Page 61 of The Lord Meets His Lady
“You don’t want to be here in the first place. I’ll do this properly and write the marchioness, ask to lease the land and pay her next year.” Samuel faced the meadow where a pair of horses frolicked. “I’m setting you free. Isn’t that what you want?”
Marcus’s arms swung wide. “We’ve barely started.”
An icy breeze blew past, roiling clouds overhead. Sunlight etched dark clouds with gold, shining down on Miss Turner climbing the stone wall.
“I was wrong to burden you with my tale of woe,” Samuel said gruffly. “I’ll stumble through on my own. But I’d be grateful if you did this last thing for me before you moved on.”
“No need to write any letters.”
Samuel cocked his head at him, his blue eyes narrowing. “Have you discovered the merits of rustication?” He checked Miss Turner from under the brim of his hat. “Or should I thank your housekeeper for this change of heart?”
Marcus rolled a casual shoulder, his attention on the woman atop the fence. “You could say I’ve discovered there’s some merit to our business arrangement.”
“You’re telling me a certain woman has nothing to do with this…merit?”
Miss Turner was a vibrant spot of red and gold midst earthly hues of stone and land. Wind caught her cloak and hair, a flag both men watched.
“She’s…” Something twisted in Marcus’s chest when she glanced his way.
Skirling winds molded plain skirts to her legs. Miss Turner could be a sailor braving stormy seas for all the strength she exuded, yet only last eve she’d curled up beside him, trusting and honest, baring her troubles and practicing her reading.
“She’s a singular young woman,” he finished, turning to Samuel. “No more ambushing each other. Are we agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“But I make no promises about the gambling. I’ll consider writing the marchioness for a loan.”
Another cart slogged off the road. Peter Dutton.
Samuel jutted his chin at the line of horses tethered behind him. “I’ll take care of these mares. We need to repair the eastern gate before the next rains come.”
“And build new stalls in the barn,” Marcus added. He squished through the mud to the cottage’s front step to wait for Peter’s cart. Clouds roiled overhead, awakening old memories.
His vision blurred as Samuel’s line of horses rambled by. His grandfather’s steady voice rang in his head, teaching him to use a hammer as they built a chicken coop. His hand curled at his side, the feel of the hammer in it. Grandfather had slapped him on the back, singing praises to his youthful carpentry skills.
Marcus stared blankly into the yard, his hand flexing and curling at the memory of returning to Northampton Hall, the day he’d reported the accomplishment to his father. Father had peered down his nose at him with all the respect he gave an insect.
“Honoria,” his father boomed.
Weak-kneed Marcus stood, boyish arms at his side. That voice. Alarms rang in his head when he heard the forbidden use of his mother’s Christian name.
Mother’s heels echoed on marble floors. “Yes, what is it?”
Temperate until cornered, she was the calm in the storms that shook Northampton’s halls.
“An issue of mine used a hammer like some common laborer.” Lips thinning, the marquis clamped his hands behind his back.
“He was helping my father.” The marchioness folded demure hands against shiny skirts. “There was a storm. The chickens—”
“The chickens?” Father repeated with disgust. “No son ofmine will spend his day wielding hammers and tending animals. It’s common.”
A tiny frown marred her complexion. “You forget, Husband, you married a woman of common birth.”
“A rash decision. One I shall pay for the rest of my life.”
Mother’s fingertips turned white from hands clenched hard. Her hazel eyes flared as though she’d lash out, but she kept silent.
His father’s stern hand sliced the air. “I forbid you to take our children to Pallinsburn. They should be here or in the company of children of similar station.”
