Page 55 of Her Impeccable Scoundrel
She would have Will and Hermione.
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.
