The Lord Meets His Lady

by Gina Conkle

  “I’m helpless here with you in that gown.”

  “A gown I should’ve sold a long time ago.”

  Lanterns blazed inside the carriage, each one holding four candles, their bright light dancing on wine-red silk.

  They hadn’t read last night. Genevieve had closeted herself in her room, working wonders on her gown well into the night. She’d fashioned modest hip rolls from linens. Frantic last-minute stitching was why they were late.

  “You pinned your hair up.” He teased an artful curl and whispered against her nape. “It’s an invitation to remove every pin.”

  Tiny pleasure bumps pricked curves plumping over her pale-gold bodice.

  “Your diversions won’t work.”

  “I think they are,” he said, breathing in her scent. “We’re already calming each other for an evening neither one of us wants to face.”

  He stroked the laces up and down her back. She’d called for him, asking him to play lady’s maid and cinch her into the gown. It had been their first full conversation since his ultimatum while wearing her apron.

  At first sight, Genevieve had stunned him, standing in the kitchen. No face paint. Simple hair with no adornment. Only her with an elegant gown she held loosely to her chest.

  He traced the gold trim at her elbow. “That night on Devil’s Causeway, the first thing I noticed was your skirt.”

  “My skirt.” She grimaced. “I wore my shabbiest gown.”

  “It’s not what a woman wears. It’s how she wears it.”

  “Oh, I’m certain what a woman wears makes a difference.” She faced him, her strong chin at an angle. “You try wearing ragged skirts and see how you feel.”

  “I’ll pass on the skirt-wearing. Not my realm of pleasure.”

  Her soft titter matched the sparkle in her eyes. “I’m glad of that. Some of the girls at the Goose can tell you interesting tales.”

  “Men and their bedchamber peccadillos.”

  Genevieve’s eyes flared a fraction. Her unpainted coffee-colored eyes were prettier than any jewels, and if he read their depths correctly, she had issued an unspoken dare.

  Go ahead, milord. Ask me why I didn’t come to your bed last night.

  But he didn’t. Seduction, like gambling, was an art. One for the patient man. His chary wife would soon lose her no-sleeping-with-a-man rule. Despite this minor impasse, Genevieve fairly glowed. He’d do almost anything to keep her in this state.

  She stared out the window, her body swaying in time with the carriage. “Why the fascination with skirts?”

  “Skirts? Or yours in particular?”

  “Mine.”

  Since yesterday’s ultimatum, they’d carried on as usual but hardly talking…as if the gauntlet he’d tossed down hadn’t happened. From it, he’d learned a valuable lesson. Genevieve’s skill to forge on silently had served her well thus far, but to live with him—to be with him—required openness and trust.

  Arms folded, knees opened wide, he gave her fine skirts the once-over. “You have a definitive sway when you walk. I saw strength, a little curiosity. A woman open to adventure.”

  “All from how I walked?”

  “It was your muddied hems, darker than those of the matrons you traveled with. I gathered you were hardworking and considerate.”

  “Pffft. Now you sound like a gypsy trying to read my fortune for a coin.”

  “Pure calculated guesses. A person’s gait, their clothes say a lot.”

  She studied him through narrowed eyes.

  “You don’t believe me.” His raspy chuckle filled the carriage. “Tell me this. On your travels, whenever the coach was stuck, did you tell the other women to stand aside?”

  “Yes.”

  “Of course you did,” he said, nodding slowly. “But you helped the watchman push the coach uphill and out of the mud.”

  Her jaw dropped. “How did you know?”

  “A fair guess. From how you looked after them. A gambler’s skill…reading others.”

  “Then you must be a very good gambler.”

  “My luck ran out this year.”

  Silence passed, marked by carriage wheels rolling over ruts in the road. Red velvet curtains swung heavily. He pushed the velvet aside and took stock of the castle in the distance.

  “The drink,” she said quietly, following his stare.

  Torches burned from crenels and merlons as in days of old at Castle Atal. No knights walked the ramparts, but a battle would rage all the same. Tonight would test Marcus’s ability to forego strong spirits while he gambled.

  “This may be silly of me, but what do Ruby Dutton’s skirts tell you?” she asked, smoothing a wrinkle in her skirt.

  His gaze slid sideways, careful as a hunter considering his prey.

  Genevieve fussed with gold lace on her bodice. “I only wonder because she’s pretty and the only redhead in Cornhill-on-Tweed. And you did seek those red-haired tavern maids in Learmouth.”

  “Jealous, are you?”

  “Not one bit.”

  “Liar,” he said softly.

  Genevieve bristled. He’d ruffled her feathers. She was unable to accept or admit that she held some tendre for him. Such stalwart defenses…all the better for him to break down with sensual persuasion.

  He let the curtains drop. “The only woman I want has amber hair and a stubborn penchant for rules.”

  “I’m not stubborn.”

  “No?” His fingers grazed her cheek, her neck before curving around her nape. “You don’t clean chamber pots.”

  “I have. Remember the pamphlet?”

  He dropped the lightest kiss on top of her creamy breast. “And I’m the master of Pallinsburn, yet I bathe in the scullery,” he said, lingering over the curve. He could nibble her plumpness, enough to taste and mark her. Instead, he drank in her scent of clean air and soap and a hint of exotic perfume that still clung to the once tawdry gown.

  The carriage jostled them. Her knees banged into his, and he pulled away.

  Genevieve’s bodice dug into her breasts from labored breaths. “You never objected.”

  “And you didn’t sleep with me last night,” he murmured.

  Her pupils spread dark and liquid like a Venetian courtesan’s. He leaned close, and her breath stirred his cravat. Lips parting, she clutched his thigh with both hands.

  The carriage lurched to a halt.

  “Castle Atal, milord,” a footman called out and yanked the door open.

  Marcus’s laugh was husky. “Saved by the castle, Lady Bowles.”

  They exited the carriage. Genevieve hugged the open ends of her red cloak and trotted toward the castle’s broad oak door held open by Atal’s butler. Torchlight glimmered on great iron bolts lining the door’s wood. Beyond the wide portal, the medieval air shifted to one of elegance and wealth.

  Marcus caught up to her and reached for her hand. “You might want to let me escort you.”

  “Forgot about that,” she muttered.

  They mounted wide castle steps and walked through the portal side by side.

  “Good evening, Lord Bowles.” The butler bent at the waist, speaking with a crisp London accent. “Lady Bowles.”

  The servant straightened, and Marcus handed over his hat. “I’ve not had the pleasure of meeting you.”

  “Marston, milord,” the butler said while draping their cloaks over his arm. “I’ve served Baron Atal for a decade now.”

  Standing in the grand entry, Marcus searched for signs of censure. The cordial butler raised his cloak-covered arm and beckoned a footman. This was good. Marston’s sort sniffed out social interlopers better than hunting hounds scenting prey. Not a whiff of disapproval clouded his features.

  The butler handed off their cloaks to the footman. “Everyone’s gathered in the Bird Salon. I’ll take you
now.”

  Beside him, Genevieve set her fingertips on his arm. “Are you certain about this?” she whispered by his ear.

  “It’s one night. You can do it.”

  They followed several paces behind Marston through the grand entry hall and turned down a long hallway. Timber rafters spread out, sturdy seams in whitewashed ceilings. Damp smells assailed them, the perfume of ancient castles.

  Marcus’s head tipped to hers. “I didn’t tell you my plan to explain our hasty wedding.”

  “I hadn’t thought about that. We should’ve talked about it in the carriage.”

  He ogled her breasts under his lashes. “I preferred the topics we covered.”

  Stone floors dipped underfoot, the castle’s flaws masked by red and gold carpets. Voices filtered from a pair of open arched doors up ahead.

  “I’m claiming love at first sight,” he said, his voice above a whisper.

  Her gait slowed. “That’s your plan? No one will believe it.”

  They passed suits of armor with Marston keeping a discreet distance ahead.

  “It’s a roomful of men,” he drawled. “We don’t dissect matters of the heart.”

  Genevieve drew a flustered breath. “I knew this was madness.”

  He could tell her how beautiful she was, tell her that one look at her, and the men would know why he’d stolen away to Coldstream with her. He was a second son—and a rebellious one at that. None would second-guess their elopement.

  But Genevieve was skittish. She needed gentling.

  He stopped and faced her. “Tonight will be over before you know it. All you have to do is charm these men.”

  Her mouth flattened. “Charm? You ask for something I lack, milord.”

  Male laughter blasted from the arched doorway. Genevieve flinched. Marston waited stock-still, a decorous statue of servitude several paces out of earshot near the salon. Despite the distance and sounds of merriment, Marcus and Genevieve spoke in hushed tones.

  Hooking a finger under her chin, Marcus kissed her forehead. “Stay with me.” The line of her mouth relaxed, and he delivered the final calming stroke. “Think of the horses…of Hester. How badly she needs to stay at Pallinsburn.”

  “That’s unfair ammunition.”

  “It is, but I’m not going in there without you.” He grinned. “Did I mention you’re saving Samuel from torture? He’s the worst gambler.”

  Her dark eyes gleamed, and for a moment, the rest of the world slipped away. “Very well. The sooner we get in there, the sooner we can go home.”

  Home. He liked the sound of it coming from her.

  They linked arms and headed to the parlor where Marston waited, his eyes averted.

  At their approach, Marston announced, “Lord and Lady Bowles.”

  They stepped into the salon awash in shades of yellow. Murals full of birds decorated the walls as though the winged creatures flew across a sunlit sky. Timber rafters rose floor to ceiling, joining at a center point overhead, mimicking a giant birdcage. Men lounged in chairs and settees, nursing drinks in lace-cuffed hands. The baron waved a greeting and pushed off from the mantel, but not before Marcus spied Samuel across the room.

  Tense lines rimmed Samuel’s mouth. He sipped from a glass, his stance rigid.

  “Ah, Bowles. It’s been a long time.” Baron Atal’s near-black hair was coiffed with two pomade curls above his ears. He welcomed Marcus, but his curious stare devoured Genevieve.

  “Atal, please forgive our lateness.” Marcus nodded and made introductions.

  “Did I hear Marston correctly? Lady Bowles?” The baron sketched a bow, flashing even, white teeth. “I think I understand the reason for your tardiness.”

  Beside him, Genevieve tried to execute a curtsy, but she froze mid-dip. Her face was curiously pale. Men dressed in pastel silks stirred from their seats, the room humming with conversations. A few heads dipped casually at Marcus and Genevieve’s entrance, only to snap back again at the sight of her.

  “You grace our gathering, Lady Bowles, and you’ll save my sister from boredom. Mingling with men set on hunting and gaming is not her forte.”

  Genevieve’s fingers dug into Marcus’s arm. “Thank you for your kind welcome, Baron.”

  Samuel strode grim-faced across the room. Marcus’s ears began to ring. Similar pressure had hit him once when he was in the West Indies and a hot storm had swept through Saint George’s Town. Baron Atal babbled about the games, waving a hand at baize tables arced along the wall, cards stacked and backgammon boards at the ready. Tucked near potted plants, a large man in black broadcloth idly spun a roulette wheel.

  A fine prickle skimmed Marcus’s nape. The man turned around.

  Herr Wolf.

  Twenty-six

  Strip away the fine trappings, and she could be standing in the Golden Goose on a slow night. A leering ginger-haired lord slouched in a chair, his pink silk shoe dangling half off his foot. Most of the men were glassy-eyed from drink.

  Herr Wolf was not.

  Cool blue eyes flickered with male appreciation as he prowled across the room. Silver tassels shined on his Hessians, the only decoration he wore. He was a beast of war in a field of docile creatures, save her husband and Mr. Beckworth. Herr Wolf could crush them all.

  “You know my guest, Herr Wolf?” Baron Atal asked.

  “We’ve met.” Lord Bowles covered her hand. She needed the warmth. Her fingers were icy.

  “A most interesting man. He came with Lord Barnard.” The baron nodded at a gray-haired man flashing a gap-toothed smile.

  “Lord Bowles.” The Prussian’s voice boomed. “Lady Bowles.” His wide mouth twitched with amusement at her name.

  “Herr Wolf.” She didn’t curtsy.

  Baron Atal’s head swiveled back and forth between the parties, his brows pinching with concern.

  Mr. Beckworth flanked her, nodding his greetings. “Perhaps this is a good time to start the games.”

  “Here, here,” Lord Barnard chimed in, raising his glass by the hearth. “You promised a week of hunting and games, Atal. So far, I’ve had neither.”

  “We’re waiting for my sister. I wouldn’t think to start without her.”

  “Your sister? A week of molrowing with the likes of us?” said the shoe-dangling lord.

  “I’d think twice before I cavorted with you, Halliburton.” A feminine voice spoke from the doorway. Confident, sophisticated, yet cheerful.

  Guffaws rolled through the room.

  Silk skirts swished and a petite woman with glossy auburn curls piled high traipsed into the salon. She slid her arm through the baron’s. She grabbed whiskey from a passing tray and sipped it, her green eyes bright over the glass. Wide panniers flared under skirts embroidered with gold flowers. Her leaf-colored gown nipped the narrowest of waists, and Genevieve felt every inch of her unusual height.

  No wonder her late husband, the bigamist, had risked his hide to marry her. She sparkled.

  “Atal.” The woman nudged the baron. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”

  “If you promise to put the whiskey away.”

  She took a sip. “You haven’t been able to dictate my coming and going in the past. Why try now?” And she downed the glassful.

  Genevieve’s cheer recovered from the shock of Herr Wolf’s presence. The baron’s sister must’ve been born with natural daring. When footmen circulated bearing trays of a darker, tawny-colored drink, Mrs. Grey traded her empty glass for a full one.

  “My dear,” Atal chided before his gaze swerved to Mr. Beckworth. “Be glad you have only brothers to contend with.”

  Introductions were made. Mrs. Seraphina Grey greeted each person with genuine warmth and familiarity until she came to Mr. Beckworth. Shoulders square, her skin flushed a rosier hue, a distinct frown on her face.

  She faced the disa
pproval raging in his ice-blue eyes. “Last I saw you, Mr. Beckworth, you were bound for the army.”

  “That was more than eight years ago, ma’am.”

  She took another sip, studying the breadth of Mr. Beckworth’s shoulders. “The years have been kind to you, no?”

  “They have. Except for the loss of my mother and father.” He tucked an arm behind his back. “May I offer my sympathies for the loss of your husband?”

  “You may not. The world’s a better place without him.”

  “Sera,” the baron warned.

  If Mr. Beckworth was shocked, he failed to show it. Standing near the silent Herr Wolf, Genevieve couldn’t help but compare the two. Both blond-haired military men wore their queues short and free of fashionable pomade curls. Both dressed in severe black broadcloth. Yet Mr. Beckworth was the kind of man a woman could trust. He’d have a care with the gentler sex and wear the badge of honor with all women, no matter their social standing, while Herr Wolf methodically, relentlessly took what he wanted.

  Why didn’t he leave after clear defeat?

  Stilted conversation came in painful starts and stops in their circle. Everybody talked, but no one listened. The evening had barely begun, and Genevieve longed to be in the cozy Pallinsburn parlor, curled up with a pamphlet and Lord Bowles. Cold castles couldn’t compare to a warm cottage and a good man.

  Her arm brushed Marcus’s. He was uncharacteristically quiet. She petted the velvet nap on his sleeve. No one noticed the tender touch save Herr Wolf. He stared at her, his mouth tightening.

  Lord Barnard clapped the Prussian on the back. “Will you join us for five-card loo?”

  “I rarely gamble.”

  “Why not?” Lord Bowles asked.

  “A frivolous pursuit.”

  “You strike me as the kind of man who engages in frivolous pursuits…a man who chases what he can’t have,” Lord Bowles replied.

  Genevieve squeezed his arm with warning. Why provoke the brute?

  “I usually get what I want.”

  Lord Bowles chuckled without humor. “‘Usually’ being the key word.”

  Lord Barnard tipped his head at the tables where men started to find their seats. “You’re in a contrary mood, Bowles. Why not take it to the tables?”