Page 56 of The Lord Meets His Lady

He rubbed his throat where his shirt gapped open, tempted to feed her vivid descriptions of her enthusiasm in the barn. “I know you are. My necktie is off because it’s late. Nothing more.”

Trust was of the essence here. He wanted to help her and learn as much as he could about his mysterious housekeeper. If she shut herself away, he’d get nowhere.

Miss Turner gave back the leather-bound volume and picked up papers tucked beside her. “I prefer this for tonight’s reading.”

She held out timeworn papers spotted with water stains.

“Mr. Franklin’s pamphlet on electricity,” he said.

“Yes.” She curled one leg beneath her. “I’ve been working through this. What he did with silk and a glass rod…fascinating.”

“Exciting, I’m sure.”

“He found a way to transfer electricity and gather it in a jar. Can you imagine?” She flipped through pages until she found a diagram. “Look at this. It shows you how it’s done.”

He angled his head for a better view, catching the shadowed crevice between her breasts. Her bodice barely contained the tender mounds.

“See. The glass rod. Electricity travels through here.” Breath quickening, she traced the parts with her fingertip. “Then gathers here.”

Miss Turner’s sweet smell, her hair catching on his sleeve, her eyes lighting up with wonder… He wanted to feed her excitement, see this light burn in her and never be quenched. Arrayed in plain wool, her dark eyes sparkling and alert, she reminded him of the pretty wood pigeon. He couldn’t help but wonder what his grandfather would’ve thought of this strange, feminine creature.

He stretched an arm along the back rest. Miss Turner flipped to the beginning, her bottom wiggling on the seat. She talked about one discovery after another. So taken with the pamphlet, she scooted around, wedging her knee against his thigh. Her head was inches from his, but her animated attention owed nothing to him. It was rather leveling to take second place to a dry pamphlet more than a decade old.

“He starts by discussing lightning rods…calls the lightning ‘fire from the clouds’…” Her voice drifted off. “What? You’re staring, milord.”

Her hair was uncombed. A black bow, part of her makeshift hair ribbon, hung limp against her collarbone. Amber locks dangled in messy array.

“You fascinate me.”

He brushed the honey-gold cascade falling down her back. Firelight danced on ample curves plumping from her bodice, expanding with her excited breaths.

“I was going on, wasn’t I?”

“I liked it,” he said, twining an amber lock around his finger. “I couldn’t help but wonder what my grandfather would have thought of you. I’m certain he would’ve loved your thirst for knowledge.”

Rain splattered the parlor windows. Miss Turner leaned back and let him play with her hair, watching him keenly. Beneath him, the bench creaked. The feminine knee on his thigh pressed higher.

“You speak of your mother’s father. The man who once lived here.”

He nodded, interested in the play of colors winding around his finger. “If he met you, I’m sure he would’ve likened you to a wood pigeon.”

“Sounds quite common.”

“On the contrary, the wood pigeon is pretty. Many take it for granted, yet the bird’s resilient. Unstoppable…thriving just about anywhere.”

“But hardly noteworthy.”

“How about making history?” He singled out another amber lock, testing the silky strands.

Her nose wrinkled. “Pigeons?”

“The ancient Greeks reported Olympic winners with pigeons. Genghis Khan used them to send messages across his empire. So did sultans.”

Brow furrowing, Miss Turner dropped her attention to the pamphlet. He spoke as if she were acquainted with the same facts. Truth struck again, shining a light on the divide in their upbringing. She’d never learned of ancient Greece or the powerful Khan or sultans.

“Now I’m the one going on,” he said.

“Don’t stop. This is why I want to read. I want to know these things.”