Page 62 of The Lord Meets His Lady

His mother’s stricken face tore Marcus’s heart to pieces. Hot childish tears burning, he launched himself at her skirts and held on tight. Would there be no more visits with Grandfather?

It was the day Marcus learned a chasm separated the classes. Crossing it drew blood.

Father snorted his disgust and turned on his heel. The marquis disappeared for two months into his lofty world before Marcus saw him again.

There’d been one more visit to Pallinsburn, snuck in when he was twelve. After the journey north, the marchioness wouldn’t risk the ire of her husband. He’d taken away her prized horses, sold them as punishment when he discovered her disobedience.

Beneath the brim of his hat, Marcus followed Miss Turner’s adventurous walk atop the stone wall.

If he dared form a connection with her, who would bleed when it ended?For he was no good at staying put.

The sucking sounds of wheels rolling through thick mud drew him back to his yard. Peter Dutton maneuvered his cart to the front step to spare his sisters mucking through the mess. Peter sprang from his seat, laughing at the spray of mud and water when he landed. He wore hip boots the same as Marcus. He helped the quieter, darker-haired sister—the one called Lily—onto the front step.

Marcus was obliged to assist Ruby Dutton, but when he offered his hand, she grabbed it and crashed into him as though she’d lost her footing. Her body rubbed fully against him, her gray-green eyes alight with mischief.

“Excuse me, milord,” she purred.

He grasped her game, but preoccupied as he was, he stepped back and swung open the cottage door in gentlemanly fashion.

“Happy to help, Miss Dutton.” He touched the brim of his cocked hat and smiled a halfhearted effort. He gave the other Miss Dutton the same courtesy. “Miss Abbott mentioned the laundry is piling high in the scullery.”

The sisters curtsied, and he shut the door once they were inside.

Peter Dutton reached for his leather satchel. “My apologies about Ruby, milord. Sometimes she forgets her place.”

Marcus waved off the apology. Shouts and bellows came from the east. The last of the new horses had been freed from their tethers. A trio galloped in wide circles, kicking up their hooves. Seeing their tails flying, he couldn’t help but sense their joy at being free to run in a good place.

Miss Turner ambled along the stone fence, clapping her delight. She’d grabbed his arm in the garden on behalf of those nags, her eyes shining in gentle plea as though he were a magician who could transform those horses. He’d welcome the chance to be half the man she thought he was.

Fresh wind fanned her skirts and cloak, revealing a fair bit of leg. She had to be oblivious, caught up in the beauty of the horses’ glee.

A discreet cough brought him back to his front step. Peter Dutton stood before him, holding out some letters. “Your post, milord.”

Marcus accepted the post, eyeing the old chicken coop by the barn. “Do you know where I can get some chickens?”

“Pullets and a rooster?” Peter tucked his satchel under his arm. “There’s a farmer in Berwickshire. Give me a few days. I should be able to deliver a half dozen. Any other birds, milord? Some geese perhaps?”

Chuckling, Marcus pulled coins from his waistcoat pocket and dropped them into Peter’s hand. “No geese. Only chickens. I’m sorely outflanked by geese these days.”

The lad surveilled the yard bare of fowl and gave him an odd gape. “If you say so, milord.”

Marcus riffled through the post. A missive from the marchioness. Something from his favorite tobacconist in London. A note from his brother. Elegant parchment with a stag stamped in thick red wax, Baron Atal’s invitation. He split the seal.

Peter Dutton slogged two steps through mud before he stopped. “There’s one more thing, milord,” he said, digging a slip of paper from his satchel. “That woman you’re searching for…Maude Turner. I found her.”