Page 130 of The Lord Meets His Lady

Thirty-two

The closed door mocked her:Enter at your ownperil.Genevieve stalled in the dark hallway, a box of cheroots in one hand, a book in the other. A well-traveled, salacious book. The kind she was certain her husband would read locked away with a female companion. Light flickered under the door. Liquid splattered its faint swish inside his chamber. This hesitation put a vise grip on her ribs. Or was that fear?

Rolling her eyes, she tucked the book under her arm and knocked. “Marcus.”

“Please leave.”

His flat voice haunted her. Tipping her forehead against the door, she tried again. “Please…I…”

I…what?

She wasn’t equipped to understand a man like him. Perhaps silence was best. The day had passed with plenty of quiet after Mr. Beckworth had laid out his latest plan.

“Offer Khan as collateral” had been Mr. Beckworth’s answer.

She had cried out at the suggestion, but Marcus had promised to think it over. Mr. Beckworth went home, and her husband promptly cleaned every corner of the barn, tended every horse, and chopped wood outside the cottage. He’d attacked his work, soldiering on in silence. His labor had ended when the ax slipped, narrowly missing his foot because nightfall made outdoor tasks impossible.

Now she stood, ear to the door, another splash sounding inside his chamber.

Was he drinking?

A peek. To check on his welfare. She pushed on the door. Light cracked through the opening.

Firelight glimmered on watery beads clinging to a bare male torso. One determined drop slipped over his ribs, up and over the bones that knit his side until the droplet stopped above his breech’s waistband.

The washstand’s pitcher clinked. “You’re lurking.”

His stare speared her from the looking glass. Primitive. Forceful.

Her shoes could have been nailed to the floor. The man across the room wouldn’t be managed. His reflection showed a jaw darker, rougher from another day without the razor. Dark, windswept hair framed his face. Damp curls plastered his nape. But his eyes. One could say her woodsman husband dared her to come in…all the better to devour her.

“I brought these for you.” She hefted the cheroot box, and the door arced wide.

“And a book.”

Which she couldn’t hide fast enough.

“It’s nothing.” She juggled to put the slender volume out of sight, but it slipped and landed with a thud.

She dropped to her knees, her wool skirts hiding the book. Marcus strode across the room in stockinged feet and breeches to crouch before her. His nearness sucked the air. She sat back on her heels, her legs folded beneath her.

There was no graceful way to recover the book pinched between her knees.

She tried scooting back, but his knee pinned her skirt to the floor.

“I shouldn’t have come. Forgive me.” She froze, riveted on his hand rooting under her hem.

“Our nightly reading,” he intoned, grasping the book under her skirt. “How thoughtless of me to forget.”

She pressed her legs together. “There are other things on your mind.”

“You mean my latest downfall. Horses, money, and a woman.” The corner of his mouth tilted in the cool, lazy smile she equated with the man she’d first met, not the man she’d come to know.

It was the setback and the demoralizing position of having to beg a loan from his peers, men who’d belittled the business venture. Or was it the thought of putting up Khan for collateral? The beloved horsecouldbe lost if anything went wrong…if the horses didn’t recover over winter…if they couldn’t find a suitable stallion to cover the mares…if, if, if…

Her spine tingled a warning. This man had a bite, and she was the morsel he was considering. Russet wool frothed around her, save the spot under his knee. What a fool she had been to think she could maneuver him. His mood was far more dangerous than if he’d given over to the drink.

“I should go.”