The Lord Meets His Lady

by Gina Conkle

  Gone was her gentle-humored woodsman, replaced by a beast who let her ride him in whatever manner she pleased. Her forehead dropped to his shoulder. One hand scrambled awkwardly with her skirts until her hot quim touched cold leather. She gasped against his wool-covered chest.

  How did a simple kiss turn into this?

  She gripped his redingote. Her mons stroked his boot. Harder. Faster. The enticing bliss wanted to consume her. Building tremors rattled inside her body. In his arms, she wasn’t going to fly away, but the need was frightening.

  “Let go,” he murmured in her hair. “Let go.”

  She mewled like a cat…soft, high-pitched cries as she rode his thigh.

  Sensitive flesh ground against his leather boot. Though fully clothed, she was opened to him, seeking, needing.

  Hot friction…

  Elusive, carnal want strung her along, making her search for his perfect mouth. They kissed wildly. Open and deep. Tongues caressing, bodies straining. Strong arms wrapped around her so tightly that she’d never fall. Her nails dug into his coat. Her hips bucked. One more stroke across his thigh, another sweet grind, and light burst.

  She peaked, her body quivering against his.

  Her bottom shuddered. Deep places between her legs twitched fast with pleasure.

  Skin tingling, she broke the kiss, stunned to silence. Inching away, she and Lord Bowles pulled apart. She craved more, but her heels hit the ground. She righted her skirts, taking her time to shake them straight. The loss of the leather in one small place on her body was profound…so was her hunger for the witty master of Pallinsburn.

  His breath came as hard as hers. “Anytime you want to teach me about kissing, consider me an attentive student.”

  Hazel eyes shined dark and hungry at her before he bent to retrieve his cocked hat from the ground. When had his hat fallen off?

  Her fingers touched her kiss-swollen lips. Tonight, she’d pushed open a new door in their arrangement.

  Was she ready to see what else she’d find?

  Twelve

  Who was this nymph cloaked in red? Miss Turner had been nothing like he’d expected—from the moment she opened her mouth at the Lowick village crossroad until opening herself to him just now. She was right: he’d kissed lots of women, and like most cocksure men, he was certain he knew his way around the fairer sex. He had to face an incontrovertible fact.

  A single-minded young woman had put him in his place…with a kiss to his neck.

  Miss Turner had searched out the lone curl tucked behind his ear. That lock had been the mortal enemy of his valet—when he could afford a valet. He’d chopped the rebellious curl, but it grew back, becoming Miss Turner’s temptation.

  Rain and thunder poured outside. Inside the quiet barn, Marcus wanted to find the nearest soft place and explore what other layers of hers he might uncover.

  Yet the first thing he uttered was “What do you do in your room at night?”

  She stopped fussing with her skirts. “You want to know more about me.”

  “A good idea when a man finds a woman in his arms.”

  Coffee-dark eyes studied him from under sable lashes. Miss Turner covered her head again, her mouth flattening in the familiar line.

  Light shined on her hood’s decorative black threads, giving her an onyx halo. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because I hear your voice for at least an hour. The cottage is very quiet with just us two.”

  She turned away. “I want to go inside. My shoes… They’re wet, and my feet are cold.”

  He unhooked the lamp. “I don’t think you’re a soft-in-the-head miss, talking to fey creatures, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

  Her snort of laughter warmed him. He expected a quick retort, but thunder cracked. Sheets of rain fell from the skies as unrelenting as they’d been hours ago. Marcus and Genevieve walked several paces through the barn before he got his answer.

  “I practice reading,” she admitted. “I learned to read this year.”

  He lifted the lamp all the better to see her, but the hood shrouded her face, save the tip of her nose and the flare of her unmoving lips. Miss Turner held herself with familiar erectness, but he felt in his bones that his housekeeper fought to hide embarrassment. Lots of men and women couldn’t read. That was why shop signs posted pictures, giving patrons a clue to the business inside. Those facts didn’t matter. She was gravely embarrassed over this, and his question had brought her shame to light.

  With her walking beside him, a radical notion dawned. In the past few weeks, he’d come to view Miss Genevieve Turner as more than a laborer working her way to a better life. He’d put her squarely on his level. No, he’d elevated her, a fine example of the fair sex.

  They didn’t share the common ground of a childhood spent with tutors. Or learning to ride on the finest horseflesh money could buy. Nor had she spent her tender years whiling away summers with games or rambling the countryside in search of fun. Miss Turner had worked her whole life. And him? He’d concerned himself with his own entertainment. The foundation of his life and hers couldn’t have been more different. Different or not, blood raced in his veins from their kisses, and she reached satisfaction rubbing against him.

  Flesh had a way of putting everyone on common ground.

  He opened the barn door partway, a squall blasting them. Miss Turner faced the darkness, wind molding her skirts to her legs.

  “I can still do the job of housekeeper, keep accounts and such,” she said above the storm. “Numbers don’t bother me. With words, I’m much better than I used to be.”

  “That wasn’t my concern.” He clutched the open ends of his coat. “You’ve more than proven yourself.”

  “Thank you, milord.”

  He raised the lamp. “Will you let me help? With your reading.”

  She pushed back the side of her hood. “You’d do that for me?”

  His chest swelled. How incredulous she sounded. The way her voice lightened, one would think he’d gifted her with something better than gold.

  “Every night. Whatever you want to read for however long.”

  A feminine brow arched. “And you expect nothing in return?”

  Rain sprinkled her exposed cheek. Dark eyes searched him as though the gift of unvarnished generosity troubled her. A twinge plucked his conscience strings. Their interlude had left him sorely wanting. The erection inside his breeches was proof. He craved Miss Turner, body and soul, but satisfaction would not come.

  A fact he’d have to face. Again.

  “I’ll have the pleasure of your company, Miss Turner. That will be enough.”

  She gripped her cloak, a gentle smile brightening her face. “Shall we make a run for it, then?”

  Miss Turner sped across the driveway, her red cloak flying. He shut the barn door and dashed after her, splashing through puddles. She pushed against the newly fixed cottage door and held it open for him. Laughing and shivering, they shed wet outer garments and shoes. The night’s adventure was like a fun romp in the rain.

  Rubbing his hands together, Marcus eyed the dark parlor. “I’ll build a fire while you change.”

  “You’ll do nothing of the sort. Stoking fires is what I do.” Her lips twitched before she turned away. “And I know how you dislike chilly rooms.”

  He set his gloves on the entry-hall table, fighting the urge to coddle her. A housekeeper’s position was a step up for her, however humble the home. Yet moments ago, they’d embraced with his hand on her bottom. Miss Turner hung up her cloak, her russet skirt molding to her hips. She wore no hip roll today.

  His groin tightened and he flinched, bracing a hand on the entry table. He hadn’t quashed the storm in his breeches yet.

  Oblivious to his ogling, Miss Turner swanned about like a sergeant leading a battle charge. Her long hair trailed down her back, held o
ff her face today by a black linen strip banding her head. She sped into the parlor on a mission to light a fire.

  He took the stairs stiffly. Though he was tired from the long ride to Learmouth, his enthusiasm grew for cracking open a book. What else would he learn tonight? Changing into dry breeches and a fresh shirt and waistcoat, he willed his aching erection to subside. Before he left his chamber, he selected a book from the mantel, one of the few he enjoyed. Grinning at the title, he was sure his housekeeper would find it amusing too.

  Downstairs in the parlor, Miss Turner waited for him on a six-legged mahogany bench that she’d pushed up to the fireplace. The plain piece lacked cushions, a scrolled back the only sign of luxury.

  The old bench creaked as she swiveled to face him. “You brought a book.”

  “I did.” He walked to the plush settee and tested the seat. “Wouldn’t you rather sit here? It’s softer.”

  “But harder to clean.” Nose wrinkling, she waved a hand over her attire. “My skirt’s dirty. I’d mess up the lovely velvet.”

  From the first night, he’d seen her look longingly at the purple settee. He’d find a way to get her on the velvet. For tonight, the unforgiving bench would keep him from giving in to baser urges.

  Taking a seat beside her, he spied wet hems with frayed strands dragging on the floor. Black-stockinged feet peeked from under her skirt. Threadbare wool covered the arch of her foot.

  “You’re not wearing shoes.”

  They’d just kissed each other thoroughly in the barn, complete with her riding his thigh while his hand clenched her ripe bottom, but the personal nature of stockinged feet touched him.

  One of her brows arched with reprimand. “You’re staring, milord.” How did a simple kiss turn into this?

  Wool-covered toes disappeared beneath the curtain of her skirt.

  “Startled is all.” He motioned to the fire. “Please, warm your feet if it soothes you.”

  The bench creaked as he kicked off his shoes and stretched his legs before the fire.

  She tapped his book. “What’s this?”

  “A play by William Congreve called Love for Love.” He tilted the spine end up.

  “May I?”

  He passed over the book, watching her run a finger over the gold-embossed spine. Long, messy tendrils caught on his sleeve. The pressure of her thigh on his, her body sitting close, the hearth’s warmth and her own heat…the night settled in…agreeable, satisfying. His dark craving, the parched thirstiness, didn’t plague him at all. He glanced at the polished corner cabinet—empty—a thing he’d barely noticed. No bottles sat on the shelves.

  Rustling pages brought him back to Miss Turner. She flipped through the book, her fingers tracing the text. Getting comfortable, he stuck two fingers inside his cravat and tugged until the cambric gave way.

  Miss Turner’s sight line shot to the limp cloth. “You did mean what you said about our reading together.”

  Firelight flared across her smooth cheek, highlighting fine freckles on her nose. Ah, the flat, serious line of her mouth was back.

  “You think I’m trying to continue our interlude in the barn.”

  “I’m very serious about my reading, milord.”

  He rubbed his throat where his shirt gapped open, tempted to feed her vivid descriptions of her enthusiasm in the barn. “I know you are. My necktie is off because it’s late. Nothing more.”

  Trust was of the essence here. He wanted to help her and learn as much as he could about his mysterious housekeeper. If she shut herself away, he’d get nowhere.

  Miss Turner gave back the leather-bound volume and picked up papers tucked beside her. “I prefer this for tonight’s reading.”

  She held out timeworn papers spotted with water stains.

  “Mr. Franklin’s pamphlet on electricity,” he said.

  “Yes.” She curled one leg beneath her. “I’ve been working through this. What he did with silk and a glass rod…fascinating.”

  “Exciting, I’m sure.”

  “He found a way to transfer electricity and gather it in a jar. Can you imagine?” She flipped through pages until she found a diagram. “Look at this. It shows you how it’s done.”

  He angled his head for a better view, catching the shadowed crevice between her breasts. Her bodice barely contained the tender mounds.

  “See. The glass rod. Electricity travels through here.” Breath quickening, she traced the parts with her fingertip. “Then gathers here.”

  Miss Turner’s sweet smell, her hair catching on his sleeve, her eyes lighting up with wonder… He wanted to feed her excitement, see this light burn in her and never be quenched. Arrayed in plain wool, her dark eyes sparkling and alert, she reminded him of the pretty wood pigeon. He couldn’t help but wonder what his grandfather would’ve thought of this strange, feminine creature.

  He stretched an arm along the back rest. Miss Turner flipped to the beginning, her bottom wiggling on the seat. She talked about one discovery after another. So taken with the pamphlet, she scooted around, wedging her knee against his thigh. Her head was inches from his, but her animated attention owed nothing to him. It was rather leveling to take second place to a dry pamphlet more than a decade old.

  “He starts by discussing lightning rods…calls the lightning ‘fire from the clouds’…” Her voice drifted off. “What? You’re staring, milord.”

  Her hair was uncombed. A black bow, part of her makeshift hair ribbon, hung limp against her collarbone. Amber locks dangled in messy array.

  “You fascinate me.”

  He brushed the honey-gold cascade falling down her back. Firelight danced on ample curves plumping from her bodice, expanding with her excited breaths.

  “I was going on, wasn’t I?”

  “I liked it,” he said, twining an amber lock around his finger. “I couldn’t help but wonder what my grandfather would have thought of you. I’m certain he would’ve loved your thirst for knowledge.”

  Rain splattered the parlor windows. Miss Turner leaned back and let him play with her hair, watching him keenly. Beneath him, the bench creaked. The feminine knee on his thigh pressed higher.

  “You speak of your mother’s father. The man who once lived here.”

  He nodded, interested in the play of colors winding around his finger. “If he met you, I’m sure he would’ve likened you to a wood pigeon.”

  “Sounds quite common.”

  “On the contrary, the wood pigeon is pretty. Many take it for granted, yet the bird’s resilient. Unstoppable…thriving just about anywhere.”

  “But hardly noteworthy.”

  “How about making history?” He singled out another amber lock, testing the silky strands.

  Her nose wrinkled. “Pigeons?”

  “The ancient Greeks reported Olympic winners with pigeons. Genghis Khan used them to send messages across his empire. So did sultans.”

  Brow furrowing, Miss Turner dropped her attention to the pamphlet. He spoke as if she were acquainted with the same facts. Truth struck again, shining a light on the divide in their upbringing. She’d never learned of ancient Greece or the powerful Khan or sultans.

  “Now I’m the one going on,” he said.

  “Don’t stop. This is why I want to read. I want to know these things.”

  Genevieve Turner wasn’t embarrassed by the gulf in their education or social standing. She hungered for what could be.

  “My grandfather fed me those tales to make history lessons bearable.”

  “And he must have loved birds.”

  “He loved all animals,” Marcus said, full of nostalgia. “He was a naturalist with an eye to his surroundings, especially birds. He was happy here.”

  She studied the parlor’s white plaster walls, suffocating in their blankness. His housekeeper had no idea how it used to look: warm yello
w walls and a tapestry full of birds hanging across the center wall. And over the mantel? A gilt-framed painting of shepherds by the River Tweed, the lone display of wealth in the simple cottage. No doubt the painting was lost.

  “What would he have thought of the state of things now?” she asked.

  He let go of her hair. If he wasn’t careful, Miss Turner would discover he was a man of little substance, while she was made of the best stock despite her tawdry upbringing.

  “He’d be disappointed. As a boy, he told me many times Pallinsburn would be mine, but I told him I preferred the city.”

  She twisted around, scanning the bare walls. “Much can be done to better this room.”

  “To what end?” he said stiffly. “I’ll not stay.”

  Miss Turner opened her mouth, but he tapped the pamphlet. “We’re here to read, aren’t we?”

  “Of course.”

  He frowned, guilt pinching him. Miss Turner must think him an ungrateful wretch for refusing an inheritance. Did she think him a profligate, squandering his life while she struggled to build hers? He breathed easier when she righted herself in the seat and flipped to the first page.

  He rubbed his nape, scanning the page. “From what I’ve heard of your reading, you managed quite well with Miss Sauveterre.”

  “She worked with me a few months.”

  “Was she your first tutor?”

  Her chin dipped. “My mother tried to teach me as a child, but she lacked patience. Then, we tried when I was older, but she got the French pox.”

  His mouth opened, but what could he say? Platitudes rang hollow before he said them. Miss Turner’s focus was on the page, but there was subtle movement in her throat, a visible swallow.

  “That must’ve been…difficult.” He cringed. What a fool!

  Difficult? A convenient word and sorely inadequate. When the French pox killed a body, it did its work slowly, taking years to degrade a person. Hair loss, aching limbs, and unsightly, odorous sores. For many, near the end, raging fevers claimed the shell of a person, making life miserable. And for a young girl to witness this happening to her mother?