Page 139 of The Lord Meets His Lady

Thirty-four

Hours later…

Genevieve stroked the narrow indent behind Khan’s ear. She had to get away and have a moment alone. The barn was the best place. Rubbing the favored spot lulled the horse, turning him pliant as clay.

“You’re a sweet one.”

Coffee-dark eyes like hers stared at her from under long lashes. Fresh hay sweetened the air. Not a single cobweb clung to the rafters. Her husband’s meticulous care for the steed, the barn, and all the other horses was better than what most men gave their wives. Her fingers halted midstroke. Was that what she wanted from him? Meticulous care? Or love?

She wanted her husband to be happy too. But there were two Marcuses. There was Marcus the newly converted rustic, and there was Marcus the second son of a noble name. It was hard to believe he was one and the same. He wore the role of woodsman, horseman, and businessman well. She could say he was happier here than in London.

So was she.

She dug inside her apron pocket and searched Khan’s intelligent eyes. “If you could talk, I’m sure you’d give me words of wisdom.” Out came an apple slice, the fruit offered on her palm. “Smuggled goods.”

Fuzzy lips nipped her hand. Beyond the barn door, wheels sloshed through mud.

“Till our next meeting.”

Genevieve picked up her basket of eggs. She’d flitted through her day, loose-limbed and happy. She’d awakened in Marcus’s bed at dawn with one thing on her mind—to woo her husband. Surely a fine meal was one way to win a man’s heart. A ham turned on the meat hastener. Food was one weapon. Sex was another. The actresses of the Golden Goose insisted on the merits of bed-shattering sex.

The basket swung gently from her fingertips as she exited the barn. Good foodandgood sex it was. At the right moment, she’d lay her heart at his feet. Tonight. On the purple settee after they finished readingVenus and Adonis.

Peter Dutton waved as he reined his cart before the cottage door. Mud sucked her pattens. Wind swirled, stirring her cloak as she picked her way around mud puddles.

“Good evening, Mr. Dutton.”

“And to you, miss.” His cheeks flamed red. “Er, I should say, Lady Bowles.”

“News travels fast.”

“Gossip more like it. The Red Swan’s full of the news.” He laughed. “There’s also talk of a big horse race tomorrow at the castle. Which reminds me.” He pulled a letter bearing the Atal seal from his pocket. “If you’d be so kind as to give this to his lordship.”

“A busy day for you.” She tucked the post in her egg basket.

“It’s nothing.”

She hesitated. “You’ve been very kind to me, Mr. Dutton. Your friendliness, welcoming me to the village and all. Thank you.”

Grinning sheepishly, he doffed his hat. “You’re welcome. And if I may, marriage agrees with you, ma’am.”

“Kind words, sir.” She winked at him and hooked the egg basket on her elbow. “I’ll get your sisters.”

Skirling wind whistled at her back. She stepped inside…a horse race. Was Lord Bowles racing Khan and using him as surety? He’d spent the morning with the horses before riding off to the village, returning drenched to the bone a few hours later to change his clothes and hunch over more correspondence, sometimes in his chamber, sometimes in the kitchen.

She toed off her pattens, drawn to voices abovestairs. Marcus? Friendly and charming by the lilt of his voice.Too friendly. His deeper voice was followed by a familiar giggle.

Ruby?

Her grip on the basket tightened. Her husband’s voice dipped to plush notes. He didn’t simply say words when flirting; his voice caressed them.

She rushed to the kitchen and braced herself against the pine cabinet…all the better to get out of earshot of the feminine laughter. Staring at the floor, she faced harsh facts. She had no hold on Lord Bowles. Few even knew they were married. How silly she was, roasting the ham, the spindle jack’s tick an embarrassing noise. She pretended to be part of this…the cottage, her husband…her girlish notions of love.

Lily walked out of the scullery, empty buckets in both hands. “You’re out of starch, ma’am.”

Ma’am.An honorific for the woman of the house. A fictional title. What went on here was no different than a bad play. She’d fallen deep for her own false tale.

Dressing in a courtesan’s trumped-up finery to meet Baron Atal…