Page 12 of The Lord Meets His Lady
The startling question came out of nowhere.
“I don’t understand.Friendship?” She drew the word out, testing it like a foreign flavor.
His fingertips drew light circles on the table. “That is what I offer.”
Her spoon wove circles in her coffee, clinking inside her mug. What an irregular request. “And you offer friendship because…”
Lord Bowles turned in his chair, the wood creaking as he faced her. “Because you are a woman in need and I want to help. Because I enjoy talking with you and find that I like you. Because…” He searched the air, finishing testily, “Because I don’t know. Must a man list his reasons for doing a good turn?”
The stirring stopped, a strange notion striking her. Lord Bowles was somehow at her mercy, a man in need, and she was the one he wanted to fill it.
A faint scowl marred his features. “Are you always this difficult, Miss Turner?”
“I’m afraid so, milord. Growing up, my mother was at her wit’s end with me.”
The breezy admission slipped out. She could blame it on stunning events of late. Twice in one day, Lord Bowles had accomplished what few men had done in her lifetime. He’d shocked her in the best way, first announcing he believed her when she said she’d not harm the Beckworths, and now this, a man seeking conversation and friendship because he found talking with her a pleasure. True, he’d ogled her breasts, but not once did he paw them or pinch her bottom.
This turn was unusual and…nice.
Lord Bowles sighed and braced a hand on the table. “Perhaps this was a bad idea.”
“Wait.” She grasped his sleeve. “You’re giving up already?”
“I’ll not force my friendship on you.”
Did he mean it? Friendship? A feather could’ve knocked her over.
“If you’ll beg pardon, milord, friendship between the likes of you with me… It’s most irregular.”
“It is.” His voice was honest and gentle. She was tempted to bask in it after a lifetime surrounded by brusque men.
“And me being a woman from less respectable parts has nothing to do with your…offer?”
Her cautious question touched the heart of the matter like flint striking steel. Lord Bowles held her stare, the golds and greens of his hazel eyes burning bright.
“You think I’m seeking you out for bed sport.”
“It crossed my mind.”
The barest pause passed. A moment, she suspected, when Lord Bowles decided to tell the truth.
“It crossed mine too,” he admitted.
Her knees went slack, and she let go of his velvet sleeve. Despite his gentlemanly bid for friendship, a current thrummed between them. The heat could singe wood, yet their voices hardly reached above a whisper. The spindle jack ticked as steadily as her pulse. Grease droplets sizzled inside the hastener. Rosemary and thyme clouded the kitchen, the domestic aromas a contrast to their peculiar conversation.
“How old are you?” he asked. “Nineteen?”
“Twenty.”
“That’s why I couldn’t remember you,” he said, relaxing in the chair. “And since we’re being honest, I prefer my bed partners closer to my age. When I met you two years ago, I would’ve deemed you too young.”
Her lips suppressed a smile. “Then I’d be too young for you now. Is that it?”
He nodded, his mouth quirking sideways. Penetrating hazel eyes told her otherwise, but she’d let that bit of fiction rest and not prod him overmuch.
“And now you want friendship.With me.”
“It’s been awhile since I’ve found a woman interesting.” Tiredness slackened the corners of his eyes, and his charming smile faded.
