Page 54 of The Lord Meets His Lady

Twelve

Who was this nymph cloaked in red? Miss Turner had been nothing like he’d expected—from the moment she opened her mouth at the Lowick village crossroad until opening herself to him just now. She was right: he’d kissed lots of women, and like most cocksure men, he was certain he knew his way around the fairer sex. He had to face an incontrovertible fact.

A single-minded young woman had put him in his place…with a kiss to his neck.

Miss Turner had searched out the lone curl tucked behind his ear. That lock had been the mortal enemy of his valet—when he could afford a valet. He’d chopped the rebellious curl, but it grew back, becoming Miss Turner’s temptation.

Rain and thunder poured outside. Inside the quiet barn, Marcus wanted to find the nearest soft place and explore what other layers of hers he might uncover.

Yet the first thing he uttered was “What do you do in your room at night?”

She stopped fussing with her skirts. “You want to know more about me.”

“A good idea when a man finds a woman in his arms.”

Coffee-dark eyes studied him from under sable lashes. Miss Turner covered her head again, her mouth flattening in the familiar line.

Light shined on her hood’s decorative black threads, giving her an onyx halo. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I hear your voice for at least an hour. The cottage is very quiet with just us two.”

She turned away. “I want to go inside. My shoes… They’re wet, and my feet are cold.”

He unhooked the lamp. “I don’t think you’re a soft-in-the-head miss, talking to fey creatures, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

Her snort of laughter warmed him. He expected a quick retort, but thunder cracked. Sheets of rain fell from the skies as unrelenting as they’d been hours ago. Marcus and Genevieve walked several paces through the barn before he got his answer.

“I practice reading,” she admitted. “I learned to read this year.”

He lifted the lamp all the better to see her, but the hood shrouded her face, save the tip of her nose and the flare of her unmoving lips. Miss Turner held herself with familiar erectness, but he felt in his bones that his housekeeper fought to hide embarrassment. Lots of men and women couldn’t read. That was why shop signs posted pictures, giving patrons a clue to the business inside. Those facts didn’t matter. She was gravely embarrassed over this, and his question had brought her shame to light.

With her walking beside him, a radical notion dawned. In the past few weeks, he’d come to view Miss Genevieve Turner as more than a laborer working her way to a better life. He’d put her squarely on his level. No, he’d elevated her, a fine example of the fair sex.

They didn’t share the common ground of a childhood spent with tutors. Or learning to ride on the finest horseflesh money could buy. Nor had she spent her tender years whiling away summers with games or rambling the countryside in search of fun. Miss Turner had worked her whole life. And him? He’d concerned himself with his own entertainment. The foundation of his life and hers couldn’t have been more different. Different or not, blood raced in his veins from their kisses, and she reached satisfaction rubbing against him.

Flesh had a way of putting everyone on common ground.

He opened the barn door partway, a squall blasting them. Miss Turner faced the darkness, wind molding her skirts to her legs.

“I can still do the job of housekeeper, keep accounts and such,” she said above the storm. “Numbers don’t bother me. With words, I’m much better than I used to be.”

“That wasn’t my concern.” He clutched the open ends of his coat. “You’ve more than proven yourself.”

“Thank you, milord.”

He raised the lamp. “Will you let me help? With your reading.”

She pushed back the side of her hood. “You’d do that for me?”

His chest swelled. How incredulous she sounded. The way her voice lightened, one would think he’d gifted her with something better than gold.

“Every night. Whatever you want to read for however long.”

A feminine brow arched. “And you expect nothing in return?”

Rain sprinkled her exposed cheek. Dark eyes searched him as though the gift of unvarnished generosity troubled her. A twinge plucked his conscience strings. Their interlude had left him sorely wanting. The erection inside his breeches was proof. He craved Miss Turner, body and soul, but satisfaction would not come.

A fact he’d have to face. Again.