Mistletoe and Mayhem: A Regency Holiday Romance Anthology, page 66
Is that her bedroom? I need to get a better idea of the layout of this house.
“Good evening, Lord Carno. Are you ready for your supper?” she asked.
“I was going to go into the village to eat. There is no need to cook just for me,” he replied.
Surely Polly wouldn’t have cooked for one, with Deri having taken himself off to London?
The disappointed expression on Wister’s face told him he was mistaken.
“Oh. Well, have a nice evening. Give my regards to George the tavern keeper.” She hurried down the stairs and quickly disappeared from sight, leaving Rhys to ponder her response.
Once inside his bedroom, he changed into a clean shirt and brushed his badly-in-need-of-a-good-cut hair. An unappealing beard stared back at him from his reflection in the mirror and he screwed up his face.
Miss York said she could cut hair. And she said she could wield an open razor.
Leaving his jacket and coat still laying on the bed, Rhys made his way downstairs in search of Miss York and her sharp scissors.
After a good ten minutes of wandering in and out of various rooms on the ground floor, he finally found her in the kitchen, seated at a long wooden table. A large pot of something delicious simmered on the stove, filling the room with an enticing aroma. Rhys’s stomach growled.
She put down her spoon and rose from the table. “Lord Carno, I thought you were going to the village.”
He took another long, deep breath, his nose picking up the distinct notes of chicken, herbs, and garlic. “That smells heavenly. What is it?”
“Chicken soup and potato slice. Would you like some?” she replied.
On the table in front of Wister was a half-eaten bowl of what he guessed was chicken and vegetable goodness. A plate sat to one side. On it was a small, thin brown cake.
On the other side of the table, a bowl and plate had been set. Miss York had been expecting company for supper. Him.
And you brushed her off with plans to go into the village. You dolt.
“This is deeply embarrassing. I didn’t realize Polly had already cooked,” he said.
To his immediate and immense relief, she gifted him with a soft smile. “Polly usually makes a large pot of something in the afternoon and then takes whatever is left home with her the next day. There is plenty of it if you would like some. I can bring it up to you in the dining room if you wish.”
Rhys pointed to the place setting opposite hers. “Or I could remember that I am a gentleman and come and sit with you. One should avoid eating alone.”
“Please, have a seat. I shall get you some supper,” she replied.
While he slid his long legs under the table, Wister picked up Rhys’s bowl and carried it over to the stove. She returned momentarily. The bowl was now full of steaming hot soup.
To his surprise, she didn’t resume her seat. Rather, she went back to the stove and added some wood to the fire. She turned and pointed to his soup. “Eat it while it’s still hot, Lord Carno. I will have your potato cake ready in a minute.”
Rhys picked up his spoon and took a sip of the piping hot soup. It tasted as delicious at it smelled. But while the chicken and vegetables went down easily, he still sensed a lump in his throat. Miss York was cooking his supper.
The heady aroma of fried potato soon drifted to his nose. While he watched, Wister went about the business of frying up the cake, sprinkling a little salt and pepper over it as she worked.
A few minutes later, she slid the cake out of the frying pan and onto a plate, then brought it over to the table and set it down in front of him. It was only then that she finally resumed her seat. “Mind your tongue on the potato. It is hot.”
“Thank you. But I feel terrible now that your supper has gone cold,” he replied.
She waved his concerns away. “Whereas I feel bad because we don’t have any onions or bacon to put in the cake. I find they make it much tastier.”
Rhys saw an opening. A chance to break down some of the awkward barriers which his lack of manners had helped create between them. “Did you know that potato and onion cake is a Welsh delicacy?”
“Yes, my godmother was Welsh. Mama always had our cook bake onion cake when she came to visit.”
Rhys broke a piece of the cake off and popped it into his mouth.
Who are you, Miss York, and where did you come from?
The cake was good. Really good. Fried potato was one of his favorite foods. The soft middle was a perfect complement to the slightly burned edges. When he finished his mouthful, Rhys set down his fork. “Mae hynny'n fwyd da,” he said.
Fool, she is English. You cannot speak Welsh to her.
“Sorry, I forgot where I was. I meant to say, this is good food.”
“Diolch yn fawr iawno,” she replied with a smile.
His eyes grew wide. Miss York had understood him. He didn’t meet too many people outside of Wales who knew anything of the language. “You speak Welsh?”
Wister held up a hand. “No, just the occasional phrase here and there. I learned them to please my godmother.”
This girl was fascinating. Every time he thought he was beginning to get a clear idea of her, she surprised him. Miss York was a woman of many talents.
“May I ask how you came to be here? I mean, from the way you carry yourself, you clearly come from a good family. You should have had options in your life—ones that did not include becoming a lady’s companion. I just find it all a little odd,” he said.
She fixed him with a puzzled scowl. “Why? Why would you want to know anything about me? Or are you just making polite supper conversation?”
Rhys had to think about that for a moment. Why did she intrigue him? From the first time he had set eyes on her, there was something about Miss York. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
Yes, she was attractive. Those warm brown eyes that still held his were the kind that a man could easily lose himself in. “I suppose it is a bit of a mix of both. I am trying to be a little nicer to you than I was yesterday, but I must confess to also being curious.”
She picked up her spoon and took another mouthful of her soup. Her gaze drifted from him to the other end of the table. “I was born in Manchester. My family were well-to-do in shipping and textiles. And yes, I did have a privileged upbringing. I had a governess, and fine clothes. My father used to rent a town house in London for the season.”
She closed her eyes and rubbed at her temple. Rhys was torn. He really should be a gentleman and seek to change the topic, but the need to know more about the intriguing Miss York kept him silent.
“And then a winter illness came, and it was all gone. Creditors soaked up what money might have come to me, and I was left having to go into paid service. A friend of a friend knew that Lady Kington was in need of a companion and secured me the position. It paid a pittance, but it was better than…excuse me.”
She put a hand to her lips. When she looked back at him, there were tears glistening in her eyes.
Rhys knew the pain of loss only too well. “It’s a life-changing thing to bury your parents.”
“Yes, it most certainly is.”
Deri and he had talked about the two of them sharing an orphans’ Christmas, yet here was someone else who had as much if not more right to a seat at that unhappy gathering than his cousin did.
He reached across and touched his hand briefly to hers on the table.
Wister blinked back tears. “Sorry.”
“Miss York, you don’t have to apologize for your grief. It’s the only thing we have left to give to our parents.”
His title had never bothered him before, but Rhys was in sudden need to shake it off—to set this relationship on a different footing, dare he think a more friendly one. “If we are to work together, I would like you to call me by my name. I am Rhys.”
Wister lifted her hand, but he quickly placed his other one on top of hers.
He was now holding her hand between both of his. “Please, Miss York, stay at Kington House until the new year. Work with me. Not as my servant, but as my advisor.”
Her gaze lifted from where he held her hands and settled on his face. He caught what at first glance might be seen as a hint of mistrust, but quickly decided it was more likely guarded wariness. He couldn’t blame her for that.
“Alright, Rhys. But you must understand that if I am to act as your advisor, I will offer up opinions that you may not particularly like, nor even agree with. As long as you are prepared to treat my thoughts as something worthy of your consideration, I will accept the role,” she said.
He grinned at her. “Thank you, Miss York.”
She slipped her hand free of his grasp. “Wister. My name is Wister.”
At the sound of her name, all thoughts of asking Miss York to shave his beard and cut his hair fled Rhys’s mind.
He wouldn’t be going anywhere tonight. Sitting alone with this enticing and thoroughly charming young woman was far better than anything the Royal Oak tavern had to offer.
Wister. Why am I not surprised that such an enchanting woman has a magical name?
Chapter Eight
If she had known that all it took in order to get a man to actually listen to her was to fry him up a spot of supper, Wister would have taken up cooking long ago. As it was, the potato cake was one of only a handful of recipes in her limited kitchen repertoire.
But it didn’t matter. She had a job. A formal appointment to a role she felt she could fulfil. Lord Carno…no, Rhys had asked for her assistance. For the first time since her arrival at Kington House, Wister held hopes of being valued by someone.
The following morning, she met Rhys downstairs. After a quick, but hearty bowl of oats and sliced dry apple, they made their way out the front door.
She ignored his sly grin at her notebook and pencil as they came to a halt a few yards from the house. Rhys stood, hands on hips, and pronounced his opinion about the main residence.
“The guttering needs repairs. The windows a good lick of paint.” He glanced at her still closed book and cleared his throat. “You might want to take some notes, Wister.”
Keeping her composure, she opened the book and let a long piece of paper unfurl and fall over the side. She had been taking notes. Pages and pages of them over the past year. “I think I have those already on the list,” she replied.
He muttered something under his breath, and she turned her head away while she stifled a titter.
“It’s pleasing to see you have already done some homework,” he said.
Her chortle turned to a wry grin. “I assume you know the ancient folktale of Aladdin? Well, I call this notebook the book of a thousand and one wishes, because I figure it will take a magic genie to make all of them come true.”
“Once again, I have underestimated you, Wister. If you do happen to find that genie, could you please ask him for a large sack of gold coins but tell him he can hold off on the magic carpet,” replied Rhys.
They shared a moment of silence while a lightness hung in the air between them. Even a little banter with Rhys was worth its weight in magical gold coins. Lord Carno was fast becoming a person she had a lot of time for. A man who seemed to not only care about people but who wanted to salvage Kington House.
“I could recount the details from the notebook as we work our way around the estate today. When we are finished, I can add in anything else that you feel needs to be included. Would that work in with your plans, Rhys?”
“Why yes, Wister, that sounds like a sensible idea.”
Wister swallowed deeply at hearing him speak her name. Her pulse began to quicken at the prospect of the dozen or so wicked things she would like to do with him. All of them naked. She quickly averted her gaze and studied the notebook.
What are you doing? You have only just met the man.
She sent a prayer of thanks to heaven for having had the good sense to wear a heavy coat this morning. Under her gown, her nipples peaked as primal urges stirred. Just standing this close to Rhys did things to her body that hadn’t happened in a very long time.
Not since him.
She pushed the thought of a certain gentleman and what he had done to her some two years past firmly to the back of her mind. A summer affair which had eventually revealed itself to be a major mistake on her part, and for which she had been made to pay many times over.
“Shall we?” Rhys said.
Only a day ago, she had been worried that he was going to dismiss her from his employ, and she would be homeless. The world had spun a mere half day forward and she now found herself picturing him without his jacket, waistcoat, shirt and…
Keep your mind on what you should be doing and stop thinking wicked thoughts of Welsh barons. He is rather striking, but he is not for you.
Her lustful body was not so easily dissuaded. Following Rhys, Wister indulged in a private study of his broad shoulders and his enticing brown hair which peeked over the collar of his coat. Her thoughts continually ran to all the wrong places. Dangerous places.
What sort of lover would you be? If your gruff, sexy manner is anything to go by, I can imagine you would be superb.
Wister gritted her teeth. This job had seemed easy. Now she wasn’t so sure. Rhys might well be giving coins for her advice, but she too would be paying a price over the next month or so.
Resisting her growing attraction to this ruggedly handsome Welsh baron was going to cost her greatly.
Chapter Nine
The list inside the notebook grew steadily over the next few days. Each morning Wister and Rhys would meet to discuss what else needed to be done in order to get Kington House operating as a fully functional and money-generating estate once more.
They also settled into a comfortable routine of supping together in the kitchen each night. Rhys noted but did not make mention of Polly’s increasingly earlier departure time as the days wore on. Wister was still de-facto estate manager and therefore in charge of the kitchen. If she wanted to have a word with the cook about her hours, that was up to her.
As far as Rhys was concerned, if Polly finished her work early in the afternoon, she was welcome to go home and leave Kington House to Wister and himself.
Closing the book, he pushed back in his chair and stretched out his arms. Across the desk from him, Wister did the same.
“It’s a pity we don’t have a decent wine cellar. I could do with a drop of brandy or even a whisky,” he said.
She nodded at the notebook. “That should go on the list. I am sure I polished off the last of the decent brandy a couple of months ago, but you never know what you might find in the cellar under the house. Could be worth taking a look.”
Rhys narrowed his eyes at her. This was Wister talking, and from what he had already discerned about her, there was a better than even chance that she knew exactly where every single stray bottle of alcohol was hidden in the house.
It could be fun to help her go down into the cellar and find them. Who knows what might happen in the dark? She could trip on something and you would have to take a firm hold of her…What am I thinking?
Being alone with Wister was becoming a dangerous thing. She might be an advisor, but she was still in his employ. First name basis or not, he had no right to be letting his quietly growing lust for her get the better of him. “I tell you what, let’s go to the village. We can have a couple of glasses of the local ale, then come back here for supper.”
She grinned at him somewhat sheepishly from her side of the desk. They hadn’t known one another for very long, but he already knew that look. “What?”
“I have a bottle of wine. Polly brought it with her from the village this morning. So, rather than us go into Kington, I was going to suggest that I cut your hair and give you a shave. We can share the bottle of red,” she replied.
For Wister to get close enough to give him a proper shave, her breasts would be mere inches from his face. He wasn’t sure how he would be able to deal with such temptation.
When his manhood twitched and offered up its own opinion about the matter, the decision was made. “Perhaps another time.”
She got to her feet. “No time like the present. I shall go and put some water on the stove and get some clean towels. The kitchen is nice and warm so you can strip off your shirt and not be uncomfortable. I will see you shortly.”
Blast. What was I supposed to say to that? I am only a mere male.
Rhys remained in his chair as Wister’s footsteps faded downstairs. He took a long, deep calming breath and tried to get his body to relax.
“She is a paid employee. You can’t go lusting after her,” he muttered.
The previous owner of Kington House had taken advantage of Wister by not paying her. By thinking of her in such a lecherous way, was he any better?
He wanted her—no longer able to deny that immutable fact. But he was determined that if anything of a sexual nature were to happen between him and Wister, it would have to be with her full consent. And the written acknowledgement that he would pay out her contract in full if at any time she decided to leave.
Rhys quietly cursed himself for not having taken the time to venture over to the larger town of Leominster and gone to a gentleman’s barber. Now he was going to have to suffer Wister’s feminine attentions.
And her inviting body being so damn close.
Wister paced back and forth in the kitchen. “Not so brave now, are you?” she muttered.
In a matter of minutes, Rhys would be coming downstairs, fully expecting her to not only cut his hair but to give him a close shave.
She had done it plenty of times for Lord Kington. The tight old codger wouldn’t part with the coin for a valet when at home, but this was different. Her previous employer was a crotchety man whose facial hair only required a small amount of upkeep once a week and who had long ago gone fully bald.
Rhys, on the other hand, was in possession of a gorgeous, if slightly unruly head of hair. Wister longed to tease her fingers through it. She was certain that the mere notion of cutting his dark brown mop was a sin.
