“I would have thought, if Your Grace wished to view the ledgers, you would have asked me to bring them to you?” Wareham’s tone was tipped with steel.
You? It was an unforgivable insult not to use John’s title. You!
“Who owns the estates you manage, Wareham?” John felt as though a sandstorm had swept over him, his vision blurred and his skin prickled with anger.
“You do, Your Grace.”
Even when Wareham did use John’s title, he made it offensive.
“And please tell me then, Wareham, therefore, who owns this office and these ledgers?”
The man’s eyes momentarily showed a questioning thought, but then he stated, “Your Grace,” the challenge slipping from his voice.
“And pray, who employs you?”
“Your Grace.” There was darkness at the heart of Wareham’s eyes. A darkness which said this would not be the last of this conversation.
John smiled his grandfather’s vicious smile. “We have that straight then. Let us move on.”
John did not mention the loan after that minor mutiny. He did not wish to give Wareham any chance to cover his tracks.
“I have decided to review every aspect of my estate. I shall take these accounts now to help me do so and I wish to see all the supporting receipts and invoices. You may begin a new ledger.”
Wareham finally showed an element of emotion as his eyebrows lifted.
He’d clearly not anticipated John’s direct interference, and that meant, hopefully, the reason for the loan was still hidden somewhere in these books.
The older man’s icy gaze met John’s across the desk.
When John had sat here with him as a boy, the man had been brash, intolerant and rude. John had thought it a lack of patience for a youth. Now he presumed it was more. Wareham had never acted this way with his grandfather.
John did not move…
“Now, Your Grace?” The man finally understood.
“I am here, am I not Wareham, so now would be a good time.”
“But…”
“I shall begin reading these ledgers, while you find everything out.” Of course Wareham would wish for more time if he wanted to hide evidence.
He stood.
John looked down at the ledgers.
A few minutes later, Wareham set two thick leather pouches tied with string and stuffed with papers on the desk. “Your Grace.”
“Everything is here?” John asked, rising, ignoring the subtle insult in Wareham’s voice. “All I need to review these two years?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Any omissions I may assume errors on your part then?”
Wareham’s jaw set and a muscle flickered in his cheek. “Your Grace.”
“Call a footman to carry them up.” John could have shouted himself, but he did not, to remind Wareham of his place.
Another ten minutes and the ledgers and packets of receipts and papers were all secured in John’s personal safe, in his rooms.
Katherine picked up the Bibles the children had been working with and set them aside. Then she turned towards the small altar in the chancel chapel where she’d led the Sunday school.
She was looking for something to do to pass the time while the congregation dispersed and she waited for Reverend Barker to drive her home. Her gaze caught on the open side door. John stood there watching her, his athletic silhouette framed in the arch of sunlight.
She had not forgiven him for kissing her, nor for forcing her to admit she had wished him to do it. Neither was a gentlemanly act. He had changed.
Ignoring him, she turned to the storage cupboard. She felt his presence so keenly she could sense him smiling behind her. She’d heard him singing amidst the congregation as she’d worked with the children. He had a beautiful voice. It rose above that of everyone else with perfect clarity.
How could a man who was now so steely hard and disgracefully arrogant still sing like an angel?
She pressed a palm against the slates to make them straight when they were already perfectly aligned.
“Are you hiding, Katherine?”
Her heart thumped. “Working, John.”
His boot heels rang on the glazed medieval tiles and she spun about when she heard him get too close.
He was two feet away, his pale eyes gleaming yet unfathomable. “I was waiting to speak with you, your parents have left. I thought… You are not hiding from me, are you?”
“No,” she breathed, knowing she coloured.
His gaze swept across her face clearly assessing her as she had not been able to assess him because his features were set like marble.
“There is no need for you to fear me, Katherine.”
She lifted her chin. “I am not afraid of you, John.” I am afraid of myself.
“I would never hurt you.”
Her chin lifted another notch. She hurt for him anyway. She had ached for him for seven years. Hiding was the only way to escape more pain.
He did not move, his pale gaze holding hers as though he could hear the words she did not speak.
“I have thought about you since the funeral.” His voice whispered, bouncing off the cold bare stone. “I know I said sorry to you yesterday, Katherine, but I really do not think I am. I wanted to kiss you, too. Why should either of us feel regret?”
She dragged a deep breath into her lungs. “John, do not do this.” She stepped back and collided with the shelves.
He caught her arm to stop her fall, but did not let go.
“Do what? Admit I am attracted to you. I am, as you are to me.” His head was bowing before he’d even finished speaking.
Their lips touched.
It was different from yesterday, it was gentle, hesitant and reassuring, and without conscious thought her hands slid over his shoulders, one settling behind his neck, half holding his mouth to hers.
When his lips opened and his tongue slid across the seam of hers, she could not help but part hers and kiss him back as he was kissing her.
Their tongues weaved an intricate dance and she felt her body press against his, as the shelves dug into her back.
His hand supported her, slipping to the first curve of her lower back and her shoulder, but then his kiss became more ardent and his tongue pressed deep into her mouth.
“Katherine!”
They flew apart and she knew she must be crimson. The back of her hand pressed to her mouth, wondering how swollen her lips must look and then her palms pressed to her hot cheeks before trying to tuck wisps of her hair back beneath her bonnet.
Reverend Barker’s long, confident footsteps could be heard as he walked briskly up the aisle.
Her hands ran quickly over her gown, smoothing out creases which were not there. She felt dishevelled but it was not an outward turmoil, it was an inward one.
She looked at John. He did not look contrite at all.
Oh