The Lord Meets His Lady

by Gina Conkle

  Couldn’t she give in to carnal wants at least once? Who would know? She missed sex.

  Khan chortled. Eyes opening, Genevieve’s head snapped forward. Lord Bowles slid his hand down Khan’s neck, along the horse’s ribs, widening the gap between them. She stood alone, her body cooling at the loss. The storm pounded the roof, but inside, the air stirred thickly. The master of Pallinsburn had to feel it, yet he continued unfolding the blanket.

  Heat radiated from Khan. The steed was truly magnificent. A black mane, a charcoal muzzle, and four black stockings offset his silver-gray coat.

  “He’s not as big as Mr. Beckworth’s horse,” she said, petting Khan’s neck.

  “Big doesn’t mean better,” he scoffed.

  “You’re telling me size doesn’t matter?”

  Lord Bowles loomed in her periphery, the candlelight slanting on his sensual smirk. “Large and hulking can be…ineffective, clumsy.”

  Her petting hand slowed. “Or powerful.”

  He walked behind her, close enough to rustle her clothes and whisper, “If you need a basic plow job, yes.”

  Her skin pebbled. She’d known her share of flirts and rough sorts, but only Lord Bowles could touch her with words. Her gaze followed him around Khan as he fixed the blanket.

  “Must be I need more riding experience,” she said archly.

  Hazel eyes sparked beneath a black cocked hat on the other side of Khan. “You need a superior riding experience. Agile is more responsive…better and longer lasting, in my humble opinion.”

  “And all this time I thought fast horses tired quickly.”

  His raspy chuckle tickled her. A pleasant thrum bounced between them. “You haven’t found the right horse.”

  She laughed. With her skin flushed and nerves charged, she didn’t want their conversation to end. Playful or not, an exchange of words with his lordship renewed her.

  “Khan is beautiful, but his legs are thin as spindles.”

  “Shh.” Lord Bowles put a finger across his lips. “He’s quite proud of his legs.”

  “As if horses have such a thing as pride.”

  He unlatched the stall. “Oh, they do, Khan especially. He’s descended from the Godolphin Arabian, the finest bloodline. Believe me, he knows it.” He slapped the horse’s rump, and Khan walked into the stall. “This old boy needs his rest. He’s had a long, hard day.”

  Her legs stretched back a step or two until her bottom bumped the post. “Long and hard for you too, I imagine.”

  “Part of it.”

  Lord Bowles shut the gate, keeping his hand on the top slat. Wind howled outside. Khan drank from a trough. Life went on, yet a curtain could have fallen between them. Khan was a pleasant distraction, as was their veiled discussion of horses and riders.

  “Why did you go to Learmouth, milord?”

  The black hat shaded his eyes, and for a moment, she didn’t think he’d answer. He didn’t have to.

  “I needed a good, fast ride.”

  “Fast horses and fast women,” she mocked, slipping both hands behind her back. “The way Mr. Beckworth said it, I guessed you were seeking a woman for sexual favors.”

  “Would it matter?” he asked quietly.

  The cavernous barn expanded everything. The thrum under her skin. Noises of Khan settling in. Water dripping behind her. The rain hammering overhead. Who was she but another cog in all the goings-on? She had no right to question him, yet a perverse need forced her to stay put.

  “I realize it’s not my concern.”

  “It isn’t.” He sauntered away from the stall. “But I’ll admit, it gets lonely, me and my hand in the bath. Not as satisfying as a woman’s touch.”

  She stiffened. “Then I hope you got what you wanted.”

  His crudeness didn’t shock her. She’d heard worse. Being near him tonight wasn’t the same as watching him go off with an actress two years past. What he did came at a cost, a cost she couldn’t explain, yet the sting was deep. She turned to go, but Lord Bowles closed the distance.

  “Wait.” He grabbed her arm. “Don’t you want to know what happened?”

  “No.”

  The candle lantern showered her in a soft glow. Lord Bowles stood at the edge of light and shadows, his usually smiling mouth a grim line above his black collar.

  “You need to hear what I have to say.” He stepped closer.

  She stepped back until her bottom hit the hard beam. “Not very gentlemanly of you, cornering a domestic in the barn.”

  “A moment ago you were singing a different tune,” he gibed, letting go of her arm. “Remember, you came to me.”

  Her spine pressed the post, scratching wood and wool. “It’s my job to look after you.”

  “Part of your housekeeper’s duties.”

  “Yes,” she said weakly, smelling leather and strong ale on him.

  He braced a hand beside her head. “Liar.”

  She gasped. “Let me go.”

  “Why? We’re not breaking your rules. No stairs.”

  Nor did he compel her to stay. Not one fraction of his person touched hers, yet Lord Bowles held her in place by force of his person alone.

  “I’d think making free with one woman tonight is enough, even for you.” She glared fiercely at him. “Or was it two?”

  “Two women?” His eyes widened. “Such credit you give me.”

  “I shouldn’t have asked about your skirt chasing.”

  She pressed both hands against his chest, ready to push him away. But she didn’t. Knees weak, she eyed his mouth at the edge of his collar. Couldn’t help it. His fine mouth opened, luring her to listen.

  “I did go to Learmouth to seek a friendly woman. But all I could think about was my prickly housekeeper.”

  Her gaze shot to his. Hazel eyes glinted dark and fathomless.

  “That’s right. I had a pint or two and spent my skirt-chasing time asking everyone in the Blue Partridge about Maude Turner.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes, but no one recognized the name.”

  Her heart softened, as did her hands on his chest. “Thank you…for asking about my grandmother.”

  Caught between the wooden beam and the determined man, she didn’t fight back. Lord Bowles had gone to Learmouth on her behalf and had returned to her.

  “Ah, now there’s a fine reward. The light in your eyes.” He pushed back her hood. His stare ranged over her face, her hair, dropping to her lips and back to her eyes again. “Something else would make my cold, wet ride worthwhile.”

  “Such as?”

  “A kiss.”

  He smiled at her. For most women this would be oil to a flame, and they’d leap at his warm invitation. She would not. Though they’d never spoken of it, she was certain Lord Bowles had wanted a kiss that night on Devil’s Causeway. Was everything a tit for tat exchange with him?

  “Do you ever do something for the joy of giving to another, milord? Without asking something in return.”

  His smile froze. Time slipped, marking this fragile point. “It’s a late-night kiss in a barn. Far from witnesses to soil your new respectable life.”

  “This isn’t about respectability, milord. I don’t barter my kisses.” Rain pounded overhead. Her breath quickened, and all she could do was stare at his beautiful mouth.

  “Something tells me you want this as much as I do.”

  Gone was the loose-limbed, humorous country squire she’d grown accustomed to. The man pressing against her slipped into the practiced, charming wastrel she’d seen in London, and she was no less affected.

  Her lips parted, the fight in her weakening by the second. “It is a simple price to pay.”

  His breath touched her forehead, and being the brazen woman she was, she angled her face to meet his.

  His lazy smile spread.
“That’s better.”

  Her heart thudded. Anticipation dampened the right places. What she wanted and what he’d give were at the heart of the matter. There was no such thing as a simple kiss.

  Lord Bowles hooked a finger under her chin. Supple leather brushed her skin. Her body rocked forward, yearning for his leather-clad hand to explore other places. He dipped close, his lips grazing her, soft and open.

  His mouth pressed at an angle to the right. To the left. All with perfect caresses.

  Almost too perfect.

  The interlude was all very…nice. But not heart shattering. A letdown, really, despite her racing pulse. Lord Bowles had done this to other women.

  Many times. Pleasant and practiced.

  One turn of his mouth just so. The side of his nose touched hers, and he pulled away.

  His eyes drifted open, the gold and green flecks so beautiful. “Well?”

  “That was…” Her lashes veiled her eyes.

  “It was what?”

  “It was…nice, milord. Quite nice.”

  “Nice?” He jerked back. “A cordial thank-you note from a relative is nice, not a kiss.”

  “I’m not complaining. You kiss well.”

  He scowled at her. “Not quite the desired effect.”

  She opened her mouth but shut it.

  His brows snapped together. “If you’ve more to say on the subject, please enlighten me.”

  “The same way you enlightened me about horses and size?”

  His scowl deepened.

  Shoulders straight, she pushed off the beam. Men lived too much by what hung between their legs. “I know exactly what your kiss was about.”

  “Oh, this ought to be good,” he said, folding his arms across his chest.

  “I’ve wanted to kiss you for a long time.” She paused when his eyes rounded. “Yes, it’s true. But you kissed me the way I expect you’ve kissed lots of other women before me.”

  Overhead, the skies dumped a torrent, the same as she was about to do. He was right. She should never have come to the barn, but she’d already said too much, revealed too much, and felt too much. Nothing was going to hold her back now.

  “You kissed me like it was the door to sex, instead of kissing me.” Her chin tipped high. “Sex can be so impersonal. Swiving, coupling, bed sport. Look at today. You needed what? A hard, fast ride?”

  His mouth flattened. Late-day whiskers darkened his jaw, a hideous mess on some men, but on Lord Bowles? Potent. Curiously, he stayed quiet, letting her have her say.

  “Men never sought women at the Golden Goose for a kiss. Groped them. Got under their skirts, yes, but nothing else. Do you know why?” She stopped and took a breath, warming to the skirmish. “Because kissing scares them. It’s intimate.”

  He bristled. “I kiss women.”

  Of course he did. Lots of them.

  “This is me,” she said softly. “Standing here with you. But you kissed me just now like you would any other woman. All because what you want is under my skirts.”

  Light flickered in his eyes. Did her message ring true? Never did she believe she’d have this conversation with a man, much less Lord Bowles. Speaking her mind refreshed her, especially since the man in question listened intently.

  “You’re better than most men. You know how to kiss, how to charm. And that gets you what you want, but nothing in your kiss was about me.” She stared past his shoulder. “I don’t want quick tumbles. I want a man to know me.”

  She stood taller for saying what she wanted. Running away wasn’t escaping the old life; it was making a new one, and bawdy past or not, she’d defend what she wanted.

  Thunder cracked outside. Pulsing want thrummed in her veins. Shoes damp and hands cold, she surprisingly wasn’t in a hurry to leave. Neither was Lord Bowles.

  “And if a man wanted to know a woman?” he ventured.

  He opened a door with his singular question. Genevieve swallowed a tickle in her throat and studied his coat’s weave before looking him in the eye.

  “He’d pay attention to her. Find a place that needs kissing. One should never assume the mouth is the first place to kiss.”

  His eyes darkened like a satyr about to feast. “Go on.”

  She flattened a hand on his chest, her fingers spreading wide. Wool scratched her palm, but a profound, mysterious connection grew. “A kiss…a kiss ought to be unique. It ought to say ‘I’ve paid attention to you.’”

  “How would you kiss me?”

  His ragged voice rippled over her skin. More thunder rattled the heavens. Her heart thudded, renewing deep-seated aches.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t be a coward, Miss Turner,” he said softly. “You started this.”

  His hand covered hers on his chest and gave her fingers a squeeze. Her nipples peaked inside her stays. She had started this the moment she stepped outside instead of hiding safely in her room. This was not a quick kiss in the barn. She wanted to rub against Lord Bowles, ease the torment, and whisper her thoughts to him.

  How dangerous to have a man want to know a woman’s body and her mind.

  Longing built inside her, surging, threatening to take control. Lightning flashed, and white light shot through a crack in the barn door. Her senses sizzled hot, needy. Both her hands slid up his coat. She freed one button from its mooring and another and another. Lord Bowles’s hands fell to his sides, silent permission for her to have her way with him.

  She touched his forearm. “I’d stroke you there. Your tattoo.”

  His intense stare traced her hand on him. Tense muscles relaxed under her hand…easing, giving in.

  She inched closer, her breasts pillowing him. “Then I’d go higher.”

  “All very nice, but not earth-shattering.” His thick voice shredded confident words.

  “Want me to stop?”

  Nostrils flaring, he locked his satyr’s gaze on her mouth. “No.”

  Her hips wiggled. Between her legs, the fleshy folds were heavy with need. “Then I’d reach up here,” she whispered, hooking a finger in his neckwear. “Just enough to expose your skin.”

  The rain-soaked cravat drooped lower, showing pebbled skin. “And?”

  “I’d push this down.” The cambric gave another inch.

  Lord Bowles’s gold-tipped lashes hovered low, leaving a crescent of his eyes exposed. Hazel eyes gleamed through his lashes. She rose on tiptoes, rubbing against him, taking her fill. The whiskers on his jaw. Sun-burnished skin from long rides. His tempting earlobe.

  Her finger toyed with the golden curl. “You have a lock of hair,” she said against his neck. “You ask me what I’d do. I’d kiss you here.”

  His body tensed. “Do it,” he growled.

  She nestled into him, her lips brushing his earlobe. His breath hitched. She grew bolder; her tongue tasted his neck—mildly salty, warm, and firm.

  And she bit gently on the lobe and sucked.

  Shuddering, he grabbed her hips.

  “And right…here.” She nuzzled under his ear.

  Wet hair was cold on her face. Her mouth caressed sun-grained skin, and she planted a slow, sweet kiss where the rebellious curl hung. She leaned away, finding his eyes shut, a pained expression tightening his face.

  “Don’t stop.”

  They clung to each other, swathed in damp, heavy clothes.

  “Lord Bowles.”

  He squeezed her hips. “Please. Say my name. Say…Marcus.”

  His hoarse voice pulled her heartstrings. She stayed on tiptoe and sought the sensitive spot behind his ear, her lips moving. “Marcus.”

  Lord Bowles ground his hips against her. Friction was everywhere. Her chest against his. Their hips and thighs. His whiskered chin tickled her neck, her collarbone. A wool collar rubbed her cheek. He moaned and buried his f
ace against her, holding her tight.

  She gave, and he received.

  “I’d keep kissing you here,” she murmured between breathy kisses. “And not stop.”

  His chest billowed. Maddening sensations swirled inside her. This being against him, the rubbing, felt good despite layers of wool. She had a taste of him—of warm skin, of northern wind and leather and rain, his unique scent. Her mouth opened wider, offering slow kisses near his hair. She licked a delicate line behind his ear, and he groaned.

  “Genevieve.”

  His hand slid around and palmed one of her bottom cheeks. The tight grip nudged her leg over his, and she straddled his thigh. Through layers of skirts, her mons brushed his hip boot.

  She gasped her pleasure, her legs gripping him. The sweet pressure…the heat between her quim’s wet folds. Eyes half-closed, she scattered kisses along his jaw until she came to the corner of his mouth. He opened for her, his breath hot against her cheek.

  Her breath came in fits. “And then I’d kiss your mouth.”

  “Finally,” he moaned.

  Her mouth brushed his, exploring his full lower lip. Kissing Lord Bowles was plumbing the depths of his smile, his charm. One gloved hand massaged her bottom. The other stroked her, shoulder to waist, the way he might calm a horse. Their bodies rubbed, the closeness ragged and imperfect. One openmouthed kiss turned into another.

  Power surged within her.

  Lord Bowles let her take the lead. From the very first.

  And through all those kisses, she rode his thigh. Slowly. Sliding up and down. The friction delighted her. The need a searing want inside her. Demanding strokes quickened on his thigh, pumping, rubbing. New dampness spurted between her legs, and she groaned.

  His eyes glowed hot behind gold-tipped lashes. “What strong legs you have.”

  “All the better to ride you with,” she said, panting.

  He laughed, the wicked sound ringing above her head. “That’s my girl.”