Page 104 of The Lord Meets His Lady

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.”

“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.”