The Lord Meets His Lady

by Gina Conkle

  Why would the marquis spend so much coin on a distant, rustic cottage?

  At the cottage door, Genevieve spied Lord Bowles beckoning her, his other hand resting on his ax as if it were a fine gentleman’s walking stick.

  Her heart flopped. “Here.” She passed the vegetable basket to Lily. “Please put water on to boil, and when it’s ready, fill the tub in the scullery.”

  “Of course, miss.”

  She walked to the barn, her cheeks flushing. Twilight painted the clouds with vibrant blues and violets. The north soaked into her the way perfumed oil clung to skin. Was it the run-down cottage begging for a kindly touch? Or the humble cottage’s master? With his coat off and leather gloves on, Lord Bowles was a man of the land.

  “We’ve accomplished much today,” he boasted. “Two fences mended. One stone wall repaired. And”—he set one foot on the fallen tree like a conquering hero—“a tree that’s met its match.”

  “Does humor shade everything you do?”

  “Just about.” He moved off the tree with a swagger. “Life’s better that way. Why frown when you can smile?”

  A breeze stirred. Loose blond strands floated around her face as he approached her in high spirits. Intent on his dazzling, dirt-smudged smile, she lifted the hem of her apron.

  “You defeated a dead tree, milord.” She wiped grime off his jaw. “And smeared dirt here.”

  He stilled, his hazel eyes keen, the line of his mouth gently open. Her apron hem snagged on day-old whiskers, the scratchy sound intimate. Sweat trickled down his jaw. Her officious dabbing stopped. She was touching him again. Her pulse ticked fast. They stood toe to toe, his breath on her forehead. His lordship’s carnal mouth was tempting. She tilted closer on her toes. The desire to put her lips to his was powerful. A horse’s loud neigh saved her.

  Her hand holding the apron dropped. “Silly of me. You’re not a child.”

  Stepping back, she refused to look higher than his mouth. Life was a trifle for Lord Bowles. His face would reflect triumph, confirmation of the sensual battle she fought hard to stifle.

  “What?” she asked. “No retort?”

  “Give me time. I’ll be back in form. I’m the worse for wear from today’s labor.”

  His voice was rich with understanding and humor. Despite her best intentions, her fingers itched to touch the salty bead of sweat on his cheek and the burnished curl stuck to his neck. When it came to Lord Bowles, fighting fleshly urges could only be done wit versus wit.

  “I agree you accomplished much. For four men,” she teased, her attention on the drop of sweat. “To think, three women managed to clean five rooms, an entry hall, and your stairs, and clear a good many weeds while dinner cooked.”

  “Do I detect another challenge, Miss Turner? Who can accomplish the most in a day?”

  “Oh, it wouldn’t be fair.” She met his twinkling eyes.

  Gold sparks burned bright amid the hazel forest green and earthy browns. “Fair or not, I’ll want a tour of my improved stairs,” he said, sounding very lordly. “A quality inspection, if you will.”

  She shivered and pulled her cloak tighter, her laugh soft between them. His talent for self-mockery warmed her. Pompous men were as plentiful as ha’pennies.

  “As long as you remember my rule.”

  Creases deepened at the corners of his eyes. “You’ll not haul wood or water upstairs. Is that the one?”

  “No, but we’re making progress.”

  “Indeed we are.”

  Dampness marked his hairline and wind riffled his neckcloth. Those master-servant boundaries were in peril, and she’d barely put them in place. Nothing in her experience had prepared her for warm familiarity with a man. A bawdy word, a quick jest, clumsy male efforts at conversation…she was familiar with those. Most men of her acquaintance used words like bludgeons, unlike Lord Bowles and his fine-tooled conversation. With him, banter was an art form, and she was out of her depth.

  “I’m sure you’re hungry, milord,” she said, plucking at a hole in her gloves.

  “Famished.”

  “Good. Because a hot dinner and a hot bath await you inside.” Perhaps the role of housekeeper wasn’t so farfetched.

  He grabbed his coat off the pile of wood and gave it a quick snap. “We were just starting to have fun.” He stuck one arm inside his coat sleeve, the homespun streaked with dirt. “Do I detect the wish for more serious conversation?”

  “Something safer than flirting, milord.”

  He brushed dried grass off his sleeve. “Why not tell me who you’re searching for. Just give me a name and what you know.”

  She pivoted to the horizon. “I…”

  “Miss Turner?” His head tilted, seeking eye contact she refused to give. “I didn’t mean to be cavalier. After this morning, I thought you’d be ready to talk.”

  The sky’s blues and lavenders calmed her. Tension lessened between her shoulder blades, but under her cloak, she plucked a loose thread on her gloves. The seam would rip if she wasn’t careful.

  “I practiced the explanation in my head all day.”

  “And?”

  “There’s no good way to tell it.”

  “You’ve already put your trust in me.”

  She lost herself in the distant sky. The rustic sounds comforted her—Khan’s snicker, a gentle breeze stirring a dormant apple tree, the sweet song of a bird nestling down at night. She’d come this far…

  “I can give you a name and little else.”

  He waited patiently, his presence a comfort beside her. They didn’t touch, yet she’d say she could feel his shoulder.

  She took a deep breath. “The person I’m searching for… Her name is Maude Turner.”

  “A family member, I presume.”

  “My grandmother.”

  Lord Bowles clamped his hands behind his back and stood shoulder to shoulder with her as though he had all the time in the world. “You’ll need to give me more.”

  “There’s little I can offer,” Genevieve whispered, losing herself in the darkening horizon.

  “Have you met your grandmother?”

  She shook her head, her fingers twisting the loose thread on her glove. “All I know is that Maude Turner is, or was, a doll maker. My mother received a letter from her about two years ago.”

  “Did you read it?”

  Cool laughter erupted. She hadn’t known how to read two years ago. If he only knew the trouble her lack of reading had caused…

  Maude Turner’s unread letter had been the push Genevieve needed to eventually seek Elise Sauveterre. Under Elise’s patient tutelage, the world of words had opened, changing everything…her speech, her mind, her view of the world. Words freed her.

  “No. My mother burned it.” The thread on her glove snapped. “All I know is Maude Turner lives somewhere along the River Tweed.”

  “I presume she’s not in the village here.”

  “I inquired about her my first day here. No one has heard of her.”

  He put on his hat, but her feet could be nailed to the ground. With his waiting eyes, his silence, this tenderness from Lord Bowles was a gift. Words trickled out of her. Secret shame was a burden she’d carried for too long.

  “My mother left home at fifteen.” Her eyes squeezed shut. “She was…with child.”

  “With you.”

  “Yes. With me.”

  A giant could be crushing her chest. She didn’t have to spill everything, but this truth wanted out. She needed Lord Bowles to see it…to see her. Children born on the wrong side of the blanket were commonplace on Tavistock Street. Shame clouded only those brave souls who ventured into nicer places…places with families where the girls wore pretty gowns with their pretty manners.

  “Apparently, my father was a married man,” she went on. “When my grandmother found out,
she gave my mother the boot.” When she opened her eyes, Lord Bowles’s features had softened. “You’re not…upset by this news, milord?”

  “You hardly had a say in matters.”

  She winced. “It’s sordid business.”

  “I can bear it if you can.”

  A breeze played with her hair. Wisps fell everywhere around her face. The chill kissed her cheeks, but best of all was the lightness inside her. He wasn’t trying to get under her skirts or steal a grope. Lord Bowles simply listened.

  “Sometimes I’m not sure what I’ll say when people inquire about my family. Hiding the truth can be harder than concocting a lie.”

  “Then don’t.”

  “Easy for you to say,” she scoffed. “Respectable families turn up their noses at the likes of me.”

  “I know how Society works.” The bored words rolled off his tongue.

  She squinted west again. Light had faded, turning the vibrant blue skies a shade of charred coal. “Years ago, when we first settled at the Golden Goose, I befriended a milliner’s daughter off Lumley Court. So close to Tavistock Street…” She whipped around to face him. “Do you know how close?”

  “Very.”

  She huffed. “The girl got wind of who I was, and you’d think I was diseased by how hard she worked to avoid me.”

  “An unfortunate past,” he said kindly. “Now, what will you do about your future?”

  Her eyes widened. Reinhard had once said similar words, but with selfish intent. Lord Bowles couldn’t be more different from the Wolf who chased her.

  “Do you know your father’s name?” he asked.

  She blinked, her mind digging through the dust of past conversations. “My mother never spoke of him. I gathered from what little she told me that it was a horrid time.”

  “And the doll?”

  “I discovered it when I was a child.” She sighed, the words as cleansing as they were crushing. “I found it in a chest and played with it. My mother was furious.”

  Lord Bowles brushed hair off her face, his tenderness healing her, coaxing her. She wanted to melt into him. How empty her life had been, lacking in the smallest acts of gentle affection. Her body was lighter for having shared weighty secrets.

  “Please don’t think ill of her. My mother was good to me. She never deserted me.”

  His gloved hands stroked her cheek. The leather touch, the smell of his warmth, his skin, all anchored her. She turned into the caress and shut her eyes. Pieces of her life played out in her mind, sharp memories, vivid and as real as if lived yesterday. The struggle to read. Her uncanny skill with mechanisms and the trouble it had brought. Late nights and her mother bringing strange men to their room above the Golden Goose.

  “Do you have other family members?”

  She shook her head. “Maude Turner is my last known relative. What I’ve told you… It’s all I know.”

  She was alone in the world, save a grandmother she’d never met.

  “Then, we’ll begin with her name.” His arm light on her shoulders, Lord Bowles steered her toward the cottage.

  Drained to the bone, she was ready to curl up beneath her brown wool covers and end the day the same as she had last night. As they walked to the cottage, noises of wheels grinding dirt came closer. Peter Dutton drove his cart off the road onto Pallinsburn grounds.

  “Greetings, Lord Bowles, Miss Abbott.” Peter set the brake and sprang from his seat. He maneuvered a chest from the back. “This came today, Lord Bowles.”

  “My things from home. Put it inside, if you will.” They’d reached the middle of the yard when he stopped and faced Genevieve. “Is there anything else?”

  Her nose was level with his cravat, the cloth loose from the day’s labor. She studied the wrinkles and bits of dust caught in the creases. All that remained from their conversation was a tumult of emotions…not so safely hidden from his perceptive eyes.

  “Miss Turner?”

  She touched his cravat. “Must I bare every single painful part? You can guess there was bad blood between my mother and grandmother.” Her voice thinned to a whisper. “I’m not sure my grandmother will want to see me.”

  Voices carried across the yard. Lily and Ruby were preparing to leave with their brother, and Genevieve couldn’t make herself move. Did he understand this was hardest of all? Her gnawing fear of rejection.

  “I understand bad blood with family.” His gloved hand tipped her chin up. “But I also know quality when I see it, and you, Miss Genevieve Turner Abbott, are a person of true quality. Anyone should be overjoyed to claim a connection with you.”

  Underneath her cloak, she rested both hands on her belly. She was suspended for a moment, certain a cushion of air nestled between her feet and the ground. “Lord Bowles, you’re in danger of becoming a sainted man.”

  His crooked smile spread. “Should never have told you about being a choirboy. Could do permanent damage to my reputation.”

  “Your secret’s safe with me.”

  Eight

  Miss Turner’s bright-red cloak swayed as she headed to the cottage. Peter Dutton helped one sister into the cart, doffing his hat when the Pallinsburn housekeeper walked by. The young man watched her like a cheerful puppy in want of a tasty bite.

  “She’s not for you, my lad. Not for you,” Marcus uttered under his breath.

  Yet, he couldn’t lay claim to her. Miss Turner had gifted him with her trust. He couldn’t abuse it despite the flirtation flowing naturally between them, a current she fought hard.

  When was the last time a woman stirred him like this?

  Her strokes to his cravat tantalized him more than artful ballroom banter. He was far from London’s elegance…grimy with work-worn gloves on his hands and dirt on his face. As he walked to his front door, his achy strides reminded him he wasn’t as young as Mr. Dutton, nor was he accustomed to hard labor. Putting on his best smile, he’d not scare off the youth. He needed him.

  “Mr. Dutton. Do you have your delivery pouch?”

  “Right here, milord.” Peter patted the cart’s sideboard. “Can I interest you in a broadsheet? Two for a shilling.”

  The lad hefted his leather pouch from the cart. “The Gazette, the Edinburgh Times…some pamphlets. Take your pick.”

  They stood near the front door’s lamplight, riffling through old broadsheets, the edges ripped and curling. One pamphlet caught Marcus’s eye. He thumbed through the yellowed publication and smiled. This would be powerful ammunition with Miss Turner.

  “I’ll take this, the Gazette, and the Edinburgh Times.”

  “That pamphlet?” The lad screwed up his face. “It’s free. Nobody wants it.”

  Marcus pulled coins from his waistcoat pocket and dropped them into Peter’s hand. He added another one. “For the delivery.”

  Mr. Dutton counted the coins. “You gave me too much, milord.”

  Marcus inclined his head away from the cart. “A word in private?”

  They walked three paces.

  “Keep the extra shilling.” Voice quiet, Marcus set a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “I’ve a job for you, but you need to keep it between us.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m looking for a woman.”

  Mr. Dutton flashed a smile. “Then you’ll be wanting a trip to Learmouth village, milord. There’s a pair of buxom redheads at the public house who’d be glad to make your acquaintance.”

  Marcus chuckled. “Not quite what I’m looking for. I’m trying to locate an older woman, Maude Turner, a family acquaintance. Have you heard of her?”

  “Can’t say I have,” Peter said, scratching sparse chin whiskers. “I go Tillmouth way this week. Coldstream next. I can make inquiries.”

  “Good lad.” He slapped Peter’s shoulder and dipped his head near the youth’s ear. “Remember, complete discretion. No one must
know.”

  “I understand.”

  “Good. There’s another shilling if you find anything.”

  Peter Dutton climbed onto his cart. Ruby Dutton sat on the driver’s seat beside her brother, flashing too much ankle.

  “Good eve to you, milord,” she purred, setting her hood on her red curls.

  Grinning, Marcus tipped his hat and sketched a bow. As the cart pulled away, Ruby Dutton blew a saucy kiss, the artful tilt of her chin the sign of a woman in search of trouble. It wouldn’t do to encourage her. Less than a year ago, he would’ve pursued Miss Dutton and the Learmouth redheads. Now, he couldn’t muster interest. Was he losing his edge?

  Tucking the papers under his arm, he pushed the warped front door. Wood squeaked, and the weighty door swung wide. “Must fix that.”

  He froze on the threshold, his feet heavy. Everything was…cozy and warm. His grandmother’s red and yellow carpet was spread over a clean floor. Tapers lit her favorite leaf-shaped sconces on polished paneled walls. The aroma of fresh-baked bread floated from the kitchen. His gaze bounced from the stairs to the repaired parlor doorway. Miss Turner’s handiwork?

  Idling with the door wide open, time could’ve slipped past. His shoulders bunched, and his breath caught in his chest. He could be a boy coming for a visit. Any minute, his grandfather would lumber down the stairs, arms spread ready to give a bear hug. How he missed those hugs and the tales his grandfather would spin.

  But he wasn’t a boy. He was a man full grown, facing the life he’d plotted for himself and finding his story lacking. Slowly, he shut the door and removed his hat and gloves, shaking off the peculiar sensation. Near his feet, the old iron boot wipe sat ready. Where had his officious housekeeper unearthed the relic? He crouched low and traced its decorative swirls, a fine coat of rust dusting his finger. Grandfather would never have let Pallinsburn decay.

  Dishes clinked. Hiding the pamphlet in the broadsheets, he cocked his ear. Miss Turner hummed in his kitchen, each lilting note a bread crumb trail to follow. Putting one foot in front of the other, he went through the empty dining room. He could be a boy again on the hunt for honeyed biscuits. The kitchen was almost the same. Herbs hung from rafters in the places his grandmother had dried them. A rasher of bacon peeked from a cloth-covered bowl. Copper pans shined on the wall.