The Lord Meets His Lady

by Gina Conkle

  The vicar coughed into his balled fist, quickening his pace. “Up ahead.”

  Winter grass grew longer here. And why not? Who would want to tread these grounds? With each step, the grass dampened her shoes. A shiver started from the earth, working its way up her legs, and didn’t stop until her neck quavered from the cold. Gravestones leaned. Some tipped at ancient angles, the markers centuries old. Somewhere among the dead lay her grandmother, Maude Turner.

  She was too late.

  Vicar Pemberton took them to the back of the graveyard where night was darkest and a gnarled tree draped its branches like prying fingers. This had to be where Coldstream village buried its poorest inhabitants.

  “For all my years of service in the church, I’ve not mastered the skill of delivering bad news.” The vicar waved his hand over a rough wooden cross stuck in the ground. “This is where she was laid to rest. I’m very sorry.”

  Genevieve dropped to her knees. A mound of earth rose gently, weeds and grass sprouting. The cross was bare of a name and date. She rested both of her hands on the ground, palms down.

  Nothing.

  Emptiness welled inside her. That strange hole in need of filling was worse than the pain and wondering about rejection. Pain, at least, filled a person with something. Wondering promised an answer might come. But with this, she had nothing. Fisting her hands on the grass-covered grave was the closest she’d ever be to her grandmother—the woman who rejected her as a babe in her mother’s womb.

  She was alone in the world.

  Even Lord Bowles would be gone, come winter’s end.

  He crouched beside her. “Can you tell us anything about her, sir?”

  “Mrs. Turner wasn’t one to frequent the church. She lived at the edge of town. Minded her own affairs.” The vicar clasped his hands behind his back. He searched the dark, giving a small shrug. “She sold dolls from time to time at the annual summer fair.”

  “You didn’t really know her, did you?” Genevieve tipped her head up.

  “Not very well, I’m afraid. Might I ask how you’re related to her?”

  Darkness wasn’t kind to Vicar Pemberton. Gaunt cheeks and a sharp-angled nose made him birdlike in all the wrong ways. His piercing eyes reminded her of clergymen who preferred good poor folk to the bad. People like her.

  “She was my grandmother.” Genevieve stood. “I never knew her.”

  The door of a public house opened down the lane, and a distant din of voices carried.

  Lord Bowles rose to full height and placed his hand on the small of her back. “Anything else you can tell us about her? Her character? Things she was known for?”

  The vicar winced. “I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, milord.”

  “There’s little good you can share?”

  “She was not a happy woman, I fear. Even before the fire left her infirm. Most of the village avoided her.”

  Glancing around the cemetery, Genevieve could see that her grandmother had been shuffled off to a far corner, avoided even in death.

  “She claimed she had no family,” the vicar said, appearing to choose his words with care. “We called her Mrs. Turner, because she bade us to, but none believed she’d ever married.”

  Genevieve clamped a hand across her mouth. Her grandmother and her mother…two unmarried women who bore the shame of a fatherless child. At least her hood shrouded her from the vicar’s curious eyes. Did he find her lacking? Judge her as the neglectful relative of a lonely old woman of waspish nature? What did it say of her that her sole relative, her grandmother, refused to acknowledge her existence?

  The vicar rubbed his hands for warmth. “I wish I could give you more, but there simply isn’t anything to say.”

  “Thank you for your kindness,” Lord Bowles said.

  “I’ll leave so that you may have a moment alone.”

  Relieved of his unpleasant duty, the vicar trotted as fast as his spindly legs would decently allow. Genevieve stared at the blank wooden cross, glad for his hasty exit. She needed to collect her thoughts. The gate squeaked, and the older man cleared his throat.

  “There is one thing,” he called across the yard.

  Genevieve twisted around. “What?”

  “Maude Turner was a tall woman, just like you, my lady.” He paused. “And some judged her a becoming woman in her youth.”

  She touched the rough wooden cross. “Thank you, sir.”

  Simple facts, small connections helped. Tonight, the vicar had put broken pieces in place, framing an empty spot, not filling it. A little information was better than none.

  Wiping dirt off the wooden cross, another void threatened, this one bigger, darker, needier. She had nowhere to hide.

  What would she do now?

  She leaned against her new husband. “Looks like you still have a housekeeper, milord.”

  “Better yet, I gained a wife.”

  “For a time,” she mused, trying to match his light humor and failing miserably.

  The two of them made their way to the road where Khan was waiting. Lord Bowles climbed into the saddle first.

  He positioned Khan beside the mounting stump and extended his hand. “Let’s go home.”

  Home. With him.

  She stopped, both feet on the mounting block, staring at her hand engulfed in his. This might be a marriage of convenience to save her from the Wolf, but Lord Bowles was the only family she had left in this world.

  For a time…

  Limbs and joints refused to move, like the broken machinery she often fixed. Her cogs and wheels tried to function, but they couldn’t. Loneliness was sand, drying her up from the inside out.

  There was only one thing a woman in her shoes could do.

  Nineteen

  “I don’t want to ride behind you,” she said.

  Moonlight sloped light and shadows across Lord Bowles sitting in the saddle. With her standing on the mounting block, they were eye level. Expressing needs of the emotional variety was never easy for her. Seconds ticked by. Did he understand?

  His sensual mouth softened above his collar. “Come.”

  Khan stood still as Lord Bowles settled her in the saddle. A hip nestled between his legs, and her feet dangled to one side. She fixed her skirt, aware of his gloved hand touching her knee. They were on the verge of something…the uncertainty nettling yet vague. The night’s events left her bruised in spirit, but in the quiet, she knew. One man would heal the pain. Her husband. The lines of his face were perfection, but she saw more than symmetry, more than the handsome man who turned women’s heads.

  He was a tender man. A good man.

  She ached to touch him, to reach deep places hidden from others. He sat quietly, waiting, the faint stars lighting his eyes. She shivered but not from cold. It was because of him and the want for him sinking into her body.

  Bold as you please, she unbuttoned his redingote. “I need your warmth.”

  His breath skimmed her forehead as she freed the last button. The wool coat parted, and she slid both hands around his waist. His inhale was sharp. Nostrils flaring and his brows hard slashes above his eyes, her new husband was the satyr she’d kissed in the Pallinsburn barn days ago, but there was tightness around his fine mouth.

  Did he restrain himself for her sake?

  “Please. Take me home.”

  Home. Pallinsburn. The two were one and the same in her heart.

  Lord Bowles wrapped one arm around her and held her tight. “Whatever happens, I’ll take care of you.”

  She melted into him and closed her eyes, aware of Khan’s ambling gait and her husband’s steady heartbeat against her ear. Tonight, she’d shut away the world for a while.

  No Reinhard Wolf.

  No one to remind her she was nearly penniless.

  Or that she was alone in the world. A true orp
han, despite her sham of a marriage.

  Tonight, someone cherished her enough to help her and ask nothing in return. She buried her nose in Lord Bowles’s neckcloth, the cambric warm with his scent…strength, leather, and a little horse. She’d treasure his unique smell, treasure him for however long this lasted.

  Her chin quivered, and she shot a prayer to heaven. Why couldn’t things work out for her? Was a little goodwill too much to ask for?

  Eyes stinging, she sniffled, holding back tears for the second time in one night. No answer came from her muffled prayer, save the River Tweed’s gentle rush as they crossed the bridge. Time moved on, and soon enough, so would she. Lord Bowles would close down the Pallinsburn cottage and take himself back to London. He struggled with the drink, but in his time here, from what she knew, he’d conquered it.

  Khan’s clip-clopping hooves took her back the way she’d come. She had no regrets about returning to the cottage and sweet Hester. But, tonight, she needed a tonic for the hurt. Nestling against her husband’s chest healed her. Gentled her. Erased time. The ride to Pallinsburn could go on forever, but then Lord Bowles squeezed her.

  “We’re home.”

  She lifted her head. Warm light touched the iron scrollwork on the barn door. Candle lamps burned from the barn and the cottage, a different reception from her first arrival many weeks ago. She’d made a home here. Her home.

  Lord Bowles dismounted. She grabbed the pommel to slide down on her own.

  “Wait,” he commanded. “Let me help you.”

  Strong hands gripped her waist. Her feet hit the ground, and gloved hands slid higher up her ribs, the friction whisper-sweet on wool. His hands stopped under her breasts. The tip of his hat brushed her hood. An ache wove between them, heavy and unsaid. A man could woo a woman as easily with words as without them. If he had the skill. Goodness gleamed from her husband’s eyes, the effect more enticing than his even features.

  “Good night,” he said.

  “Thank you, milord. For everything.”

  He took the reins and led Khan to the barn.

  Was this another facet of their friendship? A gentleman’s compassion for her plight, biding his time until the favor was done? This marriage and its eventual end would cost him his social standing and the family coffers.

  Loneliness and lust mixed inside her, a potent combination for a woman with nothing to lose. She pushed inside the cottage and found her way to the kitchen’s green cabinet. Orange embers flickered in the ashy hearth. Pallinsburn had won her heart, a labor of love to clean and set right.

  How long she’d stay was uncertain.

  How she’d stay was hers to decide.

  Working in scant light, she set a bottle of brandy, a cup, and clean linen on the table. She poured the brandy and drenched the linen square in the cup. Stiff-limbed, she took the cup with her to Lord Bowles’s chamber. There, she stoked the fire and kicked off her shoes. Chin to chest, she untied her gown’s front laces, working them loose until the gown slackened. Each step was methodical. She was numb, removing layers from her body, undressing down to her shift and ripped black stockings.

  She wanted to feel good again.

  No sadness. No worry.

  The blaze warmed her, but it didn’t take away the dullness inside her. Planting one foot on the winged chair, she raised her shift waist high. Firelight glowed on white skin and burnished curls at the apex of her thighs. She stuffed the soaked cloth into those curls. Her outer folds parted. Wetness dribbled to the floor. One finger pushed the rag up her channel.

  “Ssssss,” she hissed. The sting… How long since she’d taken preventive measures?

  Liquid spirits trickled down her inner thigh. Her legs tensed. Tender skin smarted inside her, but she pushed the linen up into private flesh.

  Hinges creaked. She stalled and looked across the chamber, her finger high inside her quim. Lord Bowles filled the doorway. He fixated on her hand between her legs.

  “Oh, please. Don’t stop on my account.”

  Her nipples peaked against her shift. Being watched was potent…his stare roving over her like a touch. The bulge in his breeches grew before her eyes, forcing out remnants of doubt. Smiling, she bent forward. Droplets splattered on the floor, and with one more nudge, the linen blocked her womb.

  She withdrew her finger and sucked the brandy-wet tip. “Are you thirsty?”

  His body visibly jolted at her carnal invitation. “This is unexpected.” Voice dipping low, he adjusted his placket.

  “Surprise,” she whispered.

  Holding her shift waist high with one hand, she untied her hair ribbon with the other. It was a balancing act with one foot on the winged chair, but she wanted him to see her slick, pink folds.

  She wanted him to take what he saw.

  By the predatory gleam in his eyes, he would.

  Her pulse skipped faster. Being desired gave a woman certain control. Being desired by the right man gave her singular glory.

  Eyeing the curls between her legs, Lord Bowles took his time advancing on her, each step measured, decisive until he stood a handsbreadth away. His warmth touched her before he did. Her skin pebbled everywhere, and her breasts thrust forward as though her body would take things from here.

  The teeter of lust and loneliness leaned in favor of hot and sensual.

  Gold-tipped lashes half shuttered his eyes, leaving dark crescents of color to take their fill of what she displayed. His fingers stroked her inner thigh, a slow slide ending near damp curls.

  He tasted his fingers. “Brandy. You know I’ve sworn off the stuff.”

  “I promise it’s for medicinal purposes only.”

  His raspy chuckle tickled her skin. “Aren’t you the resourceful one? A preventive, I presume.”

  “Yes.” It was all she could say. The sight of his hand on her thigh stole her breath.

  “You’re enticing me. And we both know how dangerous it’d be if I took a drink.”

  A shudder racked her at the image of his mouth consuming the brandy between her legs. “I-I hadn’t thought of that.”

  Her lids grew heavy. Their mouths were close, his breath mingling with hers. A magnetic draw pulled her. His beautiful mouth. Him.

  Slowly, slowly…their lips met. A spark burst inside her. She clutched his arm, but Lord Bowles gentled her with a long, tender kiss. The rightness of his mouth on hers was a gift.

  Masculine fingers burned on cool skin, stroking her leg as he deepened their kiss. His tongue touched hers, languid and soft. This was searching and need. Kindred souls locked together. His other hand grasped her arm, and she waxed tender and erotic at the same time.

  Heart banging, she broke away. Reds and golds glinted among darker hairs in his whiskers. She wanted to rub her palm along his jaw, but her leaden limbs refused movement. Those talented fingers of his kneaded her thigh…each stroke possessive and knowing. Her toes curled into the chair’s seat cushion. Her husband teased her inner thigh, his fingers stroking close to her exposed flesh, then skimming lightly to her knee. Anticipation was agonizing and sweet.

  New wetness trickled between her legs. Her hips rocked into him. “Please,” she begged, her eyelids fluttering low.

  Her lungs could be in a vise grip. This wasn’t good. He’d hardly done anything and—

  “Eeehhh…” She whimpered, a mewling sound, high-pitched, another one building deep inside her, rising up her torso. “Mar…eeehhh…” Her mouth opened wider. She clutched her shift, a wave of bliss shuddering her body.

  Oh dear. She was in trouble.

  A petite mort spasmed sweetly between her legs, and he hadn’t even touched the typical places men counted on to prime a woman. She opened her eyes. A salacious smile spread on his face, a man ready to take a bite of what she offered.

  Definite trouble.

  “To what do I owe the p
leasure of this visit, Wife?” His hand reverently brushed feminine curls, just missing the hot nubbin of flesh peeking at the top of her cleft.

  The hearth’s blaze snapped. Sharp points of light reflected off his coat’s metal buttons. Bracing a hand on the chair, she tried to think, tried to answer, but couldn’t. He took his sweet time, grazing her bush, his hand light and careful.

  Little by little, his palm increased pressure.

  Teasing her. Playing with her.

  Until—finally—he rubbed her mons.

  The pleasure shocked her. She groaned loudly.

  His lips brushed her forehead. “I’ll ask again. Why have you come to me now?”

  Fingernails digging into her shift, she lifted the hem higher. Her body gyrated with need, the coil burning everywhere. “I want…I want you to make me…for-get.”

  His satyr’s grin split wide. “You mean you want to use me. For sex.”

  Expert fingers teased her quim’s outer fold, careful not to slip inside. More heat pricked her skin. Her breath came in starts and stops, stirring his neckcloth.

  “For one night.”

  A deep chuckle rumbled as his hand kept up the assault. “One night only?”

  The aggravating man knew what he was doing. He denied her, touching and teasing, avoiding her sensitive inner folds. She scrunched the shift under her chin, taking an eyeful of Lord Bowles stroking her springy curls.

  Orange and yellow flames illuminated her skin. Hot, mellow pressure built, bringing slickness and desire to private places. Featherlight touches skimmed deeper between her legs. He stroked her quim’s outer folds and her thighs, strumming away her life’s pain. The unnerving sense of her body blending into his consumed her, and they’d barely begun.

  This wasn’t good.

  She grabbed her husband’s busy hand. He smelled of brandy and sex, and his hazel eyes promised sweet seduction. “We both know you’re not long for this place,” she said, planting her foot on the floor. “I’ll move on too, I imagine.”

  Fierce protectiveness flashed in his eyes. “When it’s safe.”

  A man looking out for her… She couldn’t fathom it. She raised his hand and kissed his palm. “You make me feel safe.”