Page 29 of The Lord Meets His Lady
Gritting her teeth, Genevieve attacked the weed.Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!“You mean”—Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!—“her flirting with Lord Bowles.” She gave another pull, and the weed yielded, its pale, wormy roots wiggling in the air.
“She’ll curb her ways, miss. I’ll see she does.”
Lips pursing, Genevieve sat back on her heels. His lordship could do with a little curbing himself. She tossed the weed on the swelling pile, their morning conversation coming to mind.
Harmless flirting indeed.
“Lord Bowles is a grown man,” she said, swiping hair off her forehead. “As long as Ruby does her work, I’ll not complain.”
Relief flooded Lily’s face. Her mobcap, once perched neatly on her brunette crown, skewed to the right, a sign of her honest day’s labor. With her pale skin and blue-gray eyes, she was pretty in a milkmaid sort of way.
Genevieve stood and shook out her cloak. “What do you say we have some tea? A proper rest before your brother comes for you.”
“I’d like that.” Lily rose and dusted off her hands, her smile bright as sunshine.
Tucking the vegetable basket into the crook of her elbow, Genevieve moseyed around the cottage, giving half an ear to Lily’s village gossip. Pallinsburn’s tumbledown grace whispered to her, asking to be renewed. Weeds grew knee-high in places. Warped gates leaned just so, but the barn was a fine sight. Faded yellow stones mixed with newly quarried sandstone, doubling the building’s size. The roof was freshly timbered. Hand-forged ironwork decorated two massive barn doors, the strap hinges flaring like embroidery across polished wood. The Dutton sisters had shared a rumor while cleaning. The Marquis of Northampton had poured money into Pallinsburn, they said, but the coffers had run dry.
Why would the marquis spend so much coin on a distant, rustic cottage?
At the cottage door, Genevieve spied Lord Bowles beckoning her, his other hand resting on his ax as if it were a fine gentleman’s walking stick.
Her heart flopped. “Here.” She passed the vegetable basket to Lily. “Please put water on to boil, and when it’s ready, fill the tub in the scullery.”
“Of course, miss.”
She walked to the barn, her cheeks flushing. Twilight painted the clouds with vibrant blues and violets. The north soaked into her the way perfumed oil clung to skin. Was it the run-down cottage begging for a kindly touch? Or the humble cottage’s master? With his coat off and leather gloves on, Lord Bowles was a man of the land.
“We’ve accomplished much today,” he boasted. “Two fences mended. One stone wall repaired. And”—he set one foot on the fallen tree like a conquering hero—“a tree that’s met its match.”
“Does humor shade everything you do?”
“Just about.” He moved off the tree with a swagger. “Life’s better that way. Why frown when you can smile?”
A breeze stirred. Loose blond strands floated around her face as he approached her in high spirits. Intent on his dazzling, dirt-smudged smile, she lifted the hem of her apron.
“You defeated a dead tree, milord.” She wiped grime off his jaw. “And smeared dirt here.”
He stilled, his hazel eyes keen, the line of his mouth gently open. Her apron hem snagged on day-old whiskers, the scratchy sound intimate. Sweat trickled down his jaw. Her officious dabbing stopped. She was touching him again. Her pulse ticked fast. They stood toe to toe, his breath on her forehead. His lordship’s carnal mouth was tempting. She tilted closer on her toes. The desire to put her lips to his was powerful. A horse’s loud neigh saved her.
Her hand holding the apron dropped. “Silly of me. You’re not a child.”
Stepping back, she refused to look higher than his mouth. Life was a trifle for Lord Bowles. His face would reflect triumph, confirmation of the sensual battle she fought hard to stifle.
“What?” she asked. “No retort?”
“Give me time. I’ll be back in form. I’m the worse for wear from today’s labor.”
His voice was rich with understanding and humor. Despite her best intentions, her fingers itched to touch the salty bead of sweat on his cheek and the burnished curl stuck to his neck. When it came to Lord Bowles, fighting fleshly urges could only be done wit versus wit.
“I agree you accomplished much. For four men,” she teased, her attention on the drop of sweat. “To think, three women managed to clean five rooms, an entry hall, andyour stairs, and clear a good many weeds while dinner cooked.”
“Do I detect another challenge, Miss Turner? Who can accomplish the most in a day?”
“Oh, it wouldn’t be fair.” She met his twinkling eyes.
Gold sparks burned bright amid the hazel forest green and earthy browns. “Fair or not, I’ll want a tour of my improved stairs,” he said, sounding very lordly. “A quality inspection, if you will.”
She shivered and pulled her cloak tighter, her laugh soft between them. His talent for self-mockery warmed her. Pompous men were as plentiful as ha’pennies.
