The Perfect Kiss (12 page)

“But . . .” Grace frowned and unwrapped the cloth. Inside was a beautiful piece of bacon.

The gnarled old hand clutched hers. “Now, Lady, ye’ll be wantin’ to know which families here have greatest need o’ ye.”

“Oh, but—”

The old woman ignored her. She described several houses that Grace would find on the way to the village. “The Finns, the Taskers, the Tickels, and all the rest. Just go, Lady, and you mun see. Powerful bad, the folk o’ Wolfestone need ye.”

Grace shrugged and agreed to go. She might as well recruit workers who really could benefit from having the work, and this old lady would know everyone. She rose to leave. “Thank you, Mrs. Wigm—”

A gnarled, ancient hand shot out to detain her. “I have something more to tell you. Back up the road there and off through the woods be Gwydion’s Pool. Ye must not take it lightly, Lady. It be a magical place, but it be dangerous for females. Gwydion be one o’ the old gods and if a young girl be so foolish as to bathe in his pool . . .” The old woman shook her head direfully.

“She’ll drown?” Grace asked, fascinated by this evidence of ancient folk beliefs.

“Worse! He’ll steal her virtue from her.”

Grace laughed.

“Ah, young miss, ye don’t believe me, but ’tis true. Look at them Tickel girls. Their mam—poor ignorant creature—she be a furriner from past Ludlow and knew no better. She let those girls paddle and splash in Gwydion’s Pool when they weren’t no more’n babes, and look at ’em now! Not a moral between ’em! Not their fault, o’ course, but a warning to the rest o’ female kind, they be.”

“Well, thank you very much for warning me.” Grace got up again to leave.

Again the old woman detained her. “Even so, miss, you need to go to Gwydion’s Pool and fetch some o’ the water from it.”

“Need I? Why?”

“Ye must take a gill o’ water by moonlight and bathe yer face in it, morning and night. Them freckles will fade, sure as my name be Agnes Wigmore!” She described the way to the pool in detail, and only then did she release Grace’s hand.

Grace thanked her for the bacon and the advice and left. She headed for the village, and because she wasn’t in a hurry and had said she would, she went by the curving forest path and stopped at each house that Granny Wigmore had mentioned; the Finns, the Taskers and the Tickels . . .

She was given a warm welcome at each house but the state of the houses shocked her. The people here were in abject poverty. Mrs. Finn lived with five young children in a shack of a house. She took in washing, but her eldest son, Billy, considered himself the breadwinner of the family. Dear Lord, but the child was not yet ten.

The Tickel girls lived with their mother and grand-mother, who was bed-bound. They took in washing and the girls went out to scrub and clean whenever work was available.

The Taskers had evidently been prosperous at one time, but, she learned, they’d been unjustly evicted from their farm—the first time in hundreds of years they’d been late—and now they lived in a hovel on the edge of the forest making ends meet as best they could.

Everyone’s clothes were worn and patched; there was little evidence of food in any of the houses—Grace was warmly welcomed but was offered water to drink and food that she could see was all there was. The houses were meagerly furnished yet clean and neat. And everywhere she looked there was a need for maintenance and repair—leaking roofs, rotting floors, walls crumbling with damp. Who on earth was the landlord? Grace feared she knew.

Melly had said he was rich.

But at whose expense?

The sun was high in the sky by the time she reached the village, but Grace had much to think on. In the village shop she bought several loaves of fresh, warm bread and a packet of coffee and tea. She left the shopkeeper with an order than left him smiling and bowing her out of the shop like a duchess. She thought of the bare larders of the places she’d just left and vowed she would do something.

Chapter Seven

The voice of conscience is so delicate that it is easy to
stifle it; but it is also so clear that it is impossible to
mistake it.

MADAME DE STAEL

 
 
 
GRACE ENTERED THE KITCHEN AT WOLFESTONE TO FIND A FIRE blazing brightly and the smell of fresh coffee. He’d certainly acted quickly. Only last night he’d said he would arrange for some help. And here it was.

A stout woman turned away from the hearth as she entered and bobbed her a curtsy. “How d’ye do, miss. His lordship said I was to take my orders from you. Stokes is my name, miss. Good, plain cook I am, with some experience of the gentry. And this here’s my niece, Enid,” she said as a harried-looking girl emerged from the scullery carrying a large pot. “She’s a dab hand in the scullery and will give you no trouble. Give miss a curtsy, Enid!” She poked the girl in the ribs, almost knocking the pot from her hands. The girl bobbed a jerky curtsy and scuttled off.

Grace said, “I’m very pleased you’re here, Mrs. Stokes and Enid. However, I think there’s some mistake. It should be Miss Pettifer who you will take orders fr—”

“No, miss, excuse me, but his lordship said it was to be you. Made it quite plain. Miss Greystoke, he said. Small, dressed in gray, and with interesting freckles is how he put it.” She hesitated, then said, “I’ve got an infallible remedy for those freckles, miss, if you’d care to try it.”

Grace smiled. “Thank you, Mrs. Stokes, perhaps later. Is that coffee I smell? I would love a cup. And I’ve brought bacon and fresh bread and—oh, all sorts of things. And there’s an order coming up from the village shortly.”

“Oh, that’s grand, miss. I brought a few things with me when his lordship engaged me last night, the coffee for instance, but I didn’t know what was in stock, so—”

“It was very clever of you to think of it,” Grace declared.

Mrs. Stokes beamed. “My pleasure, miss. Mrs. Parry’s lad brought the supplies up that you asked for, so there’s plenty for breakfast.” She set a cup of coffee down on the kitchen table, whisked the loaf of bread from Grace’s hand, and pressed Grace into a chair. “Now, sit ye down, miss, and I’ll cut ye some o’ that nice fresh bread. Will ye have honey or some of Mrs. Parry’s damson jam?”

“Honey, please,” Grace said happily. She took a sip of hot, fragrant coffee. “Oh, Mrs. Stokes, you’re a gem!”

Mrs. Stokes, beaming, placed a plate with two slices of fragrant, warm bread in front of her, lavishly slathered with butter and honey. Grace devoured it hungrily.

She was in an excellent mood. Lord D’Acre had hired several servants already. That boded well for her. She hadn’t really thought about how he would respond to her own actions this morning.

“Heavenly!” she declared, licking honey from her fingers. “Is there anything better than fresh, warm bread and honey?”

“I can think of a few things.” Just the sound of that deep voice sent a shiver down her spine. “Though that does look delicious.” The look he gave her indicated he wasn’t thinking about bread. She hurriedly stopped licking her fingers and tucked them out of sight, though they were still a little sticky.

“Good morning, Mistress Greystoke.”

Mistress.
He said it just to annoy her, she knew. Any opportunity to remind her of that first meeting.
I wouldn’t mind a mistress. Are you soon to be my mistress, too, Greystoke?

“Good morning, Lord D’Acre,” she said sunnily, determined to be unaffected by rakish looks or innuendo.

He prowled slowly toward her and leaned down. She braced herself. He bent lower and murmured in her ear so she could feel his warm breath on her skin, “There is a most delectable drop of honey just beside your mouth. If you like, I could lick—”

Grace hastily scrubbed at her mouth and glared a silent warning at him over her shoulder. He grinned and winked and held her chair to help her rise. He’d been teasing her; even he wouldn’t kiss her in front of Mrs. Stokes and Enid. Surely.

“If you’ve finished your breakfast—”

“He’s going to bleed Papa again!” Melly burst into the kitchen, distraught. “I told him not to but he told me to run along and stop bothering him.” She gave Grace an anguished look. “Papa’s already lost so much blood. He’s so pale and weak! I’m sure it’s not good for him!”

“I’ll go.” Grace dashed out of the room. Lord D’Acre caught up with her at the stairs, hooked his hand around her arm, and took her with him, flying up the stairs two at a time.

They reached Sir John’s room just as the doctor was about to open a vein. One glance at Sir John’s face confirmed Melly’s opinion. He lay weakly against his pillows, his eyes closed, the skin around them fragile and bruised-looking. His skin was very pale and waxen.

“Belay that, you damned leech!” Lord D’Acre snapped. “Miss Pettifer has already requested you not to bleed her father any more.”

The doctor straightened. “I am the physician here!”

“Yes, but when it is her father being treated, Miss Pettifer is the one who gives the orders.”

The doctor gobbled with indignation. “I refuse to take orders from some young chit!”

Grace stepped in and said in what she hoped was a calming voice. “Dr. Ferguson, Miss Pettifer is concerned about the amount of blood that you have taken from her father. She feels it is only weakening him, and indeed, that does seem to be the case. If you would just explain—”

The doctor drew himself up and gave her a haughty glare. “I explain myself to no one!”

“Then—” Lord D’Acre strode to the door and held it open. “Miss Pettifer, do you wish to dismiss this fellow?”

Melly looked frightened. She glanced from her father to Grace to the doctor and back to her father, chewing her lip, clearly unable to decide.

Dr. Ferguson decided for her, saying in a sniffy but ingratiating manner, “Well, since you insist, my lord, I will not bleed Sir John today, but be it on your own head. He is seriously ill and I cannot be held responsible if he worsens.” He started to pack up his things. “I have other patients to call on, so I will leave you this laudanum, which you can give him if the pain gets too great.” He snapped shut his doctor’s bag. “I shall return on the morrow—unless he worsens and you send for me. But if you do, I warn you, I shall bleed him, for nothing is so efficacious as bleeding a patient, I find.” He stalked from the room, a picture of affronted dignity.

Lord d’Acre watched him go. “Nothing is as efficacious as the prospect of a fat bill being paid.”

Melly looked frightened. “But I can’t—I don’t have any—”

Lord D’Acre cut her off. “Do not trouble yourself about it. I pay for the care of my guests. Now, are you satisfied with the outcome of this discussion, Miss Pettifer?”

Melly gave him a relieved smile. “Oh, yes, thank you, Lord D’Acre. It is most satisfactory. I do believe Papa could not take another bleeding.”

He did not seem to notice the glowing smile, but Grace did. It gave her pause for thought.

“Do you have everything you need?” he asked Melly.

Melly looked around the room. “I—I think so.”

“Good, then we shall leave you to make your father comfortable. You may order anything you need. Meanwhile, Miss Greystoke and I have a few things to discuss. In private.”

“We do?” Grace didn’t like the sound of that, but she had no time to question him any further, for he took one of her hands in his, and placed his other hand squarely in the small of her back. She found herself swept from the room like an errant leaf.

“What do you need to discuss? I don’t think there’s anything we need to discuss. Especially not in private.”

He refused to answer, just gave her an enigmatic look and marched her onward.

“Thank you for supporting Melly,” she told him.

He rolled his eyes. “The man’s a quack.”

Grace was inclined to agree. He led her to a parlor, badly in need of a good dust and polish, seated her, and drew up a chair opposite, uncomfortably close. His knees just touched hers.

She tried to scoot back in her chair, but he leaned forward. “First things first,” he said and took her hand in his. “You missed a bit.”

And before Grace could work out what he was talking about, he’d lifted her hand and sucked two of her fingers right into his mouth.

She was too surprised to say a word. She tried to jerk her hand back, but he held it firm, his eyes smoldering honey gold above her hand. She scrunched her eyes shut to block off that compelling golden stare but all it did was intensify the sensation of his mouth and what it was doing to her fingers.

He sucked on them in a slow, hypnotic rhythm. Grace had had calves and baby lambs suck on her fingers: they felt nothing like this. Each strong, slow pull arrowed straight to the core of her. Shivers rippled though her with each movement.

At the same time his tongue delicately explored her skin, sending tiny frissons skittering down her arm and backbone. His knees pushed between hers and she felt him move closer.

She felt his warmth, smelled his masculine scent and knew she must resist him.

She recalled that glowing smile Melly had given him and with a huge effort, wrenched her hand from his mouth, and pushed her chair backward.

“What on earth did you think—”

“Delicious honey,” he said in a conversational tone, as if he’d hadn’t just been outrageous. “Reminds me of the wild honey of the Greek mountains. There is probably a lot of thyme near the hive.” He smiled. “And of course there was the added taste of you. Delicious.”

She stared at him, dumfounded by his cheek.

His smile deepened. He reached out with one finger and pushed her chin gently up. Her mouth closed with a snap. “Otherwise I’d think you were trying to tempt me into a kiss. Have I warned you I have no resistance?”

“I know that!” The attempt to be scathing failed miserably.

“Yes, and besides, we need to have our little chat. There are people waiting for us.”

“People?”

“Yes, a dozen or more people waiting outside. When I inquired why they were there, they told me the Gray Lady asked them to come and work.”

“Oh.” Grace swallowed.

“Yes, oh, Greystoke.”

“Ahh,” Grace swallowed. “Yes, I um, met a few people this morning when I went out. And one thing led to another and I, um, offered them work, yes.”