The Lord Meets His Lady E-Book

Gina Conkle

• Herausgeber: NYLA
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 525

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

A handsome second son Lord Marcus Bowles heads to a northern cottage to let the dust settle on his latest scandal. If he stays out of trouble, he'll return to the family fold soon enough. Ever the gentleman, rescuing a damsel on a dark country lane should put him in good stead. A woman with no prospects One stolen kiss and Genevieve Turner's midnight savior disappears. No matter, she's finally on her way to a new life and to finding her grandmother. Instead, Gen discovers her mischievous hero is her new employer. There's no harm in a few more passionate kisses… Their flirtation is fun, but when a wolf knocks on their door, Genevieve grabs her red-hooded cloak to flee. Nothing can stop her—except Lord Marcus and his shocking proposal… He vows to save her, but can he protect her heart? Or his?

Leseprobe

THE LORD MEETS HIS LADY

GINA CONKLE

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Epilogue

Letter from the Author

Excerpt from Meet a Rogue at Midnight

Enjoy an exclusive excerpt from Gina Conkle’s Meet My Love at Midnight, book 5

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also by Gina Conkle

Copyright © 2017 by Gina Conkle

Cover and art design by Barbara of Forever After Romance Designs

Ebook ISBN: 9781641972642

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, NYLA.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

NO AI TRAINING: Without in any way limiting the author’s [and publisher’s] exclusive rights under copyright, any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. The author reserves all rights to license uses of this work for generative AI training and development of machine learning language models.

CHAPTER1

Early November, 1768

Brisk Northumberland wind slapped his face and stung his eyes. Beneath him, Khan’s hooves pounded Devil’s Causeway, the Roman road his path to exile. His grip on the reins tightened. Banished he was to Cornhill-on-Tweed by his own edict for excessive drinking and gambling. His brother, the Marquis of Northampton, had railed long and loud about damage done to the family reputation. Besmirching the family name…a bad practice when the marquis was on the hunt for a wealthy bride.

Marcus squinted into the frigid darkness. A quiet winter stay at Pallinsburn cottage was required. He’d bide his time, look after his mother’s deserted childhood home. What possible trouble could be stirred up there?

Limbs aching from his long ride, he spied a shortcut, but Khan crested a knoll, his gait flagging on the cracked stone road. Steam curled off his steed’s hot, silver-gray coat.

“Need a rest, my friend?” Cupping his hands over his mouth, Marcus blew warmth on chilled skin.

The horse snorted, tipping his muzzle at a moon-drenched meadow. They weren’t alone.

“What have we here?” Marcus sat taller in the saddle, brown hair whipping across his eyes.

A vehicle squatted at a fork in the road. Likely a stagecoach stuck in a rut. To his left, low, stone walls stretched far, the seams binding Northumberland. Those fences were child’s play for Khan. He counted them, planning his route when an icy gust boxed his ears.

“Damn wind,” he muttered, hunkering deeper into his redingote. The comfort of a warm bed couldn’t be more than an hour’s ride if he cut through those pastures.

His gaze darted back to the idle coach. The riders probably longed for a warm bed too. Humble buildings of Lowick village clustered a quarter mile ahead. The passengers weren’t truly stranded. He could move on. Patrons shoved coaches out of ruts all the time, a standard practice for middle-class travelers. Yet no one was pushing this coach. At the side of the road, an older man held up a swaying candle lantern. Short and slight of build, the man waggled a finger at a slouching fool of good size. The smaller man rocked onto the balls of his feet, his bandy-legged stance full of authority.

“Got to be the driver giving an earful to an unruly rider,” Marcus mused aloud.

Two women huddled near the back wheel. Did anyone look to their safety?

“Where are the men?” He picked up the reins. Perhaps a trot down there was in order. Take a quick look and—

Metal flashed.

The old man stumbled backward. “Whot’s this?” His cry carried up Devil’s Causeway.

The women shrieked and flattened themselves against the coach as the miscreant waved a weapon.

A highwayman.

Blood surging and coattails flying, Marcus palmed the Spanish wheel lock tucked in his hip boot. Khan’s hooves pounded like thunder. The highwayman startled, dropping his blunderbuss. A real crack criminal of the first order.

Marcus reined Khan to a halt, dry dirt spraying the fallen weapon. The oaf bent at the waist, reaching for it.

“I wouldn’t do that.” Marcus cocked his pistol, and moonlight bounced off polished steel.

The man righted himself. “Who are ye?”

“Lord Marcus Bowles, at your service.”

He sprang from the saddle, expecting the highwayman to spout a colorful sobriquet, but this one merely staggered back, wiping his sleeve across his bulbous nose. A quick scan of the tree-lined gully showed no one lurking. Further out, a trio of stone cottages hunkered by a stone wall, their windows dark. Everything was stark and quiet, save the skirling wind.

The coachman snatched his hat off the ground and whacked it against his leg. Head cocked, Marcus sized up the highwayman. The youth was tall but barely old enough to strop a razor.

“Me blunderbuss. I need it back.”

Marcus stepped on the brass barrel, a whiff of Irish stout coming off the youth. “I’m not in the habit of handing over pistols to highwaymen.”

“Horatio? A highwaymon?” The coachman wheezed curt laughter. “Why, he’s the Jolly Sheep’s hostler come to fix a broken brace on me coach.” He swung his lantern around. “See there.”

Light glowed over village names painted on garish yellow panels, the stage stops from London to Edinburgh. The tired vehicle listed to one side, a broken leather strap dangling off the front axle.

Marcus peered at the driver. “Since when do hostlers point pistols at coachmen?”

Cottony wisps of hair haloed the old man’s head. His lined face pinched. “Well, now, there was a wee problem. Horatio was a bit of a waddlehead, bein’ deep in his cups and all, but he’s a good lad, he is.”

“A kiss.” Horatio’s sotted voice boomed. “That’s all I wonted.”

Marcus cringed. “You wanted to kiss the coachman?”

The women tittered behind him.

“Not him. Her.” The scarlet-faced hostler jabbed a grimy finger at the coach horses.

A tall woman cloaked in red held the lead horse’s bridle. No flesh was visible; red gloves even covered her hands.

The driver faced the hostler. “When a woman says no, ye got to listen.” Putting on his hat, he turned to Marcus. “I was tellin’ him to go home when ye came ridin’.”

Marcus couldn’t see the woman in red’s eyes, but she took his measure, her stare a palpable plumb line from the horses to where he stood.

“Then I’ll stay and make sure the hostler takes his proper leave,” he said, his pistol arm relaxing.

The hostler cleared his throat. Shoulders slumping, the young man’s glower swept to the woman in red. “Didn’t mean any harm,” he mumbled. “I’m…I’m sorry.”

The mysterious woman closed the distance, the pitch of her skirts gentle yet full of purpose. Her cloak wasn’t long enough to hide hems browned from mud. Likely she’d been recruited to push the coach out of a rut or two. Marcus had theories about women’s skirts. They could be as telling as a broadsheet.

“You’re forgiven, but I suggest you abstain from strong drink.” Her words rang clear above the wind. “You gave Mrs. Tubbs and Mrs. Farleigh a horrible fright.”

Marcus tucked a thumb in his waistcoat pocket. Interesting. She omitted any mention of her own fright. Her posture rigid, the woman in red could be a sergeant in a skirt, redressing an errant recruit, the watermark of a strict governess. The admonished hostler stumbled forward, his droopy-eyed stare dipping to the blunderbuss.

Marcus shook his head, his boot on the weapon. “The coachman will take your pistol. You’ll find it at the Jolly Sheep come morning when you’re good and sober.”

Horatio hiccupped and lurched, unsteady on his feet. The old man stepped lively and wrapped an arm around him. “That’s it, lad,” the coachman said, his frame bending under the burden. “Lean on me.”

Marcus tucked away his pistol. “Here. Let me see him home.”

“Best if I do it. He lives there”—the driver nodded at the cottages—“beyond those trees, but I’d be grateful if ye tended the women. Me watchman ran ahead to fetch Horatio and stayed in the village, blast his eyes.”

Marcus’s gaze slid to the woman in red. Her erect stature told him she could mind the coach herself, dark of midnight or not, but he was a gentleman born and bred.

“Of course.”

The only person in need of tending lumbered off on stout-addled legs. Nothing dangerous here. He smirked at the darkness. So much for riding to the rescue. They didn’t need him. His days of valor were long gone, sold off with his army commission five years past. He rubbed his eyes, grainy from lack of sleep, the autumn gusts taunting him with reminders of why he was in the forsaken north.

His vices.

Throat parched, he slipped a hand inside his coat. His whiskey flask waited, a close companion ready to fill his need. Sweat pricked his hairline, hot and antagonizing. His dark craving…the pull. He clasped the comforting shape, weak for the sloshing siren and her talent for soothing him. It was no mistake the whiskey sat near his heart. One swallow would satisfy, maybe two.

Something to quench the bone-deep thirst that hounded him in all this cold northern air.

Each breath came loud to his ears.

In. Out.

In. Out.

His fingertips pinched cold metal. He slid the flask half out of his pocket, a peculiar tingle scraping his neck. Behind him. Someone stared. More like bored holes into his back, by the feel. Looking over his shoulder, he let go of the flask and his hand fell free of his coat.

The mystery woman.

With the lantern gone, midnight turned her red cloak to shades of wine. Her hood fluttered, but a firm grip held the wool in place. She wasn’t a threat. Banshee winds stirred her skirts, revealing the tips of her shoes pointed his way. A diversion of any kind would be welcome. He smiled, an invitation for her to smile back.

But the woman in red turned, clapping her hands twice. “Ladies, the sooner we’re settled in the coach, the sooner we’ll be on our way.”

Scratching week-old whiskers, he grinned. Bedraggled queue and bleary-eyed, he was no prize tonight. Nor could he remember his last decent bath. Ears perked, he tried gleaning information about her, but tree branches crackled. Khan snickered, his bridle jangling when he shook his head. Conversations overlapped, the women fussing the way excited hens clucked at the same kernel.

“That hostler,” one woman hissed. “When he waved his pistol to show he was man enough to kiss you—”

“Oh, a fool to be sure,” the other said. “We’ve suffered a long night…”

The red-cloaked woman’s patient voice braided calmly in between, soothing ruffled feathers. Definitely a governess. If he were in a gambling establishment, he’d give minor odds on the lady’s companion. Shoes scuffed the coach steps. Iron joints whined from riders finding their seats. Feminine voices dimmed, and the door clicked shut. Chuckling, he stared at the midnight sky, the stars winking at him, witnesses to how far he’d fallen. The heavenly bodies could be reminding him that his night would end the way it began. Alone.

At least his dark craving had passed.

He crouched low and dug out the blunderbuss wedged in the ground. Fingers stiff from the cold wiped dirt off the nicked brass barrel. He ought to open the coach door, say something witty to her, but his brain was porridge tonight. Was he losing his touch with the fair sex?

Balancing the blunderbuss on his palm, he inspected his cursory cleaning job. Wind howled, blowing his hair across his face. A door opened and snapped shut behind him. Cautious footsteps crunched dry ground, and a slow smile formed against his collar. The woman in red. Had to be. He kept a careful eye on the driver and hostler navigating the tree-lined gully and waited for those browned hems to come to him.

Flirtation was a patient man’s game.

“A French espingole,” a feminine voice said over his shoulder.

His ear caught untutored French, but the woman in red knew her weapons—at least this one. The blunderbuss was in fact a French espingole manufactured eight years past…in the middle of the war.

She inched closer, her skirts and a leather strap grazing his thigh. “You could’ve given it back. I doubt the hostler knows how to use it.”

“I’ve been shot at enough times not to tempt fate.” Grinning, he rose to full height. “And interrupting a romantic interlude has a way of agitating a man.”

“Romantic interlude indeed,” she huffed. “I offered to help the hostler, not kiss him.”

Help the hostler? With the broken brace?

He glanced at her slender hands. His roadside companion pushed back one side of her hood as though she sought a better view of him. With the moon at her back, pallid light spilled over him, leaving her in shadows.

“May I?” She looped the leather strap over her arm and extended an upright palm.

He passed over the blunderbuss. One red-gloved hand curled around the walnut stock with feminine authority. She angled the weapon in moonlight, her thumb stroking the rounded end. His hips twitched. Her careful touch stirred languorous heat in his smalls as if those red-clad fingers were fondling him.

“A good hold, but the wood needs oiling.” A leather-clad finger drew a leisured line down the hammer. “Cockspur’s bent. Probably doesn’t fire right.”

“I wouldn’t rush to any conclusions,” he mused.

“There’s no visible powder on the flashpan. It’s the worse for wear, milord. Not a piece to be taken seriously.”

“Making it all the more dangerous. Don’t you think?”

Was his roadside companion delivering her estimation of him? Her eyes weren’t visible in the darkness, but he could feel them…tracing his features, assessing, wondering.

She tipped her chin, and moonlight touched a smile ghosting her lips. “Looks harmless to me.”

He chuckled drily, savoring her voice, the firmness of it dipping on certain syllables like a velvet caress. Addressing the hostler, she had been all business. A no-nonsense alto, this woman in red. Standing with him, she enlivened the bare country road, treating innuendo like a sword and shield.

“Looks can be deceiving. Never underestimate what’s the worse for wear.” His mouth quirked. “You might be surprised at what you find.”

Wind fluttered the sides of her hood. “A fine point, sir. Well-traveled weapons, if given proper care, provide…fluid handling.”

A twinge teased his bollocks. Her droll tone and intimate knowledge of weaponry danced at the edge of fast. He quashed the governess idea. Progeny and pistols didn’t mix. Whatever her status, he was grateful for his roadside companion. Flirtation was its own elixir, helping him to forget his dark cravings.

A sharp squall knocked back her hood. She gasped, shivering. He stepped closer and turned his body to shield her, the dry, cold air blasting his back. Long amber hair fell past her shoulders.

“You’re blocking the wind for me. I can’t remember the last time a man’s done something like that.” She touched his sleeve. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure…miss.” He stood taller. The need to protect was primal, as old as time itself. “Midnight or not, this is a peculiar situation.”

“Indeed.” She checked the coach and leaning closer, her lips parted.

Did she seek a kiss? He waited stock-still. A whispered confidence or a kiss…the start of both looked the same. Conversation with the gentler sex often resembled battle, with lots of parries and thrusts, charges and retreats. The wise man assessed the field before charging boldly onward.

“Was there something you wanted to say?” he asked.

She hesitated, her profile dark as she looked again at the coach. “I would like a word with you, milord, but the coach needs fixing first. I was going to secure the brace myself. Perhaps you can help?”

“Of course.” He drew a mind-clearing breath and took a decent half step back, catching matronly glares from the coach windows.

His talent for reading women must be slipping. Midnight or not, a quick kiss wouldn’t happen, not here in staid Northumberland. He’d do well to remember he wasn’t loitering in some London alley.

He reached for the heavy strap draped over her arm. “You were going to attach this?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

They turned together toward the coach. He hefted the stiff leather, glancing sidelong at her. Women of his acquaintance wouldn’t know a coach brace from a roller bolt. The strap in hand was shorter, a temporary solution until the conveyance reached the inn. Standard braces looped around the front axle to the rear axle, one on each side of the coach. Those wide straps absorbed bumps and jolts between the coach body and wheel frame.

What kind of woman knew about coaches and pistols?

Women fascinated him the way works of art mesmerized the beholder. Similar features painted the fair sex the same, but uniqueness and strength of mind captured his attention as much as silken skin and pretty eyes. Lavish black embroidery trimmed her cloak, but closer inspection of her gloves showed split seams. He’d wager those gloves hid callouses, and by the fullness of her cheek, she had to be young.

Marcus knelt by the front wheel and wrapped the new brace around the axle. “A woman of unusual skills, yet I don’t know your name. Considering the circumstances, I hope I don’t have to wait for a proper introduction.”

She stooped to the ground, frowning oddly at him. She set down the blunderbuss and ducked her head and shoulders to retrieve the larger, broken brace in the dirt.

“Oh, we’ve already met, milord.” Her voice floated from under the coach. “Two years past. At Golden Goose on Tavistock near Haymarket. It’s what I wanted to talk with you about.”

He froze. The Golden Goose?

“We’ve already met.” He glanced up at the coach windows, but noisy wind and their position on the ground saved them from being overheard.

“The way you looked at me a moment ago, I thought you’d recognized me,” she said, sitting upright, wiping dust off her hands.

He slid the brace for even placement on the axle. Their roadside conversation…it was a confidence she was about to share, not a kiss.

“You’re an actress, then.”

“Certainly not. I worked behind the scenes. Costumes and cleanup.” She handed over the torn leather. “And all-around fixer of broken things.”

Tetchy, wasn’t she? He took the proffered brace, grinning at her strong distinction between actress and laborer. His mystery woman assumed he believed her to be a light-skirt.

She’d be right.

The moon lit dark eyes and comely features. Her nose and cheeks were pretty, if noses could be counted as such. But her mouth snared him, a singular clue to her character. She sat back on her heels, close-lipped and quiet. The flat line of her mouth told him she was sparing with her smiles. Her seriousness intrigued him, and seeing her now, he’d put his mystery woman at nineteen or twenty years old.

He looped the shorter leather around the axle. “How did you come to know about coaches?”

“We traveled, summer fairs and such, before settling at the Golden Goose.”

Punishing wind stung his cheeks, a reminder to move fast and find his bed. Sitting this close, her visage skimmed the edge of recall, among other images of nights on Tavistock Street—none of them pretty.

There was no use putting a fine veneer on the Goose. The tavern-cum-theater offered coarse entertainment. Men jostled for seats on benches lining the straw-covered floor. Soldiers, sailors, and wharfmen with coin to spare guzzled weak ale alongside London’s highborn sons. Bawdy plays like The Wench from Wales fed their appetites for near-naked women. Most men tarried afterward in hopes of meeting an actress.

Once or twice, Marcus had done the same. Or three or four times. He never counted.

He knotted the brace, dust kicking up around them. She did say she’d worked behind the scenes. Now she was traveling north with proper-looking middle-class matrons. He doubled the knot and yanked hard, at a loss for words, yet his mysterious traveler sat calmly in the dirt, her legs folded under her skirts.

“I can tell you have some recollection…of the Golden Goose at least,” she said above the wind. “But you don’t remember me, do you?”

He leaned closer, all the better to hear her. “I beg pardon, miss. I can’t recall your name.”

“Genevieve Turner, milord.” She brushed unbound hair off her face, offering him a better view. “Ours was a hasty introduction before you went off with an actress.”

He flinched. Off with an actress. The bald words described his escapades. Working the brace, his boot-covered knees pushed on unforgiving ground. Anyone who stepped inside the Golden Goose was no stranger to London’s midnight antics, especially Miss Turner, who lived them.

Yet, he couldn’t look her in the eye.

One red-gloved hand flattened on the coach near his head. “I’m…I’m coming north for a housekeeper’s post in Cornhill-on-Tweed. For a better life.”

He looked up from the brace. Standing moments ago off the road, her features weren’t clear when the wind pushed back her hood. Nightfall had made sure of that. Sitting by the coach, she faced the moonlight. Faint freckles dotted her small nose. Thick, blunt lashes fringed dark, imploring eyes. Secrets hid in those depths.

Flirtation aside, he liked talking with her, and there was the very male impulse to offer protection to a young woman alone.

He grabbed the axle and tested the first knot. “I’m wintering near Cornhill-on-Tweed. My cottage needs a housekeeper.”

She laughed without humor. “Oh no. A post in your household wouldn’t be good for the likes of me.”

“Why not?”

“Because I already have a position with a Mr. Beckworth and family. A family, milord.”

She was going to work for Samuel Beckworth? His friend’s proximity to Pallinsburn had been the single reason this northern exile was palatable. Resting his forearm on his knees, he absorbed another fact, the telling brightness in Miss Turner’s voice when she said family.

He let go of the axle. “You’re taking a position with my good fr—”

“Ah, looks like yer about done.” The coachman’s lamplight intruded. The old man bent low, his weathered features scrunching with inspection. “Good enough to get us to Lowick. These tired bones of mine need a rest. Been a long night, but my thanks for your help, milord.”

The coachman hooked his lantern on the front panel, the light catching Miss Turner’s golden tresses flying free. Marcus pushed off the ground, about to offer his hand, but she scrambled to her feet and grabbed the blunderbuss before he could help her. He wiped road dust from his hands, following her under the brim of his hat. This accidental interlude was coming to a close. Less than an hour ago, he didn’t want to stop. Now, he didn’t want this stop to end.

“You’ll want this.” Miss Turner handed the pistol to the driver.

The coachman set it on his footboard. “If ye’d be so kind, milord, to see Miss Abbott finds her seat, we can be on our way.”

Marcus’s swiping hands stilled. Miss Abbott?

Miss Turner spun around and set one finger to her lips, her eyes saucer big.

“Of course,” he called back. “I’d be happy to help Miss Abbott.”

The driver hoisted himself up to his seat. Miss Turner darted for the coach door, but Marcus took quick steps backward, his hand covering the latch. He had no hold on her. Why the deception?

“Miss Abbott, is it?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“For now.” She averted her eyes. “I wanted to explain, but I wasn’t sure if…if…”

“If you could trust me.”

Her solemn stare pinned him. “Yes.”

Fresh gusts brushed the bottom of his redingote against her. Miss Turner’s mouth flattened, and a need surged, the want to soften those lips with smiles and laughter.

Giving a light flourish, he laid his hand over his heart. “You wound me. ‘Honor’ is my middle name.”

“Honor?” Doubt threaded her quiet voice.

“Lord Marcus Honor Bowles. Trustworthy as a vicar.”

A single feminine brow rose. “A vicar?”

He chuckled, the sound a dry rasp. “Vicar’s a bit of a stretch for me. Would you accept choirboy? I was one for a short time until I got the boot.”

A tiny spark lit her eyes. “I shall remember that if I need a song or comfort and wisdom, milord.”

Resting a shoulder against the coach, he grimaced good-naturedly. “I’m short on song and wisdom these days.”

“But you excel at giving comfort.” Her lips twitched. “Especially to women.”

The small victory warmed him. He’d won a partial smile, but the glimmer quickly faded.

“Before I left London, friends mentioned your upset at the Cocoa Tree…that you were coming north for the winter to spare your family any more scandal.” Her shoulders slumped. “When I saw you come riding, I feared you’d recognize me. You’re the only person in Cornhill who could connect me to the Golden Goose.”

He stiffened at the mention of the Cocoa Tree. The broadsheets had trumpeted news of his debacle at the gambling establishment. He’d lost badly at a game of cards, upending the table after too much to drink. Most of London knew about his embarrassing exit from the Cocoa Tree. Few knew the family turmoil that followed. He’d return to London in due time, but he didn’t want trouble camping at Samuel’s door.

“How did you get your housekeeper’s position?”

“The Sauveterre sisters helped me.” Miss Turner paused, giving him a pointed look. “I believe you’re acquainted with them.”

He ignored her arch tone, another concern coming to light. Miss Turner had sought the Birchin Lane mantua-makers known for helping women in need.

“Then we have mutual friends in the Sauveterres.” He leaned close. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

She grabbed his arm. “That doesn’t matter. Promise me—”

“Are ye ready there?” the driver bellowed from his perch.

“Another moment, Mr. McGreevy,” she yelled before lowering her voice. “Do I have your word? You’ll keep quiet about my name and the Golden Goose?”

One of the matrons knocked thrice on the window near their heads. The older woman glared through the glass, her brows a stern slash.

“What are you running away from?” Marcus asked.

“Lord Bowles. Please.”

Her hand twisted his sleeve. The desperate plea, her anguish…both added up to a woman in a bad place. Conceding to her request would make him complicit, but now was not the time to dig for whatever hardship chased Miss Turner. She needed assurances more than he needed information.

“Of course. You have my word.”

She let go of him and turned to the door. From the side of her hood, she whispered, “Thank you, milord. Your concern is…kind, but it’s better to say I’m running to someone.”

With those enigmatic words, she put her hand over his and pulled the latch. He released his hold, and Miss Turner hurried into the unlit interior. Her firm step bespoke a woman used to fending for herself. To survive the Golden Goose, she had to possess a multitude of skills, the likes of which someone born to comfort couldn’t understand.

Through the windows, he spied her red-cloaked form settling in. She faced forward as if she wouldn’t give him another thought.

Walking backward, he shouted, “Drive on.”

Mr. McGreevy snapped the reins, and the coach rumbled onward, leaving a dirty nimbus in its wake. Feet planted wide on uneven terrain, Marcus waited until the tottering coach disappeared.

He was alone again.

Bone-tired, he reached inside his redingote for his flask. A gentleman could lose himself at midnight, the velvet hour teasing the best and worst from a man. Just one nip was all he needed, a splash to cure the dryness in his throat. He gripped the metal ready to give in, but Khan nudged his elbow. The four-legged creature could be a chiding friend.

His hand slipped free to scratch behind the horse’s ear. “You know me too well, old boy.”

Petting his horse, he breathed easier, and the craving slipped away. He put one booted foot in the stirrup and mounted the gray. The half-moon’s light washed over Devil’s Causeway, yet the road sign for Lowick village called to him. No, she called to him. Their brief midnight meeting had given him a taste of something better, and he wished for more. He wanted to help pretty Miss Turner. Smiling at the empty road, he was certain she didn’t want help from him.

Was curiosity about the red-cloaked woman more alluring than her comeliness?

Women were a pleasant diversion, stirred parts as nature intended, but of late none interested him. Not until tonight. He welcomed the renewed spark Miss Turner lit. Cornhill-on-Tweed could hold amusements after all.

“Looks like you and I have a social call to make,” he said, patting Khan’s neck. “Very soon.”

By Miss Turner’s vague telling, he wasn’t sure what puzzled him more.

What she ran from. Or who she ran to.

CHAPTER2

Three days later…

Genevieve punched bread dough, the lumpy mass squishing between her fingers. These rustics didn’t know how good they had it. Peace and quiet came at a price in London, an indulgence she could never afford. Squabbles wafted through walls. Bed ropes creaked from partners racing to a lusty finish. A girl grew up fast living above the Golden Goose.

The price of her new venture stretched across the table: her housekeeper’s apron.

She picked up the plain white piece and pinned it to her russet bodice. It was time she got in the habit of donning the apron upon rising. It’s what a proper housekeeper would do.

Despite growing up among actresses, she’d never once taken a turn on the stage. For her new life to succeed, she’d have to play a housekeeper’s role exceedingly well. That meant putting on her apron before cooking. Men were another kettle of fish too. Flirtation with a man above her station no longer fit. Even that harmless bit three nights ago on the empty road with Lord Marcus Bowles had been unwise.

Rules were different here. She’d best abide by them.

She plopped in a chair and rubbed her forehead. With the Beckworths gone for the next few hours, the cottage was hers—

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Except for the bothersome person pounding on the cottage door.

Her eyes opened. That someone banged again, hard enough to jangle the iron latch. She wound her way through the small dining room to the entry hall and cracked open the front door. Peter Dutton held out the post, his blue eyes filled with cheer.

Her hand slid through the opening to accept the delivery. “Good morning, Mr. Dutton.”

“Miss Abbott. Good morning.” He doffed his hat. “And how are you finding your new position?”

She fished for coins from the entry table and gave him a cursory smile. “The same as yesterday, thank you.”

As the newest unmarried female in Cornhill-on-Tweed, she was fodder for the curious. Yesterday, she’d made the mistake of inviting Mr. Dutton inside, where he dawdled overlong.

She absently dropped payment into his outstretched palm. As she fanned the letters, one missive caught her eye, the elegant lines looping just so. Elise Sauveterre had written to her? Genevieve’s thumb pinched a new crease on the foolscap.

For Elise to write this soon…

A brown leather shoe scraped the front step. “Miss Abbott, I wonder if…”

She pressed the letters to her chest and peered at Peter Dutton through the slivered opening. “Good day to you, sir. Godspeed with your deliveries.”

Head bent, she nudged the door shut with her hip. She dropped the other letters on the table and tore open Elise’s missive. Words swarmed like insects scattered over fallen fruit. Her brows knit together. She needed to say the words aloud…to hear them. A glance at the quiet cottage assured her of what she already knew. No one was here to witness her private struggle. She could stumble over the syllables, and none would be the wiser.

Her mouth opened for a deep breath, and slowly she sounded out the words.

Dear Genevieve,

Our shop had a visitor the day you left—Herr Avo Thade.

An icy shiver touched her spine. “Avo.”

His soulless black eyes haunted her. Why was the Frisian looking for her? Of all men, he should be glad to see her gone.

Unless…

Sifting through the words, another name leaped off the page. Reinhard Wolf. She swallowed hard, her back flattening against the door. The walls closed in as though he’d cornered her again, his broad-shouldered presence overpowering her. Besieging her. Until she said yes. Eyes squeezed shut, she couldn’t block him out. Reinhard loomed large, steely in his determination.

She crumpled the letter, coaxing herself to calmness. England was a big place to search for one woman. Surely he’d give up. To know his plans, she’d have to soldier on through Elise’s letter.

He asked many questions regarding your whereabouts. I must warn you—

Thump! Thump! Thump!

She sprang away from the door. Mr. Dutton. This time she’d send him on his way with a firm word. She yanked the door wide open, blinking at bright sunlight and an even brighter man.

Her breath caught. “Lord Bowles.”

“Miss Turner, how nice to see you again.” His greeting alone could be a proposition, the way his voice caressed her name.

She stood mutely, the floor uncertain beneath her feet. Behind him the Beckworth geese waddled through the yard, their orange beaks poking the ground. The rogue had followed her?

Her mind spinning, she blurted, “What are you doing?”

Hazel eyes glinted beneath his black tricorn hat. “I’m standing on your doorstep. Will you let me in?”

“No.” She stuffed the crumpled letter in her pocket. “Mr. Beckworth and his brothers aren’t here. They have business in Learmouth village.”

Creases deepened at the corners of his friendly eyes. Lord Bowles wasn’t put off. There had to be a social nicety for this, but where she came from, if you didn’t want someone at your door, you told them.

“I know they aren’t.” His voice dropped lower. “I came early to see you.”

What was she supposed to do about this? A polite refusal formed, but his lordship’s vision snagged on her cleavage before popping back up to her face.

A scoundrel always showed his true colors.

She crossed her arms and leaned against the doorjamb, all pretense of a proper servant gone. “And who’d be calling? The honorable vicar?”

Lord Bowles chuckled. “I apologize for the surprise. Mr. Beckworth and I are longtime friends. I started to tell you about the connection while we repaired the coach brace.” He paused and took a measured tone. “But our roadside conversation went in a new direction before I had the chance.”

She smarted when he said a new direction, a stinging reminder that she’d pleaded with him to hide her true identity…from his friend no less. What a neat bit of trouble this was! Did his lordship think she was here to steal the family silver? A laughable thing since the humble Beckworth cottage had none.

“Then you would be the old army friend coming to dinner,” she said flatly.

“I am. The worse for wear but not…so old.”

She shoved off the doorjamb, her mind assembling all the pieces. His lordship’s gentle humor was a balm in this clumsy moment. Lord Bowles was tonight’s honored guest and the reason for the small feast she was preparing in the kitchen. It was late morning. Almost noon. She wanted to tell him to come back later, but Mr. Beckworth might take offense if she did. What would a proper housekeeper do? There was also the matter of her character, such as it was. She didn’t want Lord Bowles thinking ill of her.

Mildly chastened, she clasped dough-flecked hands together. “I am not a thief, milord. If that’s your concern, please know I’d never cause harm to Mr. Beckworth or his family.”

“I believe you.”

Never had three words sounded so lovely. They’d rolled off his tongue with ease. She hesitated. Shutting the door on Lord Bowles wouldn’t be wise. Letting him in didn’t work either.

“I knew there was a possibility our paths might cross,” she said, stalling in hopes that wisdom would strike.

“And you thought I’d pretend we’d met for the first time, should we be introduced in the village.”

“Yes.”

Lord Bowles nodded, hands clasped behind his back. “While I don’t believe you’re out to harm Mr. Beckworth, this still makes me complicit in your deception…against my friend.”

Her status hung in the balance. Did he have concerns about her circumstances? Or was he in search of a dalliance? The power was his.

“Does that mean you’ll not mention my real name or the Golden Goose to Mr. Beckworth?”

“I already gave my word.” He flashed a disarming smile. “Now, will you let me in?”

She was doomed. Lord Bowles was trouble on two legs. He knew how to open doors with his smile alone. A sculpted lower lip balanced his thinner upper lip, a scale of sensuality and wit. Her solitude and better judgment were about to be breached by a consummate flirt wielding his version of honor. Men were by no means a novelty. She was skilled at brushing them off or remaining unnoticed when the mood struck, but she’d have to face facts.

London allowed obscurity. Cornhill-on-Tweed would not.

“No harm in showing you to the parlor. Mr. Beckworth and his brothers should return within an hour.”

He stepped inside and passed his hat to her, sunshine crowning his chestnut-colored hair. “Any chance you’ll sit with me awhile?” He stretched free of his black redingote, the collar brushing curls at his nape.

“None. I clean the parlor, milord. I don’t sit in it.”

He laughed at her bald rejection, and a single lock slipped free of his queue’s black ribbon. The curl hid behind his ear, the strands a sun-kissed contrast to the rest of his brown hair. The vulnerable lock of hair begged to be neatened. She hung his hat and coat on pegs, glad for her hands to have something to do. Lord Bowles stood less than an arm’s length from her at the crossroads of proper and intimate, a winsome smile on his face.

And her wish to be a respectable domestic slipped a notch.

She tipped her head toward the parlor. “You can wait in there, milord.”

“Alone?”

“Yes. Alone,” she said, getting a whiff of pleasant soapiness from him. “I am the housekeeper, remember?”

The notion struck that he’d addressed her by her real name when she’d opened the door. The shock of seeing him and his attractive pleasantness had relaxed her guard, surrounding her, warm as a summer day. Lord Bowles must’ve shaved before riding here. His angular jaw appeared silky smooth, a contrast to his rumpled cravat and dirty leather spatterdashes wrapped around his calves. Clumps of grass and dirt clung to the spatterdashes’ horn buttons. No one, not even a high and mighty lord, was going to muck the floors she’d scrubbed that morning.

She pointed at the messy spatterdashes. “Those must come off.”

“Anything else you want removed?” he teased, taking a seat on the entry hall’s bench. He started on the buttons at his left knee and nodded at his other leg. “I could use some help. My hands are stiff. I raced Khan this morning, and I neglected to wear my gloves.”

He held up chafed hands. Careful not to touch him, she leaned in, peering at the redness on his fingers. A few spots showed minor swelling.

“Chilblains, milord. I’ve a salve for that.”

Fingers splayed, he examined the marks. “Is that what those are? No wonder my hands ache.” He flashed a dazzling smile. “You can rub your salve on me. I’m an amiable patient.”

Amiable patient, indeed.

She crouched on the floor, her hands working efficiently on the sturdy buttons. “I’ll give you the salve, and you can rub it on yourself.”

He chuckled above her head. “You have a talent for putting me in my place. A man could believe he’s lost all sway with the fairer sex.”

“I’ve a new life here, milord,” she said, concentrating on the spatterdash. “I’ll not ruin it.”

Little by little, the leather parted. Her fingers grazed his leg, brushing warm wool stretched over flexed muscles. His stocking’s intricate weave was inches from her nose. Masculine body heat seeped into her, bringing with it earthy aromas of grass and soil.

Kneeling at his feet, she was fascinated by the play of sinew and muscle, evidence of a man who spent much time in the saddle. His calf muscle curved out and flattened high at the back of his leg. How nice it would be to explore him there. To explore all of him.

Cheeks warming, her chin dipped lower. Women at the Goose were known to bicker over Lord Bowles, wanting a few hours on his arm—or other parts.

She stole glances at his striking profile. Sunlight caught his long, brown lashes tipped with gold. Head bent, he unclasped the other spatterdash, his lips pressing together from the effort. This was like being backstage two years past, sitting near him but hardly noticed.

Considering her reasons for coming north, this was for the best. Yet, today he had come early.

For her. Why?

Her tongue moistened her lips, and she bent to the task. One thick button by his ankle proved especially trying. Her hand slipped inside the leather’s sultry warmth.

The bench bumped the wall.

She looked into hazel eyes bright with greens and golds among rich browns.

Heat shot hard and fast inside her. Her nipples pinched against her stays.

“Is this part of your housekeeper’s duties?” he asked.

Daylight caught tiny dust motes drifting between them. The floor was cold on her legs, but her palm grew hot. The corner of his lordship’s mouth quirked. His attention traveled downward, and she followed his sight line.

Her hand was inside the spatterdash, curving possessively around his calf.

Heat crept up her neck. Her fingers straightened, and she removed her hand, making every effort not to touch him. “My apologies for the familiarity, milord.”

“Perhaps now’s the time to ask again if I can sit with you awhile.”

His raspy voice played on her, poking holes in her wish for solitude. Her plans, her future depended on her staying a properly focused housekeeper.

She fought the last button, and the spatterdash gave way. “No, milord. I’ve work to do in the kitchen.”

Skin peeked through a hole the size of a ha’penny in his stocking. She sat back on her heels, her fingertips touching her lips. Even beautiful men of high birth got holes in their stockings.

“Then you won’t mind me helping you.” Grinning, Lord Bowles stood and angled his head at the wide-open front door. “Starting with closing the door. Most domestics do that.”

She’d left the door open, and two geese were waddling around the front step, their webbed feet inches from the threshold.

Lord Bowles set one hand on the dark-stained oak and pushed, all the while watching her with gentle determination as she rose awkwardly from the floor. Iron hinges whined a lethargic turn before the door clicked shut on the honking fowl. The entry dimmed but was no less luminous for the unexpected sparks between them. Lord Bowles was a dose of good French brandy at the wrong time of day, enticing but entirely unsuitable.

“Do I make you nervous?” he asked.

His lordship missed nothing. He was like a thieftaker digging for the truth. In their two meetings, he’d shown more substance than the aimless wastrel people claimed him to be. For the first time since she left London, Genevieve missed the clamor and the crowds. This quiet between her and Lord Bowles denuded her.

“Nervous? A little.” Her attention flittered over him. “The part of me that finds you handsome. Too handsome for your own good.”

He blinked, his lips parting. Well-shod feet shifted, and another beat of stillness passed. Had she surprised him? Good. Unease melted off her back from satisfaction of his lordship being the one off center. Served him right for coming here like this.

She wiped dough-flecked hands on her apron as though she had all the time in the world. “And since I’m being forthright, milord, I wanted some time to myself. You don’t get much of that living above the Golden Goose.”

“No, I suppose not.”

With his wind-mussed queue and rumpled brown velvet coat, Lord Bowles could be any man awaiting acceptance of a social call. He was a dangerous flirt with genuine, friendly appeal, endearing qualities that played havoc with her resolve, but she would be firm.

Her head tipped at an open doorway off the entry. “The parlor is that way, milord. I’ll fetch some coffee for you.”

She headed to the kitchen, her skin prickling across her bottom and thighs. Lord Bowles watched her. Ambling footsteps sounded in the small dining room behind her. He wasn’t going to be a docile guest.

Did his lordship think he’d found a convenient light-skirt?

Crossing the kitchen, she tensed, expecting footfalls to follow her on the flagstone floor. A knee to a man’s baubles sent a clear message to overzealous males at the Golden Goose. With her employer’s friend, she’d have to use different tactics.

At the hearth, she checked the roast in the cooking hastener, but no footsteps came, nor did a hand palm her bottom. One glance at the kitchen showed Lord Bowles lounging in the doorway, one hand resting in his coat pocket. The corners of his mouth curled up as if he read women all the time and knew their secrets.

“Thought I’d wait here, save you the trip to the parlor with my coffee.”

“Because I’m of a delicate constitution?” She reached for the spindle jack hanging from a rafter above the hearth.

“No, because I like watching you.”

Her cheeks warmed. “Lord Bowles…” she began sternly.

“I know,” he said, smiling shamelessly. “I’m being inappropriate with my friend’s housekeeper. Can we agree to talk freely when we’re alone? I’ll curb myself when others are around.”

“I can’t lose this position, milord.” She started winding the spindle jack, a slow and noisy effort. Her breasts jostled, and the flush spread down her neck and chest. There was no denying that it was nice to be the object of his improper interest.

The Beckworth kitchen was bright with limestone walls and a cheery, yellow cabinet. Turnips lay on the table, and bread was rising in a bowl. This was not a typical haunt for the likes of Lord Bowles. His boredom with this rustic kitchen was her best weapon. He’d soon seek amusement elsewhere.

“There is a point to my visit,” he said loudly. “I come bearing an offer of help.”

“Help? With what?” she asked above the cranking cogs.

Lord Bowles stepped cautiously down into the kitchen. “I’d rather have a decent conversation with you than yell across the room.” He gestured to the long pine table near the hearth. “May I have a seat? I promise to behave. We’ll have a table between us.”

Her arm burned from working against the spindle’s tension and weight of the heavy roast by her knees. She was about to give him a setdown, but she spied that silly hole in his stocking and softened.

“No flirting, milord.”

He smiled boldly. “On my honor, none. We’ll be solemn as clergymen.”

“Clergymen.” She huffed and blew a wayward wisp of hair off her face. “A few minutes. No more.”

He crossed the kitchen and took a seat at the table. She cranked harder. The string was nearly wound around the pulley.

“What is this offer of yours?”

“I’ve been thinking about what you said on Devil’s Causeway…about running to someone. Do you know where this person is?”

“Not exactly.”

“Why not let me help you? I spent part of my childhood here. I know the district well. Conducting your search alone will be doubly hard.”

“That’s how I work, milord. Alone. Then a body doesn’t have to rely on anyone.”

Legs sprawling, he clasped his fingers over his midsection. “You’d refuse help?”

Her cranking stalled. He wasn’t seeking a dalliance? A glimpse of his face showed he was serious.

“You’re very kind, but I must do this on my own.” She finished the rotations. The string was tightly wound. Her thumb flipped the mechanism, and she waited.

A gear clicked. One. Then another. And another. Shiny cogs pulsed with clocklike efficiency, the tick almost musical. A hook spun at the bottom of the spindle jack, and from there a slender chain stretched into the cooking hastener by her knees, slowly turning a roast. Machinery worked well together, unlike people. If a mechanism broke, a little tinkering or a replacement part made the thing work again. Not so with people. There was never an easy fix with people.

Lord Bowles cleared his throat. “Why not use me to a good end? I already know your secret.”

She dragged her attention from the brass cogs and faced the hearth, smirking to herself. The man probably wasn’t used to clearing his throat for female attention. Her back to Lord Bowles, she jabbed the poker at burning logs. “Pardon me for saying so, milord, but you really know nothing at all.”

“Then why not trust me a little more? You did three nights ago.”

Trust? The word scalded her.

She speared a log with too much fervor, and flames flared high. Why did he want to meddle in her affairs? It would’ve been better if he’d asked for a dalliance. Sex was never personal. Hot and sweaty, two bodies giving pleasure…a thing to be enjoyed, but not intimate like exchanging trust. Lord Bowles sat comfortably in the kitchen asking probing questions, looking as if he’d ask more, and she was supposed to serve him coffee.

Direct refusals didn’t work with his lordship. Certainly subtle evasions would. She set down the poker and retrieved two coffee mugs to fill them. He was her employer’s honored guest and a man who knew too much about her. At the table, her bulging pocket came into view. How easy it’d be to hand over Elise’s letter. She could ask him to read it aloud, but she’d have much to explain. Too much. It was better, safer, to slip into the world of bland servitude.

She picked up iron tongs and waved them at the table’s sugar loaf. “Do you take sugar with your coffee, milord?”

Keen hazel eyes pinned her. “One small pinch, please. And you haven’t answered my question.”

She nipped the sugar and dropped the sweetener in his coffee and hers. The chunks bobbed helplessly in dark liquid.

“Why me?” She slid his cup across the table. “Until three nights ago, you couldn’t recall my name. I was nothing more than a bawdy-house worker to you.”

“A fair point. It’s as simple as I want to help you. You’re in some kind of distress.”

“Do I look like a woman in distress?” Her bottom found the chair facing him. “Forgive me, but in my experience, when men offer to help, it usually carries a price.”

Sunlight spilled over her morning visitor. With his good looks and gentleman’s demeanor, he could be an archangel come for a visit to sleepy Cornhill, but she knew better. Her lips twisted on hard-learned, bitter truth.

Men always got their needs met.

Lord Bowles stared out the kitchen window, his fine profile a stark relief against limestone walls. The steaming coffee cup ignored, a somber pall washed over him. His shoulders bunched under the brown velvet coat as if he wrestled with an unseen weight.

“Would you accept my offer purely as a bid for friendship?”

The startling question came out of nowhere.

“I don’t understand. Friendship?” She drew the word out, testing it like a foreign flavor.

His fingertips drew light circles on the table. “That is what I offer.”

Her spoon wove circles in her coffee, clinking inside her mug. What an irregular request. “And you offer friendship because…”

Lord Bowles turned in his chair, the wood creaking as he faced her. “Because you are a woman in need and I want to help. Because I enjoy talking with you and find that I like you. Because…” He searched the air, finishing testily, “Because I don’t know. Must a man list his reasons for doing a good turn?”

The stirring stopped, a strange notion striking her. Lord Bowles was somehow at her mercy, a man in need, and she was the one he wanted to fill it.

A faint scowl marred his features. “Are you always this difficult, Miss Turner?”

“I’m afraid so, milord. Growing up, my mother was at her wit’s end with me.”

The breezy admission slipped out. She could blame it on stunning events of late. Twice in one day, Lord Bowles had accomplished what few men had done in her lifetime. He’d shocked her in the best way, first announcing he believed her when she said she’d not harm the Beckworths, and now this, a man seeking conversation and friendship because he found talking with her a pleasure. True, he’d ogled her breasts, but not once did he paw them or pinch her bottom.

This turn was unusual and…nice.

Lord Bowles sighed and braced a hand on the table. “Perhaps this was a bad idea.”

“Wait.” She grasped his sleeve. “You’re giving up already?”

“I’ll not force my friendship on you.”

Did he mean it? Friendship? A feather could’ve knocked her over.

“If you’ll beg pardon, milord, friendship between the likes of you with me… It’s most irregular.”

“It is.” His voice was honest and gentle. She was tempted to bask in it after a lifetime surrounded by brusque men.

“And me being a woman from less respectable parts has nothing to do with your…offer?”

Her cautious question touched the heart of the matter like flint striking steel. Lord Bowles held her stare, the golds and greens of his hazel eyes burning bright.

“You think I’m seeking you out for bed sport.”

“It crossed my mind.”

The barest pause passed. A moment, she suspected, when Lord Bowles decided to tell the truth.

“It crossed mine too,” he admitted.

Her knees went slack, and she let go of his velvet sleeve. Despite his gentlemanly bid for friendship, a current thrummed between them. The heat could singe wood, yet their voices hardly reached above a whisper. The spindle jack ticked as steadily as her pulse. Grease droplets sizzled inside the hastener. Rosemary and thyme clouded the kitchen, the domestic aromas a contrast to their peculiar conversation.

“How old are you?” he asked. “Nineteen?”

“Twenty.”

“That’s why I couldn’t remember you,” he said, relaxing in the chair. “And since we’re being honest, I prefer my bed partners closer to my age. When I met you two years ago, I would’ve deemed you too young.”

Her lips suppressed a smile. “Then I’d be too young for you now. Is that it?”

He nodded, his mouth quirking sideways. Penetrating hazel eyes told her otherwise, but she’d let that bit of fiction rest and not prod him overmuch.

“And now you want friendship. With me.”

“It’s been awhile since I’ve found a woman interesting.” Tiredness slackened the corners of his eyes, and his charming smile faded.

“And you’re convinced I’m in some kind of trouble.”

“You are, aren’t you?”

“Thank you for your concern, but I’m doing fine, milord.” She sat back in her chair, breaking their intense gaze. “But about this friendship you’re wanting…”

He smoothed his waistcoat, his attention drifting to the kitchen window. “Our acquaintance will last longer that way. I’ve already mastered shallow and short-lived with women.”

Warmth bloomed in her chest. He held a better place in this world and had to be nine or ten years older than her, yet in a way, he needed her.

“Friendship with a man. That’d be a first for me.”

“As friendship with a woman is for me,” he said quietly.

Him? Friends with a woman like her? She never walked in his lofty circles, nor would she ever. More like he roamed less reputable places and left when it suited, but they were far from London.

Did Cornhill-on-Tweed change their circumstances?

She couldn’t imagine Lord Bowles making the same request in London, much less at the Golden Goose. This call to friendship had to do with him coming north. There had to be more to what happened at the Cocoa Tree. Was he paying a personal cost that went beyond the expense of replacing pieces of furniture?

“Very well.” Her eyes narrowed on him. “Friends share secrets, don’t they?”

“They do.”

She dragged a bowl of turnips in need of slicing across the table and picked up a root vegetable in one hand, her paring knife in the other. “Tell me something most people don’t know about you.”

He blinked at her. “Like a rite of initiation.”

She cut a blighted spot off the turnip and let the damaged chunk drop to the table. “Something like that.”

These friendship waters needed testing. Why not let him dive in first?

He chuckled, the raspy sound prying open closed places inside her. “Sounds like a soldiers’ drinking game.”

“And you’re going first.”

He scraped back his chair, his fine mouth curving in the roguish smile she’d seen him wear in London. “Oh, Miss Turner, challenge accepted.”

Lord Bowles stretched free of his brown velvet coat, the brass buttons knocking the table. Bare of his coat, he laid his right arm across the pine surface and began tugging up his sleeve.

She scooted back in her chair. “What are you doing?”

“Showing you this.”

His white sleeve slid back in small increments. Brown hair scattered across his forearm. Veins and sinew twisted under his skin. The telling lines spoke of a man who exerted himself physically from time to time. With the sleeve tucked in his elbow, Lord Bowles flipped over his forearm.

Black ink marked his pale underarm. A tattoo.

Genevieve dropped the knife and turnip in the bowl and angled herself for a better look. The outline of a galloping horse, mane and tail flying, had been etched on his skin with words. Her brows puckered and her lips moved silently, trying to form the words, but she dared not read them aloud. The letter combinations looked like nothing she’d seen before.

Lord Bowles tapped his arm. “It’s Latin. Cum fremitu eum, exaltatus fueris ut.” His eyes sparkled, at once lively and intense. “It says ‘When I bestride him, I soar.’ The only Shakespeare I remember in an otherwise dull litany of boyhood lessons.”

His graveled voice tickled her nape. She’d heard of Latin. None of it made sense. Her brain lost the translation when her fingertips slid over black lines, the inked creature a picture of freedom. A blue-green vein pulsed beneath her hand. Lord Bowles’s forearm was nicely shaped like his calf, the flesh cut with furrows of lean muscle rather than thick bulk.

She skimmed the pale flesh, his breath warming her ear. Pebbled skin trailed after her fingers wherever she touched. The tiny bumps on his lordship’s arm snared her as much as the horse etched on his skin.

“It’s pretty,” she whispered, tracing the Latin.

His quick intake of breath was a warning. Their heads almost touched. Her lashes hovered low, saving her from eye contact. To be this close… It wasn’t wise.