Page 105 of The Lord Meets His Lady
“Pffft. Now you sound like a gypsy trying to read my fortune for a coin.”
“Pure calculated guesses. A person’s gait, their clothes say a lot.”
She studied him through narrowed eyes.
“You don’t believe me.” His raspy chuckle filled the carriage. “Tell me this. On your travels, whenever the coach was stuck, did you tell the other women to stand aside?”
“Yes.”
“Of course you did,” he said, nodding slowly. “Butyouhelped the watchman push the coach uphill and out of the mud.”
Her jaw dropped. “How did you know?”
“A fair guess. From how you looked after them. A gambler’s skill…reading others.”
“Then you must be a very good gambler.”
“My luck ran out this year.”
Silence passed, marked by carriage wheels rolling over ruts in the road. Red velvet curtains swung heavily. He pushed the velvet aside and took stock of the castle in the distance.
“The drink,” she said quietly, following his stare.
Torches burned from crenels and merlons as in days of old at Castle Atal. No knights walked the ramparts, but a battle would rage all the same. Tonight would test Marcus’s ability to forego strong spirits while he gambled.
“This may be silly of me, but what do Ruby Dutton’s skirts tell you?” she asked, smoothing a wrinkle in her skirt.
His gaze slid sideways, careful as a hunter considering his prey.
Genevieve fussed with gold lace on her bodice. “I only wonder because she’s pretty and the only redhead in Cornhill-on-Tweed. And you did seek those red-haired tavern maids in Learmouth.”
“Jealous, are you?”
“Not one bit.”
“Liar,” he said softly.
Genevieve bristled. He’d ruffled her feathers. She was unable to accept or admit that she held some tendre for him. Such stalwart defenses…all the better for him to break down with sensual persuasion.
He let the curtains drop. “The only woman I want has amber hair and a stubborn penchant for rules.”
“I’m not stubborn.”
“No?” His fingers grazed her cheek, her neck before curving around her nape. “You don’t clean chamber pots.”
“I have. Remember the pamphlet?”
He dropped the lightest kiss on top of her creamy breast. “And I’m the master of Pallinsburn, yet I bathe in the scullery,” he said, lingering over the curve. He could nibble her plumpness, enough to taste and mark her. Instead, he drank in her scent of clean air and soap and a hint of exotic perfume that still clung to the once tawdry gown.
The carriage jostled them. Her knees banged into his, and he pulled away.
Genevieve’s bodice dug into her breasts from labored breaths. “You never objected.”
“And you didn’t sleep with me last night,” he murmured.
Her pupils spread dark and liquid like a Venetian courtesan’s. He leaned close, and her breath stirred his cravat. Lips parting, she clutched his thigh with both hands.
The carriage lurched to a halt.
