Page 66 of The Lord Meets His Lady
“To finish the gentling, you give them something they want,” he said, his mouth lingering over her shoulder. “Something sweet.”
His warm breath tickled the top curve of her breast, her collarbone, at the exact moment a damp, crescent-shaped object touched her palm.
She blinked, lifting her hand. “An apple slice.”
“Make your hand flat and stretch out your arm.”
Lord Bowles guided her hand to the horse’s mouth, and the offering was made. Velvety soft lips brushed her palm. The crunch was quick.
He kissed her temple and pulled away. “That’s how you gentle a horse.”
Her back was cold. Her heart pounded. Her nipples were tight and needy against her stays. Both legs could have been tied in knots, forbidding movement. Lord Bowles cleaned the stall, removing the pan with its now tepid salt water. He poured the dirty salt water into the bucket with the soiled rags.
“It’s not good for their hooves to be in water too long. Softens them.”
“Like what you did with me just now. Softened me, then left me standing here, my head spinning.”
The corners of his eyes crinkled. His smile brimmed with male satisfaction. He grabbed the bucket of soiled rags and set it outside the stall. “If we keep this up, we’ll eventually get caught. I’ve heard some of the villagers have taken to gossiping about us.”
She slipped into her cloak a tad grumpy. “What if I don’t care about gossip?”
“You should,” he said, untethering the horse. “That is, if a respectable new life is what you want.”
“Respectability can hang for all I care.” She tied the cloak under her chin.
This was a neat twist. The man she craved between her thighs fought valiantly for her honor. How ironic. Liquid heat coursed through her limbs. She was in a sluggish haze, wanting their bodies writhing hot and naked.
Lord Bowles shut the gate and slipped on his redingote and hat. Dressed in black in the barn’s dim interior, he could be a highwayman ready to ravish her—and she could do with a good ravishing. The notion of him being a highwayman had struck her the first night when he tore across the meadow near Lowick village, brandishing his pistol.
She wasn’t sure what to make of this…of their comfortable companionship and flagrant lust. Lord Bowles plied friendliness and flirtation with consummate skill. A woman had to be quick on her feet with him.
He was slow to unhook the lantern off the beam. “Before you toss respectability to the wind, you need to see something, but I ask a promise first.”
She grinned. “Have you a pamphlet to negotiate with, milord?”
He dug inside his pocket, his eyes serious. “No.” He held up a slip of paper. “Before I give this to you, before you decide anything, promise me you’ll sit with me and eat dinner.”
She studied the paper in his hand, not touching it. “Eat dinner together?”
Lord Bowles ate in the kitchen since the cottage had no dining room furniture, but she’d whisk about from one task to another. It was natural to be in his vicinity. But dine with him? Servants didn’t dine with the master.
“Yes.” One word, yet his voice tinged with sadness and a touch of desperation.
“Of course, milord.”
He handed over the message. She unfolded the scrap, the words leaping at her.
Maude Turner lives in Coldstream. You’ll find her at the vicarage.
