Page 97 of The Lord Meets His Lady
“Oh.”
“But that’s not the worst.”
“No?”
“It’s said her husband already had a wife in Ireland. A woman he’d married twenty years ago,” Lily said, hissing the news.
“How awful.”
Lily leaned in close. “You see? Even though it’s not her fault, her reputation’s so tainted you’ve nothing to worry about. Tongues’ll wag about her. They already are.”
London saw its share of bigamists and marriage deserters. Genevieve scratched a circle in the pine table. Desertion of marriage. If one person deserted another, left for seven years, the injured husband or wife could remarry. She could disappear, and Lord Bowles would eventually be free of her. It was one of the ideas tossed about last night.
She could run now.
“People say he was an awful man,” Lily said, warming to her tale. “Mrs. Grey, the baron’s sister, came in yesterday. Plans to stay.” She smiled. “She’s as brazen as they come, or so I’ve heard.”
“She sounds like a force of nature.”
“I’m sure you’ll meet her, miss…or should I call you ‘my lady’?” Lily winked, and they both laughed.
“No. We’ll carry on as usual.” Genevieve breathed easier because of the conversation. “Remember, it’s a secret.”
Outside the kitchen window, the Pallinsburn forest loomed beyond the garden. The skies darkened, heralding the day’s end. The cottage door opened. Boots brushed the boot wipe. From the stairs, Ruby called down a greeting to Alexander Beckworth.
Alexander’s broad shoulders filled the kitchen doorway. “Miss Dutton, your brother’s here to collect you.”
Water glistened at his hairline. He must’ve splashed his face and retied his queue, because not a single dark strand of hair was loose after the day’s labor. He stood, hat in hand, giving both women a close-lipped smile before slipping away.
Lily gawked at his retreating back. “Looks like I need to leave.”
“Perhaps I’m not the only one with secrets.”
Lily fussed with her neckerchief, her cheeks shading pink. “Alexander Beckworth is a fine man, but he’s not long for our village.” She pushed off the seat. “Seems all the good men have other places to go.”
* * *
Hot water rinsed his chest, cleansing him of the day’s trials. Several stones had crumbled on the eastern fence. Alexander and Adam had gotten into scuffles as brothers did, and an ancient mare with cracked hooves was close to foundering. The old dame patiently let him run his hands along her spine and check her hooves. Her trusting brown eyes soaked up his every move. He’d examined her hoof, but letting it drop to the ground, she knew. So did he. She wouldn’t be long for this world.
The crowning thorn of his day was the Prussian’s accusation.
“You play at being a virtuous man.”
He soaked the washcloth in the tub. Was it bad to want Genevieve Turner for himself? For however long she’d have him? To indulge in a dalliance with his housekeeper would be wrong.
But a man could have a tryst or two with his wife.
A dark-blue skirt sashayed past the scullery. The wordwifetasted good in his mouth with Genevieve in the role. Wooing her to his bed was one thing. Keeping her there was another. That was what he wanted. Sitting tall in the bath, he craned his neck for a better view of her. Genevieve leaned over the table, checking a bread bowl, her skirts swaying. Low-heeled shoes peeked from the hem of a drooping cream-colored underskirt.
He wanted to tug it.
Black wool covered slender ankles. He’d yet to see her bare skin there. He’d seen her bottom, her breasts. Caressed them. Kissed them. Yet, despite last night’s intimacy, his new wife came and went as if he wasn’t there.
He picked up the sodden cloth and rolled the soap in it, following her quiet, ignoring-his-existence back. “How are we going to address each other?”
Genevieve turned around and planted her bottom on the table’s edge, bracing both hands beside her. She cocked her head to see him through the scullery doorway. “By our names. It’s what people usually do.”
His wife caught her bottom lip between her teeth. The motion excited his nether regions.
