Page 78 of The Lord Meets His Lady
His lordship dismounted. Genevieve couldn’t take her eyes off those doors. They’d get married in there.
“Miss Turner.” Lord Bowles reached for her, his gloved hands taking her by the waist.
She slid off Khan, but Lord Bowles kept both hands on her waist. “It’s not so bad. We pay a few shillings. Say a few words, and we’re done.” His breath puffed crystalline clouds. “Unless you plan to jilt me.”
“Tonight…it’s like walking through a dream, yet I’m awake.” A few inches separated his body from hers. “This goes beyond any requirement of friendship, milord. I don’t know how to thank you.”
They stood close together, bathed in night, silence a slow-moving current. His collar framed a sensual, kissable mouth. This decision changed what went on between them. Did it wedge them apart? Or draw them closer? For there was no doubt his lordship was about to make a great sacrifice on her behalf.
Lord Bowles kissed her forehead and held her hand. “Come. Let’s hope the blacksmith isn’t already abed.”
She needed his steadying hand when a surly, fair-haired woman of middling years answered the knock at the door, wiping work-rough hands on her apron.
The woman sized them up. “Angus,” she called over her shoulder. “We’ve got a couple on our doorstep.” She held out her palm. “Two shillings.”
Lord Bowles set the coins in her hand.
She checked the tarnished pieces and nodded at the outbuilding. “Wait at the smithy.”
Angus McTavish met them at the smithy door, his full mouth splitting with a friendly smile in his bushy beard. They gave their greetings as he pushed open the wide, double doors. Embers glowed orange inside a brick forge. Hard scents of coal dust and iron hit Genevieve’s nose. She’d remember this, cherish this irregular night forever.
Mrs. McTavish joined them with a young woman about Genevieve’s age. The matron nodded at her husband. “They paid, Angus. Let’s get on with this.”
The young woman ogled Lord Bowles, stopping when Mrs. McTavish shot her a scolding glare.
“We have our witnesses. Now we can begin.” Eyes twinkling, Mr. McTavish tapped his anvil. “You’ll want to join your hands here.” When they placed their gloved hands together, he added, “Gloves off.”
With their gloves away, Genevieve set her work-rough hand on the iron. Lord Bowles stole her breath when he twined his fingers with hers. Dirt creased his lordship’s knuckles the same as hers. They could be two rustics in a rush to wed. When she looked into his eyes, at his smile, her insides tottered to the soles of her feet. This smile was not one she’d seen before, and she’d mindfully cataloged her share of them. The lips were gently parted, and the edges curved as though he would utter words about a rare treasure seen for the first time. And she was that treasure.
Mr. McTavish spoke on the other side of the anvil, his voice registering in her ear. Words were said. Vows given, but most of the ceremony was lost on her. The place, the people blurred. Until…
“Do you, Genevieve Turner, take Lord Marcus Andrew James Bowles to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
Warmth flushed her. She smiled at theAndrew James. He’d always be Lord MarcusHonorBowles, gentleman rescuer to a woman in need.
“I do,” she said.
Lord Bowles grinned as if he guessed her thoughts.
Mr. McTavish repeated the question for Lord Bowles, and his hazel eyes glinted as he echoed, “I do.”
The blacksmith called for an exchange of rings, but his lordship shook his head. “Sorry. I was in such a rush to marry her. I have none.”
“Humph.” Mrs. McTavish snorted her disapproval.
“Then I’ll get to the business of announcing you as man and wife,” the blacksmith said, winking. “So you can kiss your bride, milord.” Mr. McTavish cleared his throat. “I now pronounce you…”
Words faded. So did the smithy. Her skirts brushed his lordship’s legs. Hazel eyes lit over a straight nose and well-formed mouth, a mouth smiling at her with a dimple in the right corner. In the dim orange light, she’d swear his lordship was flushed with excitement.
They were married.
Lord Bowles cupped her chin and bent close. Their first kiss as man and wife was slow and thoughtful and sweetly chaste. Warmth poured its honey through her veins, settling in less chaste places.
He finished the kiss and whispered in her ear, “You have another first on me. The only woman other than my mother to know about theAndrew James.”
“I’ll carry your secret to my grave,” she whispered back.
Mr. McTavish’s hearty laugh reminded her they weren’t alone. There were papers to sign, and before they left, Lord Bowles asked for the whereabouts of the vicarage.
