Page 70 of The Lord Meets His Lady
Sixteen
Shaking, Genevieve melted into Lord Bowles, his arms banding around her, strong enough to keep her from falling apart. Reinhard and Mr. Beckworth growled words back and forth, their voices fading to the tune of boots smashing through the forest. It was only a matter of time before Lord Bowles would let her go. He’d have to. Mr. Beckworth would be the voice of reason. There was no fighting the rule of law. She was a lowborn woman of questionable upbringing.
She’d fought hard for her freedom and lost.
Who could defend her?
Rough wool scratched her cheek, and she faced inevitable facts. Mr. Beckworth would return from escorting Reinhard to the road and promptly remind his lordship to let her go. They had a business to build, and she was a lawbreaker. Her presence here did nothing to help either man.
Eyes closed, she let herself have this moment. The strong chest she leaned against moved with a steady flow of breaths. She was safe in the woods with him.
“They’re gone.” Lord Bowles gave her a reassuring squeeze. “Let’s go back to the cottage.”
Wind stirred branches and bit her ankles, yet she loathed leaving the cocoon of his arms.
“Tell me everything,” he said against her hair. “No more secrets.”
No more secrets.
Wool rubbed her cheek. The burnished curl that hung behind his ear was inches from her nose. Lord Bowles steadied her against him and guided her through the forest. Each step was bittersweet because he truly believed they’d find a way out.
They tromped through the woods, her feet heavy. Beyond the trees, candles lit the back parlor windows. So cheery. Lily and Ruby had to have done that parting kindness before they left for the day.
They walked through the garden, laundry hanging like white flags around them. Lord Bowles had used those linens to care for the horses. In one night he’d begun to heal so many.
What did he think he could do for her in one night?
Gravel crunched underfoot, the pale stone path wending around to the cottage door. Inside, Lord Bowles scraped his boots on his grandfather’s old iron boot-scraper and slid free of his coat, but she stood still.
“Aren’t you going to hang up your cloak?”
She gripped the wool. “I’m…I’m cold.” The simple words were all she could manage. Her lips trembled. Her body didn’t want to move.
Mr. Beckworth stood in the parlor doorway. “Come warm yourself by the fire.”
“I should pack my things.”
Lord Bowles grabbed her shoulders. “You’re not packing anything. Do you hear me?” He shook her. “Tell me where to find this contract.”
She licked cold lips. Her fogged mind registered his snappish voice. “It’s in my chest. Where the doll is.”
“Go sit.” He stalked off, telling Mr. Beckworth, “Give her some brandy. There’s a bottle in the kitchen.”
Mr. Beckworth, bless his heart, was building a roaring fire in the parlor. The orange glow shined off freshly mopped plank floors and bare walls. She wouldn’t have the chance to change them. The luxurious purple settee had been pushed back on the aged tan carpet in the middle of the room, and three plain wooden chairs sat before the blaze. She slumped onto one and stared at the flames. In minutes, a stoneware mug was thrust into her hands and she drank. Brandy. She gulped it down, the oak flavor scalding her throat. Mr. Beckworth and Lord Bowles talked in the entry hall outside the parlor doorway. They had to be discussing the contract and her, but there was no hope for it. She set the cup on the floor, preparing to rise.
Lord Bowles barreled into the room. “What are you doing?”
“Going to pack.” The brandy’s medicinal work had begun. Parts of her were numb enough to deaden the pain.
“You’ll do no such thing. You’ll stay seated and explain yourself.”
Her eyes flared wide at his brusque tone. Was he angry at the trouble she’d caused? His upset was to be expected…his family circumstances and all. He was a man who needed a scandal-free respite, and she’d brought trouble to his door.
“I’ll not bother you anymore, milord.”
“You know very well you’re no trouble. But you owe me the truth,” he said, rattling the paper. “Who was that man?”
Her spine relaxed against the chair. Lord Bowles’s snappishness wasn’t anger at hiding her indenture. It was…jealousy?
