by Gina Conkle
Her spoon wove circles in her coffee, clinking inside her mug. What an irregular request. “And you offer friendship because…”
Lord Bowles turned in his chair, the wood creaking as he faced her. “Because you are a woman in need and I want to help. Because I enjoy talking with you and find that I like you. Because…” He searched the air, finishing testily, “Because I don’t know. Must a man list his reasons for doing a good turn?”
The stirring stopped, a strange notion striking her. Lord Bowles was somehow at her mercy, a man in need, and she was the one he wanted to fill it.
A faint scowl marred his features. “Are you always this difficult, Miss Turner?”
“I’m afraid so, milord. Growing up, my mother was at her wit’s end with me.”
The breezy admission slipped out. She could blame it on stunning events of late. Twice in one day, Lord Bowles had accomplished what few men had done in her lifetime. He’d shocked her in the best way, first announcing he believed her when she said she’d not harm the Beckworths, and now this, a man seeking conversation and friendship because he found talking with her a pleasure. True, he’d ogled her breasts, but not once did he paw them or pinch her bottom.
This turn was unusual and…nice.
Lord Bowles sighed and braced a hand on the table. “Perhaps this was a bad idea.”
“Wait.” She grasped his sleeve. “You’re giving up already?”
“I’ll not force my friendship on you.”
Did he mean it? Friendship? A feather could’ve knocked her over.
“If you’ll beg pardon, milord, friendship between the likes of you with me… It’s most irregular.”
“It is.” His voice was honest and gentle. She was tempted to bask in it after a lifetime surrounded by brusque men.
“And me being a woman from less respectable parts has nothing to do with your…offer?”
Her cautious question touched the heart of the matter like flint striking steel. Lord Bowles held her stare, the golds and greens of his hazel eyes burning bright.
“You think I’m seeking you out for bed sport.”
“It crossed my mind.”
The barest pause passed. A moment, she suspected, when Lord Bowles decided to tell the truth.
“It crossed mine too,” he admitted.
Her knees went slack, and she let go of his velvet sleeve. Despite his gentlemanly bid for friendship, a current thrummed between them. The heat could singe wood, yet their voices hardly reached above a whisper. The spindle jack ticked as steadily as her pulse. Grease droplets sizzled inside the hastener. Rosemary and thyme clouded the kitchen, the domestic aromas a contrast to their peculiar conversation.
“How old are you?” he asked. “Nineteen?”
“Twenty.”
“That’s why I couldn’t remember you,” he said, relaxing in the chair. “And since we’re being honest, I prefer my bed partners closer to my age. When I met you two years ago, I would’ve deemed you too young.”
Her lips suppressed a smile. “Then I’d be too young for you now. Is that it?”
He nodded, his mouth quirking sideways. Penetrating hazel eyes told her otherwise, but she’d let that bit of fiction rest and not prod him overmuch.
“And now you want friendship. With me.”
“It’s been awhile since I’ve found a woman interesting.” Tiredness slackened the corners of his eyes, and his charming smile faded.
“And you’re convinced I’m in some kind of trouble.”
“You are, aren’t you?”
“Thank you for your concern, but I’m doing fine, milord.” She sat back in her chair, breaking their intense gaze. “But about this friendship you’re wanting…”
He smoothed his waistcoat, his attention drifting to the kitchen window. “Our acquaintance will last longer that way. I’ve already mastered shallow and short-lived with women.”
Warmth bloomed in her chest. He held a better place in this world and had to be nine or ten years older than her, yet in a way, he needed her.
“Friendship with a man. That’d be a first for me.”
“As friendship with a woman is for me,” he said quietly.
Him? Friends with a woman like her? She never walked in his lofty circles, nor would she ever. More like he roamed less reputable places and left when it suited, but they were far from London.
Did Cornhill-on-Tweed change their circumstances?
She couldn’t imagine Lord Bowles making the same request in London, much less at the Golden Goose. This call to friendship had to do with him coming north. There had to be more to what happened at the Cocoa Tree. Was he paying a personal cost that went beyond the expense of replacing pieces of furniture?
“Very well.” Her eyes narrowed on him. “Friends share secrets, don’t they?”
“They do.”
She dragged a bowl of turnips in need of slicing across the table and picked up a root vegetable in one hand, her paring knife in the other. “Tell me something most people don’t know about you.”
He blinked at her. “Like a rite of initiation.”
She cut a blighted spot off the turnip and let the damaged chunk drop to the table. “Something like that.”
These friendship waters needed testing. Why not let him dive in first?
He chuckled, the raspy sound prying open closed places inside her. “Sounds like a soldiers’ drinking game.”
“And you’re going first.”
He scraped back his chair, his fine mouth curving in the roguish smile she’d seen him wear in London. “Oh, Miss Turner, challenge accepted.”
Lord Bowles stretched free of his brown velvet coat, the brass buttons knocking the table. Bare of his coat, he laid his right arm across the pine surface and began tugging up his sleeve.
She scooted back in her chair. “What are you doing?”
“Showing you this.”
His white sleeve slid back in small increments. Brown hair scattered across his forearm. Veins and sinew twisted under his skin. The telling lines spoke of a man who exerted himself physically from time to time. With the sleeve tucked in his elbow, Lord Bowles flipped over his forearm.
Black ink marked his pale underarm. A tattoo.
Genevieve dropped the knife and turnip in the bowl and angled herself for a better look. The outline of a galloping horse, mane and tail flying, had been etched on his skin with words. Her brows puckered and her lips moved silently, trying to form the words, but she dared not read them aloud. The letter combinations looked like nothing she’d seen before.
Lord Bowles tapped his arm. “It’s Latin. Cum fremitu eum, exaltatus fueris ut.” His eyes sparkled, at once lively and intense. “It says ‘When I bestride him, I soar.’ The only Shakespeare I remember in an otherwise dull litany of boyhood lessons.”
His graveled voice tickled her nape. She’d heard of Latin. None of it made sense. Her brain lost the translation when her fingertips slid over black lines, the inked creature a picture of freedom. A blue-green vein pulsed beneath her hand. Lord Bowles’s forearm was nicely shaped like his calf, the flesh cut with furrows of lean muscle rather than thick bulk.
She skimmed the pale flesh, his breath warming her ear. Pebbled skin trailed after her fingers wherever she touched. The tiny bumps on his lordship’s arm snared her as much as the horse etched on his skin.
“It’s pretty,” she whispered, tracing the Latin.
His quick intake of breath was a warning. Their heads almost touched. Her lashes hovered low, saving her from eye contact. To be this close… It wasn’t wise.
She put both hands on the cool, solid pine of the table, fine wisps of hair falling before her eyes. Lord Bowles scraped his chair nearer to the table and sat down without a word. Chin to his chest, he dragged his shirtsleeve down. They both took care to let this heady moment
pass. Planting her bottom in the chair, she fumbled inside the crockery for the paring knife and a turnip.
Another tattoo flitted across her mind: a plain black dagger fashioned to look like a cross inside a triangular shield. She shook her head. Reinhard Wolf and Avo Thade were far away. They’d never find her.
She sliced the turnip, eyeing Lord Bowles from under her lashes. “Soldiers and sailors have tattoos. But you’d be the first real gentleman of my acquaintance with one.”
“I got it in Saint George’s Town when I was a soldier,” he said, clearing his throat. “Before I came home from the Seven Years’ War. My family doesn’t know I have it.”
“How could they not?”
He reached for his coat. “They never see me in a state of undress.”
How different her experience from his. Where she came from, half-dressed bodies were the standard. Most humble residents of Tavistock Street shared close confines. Men and women changed their garb behind large linens draped across lines indoors and counted that as privacy. Many didn’t care if they were seen half-dressed or not. More secluded rooms were to be had in other establishments, but she’d never lived that way.
Across the table, his lordship slipped on the rumpled velvet coat, his agile frame graceful. Her gaze flickered over his leanly muscled body. What else did he hide beneath his clothes?
“I’d guess you love horses.”
“Fast horses and fast women. Usually.”
The grin he flashed was infectious, sending a forbidden fluttery feeling across her chest. Nursing the connection between them wasn’t a good idea, but the lightness refused to be squashed.
“Then I shall have a care with my pace when I’m around you, milord.”
They recovered from that private turn, their conversation easing into safe territory. Lord Bowles sipped his coffee and regaled her with tales of childhood and horses. Lots of horses. By the way he spoke, she guessed the four-legged creatures owned him more than he owned them. He smiled often, revealing a dimple on his right cheek. She whittled away on one vegetable after another, aware his short visit to the kitchen had stretched long. His astonishing request for friendship lit up a hidden corner inside her.
Friendship. With him.
She could ask for his help. The urge sparked inside her like a tiny beacon. This was the beginning of a better life. She’d already taken bold steps to get here.
Warmth and light spread…until the letter crinkled in her pocket.
Three
“Having a case of lust at first sight?” Samuel asked.
“What?” Marcus dislodged himself from the parlor doorway.
Samuel frowned and checked his younger brothers. Alexander and Adam were bent over a chessboard by the hearth, firelight gleaming off their polished game pieces. They sat in simple, cushionless ashwood chairs roughly fashioned after a Chippendale piece. Samuel had likely made them in his barn.
“You’ve not heard a word I’ve said.” Samuel faced Marcus, speaking in hushed tones. “And don’t think I didn’t notice you watching Miss Abbott when she served dinner.”
“I told you. We’ve mutual acquaintances in London.”
Marcus had spent the better part of the day in the housekeeper’s company, basking in pleasant conversation. At the first sound of horses in the yard, he’d slipped off to the parlor with his coffee cup like a newly arrived guest. Samuel had apologized about his lateness, but the words had fallen on deaf ears. Marcus regretted playing his friend falsely, yet he couldn’t regret the day with Miss Turner.
At dinner she’d circled the table, a dish balanced on her hip, asking each man in her throaty alto what he wanted. When she stood beside him, her Would you like turnips, milord? sent twinges up his thighs. Turnips!
Samuel crooked his head for a view of the dining room where dishes clanked. “Ah, yes, the mantua-makers my aunt patronizes. How convenient.” His blue stare bounced back to Marcus. “Since you wear breeches, not gowns, care to enlighten me how you know these women?”
Marcus opened his mouth to answer, but Samuel waved him off.
“Never mind. I’m aware of your heathen ways.”
“Heathen? She’s too young by far.” He hesitated, glancing at the dining room. “And her hips…too well fed for my liking.”
“Whatever you say, my friend.” Samuel sauntered to a corner cabinet, his chuckle drifting across the room.
Marcus leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb. At the cabinet, Samuel raised a narrow-necked bottle in silent question. He wanted a drink but declined the offer. He’d gone the entire day free of the spirits. Samuel poured the rich brown liquid in a glass for himself, the whiskey sloshing its enticement. Denial was good for a man who’d lived too long with excess.
A man like him.
He was turning over a new leaf and all that, but new leaf or not, he wanted to groan.
Miss Turner’s lush breasts jiggled, the creamy flesh pillowing from her square bodice as she leaned over to wipe the table with energetic circles. A long, honey-colored braid fell forward. Her coffee-colored gaze collided with his as she tossed the braid over her shoulder. She stared back, bold as you please, finishing those cleansing swipes. One admonishing feminine brow rose, her silent message sending a frisson low in his abdomen.
His grin spread. Duly chastised, he didn’t care. He liked that she’d caught him ogling her. She wasn’t cowed by him, nor was she falsely confident. This thing between them enlivened him. The young woman from Tavistock Street snared his fascination. He could pin his interest on lust as easily as he could genuine interest in their budding friendship.
Idling in the doorway, he leaned dangerously toward lust.
Russet skirts swaying, Miss Turner picked up a pile of plates. Her lips bowed in a close-lipped smile, the enigmatic expression warming him better than the sight of her luscious curves, though he could easily debate the merits of her features. All of them.
“Whatever your history with her, I’ll not let you run off a perfectly good housekeeper. Her cooking is decent, if you can forgive the bread she bakes. It’s like bricks.” Samuel chuckled and sipped his drink. “It’s hard to find good domestics. At least she fixes things.”
“What do you mean fixes things?”
Samuel nodded at a table clock sitting by the plain, wooden settle. Slim brass fittings shined from a recent polish. “She repaired it her first day here. Took it to the kitchen that night, and there it was the next morning, working.”
Marcus studied the clock, the kitchen device coming to mind and her awe at watching the cogs and wheels. Miss Turner had shown intricate knowledge of the blunderbuss and the brace on the coach. His backstage miss from the Golden Goose had unusual talents.
“I admit she’s becoming,” Samuel acknowledged before upending his glass. “Alexander makes every excuse to seek her out.”
Across the parlor, young Adam raised a game piece high. “My rook takes your knight.”
Alexander scowled at the board, his big hands gripping his knees. He was about Miss Turner’s age, with shoulders as broad as Samuel’s. Marcus gritted his teeth at the picture of any man dancing attendance on her, but he could find no fault in the lad. A marriage proposal from Alexander Beckworth could complete her bid for a new life…a better circumstance than his paltry friendship offer.
Friendship with Miss Genevieve Turner would never be shallow, but it’d be short-lived. One penitent winter in Cornhill and he’d be back in London.
Samuel set down his glass. “Come with me. There’s something I want to show you.”
The hearth blazed. Dishes clinked in the kitchen. Adam talked game strategy, his excited voice cracking, a sign he’d shed childhood soon. Domestic sounds, all of them. Comforting touches enclosed by simple whitewashed walls. It didn’t matter that the wooden settle was chipped and void of cushions, or that Marcus’s Northampton dressing room
was twice the size of Samuel’s parlor.
This was…cozy.
He dragged himself into the entry hall where Samuel was sliding his arm into a blue frock coat.
“You want to go outside,” Marcus said mutinously.
“Yes.” Samuel put on his hat and opened the door, blasting Marcus with night air. “Out here I’ll have your full attention.”
Marcus jammed on his hat and donned his redingote as he stepped through the doorway. Waning moonlight washed the Beckworth barn. Holes gaped on its timbered roof. Great swaths of land rolled everywhere, vacant save clumps of trees. Head down, Samuel trod a straight line, pebbles crunching underfoot. They halted at the narrow road edging the front drive, their breaths puffing miniature clouds. Samuel slowly pivoted, tense lines framing his mouth.
Marcus stomped his feet for warmth and tried for levity. “Going to tell me why we’re out here? Or do you plan to freeze my bollocks off?”
Samuel ignored the play for humor, and inhaling deeply, he stretched his arm, marking a spot on the north horizon. “You can’t see it from here, but Coldstream Bridge crosses the River Tweed. Right there.” His hand dropped to his side. “That bridge is gold.”
Gold?
Samuel looked east. “Over there, Baron Atal’s estate. With all his sheep, he devours land. I had to sell a parcel to him last spring.”
The words rolled bitterly off Samuel’s tongue. They heralded loss and news of a cornered man. Marcus understood this and the seed of envy when another man’s prosperity slapped someone in the face. The Atal estate spread as far as the eye could see. On childhood visits to Pallinsburn, he and Samuel hadn’t cared about annual incomes and properties. They’d roved meadows and climbed stone walls because it was fun.
A neat stone fence drew a line between Beckworth land and the grand Atal estate. The baron’s square medieval castle rose in the distance, a formidable black shape.
Marcus scanned the fields in between. “And you’re telling me all this because?”
“Because I want you to join me in a business venture.” Samuel faced him. “I want to breed horses and sell them. You’d be the perfect partner. If you stay.”