Read Worth Lord of Reckoning for Free Online Page A

been held this way? Likely since infancy. In her childhood, her papa’s and step-mama’s energies had been taken up with the younger children, particularly with pretty little Daisy, who’d had weak lungs as a child.
    Then had come the tribulations of adolescence—height, nicknames, and the odd attentions from boys much older than Jacaranda.
    She shoved that thought and all the bewildered, shameful memories that went with it aside and rubbed her cheek against the silk of Mr. Kettering’s dressing gown.
    He would have to wear silk.
    “You’re falling asleep, Wyeth, my dear.”
    Before she could struggle off his lap, he rose, easily, without grunting or straining or remarking on her size, and walked with her into her bedroom. He’d closed the window, probably in deference to the candle he’d lit by her bed, but that small consideration meant the room was free of drafts.
    He set her on the edge of the bed, went around to the other side, and turned down the covers.
    “Don’t suppose you’d invite me in to warm up your sheets? I excel at warming sheets.” He stacked throw pillows on a chair, a man at ease in a lady’s bedroom. “No witty rejoinder, Wyeth? Shall I worry about you in truth?”
    “I am speechless at your crude suggestions,” she managed. “Both my bedroom and sitting room doors have stout locks. Must I use them, or have you acquired minimal notions of gentlemanly conduct at some point in your misspent youth?”
    A housekeeper did not speak so disrespectfully to her employer, but he hadn’t been serious about joining her in bed—she hoped. He’d been offering an insult as a bracing conversational slap to one whose wits had been wandering.
    Or perhaps—intriguing notion—his remark had been intended as flirtation, a sad comment on the realities of Town life.
    “Many would agree with the misspent part,” he murmured, lifting back her covers. “Scoot in, my dear, or you’ll start shivering again, because your hair is still damp.” He frowned at that realization, the candlelight making him a displeased Bacchus. He took off his dressing gown and laid it over her pillows. “Your pillows won’t take the wet.”
    “That dressing gown is silk.” She lifted her legs to get under the covers, else he’d stand there half-clothed all night waiting for her. “I’ll ruin it.”
    “I can’t have you courting a chill. I thought we’d established that. A scrap of cloth matters little compared to the smooth running of my household.”
    To her horror, he sat at her hip and brushed her hair back from her forehead, then turned her head gently with a thumb to her chin.
    “This scrape might start bleeding again. Try to sleep on your right side.”
    She obligingly shifted to her side—anything to make him go away.
    “Good night, Wyeth.”
    “Good night, Mr. Kettering.”
    He rose and moved around the room, cracking her window a hair, blowing out the candle. She heard him moving in the other room, then felt the lovely weight of the afghan spread over her blankets. The light from the sitting room disappeared as he closed the bedroom door, and still she heard him, tidying up all the trays he’d brought in.
    For nothing. She hadn’t eaten, hadn’t used the warm water, hadn’t had a final cup of tea.
    But she did sleep.
    Eventually.
    Chapter Three
     
    “They’ll be forever in there.” Yolanda flopped back against the squabs and knew she was setting a bad example for her niece. Young ladies did not flop, and they did not gripe.
    She had a niece, whom she hadn’t known about, just as her brother Worth hadn’t known he had a living half-sister. Having a niece was peculiar, when Avery seemed more like a younger sister and Worth Kettering more like an uncle. A grouchy uncle.
    “Wickie won’t tarry,” Avery said in French. “She’s devoted to me, and now she’ll be devoted to you, too.”
    “Miss Snyder has that honor,” Yolanda said, happy to practice her French on a native speaker. “At least