Page 10 of The Lord Meets His Lady

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.Toohandsome 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.”