.

“All done?” she called, grateful for the interruption before her imagination could embarrass her any further. Tony was a rake, having a bit of a lark. Of course he’d be interested in kissing her, if she was willing. Trouble was, a rake would want much more than a chaste kiss, and she had no intention of being one among his undoubtedly many conquests.

Jimmy checked that the last branch went back into position, concealing the path, and brushed at the leaves and dirt on his clothes. “All right and tight, all the usual arrangements made for the deliveries, so I was just going up to see what can be done with the gold salon. Trent says another so’westerly is going to blow through soon.”

As the three of them continued toward the manor, Sylvia couldn’t restrain a sigh. Trent’s knee was never wrong. The last so’westerly had been less than a week ago, and they’d used most of their lumber to shore up the salon. But it was too little, too late, and the sodden ceiling had collapsed anyway.

Was that the distant rumble of thunder already? Sylvia scanned the horizon, and then breathed another sigh, this one of relief. She stepped to the side, out of the way of Doyle and his wagon loaded with supplies. She’d almost forgotten today was the farrier’s monthly visit.

Doyle tipped his hat as he rolled past, headed for the back door. “Mrs. Spencer sends her compliments, my lady.”

“Thank you. I’m sure Galen will be delighted to see you.”

“She always is.” Doyle gave a cheeky grin and flicked the whip above his horse’s ears.

Jimmy opened the front door for Sylvia, then headed up the stairs.

Sylvia hung her bonnet on a hook and continued down the hall. Tony stayed at her side. Her steps faltered. “Where are you going?”

“Wherever you’re going.”

Oh. “I have work waiting for me in the stillroom.”

“Then I’ll help.” He lowered his voice. “I can be very handy.”

She could imagine all too well what he might be able to do with his hands. The stillroom was at the back, isolated from the rest of the house. And small. Tony would be able to stay quite close to her, the whole time. Work his charm on her with no one around to interrupt. She gulped. “W-what if you helped Jimmy instead? He and Gerald have had a difficult time making any progress with the gold salon.”

Tony glanced at the staircase. “If you’re sure that’s what you want?”

No, but that’s what she needed for peace of mind. “I’m sure.”

“Very well, my lady.” He turned for the stairs, and she hurried down the hall before he caught her staring, watching him take the steps two at a time.

Once in the stillroom, Sylvia found it difficult to concentrate on her work. She had never before spent time with a rake. Was not entirely sure she’d even met one before Tony. There certainly weren’t any here in Lulworth Cove, and her uncle had strictly limited her circle of acquaintances in Manchester. Tony, with that smile, those eyes, must be quite successful at it.

Not all the local ladies were ready to succumb to his charms, though. She wished she could have witnessed the circle of women threatening him with rolling pins.

Hours later, she got up from her bench in the stillroom, stretching her back, trying to work out the stiffness from mixing several new batches. She caught a whiff of a new scent—dinner cooking—and her stomach growled.

She made her way to the kitchen and picked up Macbeth, who was milling around the cook’s ankles, mewling for a tidbit.

“Just stop that whining now, because you ain’t getting none,” Galen growled, waving her spoon for emphasis.

“Stop what?” She hadn’t even asked for a taste yet.

The cook spun around. “Oh, my lady, I didn’t see you come in. That blasted cat’s been begging for hours. Told him to go catch his own supper.”

“I’ll see what I can do to distract him.” Sylvia settled the cat in his favorite position, seated in the crook of her arm with his front paws hugging her shoulder.

“Ready to eat in less than an hour,” Galen said, reaching for her knife and chopping board.

“I’ll go see what the men have been up to, then.” As soon as Galen had her back turned, Sylvia snagged a piece of fish off the platter and fed it to Macbeth on the way out the door. “Good thing I left my work apron on,” she whispered. The cat purred his appreciation. “Fish breath.” He washed his paws while Sylvia climbed the stairs, following the sound of loud thuds emanating from the gold salon.

She opened the salon door and stopped, her mouth agape.

The windows were flung wide open, a fire roaring in the grate, and Tony and Jimmy had stripped to their shirts, sleeves rolled up. Both were barely recognizable, covered in detritus, dust, and sweat, each with a kerchief covering the lower half of his face and a scarf tied around his head. Dust motes danced in the air.

The last of the furniture had been removed after the ceiling fell, but several pairs of chairs had been brought back in, along with planks of lumber. Tony stood on the makeshift scaffolding, swinging a hammer and pry bar. Chunks of damp plaster fell with each powerful blow, landing on the curtains laid on the floor beneath.

Sweat glistened as it slid down his neck, and made his hair stand out in spikes at the edges of his scarf. Soaked with perspiration, Tony’s shirt clung to him, the white lawn rendered nearly sheer. It revealed a birthmark on the back of his broad shoulder, and highlighted his impressive musculature. She’d already known he was strong, having felt along his limbs last night while he had been unconscious. But watching him in action, seeing his muscles bunch and shift as he worked…Her mouth suddenly went dry.

“Beg pardon, my lady.” Gerald suddenly stood behind her, trying to get into the room. He, too, was covered with dust.

Hoping none of her attraction was revealed on her face, she stepped aside to let him in with his burden, a tray with glasses and a pitcher, plus more cloths draped over one arm.

“Your timing is perfect, my good man.” Breathing heavily, Tony dropped his tools and sat down on the scaffold, his feet swinging free, and accepted a glass of water.

“As always,” Jimmy added between pants, reaching for a glass.

Sylvia stepped through the doorway. “You two have certainly been industrious.” Even Tony’s lashes were coated with white plaster dust.

He tugged the kerchief down so he could drink, and raised his glass to her in a toast. He tipped the glass back, his throat working as he swallowed the entire glassful in one go, his neck exposed because his cravat was gone and his top two shirt buttons undone. Her breath hitched at the sight. Seeing a man’s chest apparently had the same effect on her that a glimpse of a woman’s ankle had on men.

A glimpse of Tony’s chest, at any rate.

A little water escaped the side of his mouth, and trailed down his jaw and throat, disappearing inside his collar.

Sylvia licked her lips. That sound had to be the cat purring, not her.

Jimmy tried to drink his entire glass down as well, and choked.

Tony thumped Jimmy on the back, and winked at Sylvia.

She stiffened her spine. The man was a peacock, showing off for her.

Ah, but what a show. And when was the last time an attractive man, someone past adolescence but not yet into his dotage, had showed off for her? No reason she couldn’t enjoy it. She relaxed her posture. Slightly. “I came up to warn you that dinner should be ready in an hour or so. Much as I appreciate what you’re doing, you can’t come to table like this.”

“Yes, my lady.” Grinning, Tony held out his glass so Gerald could refill it.

Sylvia glanced around the room again, definitely not watching Tony drink, or the rise and fall of his chest as he caught his breath. There were ladders and various tools scattered all over, in addition to the debris-strewn drapes that had once been gold velvet. Well, she’d planned to replace them anyway. Someday. “What is it you’re doing, by the way?”

“Sylvia, isn’t this great? Tony says he knows how we can fix the roof, and the ceiling, and the walls. We just have to get all the wet stuff out of the way and dry out the wood.” Jimmy swung his feet, in perfect rhythm with Tony’s.

“It appears the dry rot isn’t too extensive yet.” Tony set his empty glass on the tray. “You’ll need to replace the missing and damaged roof tiles, and buy a few other supplies. Will that be a problem?”

So much for buying fabric for new dresses, even though her year of mourning had ended a month ago. How long could one wear nothing but gray or black, and retain one’s sanity? But the house was more important than her wardrobe. “No, of course not. Monroe is going to West Lulworth tomorrow, to make a delivery and pick up supplies—we’ll ask if he has room in his wagon.”

“I’ll prepare a list, then.”

Sylvia left after they promised to wash up in time for dinner. Sounds of hammering, and the thumps of plaster falling, followed her down the stairs.

Within an hour they were all seated around the table, Jimmy freshly scrubbed. Tony was too, and Sylvia was surprised to recognize his fine coat, shirt, and breeches, all perfectly clean.

“Earlier I took the liberty of borrowing work clothes from your husband’s wardrobe,” he said, accepting a filled plate from Gerald. “I hope you don’t mind.”

Caught staring at him, Sylvia felt heat rise in her cheeks. “Not at all. In fact, use whatever you want of his. Hubert won’t mind.”

Tony smiled. “I’ll take you at your word.”

Was it just her imagination, or did his words carry other meaning? What rakish interpretation could he have given her innocent offer? And his eyes seemed to sparkle with mischief. Perhaps it was just the candlelight playing tricks.

They ate in near silence for several minutes. If Sylvia had worked up an appetite in the stillroom, Jimmy and Tony must be nearly starving after their exertions. She waited until Gerald served the third, and final, course before voicing a question she had wondered since her visit to the salon.

“How is it that you know about dry rot, plaster, and such?”

Tony cracked a walnut in half, offered it to her, and cracked another. “When we were in school, Alistair, Nick, and I would often go to one another’s homes for holiday. One winter, a big storm damaged part of Nick’s house. We made such a nuisance of ourselves asking the workmen endless questions, they put us to work.”

“Nick’s parents allowed this?” Sylvia nibbled on the walnut half.

“Nick’s father was
delighted.
Free laborers.”

“A real pinchpenny, eh?” Jimmy stuck his walnut halves onto a hunk of cheese and ate the whole thing in one huge bite.