Page 124 of The Lord Meets His Lady
Thirty
Lord Barnard turned heel and exited the parlor. The cottage door slammed shut. Genevieve flinched, staring at the empty hallway. Icy coldness seized her. The loss of the stallion last night…the money.
“Lord Barnard. Wait!” she yelled and dashed to the front door. If she could stop the man. Leave with him now…
Footfalls thumped behind her. Beyond the door, Lord Barnard’s voice carried, snapping orders at his servants. She lunged for the iron latch.
Strong hands grabbed her and spun her around. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to stop this disaster I created,” she cried.
“You did nothing wrong.”
“Let me go.” She fought to break free, yelling, “Lord Bar—”
Lord Bowles clamped a hand over her mouth and pinned her against the door. Blood coursed in her veins. Outside, a carriage door slammed shut. Horses snorted. Men shouted. She struggled, but her husband’s body made a formidable wall.
“Not more than an hour ago, you said you trusted me with your life,” he growled into her ear. “Now you’ve lost faith in me?”
Hair fell across her eyes. Panting hard, she tasted his salty skin mashing her lips.
Faith in him?If he only knew how much he meant to her.
She’d already crashed headlong into all-consuming want when it came to Lord Marcus. She craved the man, but he’d not last. Their arrangement, meant to save her, was destroying him…and little by little it was crushing her. The vain hope. To be with Lord Marcus and make Pallinsburn their home? This was foolish playacting.
It could never be.
Lord Barnard had spewed offal today, but there were bits of truth in what he’d said. She was no lady. One plea to Reinhard would solve everyone’s problems. He’d return the stallion, the money, and she’d go away with him. She would serve his whims. For six long years until her indenture was done. Or when he tired of her. Her leaving was the tidiest answer.
A whip cracked outside. She slumped, the fight draining out of her. Running away cost so much, a price she’d willingly paid. Dragging Lord Bowles in this deep wasn’t part of the bargain. He ought to be glad to wash his hands of her, yet his fierce glare kept her in place. Beyond the cottage door, harnesses jingled. Carriage wheels ground the earth. Noises of man and beast faded, leaving them alone. Brown hair loose from his queue, he eased his hand from her mouth and gripped her shoulder. The pad of his thumb pressed bare skin by her collarbone, at once invading and intimate.
“I was trying to get your stallion and your money back,” she whispered hoarsely.
“And offer what in return?” He bit out. “Yourself?”
His eyes burned hot, the gold shards a banked fire in hazel brown. Their hard slant accused her. The oak at her back was as unforgiving as the man.
“It doesn’t matter.”
Lines around his fine mouth deepened. “Yes. It does.”
What bothered him more? Her choosing to give herself up? Or his notion that she didn’t believe he’d be able to solve this?
“I’m still here.” Glancing at his hand on her shoulder, she attempted a smile. “You’ve got me stuck between a hard place and a hard man.”
“Don’t jest,” he snapped.
Her heart thumped faster. She’d come to learn he could be mercurial. Burying her hands in the folds of her skirt, she resisted the urge to touch him. Last night, this morning…everything was spinning.
“I took a lesson from you, milord, a dose of humor in a tense moment. It’s what you do.”
“I’m not laughing.” Nostrils flaring, he dipped his gaze to the creamy flesh spilling from her bodice. “Did you plan to barter yourself like common goods?”
Her chin tipped, nearly bumping his. “This is a mess of my own making. I’ll thank younotto judge how I clean it up.”
His scowl deepened. “I gave you my name.” From the parlor, the clock ticked. The touch under her collarbone lightened. His thumb rubbed minute circles, sliding lower, finding the upper curve of her breast. “We’re both up to our ears in messes of our own making,” he drawled, his thumb petting her breast. “Forgive me for believing we had a plan to help each other.”
And he let go.
