Page 55 of The Lord Meets His Lady

“I’ll have the pleasure of your company, Miss Turner. That will be enough.”

She gripped her cloak, a gentle smile brightening her face. “Shall we make a run for it, then?”

Miss Turner sped across the driveway, her red cloak flying. He shut the barn door and dashed after her, splashing through puddles. She pushed against the newly fixed cottage door and held it open for him. Laughing and shivering, they shed wet outer garments and shoes. The night’s adventure was like a fun romp in the rain.

Rubbing his hands together, Marcus eyed the dark parlor. “I’ll build a fire while you change.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort. Stoking fires is what I do.” Her lips twitched before she turned away. “And I know how you dislike chilly rooms.”

He set his gloves on the entry-hall table, fighting the urge to coddle her. A housekeeper’s position was a step up for her, however humble the home. Yet moments ago, they’d embraced with his hand on her bottom. Miss Turner hung up her cloak, her russet skirt molding to her hips. She wore no hip roll today.

His groin tightened and he flinched, bracing a hand on the entry table. He hadn’t quashed the storm in his breeches yet.

Oblivious to his ogling, Miss Turner swanned about like a sergeant leading a battle charge. Her long hair trailed down her back, held off her face today by a black linen strip banding her head. She sped into the parlor on a mission to light a fire.

He took the stairs stiffly. Though he was tired from the long ride to Learmouth, his enthusiasm grew for cracking open a book. What else would he learn tonight? Changing into dry breeches and a fresh shirt and waistcoat, he willed his aching erection to subside. Before he left his chamber, he selected a book from the mantel, one of the few he enjoyed. Grinning at the title, he was sure his housekeeper would find it amusing too.

Downstairs in the parlor, Miss Turner waited for him on a six-legged mahogany bench that she’d pushed up to the fireplace. The plain piece lacked cushions, a scrolled back the only sign of luxury.

The old bench creaked as she swiveled to face him. “You brought a book.”

“I did.” He walked to the plush settee and tested the seat. “Wouldn’t you rather sit here? It’s softer.”

“But harder to clean.” Nose wrinkling, she waved a hand over her attire. “My skirt’s dirty. I’d mess up the lovely velvet.”

From the first night, he’d seen her look longingly at the purple settee. He’d find a way to get her on the velvet. For tonight, the unforgiving bench would keep him from giving in to baser urges.

Taking a seat beside her, he spied wet hems with frayed strands dragging on the floor. Black-stockinged feet peeked from under her skirt. Threadbare wool covered the arch of her foot.

“You’re not wearing shoes.”

They’d just kissed each other thoroughly in the barn, complete with her riding his thigh while his hand clenched her ripe bottom, but the personal nature of stockinged feet touched him.

One of her brows arched with reprimand. “You’re staring, milord.” How did a simple kiss turn into this?

Wool-covered toes disappeared beneath the curtain of her skirt.

“Startled is all.” He motioned to the fire. “Please, warm your feet if it soothes you.”

The bench creaked as he kicked off his shoes and stretched his legs before the fire.

She tapped his book. “What’s this?”

“A play by William Congreve calledLove for Love.” He tilted the spine end up.

“May I?”

He passed over the book, watching her run a finger over the gold-embossed spine. Long, messy tendrils caught on his sleeve. The pressure of her thigh on his, her body sitting close, the hearth’s warmth and her own heat…the night settled in…agreeable, satisfying. His dark craving, the parched thirstiness, didn’t plague him at all. He glanced at the polished corner cabinet—empty—a thing he’d barely noticed. No bottles sat on the shelves.

Rustling pages brought him back to Miss Turner. She flipped through the book, her fingers tracing the text. Getting comfortable, he stuck two fingers inside his cravat and tugged until the cambric gave way.

Miss Turner’s sight line shot to the limp cloth. “You did mean what you said about our reading together.”

Firelight flared across her smooth cheek, highlighting fine freckles on her nose. Ah, the flat, serious line of her mouth was back.

“You think I’m trying to continue our interlude in the barn.”

“I’m very serious about my reading, milord.”