Page 25 of The Lord Meets His Lady
Six
Marcus awoke to banging in his room and a rampant erection between his legs. His head was barely off the pillow when his new housekeeper yanked open his bed curtain, blinding him with sunlight.
“Good morning, milord.”
“Miss Turner. Good morning.” His eyes fluttered shut as his head sank back onto his soft pillow. “Why are you in my room at this ungodly hour?”
Grommets scraped, and cold invaded his warm haven. His housekeeper charged about as though she’d launched a morning sortie and he was her lone target.
“Call me Miss Abbott. And I’m here because Mr. Beckworth asked me to wake you.”
Marcus slanted his arm over his eyes. “Might I remind you that you work for me now?”
A feminine titter came from the vicinity of his fireplace, where the infernal clanging got louder. Was her insistence that he call her Miss Abbott a rebuke? She’d been fine with Miss Turner when they were alone yesterday. Ah, but this was a new day, evidenced by the exuberant morning attack. He’d find a way to smooth things over with Samuel and Miss Turner, but first things first. Every house, big or small, ran on clearly understood expectations.
He was a simple man with simple requests. A few guidelines were all she needed.
His arm flopped down, and he pushed up on both elbows. Miss Turner bent over at the hearth, dumping ashes into a red pail. She could be ringing an off-key church bell with her energetic cleaning or calling the morning muster.
“Mr. Beckworth asked me to remind you that ‘today you start making amends.’”
“Wait. Samuel’s here?”
“That’d be the only way he could ask me to awaken you.” More metal banged. “He’s in the barn with Adam. They’re getting ready to repair a fence. You’re expected.”
He sat up and scrubbed a hand over his face. The business venture startedtoday? Looking lower, he couldn’t get out of bed, not with the telltale bulge between his legs. Miss Turner’s fine hips bent over at his fireplace didn’t help. Honey-colored hair spilled to her waist, held back by linen banding the crown of her head. The linen strip had been tied off in a white bow below her ear.
The effect was messy and…desirable.
“Then we’ll discuss expectations later, but you need to know I’m not an early riser.”
“I am.” She walked to the end of his bed, her curt gaze falling on tented linen. “And parts of you are, I daresay. As to expectations, I say we discuss them now.”
Miss Turner was full of vinegar, a sergeant in russet skirts, one familiar with the rhythms of men. Both arms were folded under ample breasts, pushing her shift’s white drawstring bow over a low-cut bodice. Tavern maids and fast widows favored the enticing neckline. He ought to purchase more gowns and a mobcap for her. The apron was the only housekeeperish thing she wore.
He sat up, tucking rumpled sheets over his erection. “You have me at a disadvantage here.”
“What? Your John Thomas?” She shrugged, the drawstrings dancing lively. “I’ve seen more full salutes at the Goose than you ever did in the army. Now about those expectations.”
He chuckled, the sound raspy as an old saw. “Very well. I don’t like waking up cold. I expect you to stoke the morning fires.”
A brow arched. “There’s no coal, and you lack sufficientwoodfor a decent fire.”
Miss Turner’s quip roused him. “I’ll see to the firewood supply. Is there anything else I can do to make your time in service here easier?”
Morning light shined, catching the dark-coffee hues of her eyes. “Ohhh…that’s right. You’re Lord Trustworthy, helper of women in need.”
He accepted the barb. There was no denying the truth. He had manipulated circumstances to get her here. Miss Turner was miserly with her trust, doling it out in pieces before pulling back. He’d once seen a tiny sea creature in the West Indies—a hermit crab, the natives called it. She reminded him of the creature, which lived partly exposed. Any intrusion, and it shrunk back into its shell.
“I have a few requirements, milord. Your cottage is much bigger than the Beckworths’. I’ll need help. A laundress certainly.”
“If a laundress helps,” he said, his hand sweeping wide, “by all means find one.”
“And a charwoman too.”
“Hire a laundressanda charwoman if you must.” He paused. “For a week.”
“I already did. Mr. Beckworth suggested the Dutton sisters.” She paused. “They’ll be in service for as long I need.”
