Page 63 of The Lord Meets His Lady

Fourteen

Genevieve plunked the water bucket inside the stall. “Hot, salted water as you requested.”

Lord Bowles crouched to pour the salt water into a shallow wooden box. His muscled thighs moved with grace in wool breeches above well-worn hip boots on long legs. Forearms flexing, he tipped the bucket, flashing the black horse tattoo. He’d long ago removed his coat and rolled up his sleeves.

Heat singed her cheeks when she stared long at the leather folds ending inches above his knees. She’d ridden those leather folds and wouldn’t hesitate to do so again. Sex was on her mind, but not his lordship’s. The master of Pallinsburn traded quips with her, but he spent his day courting four-legged creatures with masterful care.

“You won’t haul anything upstairs for me,” he teased, setting aside the bucket. “But you’ll haul water through a mud-drenched yard for a horse.”

She removed her cloak and hooked it on the beam. “If you’re injured, milord, I promise to haul buckets of water wherever you want.”

His hands fascinated her, attractive and long fingered. What would happen if he touched her bare skin? At the moment, he was mashing a fresh poultice with a mortar and pestle, working a potion the same as the old apothecary she’d frequent off Lombard Street.

Stone clinked against stone. “Is that it? A man has to be injured to win your attention.”

“If you’re laid up in bed, I’ll see to your needs.”

“Don’t tempt me.” He grinned, grinding the pestle’s round head against the bowl.

In and out. With small, careful strokes, he rolled his tool inside the mortar with precision. He was a man who had a care with menial tasks. The hour was late, yet his smile was a broad slash of white in a dirt-streaked face. Queue in disarray, his shirt open at the neck, Lord Bowles mixed his concoction, a man born to heal horses.

She leaned against the stall’s post. “I’d say you’re in your element.”

The mashing paused. “Don’t let on with Samuel. I want him miserable for at least another day.” He set down the bowl and dipped a hand inside.

“Is this about the gambling?”

His thumb rubbed circles over four fingertips, testing the remedy. “You heard that.”

“When I brought the linen strips earlier. I couldn’t help it.”

“We were”—Lord Bowles paused, searching the air—“discussing the merits of my gambling.”

“More like the merits of younotgambling, if I heard you right.”

“Exactly. With cards, my talent is passable at best.”

“But it’s not the gaming, is it?”

He sniffed the poultice on his fingers. “I need to stay above reproach…not even a whiff of scandal. The name ‘Marcus Bowles’ and ‘gambling’ in the same sentence won’t sound good.”

“Because of your brother looking for a bride.” She cast a sidelong glance at the new row of horses. “Wouldn’t it be worthwhile to make a go of it one more time? To save these horses? We’re far away from London, milord.”

He wiped his hands on a piece of linen and tossed it into an overflowing bucket of rags. “While Samuel’s assured of the outcome, I’m not.” Lines etched the sides of his mouth. “It will bemesitting at the table.”

“A gambler who’s lost his edge.” She toyed with the laces on her gown. “Could be a simple matter of sharpening your skills.”

Lord Bowles stilled, his satyr’s smile gleaming at her from the shadows. “As in finding the rightwhetstone?” His raspy chuckle was sensual. “Miss Turner, you are a surprise.”

Her skin tingled, more alive for the aromas of leather and hay and being near him. Little things snared her attention. His cambric shirt opened at the neck, the white edges grazing his skin. The plain gray waistcoat he wore enfolding a lean waist. She already knew his chest was nicely muscled and covered with a dusting of hair. Despite her general ease with men, she stood in an unknown place. This was his world, and she was in it. The stamped earth should be level underfoot, but she couldn’t shake the sense of having stepped on uncertain ground.

“While I’d like to further our conversation, this little beauty requires attention.” Lord Bowles crouched low and tested the hot, salty water.

“What are you going to do?”

“Put her hoof in this pan. She has a small abscess. Then I’ll wrap a poultice around her hock.” Forearm resting on his knee, he nodded at the joint. “She has a cut there.”

“Won’t the salt sting?”