by Gina Conkle
“You may.” She balled up the apron in her hands. “In private.”
The steamy bath, the cozy scullery, running off the Wolf, had twined another level of intimacy between them. No doubt the game had changed. Marcus tugged his earlobe, the Prussian’s words coming to mind again. Was he all about his own entertainment? Marcus swiped the soapy cloth down his chest.
Genevieve’s gaze followed the soapy line. “Do you have plans tonight? Anything away from the cottage?”
“And miss the exciting conclusion of Ben Franklin’s discourse on electricity?”
Her chin dipped, and the warmest smile spread across her face. “We’ve already read it through twice, milord.”
“Good reason to make sure it ends the same.” He smiled and wrung out the washcloth.
“I wasn’t sure with Baron Atal’s house party.”
“Festivities begin tomorrow and run for the next week.”
“Then I shall enjoy your companionship for as long as I can,” she murmured.
Her knowing smile singed him while he tried to get comfortable in the old wooden tub. He dunked the linen underwater and rinsed his chest.
“I’m already soaking in hot water, yet your presence turns up the heat.”
She grazed his forearm, her fingernails lightly scraping his skin. “Do you need some assistance?”
His skin pebbled from her bold touch. Glorious brown eyes took their fill of him through the steamy curtain floating between them.
“Forgive me if I assume too much, but are you propositioning me, Wife?”
His nipples pinched to two brown points as his lungs worked harder for air. To be watched by a beautiful woman was potent like the first swallow of port wine. A corner of his muddled brain cried foul after her declaration last eve. Yet Genevieve stood in the middle of the scullery, smiling a genuine, heartrending, warm-him-to-the-soles-of-his-feet smile.
“You make me happy, milord.”
This was a new development. He wet the washcloth again and slapped it on his arm. “High praise, indeed.”
She nibbled her bottom lip again. “What if I told you I’ve been rethinking my position with you?”
“As housekeeper?”
She blushed and dragged the stool close for a seat. “No, I mean us…together. In the biblical sense.”
His elbows pressed the tub’s wooden rim. “I’d say ‘Don’t look in the water.’ Parts of me have already mutinied in your favor.”
Genevieve peered into the tub, her winged brows nudging higher. He chuckled at her nature getting the better of her. For once, he had the upper hand. This new twist needed a deft hand, and that meant letting her take the lead. Keeping her lashes low, she tried hard not to stare at his erection. She tucked hair behind her ears twice, all while fidgeting on the stool. They should be past flights of nervousness, yet the woman who’d propositioned him last night, this experienced girl from the Golden Goose was just that. Nervous.
He touched her chin, stroking the stubborn point. “You’ve more to say. Out with it.”
“What do you think about the idea that for as long as I’m here, we enjoy each other as often as we want?” she whispered. “For sex.”
A lump caught in his throat. Genevieve didn’t need to add the last part, but he was glad she did. She was the most unusual mixture of youth and knowing, as complex yet straightforward as the mechanisms that fascinated her. He searched her face…the freckles on the bridge of her nose, the certainty of her jaw, and the softness of her cheeks.
What had caused her to change her mind? He almost asked, but didn’t. They were on tenuous ground, and the offer of her body tugged at his heart.
“You honor me, Wife.”
A spark lit her eyes. He wanted Genevieve to hear him say Wife, to feel reassured. Protected. The simple title carried a wealth of promises. This arrangement between them had been growing into something bigger. Air and light moved differently when they were in the same room. Need and want blended with words and touches, sweet and hot.
He liked touching her chin. He liked pleasing her with simple gifts of pamphlets and reading with her. He liked trailing behind her skirts, listening to her talk of gardens and answering her questions about horses.
Oh, he had it bad. The irony was laughable. Stroking Genevieve’s chin, he could hear the titters of past women: That wastrel Lord Bowles fell hard for a woman who wants him for bed sport only.
His secret wish for true love sat before him in a workwoman’s blue gown, yet was still so far away. The ache ran deep, and he had no idea how to reach her. He was protection and pleasure for her in a harsh world, a safe place to land for a time.
Genevieve’s mouth was close to his, but her heart was safely hidden away.
The pad of his thumb brushed her lower lip. “For once, I find I want to talk with a woman more than I want to kiss her.”
“And I wish you’d stop talking and get on with kissing me.”
Twenty-four
The back of his fingers traced her jaw, the caress muddying clear thought.
“There is one thing I want to ask of you,” he said.
“The way you touch me, milord, you could ask anything and I’d agree to it.”
With his brown hair slicked back, the curls falling around his neck, Lord Bowles was just as handsome as when he was properly combed and shaved. Searching his face, Genevieve would venture to say he was more desirable now…exuding a heady mix of dangerous and vulnerable at the same time. Best of all, his humor touched her as much as his unexpected care with horses. This man, her husband of convenience, surprised her. He was nothing like the roving London scoundrel.
“Tomorrow night’s entertainment at Baron Atal’s estate… I want you with me. As Lady Bowles.”
She stiffened. “I’d do anything except that.”
“Why?”
“You know very well why. I’m not the kind of woman who’d be welcome there.” She pulled away from his beguiling hand. “I thought our arrangement would stay private.”
His hand flopped back in the tub. “You’re my wife. I see no reason to keep quiet about that.”
“Have you gone daft? News will spread and do you more harm than good.”
“I do what I want.”
“Of course you do. That’s why you’re here. To stay out of trouble.” She shook her head. “This isn’t playacting, milord.”
“I’m aware of that. I don’t need a lecture from someone of your years.”
A spurt of laughter escaped her. “Then why the odd request?”
Lord Bowles stared ahead. Moments ticked by, measured by his chest expanding and contracting. “Your presence has an effect on me like a tonic on a bad day.”
As compliments went, his words failed to illuminate the things women craved adoration for: beauty, flowing locks, or a graceful step. Yet Lord Bowles struck her heart with the sweetest arrow. He needed her.
Was this about his love of whiskey?
His fine profile was dark against the whitewashed wall. The corners of his mouth tensed. Did he fear giving in to the craving tomorrow night? Lord Bowles was born to the frivolity that would go on at Castle Atal. Men… She’d seen enough to know, they tried to outdrink, outwench, outboast one another.
Was he feeling out of sorts with that crowd? It was hard to believe since he blended well with everyone. But he needed her, and that was a powerful tug.
“I’ll consider it, milord.” She brushed her skirt over her knees. “Though what I hear from Lily Dutton is that news of our elopement may spread despite our best efforts.”
“How’s that?”
“Coldstream being close to Cornhill. I told Lily, but she says people will talk.”
“Then there’s no need to keep it a secret.”
“It’s one thing for villagers to gossip. Quite another when people of your
class know about me. What about your family?”
“That’s my concern, not yours.” He shifted in the tub, sending small waves across the water’s surface. “For all we know, my brother may have found himself a wife.”
She grinned. “It’s funny that you beat him to it.”
“So it is.” He paused, not breaking his gaze. “Then we are agreed. We proceed as Lord and Lady Bowles.”
Hearing the title gave her heart an awful squeeze. “I don’t remember agreeing, milord.”
He pinched her skirt. “Do you need a new gown?”
“I have a silk gown, something to sell if I needed the coin. But I don’t recall agreeing to go with you.” He’d rolled over her hesitation to get what he wanted.
“Is it a costume?”
“No,” she said, drawing out the word.
“Then you could wear it. At least once. For me.”
She was at ease in many places, but a fine castle? Time with elegant Elise Sauveterre had taught her a thing or two about a lady’s conduct, but for all her improvements, her manners had a coarse edge. An event at the baron’s castle would be as unpleasant as wearing a shoe one size too small. She could endure for an evening, but it’d be painful.
The corner of Lord Bowles’s mouth curled. “Consider it a second boon for your husband. A small thing… You put on a pretty gown, spend a few hours with me in the company of others, and before you know it, you’re tucked in bed.”
“It’s not about putting on the gown.” She locked her fingers at her knees. “It’s about putting on airs…being Lady Bowles. I’m not comfortable with it.”
His hazel eyes pinned her. “Are you comfortable being with me?”
Her breath caught. He’d nabbed her with his simple question. This was about the two of them together, and the rest of the world could hang. That was what made being with Marcus so thrilling. She could almost taste perfection.
“Don’t forget we’re doing this to save the horses,” he said, his smile full of boyish charm. “Think of sweet Hester.”
Oh, he knew how to go for the jugular. “It would be nice to wear a pretty silk gown.”
“That’s the spirit.” He splashed water on his face, a frown forming. “This gown of yours. It’s not from the Prussian, is it?”
“No. It was a gift from a merchant to my mother. She asked me not to sell it. She believed she’d get better and wear it again someday.”
“And you were too kindhearted to tell her otherwise.”
He’d done it again. Lord Bowles had shined light on an unsavory spot and made it better. Her convenient husband had a most inconvenient way of being thoughtful just when she’d painted him a wastrel. These gentle surprises fed her growing affection for him. Despite her youth, she was wise enough to know emotions and sex made a dangerous elixir. Many young women at the Golden Goose fell in love with men beyond their reach, and highborn Lord Bowles was far from her grasp.
“Well,” she said, pushing off the stool. “I ought to let you finish your bath.”
He rolled the soap between his hands. “What about your intriguing proposition? The one where we enjoy each other’s…companionship.”
Her foot toed the stool to the wall. “Oh, we will, milord. In the company of Baron Atal and his guests.”
“Ruined my chances, have I?”
“I need to make the gown presentable. There’s mending to be done.”
“But there is later.”
She smiled coyly, half in the doorway, half out. “Perhaps.”
“I’ve heard it will be all men save the baron’s sister,” Marcus said, washing his arm. “Atal likes hosting these gatherings. Spares the men from matchmaking mothers.”
“I promise I won’t embarrass you, if that’s your concern.”
“You’ll do fine. It’s the men who concern me. They might be a little coarse,” he said, pushing up on his knees, searching the hooks behind him. “Where’s the sheet? To dry myself off.”
Back muscles rippled under skin rarely touched by the sun. A thin, jagged scar slanted across his ribs, but the V of his back and the play of sinew and flesh entranced her.
“Sheet?”
“Yes. A sheet,” he repeated. “A long stretch of cloth with which to dry myself.”
She leaned a casual hip against the doorframe, a sprite of playfulness growing inside her. “Yes. I’ve heard of those. But we don’t have any.”
Long-fingered hands gripped the tub’s rim. Water dripped down the black horse tattoo. Lord Bowles swiveled forward on his knees, wetness flattening dark hairs trailing his body’s midline. The dark thatch of hair between his legs broke the water’s surface. When she looked up, his hazel eyes sparked.
“Not a single cloth in the cottage?”
She tried an innocent smile. “They seem to have disappeared, milord.”
“Just like that. Every one of them. Gone.”
“It’s awful, isn’t it? And you forgot clean clothes too.”
He checked the table where he normally set his garments. “So it would seem.”
“Wait. There is something on the table.” She ducked out and stepped back in the scullery, a cloth in hand. “Here.” She tossed the linen.
He caught it and the cloth fell open in his hands. “It’s a dishcloth.”
“So it is.”
“Barely enough to dry one arm, much less the rest of me.”
The corner fire crackled. Orange light glistened on droplets racing over the ridged muscles framing his navel. He pinched two corners of the cloth, warming to her game.
Her mouth twitched. “What will you do, milord?”
A satyr’s smile was her answer, the white slash kicking up her pulse a notch. In one loud swoosh of water, Lord Bowles stood and set the white rectangle modestly at his abdomen where a bulge pressed the cloth.
“Again, you have me at a disadvantage.”
“What can I say? It’s laundry day.”
She stayed as she was, hip against the doorframe. Blood thrummed in her veins. He stepped out of the tub. Water splashed everywhere. Her skirts got a light drenching, and she laughed. Her lungs expanded, craving more air. Lord Bowles stood before her in the doorway, his wet lashes spiked and beautiful.
Her gaze dipped to the scrap of linen. “Aren’t you going to dry off?”
“Not here.”
“That leaves walking naked through the cottage.”
His mischievous smile was his answer. The scandalous image of Lord Bowles striding naked to his chamber was perfect. Were sex, friendship, and laughter possible with the same man? With Lord Bowles, she could believe it.
“Don’t cover yourself on my account. I’ve already seen your bits and pieces, milord.”
“So you have.” He pulled a dirty apron off the scullery table and sidled back into the doorway. “But a man has his dignity.” He tied the apron behind his back, letting the dishcloth drop.
She covered her mouth, trying to hold back giggles. “You’re going to wear my apron.”
Lord Bowles took a half step forward, and her spine jammed the doorframe. The motion thrust her breasts high, the full curves just touching him. The harder she breathed, the more her breasts skimmed his chest in the tight confines.
“You’re going through an awful lot of trouble to keep your parts hidden,” she said, her voice whispery and low.
“So I am.” Hands at his side, Lord Bowles exerted the subtlest pressure, rubbing against her, a new dark light in his eyes. “Tell me. This new arrangement where we enjoy each other, does it include you sleeping in my bed?”
“Marcus,” she chided, her head tilting away from him.
The rubbing stopped.
Lord Bowles strolled into the kitchen to grab a candleholder with a lit taper off the table. Her head rested on the doorframe. Her skin was tight, and h
er breasts were heavy. Twin spots of wetness bloomed on her bodice. The corners of her husband’s mouth curled sadly when he caught her brazenly watching him. She expected a saucy quip about helping him dry off.
Instead, he walked away.
She inhaled sharply.
The apron’s bow brushed perfect male arse. Squared-off muscle, rounded at the bottom, flexed in concert with sinuous thighs as he left the kitchen.
“Wait. Don’t you want your dinner?” she asked.
“After I’m dressed,” he said without stopping.
She hurried through the kitchen and the small, unfurnished dining room to stop at the bottom of the stairs. Lord Bowles took the stairs two at a time, his pale bottom like sculpted white stone.
Clutching the finial, she called after him. “Please. Lord Bowles.”
He stopped at the top and faced her. The lone candle lit his tolerant smile. “What is it?”
She swallowed, unsure what to say. Today, he’d driven away the Wolf and asked her to visit neighbors as a fine lady. No, as his wife. The world spun with layers of playacting and masquerades and fast, confusing change.
Why couldn’t they carry on as they had? That at least felt constant. What changed in the scullery doorway?
“This seems like a lot of fuss…” Searching the stairs, she batted the air between them. “Why this, this strange modesty? I thought we were having fun.”
“We did, but I confess I want more. Much more.”
“I don’t understand.”
Air gusted from him, a loud and long-suffering sound. “I offer you the protection of my name and the warmth of my bed.”
“For a time,” she corrected.
His hazel stare bore into her, all traces of humor gone despite the silly apron. “If you’re adamant about seeing my bits and pieces again, you’ll have to sleep with me.”
Twenty-five
He slid his hand the length of her skirt, pinching silk between thumb and forefinger. Her shoulder bumped his arm, the result of riding in Baron Atal’s carriage. Genevieve pushed away his hand, a halfhearted effort if he’d ever seen one.
She curled her fingers over her mouth, trying to hide her smile. “You’re not listening to me, milord.”