The Lord Meets His Lady

by Gina Conkle

  “Good morning, milord.”

  “Miss Turner. Good morning.” His eyes fluttered shut as his head sank back onto his soft pillow. “Why are you in my room at this ungodly hour?”

  Grommets scraped, and cold invaded his warm haven. His housekeeper charged about as though she’d launched a morning sortie and he was her lone target.

  “Call me Miss Abbott. And I’m here because Mr. Beckworth asked me to wake you.”

  Marcus slanted his arm over his eyes. “Might I remind you that you work for me now?”

  A feminine titter came from the vicinity of his fireplace, where the infernal clanging got louder. Was her insistence that he call her Miss Abbott a rebuke? She’d been fine with Miss Turner when they were alone yesterday. Ah, but this was a new day, evidenced by the exuberant morning attack. He’d find a way to smooth things over with Samuel and Miss Turner, but first things first. Every house, big or small, ran on clearly understood expectations.

  He was a simple man with simple requests. A few guidelines were all she needed.

  His arm flopped down, and he pushed up on both elbows. Miss Turner bent over at the hearth, dumping ashes into a red pail. She could be ringing an off-key church bell with her energetic cleaning or calling the morning muster.

  “Mr. Beckworth asked me to remind you that ‘today you start making amends.’”

  “Wait. Samuel’s here?”

  “That’d be the only way he could ask me to awaken you.” More metal banged. “He’s in the barn with Adam. They’re getting ready to repair a fence. You’re expected.”

  He sat up and scrubbed a hand over his face. The business venture started today? Looking lower, he couldn’t get out of bed, not with the telltale bulge between his legs. Miss Turner’s fine hips bent over at his fireplace didn’t help. Honey-colored hair spilled to her waist, held back by linen banding the crown of her head. The linen strip had been tied off in a white bow below her ear.

  The effect was messy and…desirable.

  “Then we’ll discuss expectations later, but you need to know I’m not an early riser.”

  “I am.” She walked to the end of his bed, her curt gaze falling on tented linen. “And parts of you are, I daresay. As to expectations, I say we discuss them now.”

  Miss Turner was full of vinegar, a sergeant in russet skirts, one familiar with the rhythms of men. Both arms were folded under ample breasts, pushing her shift’s white drawstring bow over a low-cut bodice. Tavern maids and fast widows favored the enticing neckline. He ought to purchase more gowns and a mobcap for her. The apron was the only housekeeperish thing she wore.

  He sat up, tucking rumpled sheets over his erection. “You have me at a disadvantage here.”

  “What? Your John Thomas?” She shrugged, the drawstrings dancing lively. “I’ve seen more full salutes at the Goose than you ever did in the army. Now about those expectations.”

  He chuckled, the sound raspy as an old saw. “Very well. I don’t like waking up cold. I expect you to stoke the morning fires.”

  A brow arched. “There’s no coal, and you lack sufficient wood for a decent fire.”

  Miss Turner’s quip roused him. “I’ll see to the firewood supply. Is there anything else I can do to make your time in service here easier?”

  Morning light shined, catching the dark-coffee hues of her eyes. “Ohhh…that’s right. You’re Lord Trustworthy, helper of women in need.”

  He accepted the barb. There was no denying the truth. He had manipulated circumstances to get her here. Miss Turner was miserly with her trust, doling it out in pieces before pulling back. He’d once seen a tiny sea creature in the West Indies—a hermit crab, the natives called it. She reminded him of the creature, which lived partly exposed. Any intrusion, and it shrunk back into its shell.

  “I have a few requirements, milord. Your cottage is much bigger than the Beckworths’. I’ll need help. A laundress certainly.”

  “If a laundress helps,” he said, his hand sweeping wide, “by all means find one.”

  “And a charwoman too.”

  “Hire a laundress and a charwoman if you must.” He paused. “For a week.”

  “I already did. Mr. Beckworth suggested the Dutton sisters.” She paused. “They’ll be in service for as long I need.”

  “How…helpful of Mr. Beckworth.”

  “I’m glad you agree. Alexander went to fetch them from the Red Swan while you slept.” She gave him a tight-lipped smile. “Of course, any repairs to the cottage and I’ll use my army of one.”

  He could feel his scant coin box getting emptier by the moment, but there was no mistaking the steel in her voice—a quality he liked, the same as the white bow dangling from her bodice and the other one touching her neck. He couldn’t decide which one he’d untie first if given the chance.

  “Anything else?” he asked.

  “Oh yes,” she warned softly. “There’ll be no making free with your hands under the stairs, milord.”

  “Agreed. You haven’t had a good look at the stairs. Worst place to launch a full-scale seduction.”

  She fought a smile and lost. “That would mean there’s a best place?”

  Her arms fell loosely at her sides. The little changes made her a gentler morning companion. He wanted to tease out more of this entrancing person.

  “You have a point,” he said, scratching morning whiskers. “Pallinsburn is not seduction-worthy at all.”

  “I’m quite serious. Your charm won’t work. I’ve come north for a better life.”

  “‘North’ and ‘a better life’ are a contradiction in terms, Miss Turner. Besides, friendly banter is the spice of life.” He grinned, his finger waggling back and forth between them. “What goes on between us is fun. Admit it.”

  Her head tipped a degree. “The rules are different here.”

  Interesting. His housekeeper didn’t deny the fun. She avoided acknowledging it.

  “Does that mean no harmless flirting? Ever? What about when we’re alone with only these four walls to hear us?”

  “Lord Bowles…” Her shoulders squared proudly as warning threaded her voice.

  Had he gone too far? Her earnest plea deserved to be honored, and randy ways or not, he’d do his utmost for her. His young housekeeper was a fighter in the best sense, striving for a better place in the world. She’d won his admiration, if not a piece of his heart, right then.

  Outside his window, voices rose in conversation. Wheels rolled in his driveway, but he was more interested in the woman at the end of his bed. If this chamber were a battlefield, he’d say the smoke from her morning march had lifted.

  Miss Turner licked her upper lip, the tip of her tongue lingering on the plump center part, wetting her utterly kissable mouth. “It’s difficult to stay angry with you, milord.”

  “At least I have that on my side.”

  He sat relaxed on his downy mattress, aware of this being the longest morning conversation he’d ever had with a domestic. At most, there’d be a word or two with a footman putting coal on the grate in his Northampton Hall bedchamber. Pallinsburn was not his ordinary world, nor was Genevieve Turner an ordinary servant.

  “You have many pleasant qualities,” she said, breaking the silence. “Your wit and humor, your true friendly nature such as you showed in the Beckworth kitchen. Those make you more attractive than anything on the outside.”

  His chest swelled. Her simple compliment was worth more than all the flattery from Society’s reigning beauties. “Such fine praise, and I haven’t risen from my bed yet.”

  “Our situation is different, milord. I’m here on Mr. Beckworth’s request.” She hesitated, her fingertips touching his counterpane. “But there is another reason.”

  “Yes?” For a few seconds he didn’t breathe as luminous coffee-colored eyes searched him.

  “I’ve decided
I want your help.”

  “With your reason for coming to Cornhill?”

  His housekeeper nodded. “You made a good point yesterday. I don’t know this district. You do.” She collected herself, her brows knitting delicately. “It would seem I’m in need of an honorable man after all.”

  She wanted to share her burden with him. He couldn’t bollix this. Sheets rustled from his legs stirring. He wanted to get out of bed but stopped short. He was naked, save his shirt, and the garment landed mid-thigh.

  Miss Turner faced the window, the light bathing her profile in whiteness. “I need your help to find someone.”

  The doll.

  He steeled himself for a tale of a lost child, but something held her back. Gambling had taught him to read anxious flicks of the eye, a change of tone, drumming fingers…anything to reveal the other’s hand. His young housekeeper masked her emotions well, save one telltale sign—her mouth flattened into a tight, smaller line. This subject required absolute tact and consideration.

  Animated conversations rose outside the cottage. Samuel and his brothers spoke with newcomers, a small army by the sounds of them.

  Miss Turner nodded at the window. “They’re waiting for you. I’ll explain tonight when we have more time.”

  And just like that, the door was shut, the moment gone.

  His new housekeeper roved about his chamber, collecting discarded clothes. “You smell like a horse. You need a bath, milord. I’ve already poured one for you.”

  He grinned at her bluntness. Servant-master decorum didn’t matter here. A bath was perfect, even if he’d need another one by the end of day.

  He checked his chamber. A Chippendale dressing table, an upholstered wing chair faded to muddy brown, and a washstand.

  “Where is my bath?”

  “In the scullery.” She picked balled-up stockings off the floor.

  “That’s in the kitchen.”

  “Sculleries usually are.” Arms full of clothes, Miss Turner toed the ash pail closer to the fireplace. “Another requirement of mine: all bathing will be done in the scullery. I don’t haul wood or water upstairs.” She gave his night table a nod. The open bottom drawer held the built-in chamber pot. “And I don’t clean chamber pots.”

  “But you’re the housekeeper,” he sputtered.

  Her eyes sparked with mischief. “If you wanted a proper housekeeper, milord, you should’ve hired one.”

  He was about to ask what kind of arrangement she’d made with Samuel, but someone banged on the front door.

  “That must be the Dutton sisters.” Miss Turner sashayed to his doorway, her russet skirts swaying and her voice light. “I poured your bath some time ago. If you want hot water, you’d better hurry.”

  “What?” His feet hit the cold floor.

  Her breezy alto carried from the hallway. “Something to keep in mind, milord. Early risers get hot water.”

  “Wait.” He threw caution to the wind and ran to the hall. “The doll I saw last night. Are you looking for a child?”

  The true question hung between them. Are you looking for your child? Her gaze raked his legs before she ducked behind the armful of clothes. Hermit crab, definitely.

  Someone pounded on the front door again, louder this time. Miss Turner rushed downstairs. “Later, milord.”

  Seven

  “Gor, miss, I could look at him all the long day.” Ruby Dutton’s chin and forearm rested on her broom. “Sure you don’t need me here every day?”

  Lord Bowles swung his ax in a wide arc near the barn, doing his best to replenish Pallinsburn’s firewood and providing Ruby Dutton with a fine view. He’d worked the last hour, turning an eyesore of a dead tree into a neat stack of wood.

  Thump! Thump! “That means”—Thump! Thump!—“you’d have to”—Thump! Thump!—“work in the first place.” Lily Dutton stopped beating a rug to give her sister the gimlet eye.

  Genevieve listened to the sisters’ banter and dug through the garden’s weeds to liberate a carrot. She admired the slender orange vegetable plucked from the dirt and the word liberate…to be free, to unshackle or unfetter. Elise had taught her the word and a good many others.

  Breathing the cool north air, she was free.

  Was it the north? The shabby garden with its fright of a cottage begging for a kind touch? Or the simple gift she’d given herself of starting a new life?

  Kneeling on burlap, she worked out how to explain her coming north to Lord Bowles. Clad in hip boots and homespun breeches stretching across his taut bottom, she found no fault in him. His tall frame had rippled with grace all day, going from one task to another.

  Hefting stones. Hauling planks over his shoulder. Swinging his ax.

  Today he was an intriguing woodsman who’d forgotten he belonged in higher places.

  Her cheeks pinked. More than once she’d goggled him worse than a wharf doxie. Ruby was right. Lord Bowles was easy to look at. Even better, he was quick with a smile and his gentleman’s demeanor.

  The chorus of thumps started again on the carpet. Genevieve pulled weeds, racing to finish a patch of ground. The Beckworth men had already left, and Ruby and Lily would soon be gone.

  And she’d be alone with Lord Bowles.

  She swiped her forehead. “That’s enough for today. Would you take the carpet to the parlor, Ruby? Your brother will be here soon.”

  The sisters rolled up the faded carpet. Years and neglect had left the rich pile a shade of overmilked tea. Ruby hefted the burden under her arm and dragged one end along the gravel path.

  Lily knelt nearby and ripped up a weedy clump. “You’ve done a lot for this garden, miss. It’s a wonder you’re finding anything. It being so late in the season and all.”

  Genevieve yanked out a spiky invader. “Is it too late for gardens?”

  Vegetables came by way of carters and street-side vendors in London. The chance to dig in the earth and see what grew was a wonder.

  “Oh yes, most gardens ’round here are done by now.” Lily stepped gingerly around and rooted through more weeds. “Looks like you got onions here.” With a heave, she tugged three dirt-caked onions from the earth and tucked them in the basket.

  Genevieve’s red-gloved fingers furrowed through wild grass. “Thank you for your gardening advice. You’ve probably guessed that I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

  “You’ve done a fine job far as I can see.” Nose wrinkling, Lily scanned the weeds clinging to the cottage’s back wall. Broken buckets littered the ground, their coopered wood fanning like flowers. “You’ve got your work cut out for you.”

  Genevieve picked up her trowel, determined to remove a large, stubborn weed. “You’ve been a big help today. If there’s anything I can do for you, please let me know.”

  She jabbed the trowel into the soil. Restoring the square garden would be a long undertaking. Wide gravel pathways cut the land in quarters. Two plots were vegetable gardens overrun by weeds. The other two were filled with dead shrubbery. Yet, the Pallinsburn garden was a place of promise. The soil was fragrant, unlike questionable London muck. This square patch of earth begged to be renewed. Clear out the weeds, do a little tending, sow fresh seeds, and new life would sprout come springtime…when she wouldn’t be here.

  “I’m just happy to get some extra coin,” Lily said. “Father doesn’t pay us at the Red Swan…bein’ family and all.”

  “You did a fine job today, Lily. I’m thankful for your help.”

  “Thank you, miss.” Lily scooted closer, unearthing a shriveled turnip. She waggled the vegetable, inspected it, and tossed the wrinkled root onto the growing pile of weeds. “There is one thing.”

  “Yes?” Genevieve drove the trowel deeper, her breath coming in fits as she pulled the weed with her other hand.

  “Please don’t mind Ruby.”

  “What do you me
an?” Genevieve whacked the roots. “Her long bouts of rest while you work?”

  “Oh, I’ll make sure she gives you an honest day’s work.” Lily paused, the steady thud of an ax ringing in the background. “I’m talking about her fast ways.”

  Gritting her teeth, Genevieve attacked the weed. Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! “You mean”—Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!—“her flirting with Lord Bowles.” She gave another pull, and the weed yielded, its pale, wormy roots wiggling in the air.

  “She’ll curb her ways, miss. I’ll see she does.”

  Lips pursing, Genevieve sat back on her heels. His lordship could do with a little curbing himself. She tossed the weed on the swelling pile, their morning conversation coming to mind.

  Harmless flirting indeed.

  “Lord Bowles is a grown man,” she said, swiping hair off her forehead. “As long as Ruby does her work, I’ll not complain.”

  Relief flooded Lily’s face. Her mobcap, once perched neatly on her brunette crown, skewed to the right, a sign of her honest day’s labor. With her pale skin and blue-gray eyes, she was pretty in a milkmaid sort of way.

  Genevieve stood and shook out her cloak. “What do you say we have some tea? A proper rest before your brother comes for you.”

  “I’d like that.” Lily rose and dusted off her hands, her smile bright as sunshine.

  Tucking the vegetable basket into the crook of her elbow, Genevieve moseyed around the cottage, giving half an ear to Lily’s village gossip. Pallinsburn’s tumbledown grace whispered to her, asking to be renewed. Weeds grew knee-high in places. Warped gates leaned just so, but the barn was a fine sight. Faded yellow stones mixed with newly quarried sandstone, doubling the building’s size. The roof was freshly timbered. Hand-forged ironwork decorated two massive barn doors, the strap hinges flaring like embroidery across polished wood. The Dutton sisters had shared a rumor while cleaning. The Marquis of Northampton had poured money into Pallinsburn, they said, but the coffers had run dry.