Page 107 of The Lord Meets His Lady
“It is, but I’m not going in there without you.” He grinned. “Did I mention you’re saving Samuel from torture? He’s the worst gambler.”
Her dark eyes gleamed, and for a moment, the rest of the world slipped away. “Very well. The sooner we get in there, the sooner we can go home.”
Home.He liked the sound of it coming from her.
They linked arms and headed to the parlor where Marston waited, his eyes averted.
At their approach, Marston announced, “Lord and Lady Bowles.”
They stepped into the salon awash in shades of yellow. Murals full of birds decorated the walls as though the winged creatures flew across a sunlit sky. Timber rafters rose floor to ceiling, joining at a center point overhead, mimicking a giant birdcage. Men lounged in chairs and settees, nursing drinks in lace-cuffed hands. The baron waved a greeting and pushed off from the mantel, but not before Marcus spied Samuel across the room.
Tense lines rimmed Samuel’s mouth. He sipped from a glass, his stance rigid.
“Ah, Bowles. It’s been a long time.” Baron Atal’s near-black hair was coiffed with two pomade curls above his ears. He welcomed Marcus, but his curious stare devoured Genevieve.
“Atal, please forgive our lateness.” Marcus nodded and made introductions.
“Did I hear Marston correctly? Lady Bowles?” The baron sketched a bow, flashing even, white teeth. “I think I understand the reason for your tardiness.”
Beside him, Genevieve tried to execute a curtsy, but she froze mid-dip. Her face was curiously pale. Men dressed in pastel silks stirred from their seats, the room humming with conversations. A few heads dipped casually at Marcus and Genevieve’s entrance, only to snap back again at the sight of her.
“You grace our gathering, Lady Bowles, and you’ll save my sister from boredom. Mingling with men set on hunting and gaming is not her forte.”
Genevieve’s fingers dug into Marcus’s arm. “Thank you for your kind welcome, Baron.”
Samuel strode grim-faced across the room. Marcus’s ears began to ring. Similar pressure had hit him once when he was in the West Indies and a hot storm had swept through Saint George’s Town. Baron Atal babbled about the games, waving a hand at baize tables arced along the wall, cards stacked and backgammon boards at the ready. Tucked near potted plants, a large man in black broadcloth idly spun a roulette wheel.
A fine prickle skimmed Marcus’s nape. The man turned around.
Herr Wolf.
