Page 36 of The Lord Meets His Lady
“Whiskey can be a devil that grabs hold of you and doesn’t let go,” she said. “Some men… It unhinges them.”
He studied the wall’s peeling paint, his plans for flirtation shriveling. The silver flask bulging in her pocket grated, a reminder of his vices…of why he was here in the first place.
“I can leave, if you’d rather be alone.”
A light craving scraped the back of his throat, but it would pass. The siren weakened every day, and truth be told, he liked Miss Turner as much as he lusted for her. Drained as he was, her companionship was effortless, a rare thing with women.
“Stay with me.”
His housekeeper dragged a stool that was near the water pump and, smoothing the back of her skirt, took her seat. “Something bothering you, milord?”
Her gentleness invited calm. They inhabited the smallest of rooms, yet the air, the walls opened up.
“Many things bother me.”
“Is it the cottage?”
Arms on the tub’s rim, he sank lower in the water. “Why do you say that?”
“Last night in the parlor, you were like a man walking into a jail cell.”
He studied the cheroot’s ash tip. “Coming back. It’s not all that bad.”
“Tonight, in the kitchen…” She plucked at her apron, her throaty alto slowing. “You were different…wonder-struck, I’d say.”
“You’ve had a good hand with the cottage. Worked miracles in one day.”
“Thank you, milord. I could say the same of you. You didn’t have to work so hard, but you did.”
He put the cheroot to his lips. “And now you’re closeted with an unhinged man.”
She followed his sight line to her pocket. At least she didn’t go running. No, Miss Turner surprised him and leaned in closer, setting her elbows on the tub’s rim, obscuring his view of the flask.
“You don’t look unhinged to me.” Steam dampened her thin amber tendrils. One lock stuck to her neck, curving over her collarbone. He wanted to free the gold strands and test their texture.
He flicked his cheroot, and ash dropped into the tub. “You guessed the source of my troubles. It’s why I’m here…to spare my family further scandal caused by my vices.”
“I’ve seen men in all kinds of bad places. But you’re far from being eaten up by it.” She touched his elbow, her voice quiet. “You know this about yourself. Best of all, you’re doing something about it.”
Tension evaporated from his shoulders. He was raw and open with his young, too-knowing housekeeper. Fire cast a warm glow behind her. Overhead, the small scullery window changed night from violet to black. The ease of sitting with her sank into his bones. She came from less-reputable places; the rules between them were lax. He could sit naked with her and not have some outraged mama charge in and demand marriage.
She made her own rules, deciding tonight to gift him with her thoughtful presence.
His mouth firmed on an ugly truth: men might have paid for her. Hadn’t he visited the Golden Goose in search of an actress or two? True, she wasn’t an actress, but that wouldn’t matter. Never had he thought of those women as having their own stories, their own wants. Or family. He understood why she wished for a new direction and why she feared it.
Genevieve Turner craved acceptance from the sole family member who’d deemed her unacceptable before she’d been born.
Sweat ran down his scalp. He raked a hand through his hair, his buttocks shifting on the hard tub bottom. “It strikes me that you’re fighting hard to assemble a family, while I’ve gone to great lengths to disassemble mine.”
“With whiskey and gambling.”
“My profligate ways have brought one headache after another to my brother.”
“You want to be a thorn in his flesh. Is that it?”
“Iexcelat it.” He inhaled from the cheroot, and facing the ceiling, he exhaled a ring of smoke.
“You don’t fight your brother, milord. You fight yourself.”
