Page 39 of The Lord Meets His Lady

Her moue and shrug came with “I’ll give you a month.”

He waved the papers. “This is worth two months at least.”

“A month,” she countered. “My final offer. Consider yourself fortunate that I don’t reduce my offer to a week.”

He chuckled at the incongruity of the master of the house negotiating labor from a domestic, but she had him cornered. Miss Turner warmed to the game, a woman born to it. Her presence drove him mad, yet invigorated him. He guessed that if a high-flying duke had discovered her at the Golden Goose and played his cards right, Miss Turner would’ve been a celebrated courtesan.

Instead, she’d chosen rustic housekeeper, his housekeeper.

“What’s it to be?” she prompted.

Her lush curves and stalwart ways sucked the air right out of his lungs. Even her voice teased him. He handed over the papers. “Very well. A month.”

She unfolded the broadsheets, and the pamphlet tumbled onto her lap. Her eyes rounded, silently telling him she valued the humble gift more than gold. He slid lower in the water. Miss Turner’s lips moved curiously. Whispery sounds came from her mouth as though she strained at reading the title aloud.

“You have heard of Ben Franklin, haven’t you?” he ventured.

“Oh yes. A third mate from a Boston ship used to visit me at the Golden Goose. He’d talk about Mr. Franklin’s experiments in electricity.”

He sat up to read the top lines aloud. “Letters on Electricitypublished in London by Peter Collinson, 1751. A little out of date. But you don’t mind?”

“No. It’s perfect.” She turned the yellowed pages with care, sometimes pausing to study the text. One hand covered her mouth as though she couldn’t believe her good fortune.

“You’ll find diagrams in there. I thought with your interest in mechanical things…” His words trailed off.

He was in a rare place…at a humble loss for words with a woman. Sinking lower in the tub, he marveled at how deeply she valued the well-worn pamphlet. He could be a piece of furniture, for all her interest in him.

“Thank you, milord. You have no idea how much this pleases me.”

“Oh, I’m beginning to guess.”

She stood, her brown eyes shining. “If you don’t need me, I’ll go to my room.”

Need her?His hand splashed into the tub. He made a show of searching for the cleaning cloth at the bottom. “It’s been a long day for both of us,” he said, waving her off. “Enjoy the night as you see fit.”

Body stiff, he waited for her door to shut before slumping in the bath until his chin hit the water. His knees broke the surface, and the back of his head hit the wall, but all his agony was between his legs.

Hot. Throbbing. Needy.

The cottage was silent, save Miss Turner’s muffled voice coming from her room beside the scullery.

He shut his eyes.Need her?The words brought seductive images…her plump, dewy breasts inches from his mouth. Air whistled between his clenched teeth. One hand slid down his thigh. Her muted voice carried—faint, melodic, desirable. He should stop…go to his chamber… But the desire to touch himself…

He grabbed his erection, a gust leaving his lungs. This wouldn’t take long. He was desperate for satisfaction. Water-wrinkled fingers fondled his length, the pleasure-pain of touch bittersweet because it wasn’t her hand caressing him. Through half-open eyes, he looked to the unlit kitchen.

Why did he want her so badly?

Visions of Miss Turner danced in his head, while her muffled voice came achingly real from the next room. Staring at the wall, he stroked his erection, conjuring her soft lips, her curved bodice hovering at the tub’s rim.

Low, rusty laughter erupted. He was an unhinged degenerate. If she knew he touched himself to the sound of her voice, Miss Turner would run to the Beckworth cottage and not think twice. He circled his cock’s tip. One finger grazed the sensitive spot. Pleasure shocked him. His ass muscles squeezed.

He played his hard shaft, up and down. Up and down. Water slapped inside the tub. Miss Turner was saucy and playful at the same time, the mixture snaring him better than well-practiced widows. He stroked faster, his breath ragged. In his mind, he pulled her shift’s small white tie. Her bodice loosened. His housekeeper slipped her hands inside and she moaned, cupping her breasts for him.

Air shot from his lungs. He groaned and put his mouth against the stone wall, stifling his noises. Excruciating pleasure-pain built low on his spine. His frantic hand rubbed hard. Up and down. Water sloshed around him.

Tremors racked his body. Tired muscles clenched, merciless with need.

“Genevieve.” He breathed her name against the stone wall.

He doubled over, his eyes squeezing tight. Shuddering from head to toe his seed shot free of his cock.

Satisfaction melted over him.

Panting hard, he watched his breath ripple the water’s surface. His eyes stretched wide, focusing, stretching wide again. Between his legs, a ribbon of milky-white fluid spiraled in the water, floating a moment before sinking to the bottom.

Spent to the bone, he stayed as he was, holding his penis as it went limp. Wet hair fell around his face. His stomach growled, while his housekeeper, the red-cloaked woman with secrets, read aloud in her room. He hungered for Miss Turner, his utterly off-limits housekeeper.

How would he survive this long, cold winter?