Page 58 of The Lord Meets His Lady

His hand covered hers, gripping his waistcoat. “I won’t. You have my word.”

He squeezed her hand, wanting to assure her safety, but the promise would ring hollow. Whatever chased Miss Turner was beyond that experienced by the usual damsel in distress.

“Please don’t think badly of my mother. She had hopes for me,” she said quietly. “She didn’t want me to follow her same path.”

“With men.”

“With lifting my skirts for coin.” Chin tipping a fraction, she looked at him with brown eyes full of challenge. “Is that what you wanted to know? Did I earn my keep like the actresses?”

His bland smile stuck in place.

“Yes. Sometimes I did,” she said, pulling away, fussing with her skirt. “Don’t worry about asking the obvious question, milord. Your curiosity got the best of you.”

At least she trusted him with some secrets from her past. The knowledge softened him, made him want to make everything better. He didn’t like that men had paid for the privilege to touch her, but this was her past, what made her the woman sitting beside him.

“Then we’ll meet every night to work on your reading. That ought to ensure a better future for you.” He tried for lightness, but his voice was gruff. The desire to protect her against this unknown threat vexed him.

“Every night?”

“If it pleases you, I’ll search out pamphlets on the dullest subjects I can find.”

“Thank you.” She laughed, her eyes shining.

He squirmed, the wood squeaking beneath him, her open, grateful features damning his lustful soul. Moments ago, he’d ogled her lovely breasts, and he wouldn’t hesitate to do so again. He was a knave of the worst order.

Clearing his throat, he picked up the leather tome. “For our first lesson, are you sure I can’t interest you in debauched comedy with a twist of romance?”

“No. I’ve had enough of plays to last a lifetime.”

“Ah, that’s right. The Golden Goose. You know they don’t feature the same fare as what I have here.” He hefted the book higher, waggling his eyebrows. “You’re sure?”

“Quite,” she said, pushing the book away. “We’ll save that for future reading.”

In their intimate seating, her breasts brushed his arm and she smiled, a young woman with a carefree life. This ease…it was something she deserved every day.

Miss Turner tapped the pamphlet. “I crave knowledge of a different nature.”

He set down the book, his face pulling with mock pain. “Well, torturous educational material it is.”

They settled in to read, their bodies finding alignment on the bench. The fire crackled warmly. Miss Turner curled both legs beneath her skirts. Both their heads bent over the page. Her mouth opened and she formed the words, some with confidence, some with trepidation…

“‘As frequent mention is made in the public papers from Europe of the success of the Phil-a-del-phi-a experiment for drawing the electric fire from the clouds…’”

He listened and read with her. Miss Turner, his housekeeper and friend, poured all her attention on the page, and the heaviness of her earlier half confession hit him square in the chest.

“If I tell you what happened, you’ll be compelled to do something about it.”

How could he help her if she wouldn’t let him?

Outside, the storm pounded windows bare of curtains. The forest loomed black through water-blurred glass. He rubbed his nape, wiping away an unpleasant prickling sensation. An ancient shade could have been whispering a warning: trouble would come knocking—soon.

What had Miss Turner done?