Page 35 of The Lord Meets His Lady
“You know what would make this perfect?” he asked.
“Let me guess. Me scrubbing your back?” Her tone was bored.
“No. A cheroot. I enjoy a good smoke at the end of day.”
She whipped around, the poker in hand. “You want a cheroot?”
Did shewantto scrub his back? Fire crackled and snapped behind her. Miss Turner’s hair fell in disarray like a maid of ancient lore.
“I usually have one in the evening, but I wouldn’t turn down a back scrub.” He waggled his brows. “If you’re offering.”
“Scrub your own back.” The poker clanked against the wall. Her high color could be from the sultry room, or from being upset by his rebuff of her small advance—because he’d lay odds she’d come to do more than collect the laundry.
“Wait.” He sat up, sloshing water. “Please stay. For conversation only.”
She snatched clothes and boots off the floor. “You mean the kind betweenfriends.”
“Is there anything better?”
Laundry on her hip, Miss Turner lingered in the doorway. Her dark eyes burned, and there was no mistaking the proud tilt of her chin. “So, it’s friendly conversation and a cheroot you’re wanting.”
If this was fishing, the hook bobbled close to the fish’s mouth.
“You are a mind reader. That’s what makes you the best housekeeper.”
“All of four days, milord.” She gave him the once-over, shifting her load, his smalls dangling from the balled-up garments.
“You’re a fast learner.”
“And where would I find your cheroots?IfI decided to get one for you.”
“In the chest Mr. Dutton delivered today.” He splashed water on his shoulder. “It’s by the stairs.”
She watched the droplets trickle down his arms and chest.
He scooped water over the other shoulder. “There’s a flat mahogany box inside the chest. Get that for me, and I’ll be forever in your debt.”
Her mouth curved up, though he wouldn’t say she smiled. His housekeeper disappeared into the kitchen, her russet skirts swaying briskly. “As you wish, milord.”
“Don’t forget to light it for me,” he called out.
There was an unceremonious thud of boots on the floor. He grabbed the soap, his chuckle raspy. Miss Turner had laid out her demands this morning; now it was his turn.
Flirtation was a language all its own with a different set of rules. Most men falsely believed the back-and-forth between men and woman had to be of the tender variety. Not true. Flirtation could come with a bite. So could sex. But this was not ground for the faint of heart. Intricate layers of rules awaited the combatant who wished to learn them.
Cardinal among those rules was cleanliness. Marcus rolled the soap in his hands. A quick wash of his hair, his face, and his arms was wise. A man made better headway with a woman when he was clean. He dunked twice in the tub and came up scrubbing his face.
When he opened his eyes, Miss Turner stood beside the water pump, cheroot in hand. Languid smoke curled from the hot, orange tip.
“As requested, milord.” She handed over the cheroot.
“Now who is the sainted one?” he crooned and put it to his lips, inhaling the robust flavor. Lightness in his head matched the euphoria coursing through his veins until Miss Turner pulled his flask from her apron pocket.
“I found this in the kitchen.” She pulled the wooden stopper and sniffed. “You prefer whiskey. Shall I fill it for you?”
“No. Put it away.”
On the other side of a smoky haze, she turned the flask over in her hands. One finger traced his initials etched in metal before dropping it in her apron pocket. Miss Turner’s brown eyes measured him. She had to have an inkling. A lot of men who fell prey to drink loitered at the Golden Goose.
