Page 46 of The Lord Meets His Lady

Eleven

A dark rider galloped below the window, spraying mud in the yard. Genevieve pushed aside the curtains for a better view of the wet, black skies. Horse and rider had to be drenched to the bone.

“Foolish man,” she muttered, letting the curtain drop.

Her bottom ached. She’d kept vigil on a cushionless window seat in the cold room. A barely touched mending basket was her excuse for escaping to the pretty chamber she had no business being in. This half-furnished room belonged to the lady of the cottage.

When she’d questioned Mr. Beckworth earlier about Lord Bowles, he’d squinted westward. “Gone to Learmouth. He needs a hard, fast ride.”

“When will he return?”

“When you see him coming.” He’d buttoned up his frock coat, saying, “Possibly tomorrow morning.”

She stood and collected the basket. Hard, fast ride indeed. On one of her market days, she’d overheard men jesting about a pair of uniquely skilled redheaded tavern maids in Learmouth.

Smoothing her skirts, she blew out two candles. She’d not go to the barn to check on his well-being. Where he went and what he did was his business, not hers. There’d been food stores to count, his bedchamber to clean, and the back garden to tend before the rains came. Lord Bowles could come and go as he pleased.

But down the stairs she flew, discarding the sewing basket by the parlor door. Her legs required stretching.

She grabbed her red cloak off an entry hook and armored herself. Rain pelted her as she splashed across the driveway. Feet soaked, she shoved her way into the dark barn, panting from her sprint. Light burned at the far end. A lone figure in black combed Khan. The man nodded a silent greeting, running reverent hands over the favored horse.

“Lord Bowles,” she called out.

“Miss Turner, what brings you out here?” The question bounced off timbered rafters.

“You, milord.”

His astonishing gift a few nights past had intrigued her, made her wonder about the man doing the giving. Much of her life had been a force of will to carry on and endure.

Was there more to life than merely getting by in the world?

Horses snickered, their hooves crunching straw. The beasts filled half the stalls lining the aisle. Curious noses poked over wooden slats, but she took care to stay in the middle, arms tucked to her sides.

“They won’t bite you.” Lord Bowles combed Khan’s back haunches. “Except the sorrel in the first stall. She’s yet to learn good manners.”

Genevieve halted under a candle lamp hooked on a beam. “And how do you teach a horse good manners?”

The combing slowed. “A gentle hand, the right touch. In time, she’ll come around.”

Water trickled off the black redingote and dripped from his soaked queue. He had to be uncomfortable, yet he took care of his horse first. As she stood in the soft glow, the barn’s neatness struck her. No spiderwebs. Sweet-smelling hay everywhere and clean, well-attended horses. Those gloved hands of his lavished great care on whatever he touched.

What would happen if he touched her?

She wrapped an arm around the support post. He was far from her reach. Her employer. Not a man for her. Yet…

“How are your hands?”

He dropped the comb in a bucket and retrieved a metal object. “Well enough.”

Lord Bowles ran his hands down Khan’s foreleg and settled the hoof on his knee.

“What is that in your hand?”

He scraped the hoof, barely giving her notice. “A hoof pick, but I imagine you didn’t run through the rain to discuss tools of equine care.”

“Is something wrong, milord? You left so suddenly today.”

“Nothing that concerns you.”