Page 11 of The Lord Meets His Lady
Her arm burned from working against the spindle’s tension and weight of the heavy roast by her knees. She was about to give him a setdown, but she spied that silly hole in his stocking and softened.
“Noflirting, milord.”
He smiled boldly. “On my honor, none. We’ll be solemn as clergymen.”
“Clergymen.” She huffed and blew a wayward wisp of hair off her face. “A few minutes. No more.”
He crossed the kitchen and took a seat at the table. She cranked harder. The string was nearly wound around the pulley.
“What is this offer of yours?”
“I’ve been thinking about what you said on Devil’s Causeway…about runningtosomeone. Do you know where this person is?”
“Not exactly.”
“Why not let me help you? I spent part of my childhood here. I know the district well. Conducting your search alone will be doubly hard.”
“That’s how I work, milord. Alone. Then a body doesn’t have to rely on anyone.”
Legs sprawling, he clasped his fingers over his midsection. “You’d refuse help?”
Her cranking stalled. He wasn’t seeking a dalliance? A glimpse of his face showed he was serious.
“You’re very kind, but I must do this on my own.” She finished the rotations. The string was tightly wound. Her thumb flipped the mechanism, and she waited.
A gear clicked. One. Then another. And another. Shiny cogs pulsed with clocklike efficiency, the tick almost musical. A hook spun at the bottom of the spindle jack, and from there a slender chain stretched into the cooking hastener by her knees, slowly turning a roast. Machinery worked well together, unlike people. If a mechanism broke, a little tinkering or a replacement part made the thing work again. Not so with people. There was never an easy fix with people.
Lord Bowles cleared his throat. “Why not use me to a good end? I already know your secret.”
She dragged her attention from the brass cogs and faced the hearth, smirking to herself. The man probably wasn’t used to clearing his throat for female attention. Her back to Lord Bowles, she jabbed the poker at burning logs. “Pardon me for saying so, milord, but you really know nothing at all.”
“Then why not trust me a little more? You did three nights ago.”
Trust?The word scalded her.
She speared a log with too much fervor, and flames flared high. Why did he want to meddle in her affairs? It would’ve been better if he’d asked for a dalliance. Sex was never personal. Hot and sweaty, two bodies giving pleasure…a thing to be enjoyed, but not intimate like exchanging trust. Lord Bowles sat comfortably in the kitchen asking probing questions, looking as if he’d ask more, and she was supposed to serve him coffee.
Direct refusals didn’t work with his lordship. Certainly subtle evasions would. She set down the poker and retrieved two coffee mugs to fill them. He was her employer’s honored guest and a man who knew too much about her. At the table, her bulging pocket came into view. How easy it’d be to hand over Elise’s letter. She could ask him to read it aloud, but she’d have much to explain. Too much. It was better, safer, to slip into the world of bland servitude.
She picked up iron tongs and waved them at the table’s sugar loaf. “Do you take sugar with your coffee, milord?”
Keen hazel eyes pinned her. “One small pinch, please. And you haven’t answered my question.”
She nipped the sugar and dropped the sweetener in his coffee and hers. The chunks bobbed helplessly in dark liquid.
“Why me?” She slid his cup across the table. “Until three nights ago, you couldn’t recall my name. I was nothing more than a bawdy-house worker to you.”
“A fair point. It’s as simple as I want to help you. You’re in some kind of distress.”
“Do I look like a woman in distress?” Her bottom found the chair facing him. “Forgive me, but in my experience, when men offer to help, it usually carries a price.”
Sunlight spilled over her morning visitor. With his good looks and gentleman’s demeanor, he could be an archangel come for a visit to sleepy Cornhill, but she knew better. Her lips twisted on hard-learned, bitter truth.
Men always got their needs met.
Lord Bowles stared out the kitchen window, his fine profile a stark relief against limestone walls. The steaming coffee cup ignored, a somber pall washed over him. His shoulders bunched under the brown velvet coat as if he wrestled with an unseen weight.
“Would you accept my offer purely as a bid for friendship?”
