The Lord Meets His Lady

by Gina Conkle

  “About my staying, I don’t know…” He let his words trail off.

  “Whether you stay or go, we’ll need more mares.”

  Marcus jabbed a thumb at the herd nibbling dormant grass. “We’ve thirty. Right here. That’s enough.”

  “Not when we can put thirty more over here.”

  Spine military straight, Samuel eyed the vacant pasture. They hadn’t fixed the fences there. The propped-up gate kept the mares in place, but it would need to be repaired if horses were added.

  “Why the push for more? We’ve barely started.”

  “My brothers deserve a better life. If we accelerate our plans, I can give it to them.”

  “You mean hire the tutor posthaste and buy Alexander’s commission.” Marcus shook his head. “A venture like this takes time. You said so yourself.”

  “I can’t wait.” Samuel’s jaw ticked. “If an opportunity arises to do something for my brothers, I will seize it.”

  Marcus stared into the distance. Adam and Alexander labored on behalf of his cottage. Young Adam pushed a wheelbarrow, while Alexander tested the newly planed door. Samuel was willing to bend himself in knots to give his brothers what was best, a stark contrast to himself and his brother, the Marquis of Northampton. He couldn’t recall a single kind overture from North. Nor could he recount the last time he’d extended himself for the marquis.

  “Alexander’s impatient to leave,” Samuel went on. “He’ll be twenty next month, nearly a man full grown. I won’t hold him back from what he wants.”

  “You can if you don’t have money to pay for it.”

  As soon as the words were said, Marcus’s dazed stare drifted over the barren field.

  Wasn’t this the crux of problems with his brother?

  Once his brother, Gabriel—North, as most people called him—became marquis, he had fought to mold Marcus to family expectations. Being a miser with Marcus’s annual allowance was how he wielded his power. And here Samuel was, extending himself, taking huge risks to ensure his brothers had the lives they wanted.

  By reflex, Marcus’s hand settled over his heart, ready to slip inside his redingote. But the flask was gone. His fingers curled into a fist and dropped to the pommel. “You’ve brought me out here for some request. What is it?”

  “Am I that obvious?”

  “Next time you ask to inspect a fence,” Marcus said drily, “make a show of looking at it.”

  A breeze stirred the frocked layers on Samuel’s shoulders. “I’ll have to get better at this…this asking for things.”

  “Because you can’t always force your way into getting what you want.”

  Tense lines framed Samuel’s mouth. “I’ve a man in Lowick and another in Flodden, both willing to sell their horses well below the going rate. Mares, geldings. Some mares ready to foal this spring.”

  “What’s wrong with them?”

  “A few with bowed tendons and bad knees. Nothing you couldn’t solve.”

  “The better question is how do we buy these herds?”

  Staring at the horizon, Samuel pulled a missive from inside his coat. “With this.”

  A gust riffled the paper. An elaborate red wax seal had already been broken, but Marcus recognized the mark. “Baron Atal.”

  “Just read it.”

  He took the invitation and scanned the ornate script before jamming it against Samuel’s arm. “No.”

  “Why not? This is perfect. A house party at Castle Atal filled with wealthy people who have nothing better to do than throw their money away.”

  “No.”

  “Not even if they want to throw it away?”

  “I don’t—” He started but cut himself short, taking a deep breath. “I won’t gamble for our funds.”

  “We’ll get what we need.” Samuel stuffed the invitation inside his coat. “It’s the quickest solution.”

  “That’s assuming I win. You haven’t kept up with current events. I was tossed out of the Cocoa Tree because of my gambling trouble.”

  “Because you drank too much. If you keep your wits about you, you’ll win.”

  Marcus chuckled drily. “Your faith in me is misguided. I don’t have that kind of focus anymore.”

  “I’d be there to support you. Come now, Marcus. A chance like this? To buy thirty horses for the prices I negotiated?”

  “At best, you’re hoping I’ll fleece our neighbor’s guests.”

  “Gamble fairly for the winnings,” Samuel corrected.

  “At worst, you’re asking me to dive back into a vice that divided my family.”

  “They won’t know—and I’m sure won’t care—how you pass the time with the esteemed Baron Atal and his guests. Ought to restore your reputation, being in their company.”

  “No.”

  “Stay away from the whiskey,” Samuel chided. “You’ll do fine.”

  “Have you not heard me? And since when did you start dancing on the fine edge of morals?”

  Blunt sharpness lit Samuel’s eyes. “Ambition and need have forced my hand. When your brother’s wed, you’ll return to London and live as you please. I cannot.”

  “Perhaps I want to stay longer.” He took in the cottage and the red-hooded woman walking through the garden toward the woods. “What makes you so sure I’ll leave?”

  “Because that’s what you do.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Marcus pulled his hat low. Right about now, a swallow of whiskey would be good. The dry sensation came back, creeping up his throat, promising calm.

  Samuel nudged his horse closer. “Three years in the army, and you were gone. Your service done. That’s what I mean.”

  “The same for you.”

  “Because my mother and father died. For you, it was an irresponsible escapade, getting your mother to purchase your commission behind your father’s back. All to goad him.”

  “How good of you to remind me,” he snapped and rode on.

  “Marcus…”

  “And now,” he yelled over his shoulder, “you’re counting on my irresponsible gambler’s skills to boost your place in the world.”

  “And yours,” Samuel shot back.

  Winds kicked up. Strands of hair blew loose from Marcus’s queue. Vermilion cloth flashed from the Pallinsburn woods. Miss Turner. The bright spot in his life. Their flirtation had been reduced to few words, so exhausted was he each night. His patient housekeeper gadded about, skirts swaying as she put the cottage in order, patching plaster walls and renewing the garden. He could find no fault with her. The food was decent, the bath hot, and his hip boots clean by morning.

  But there were no more friendly conversations, such as their bath-time scullery talk. He missed it. He missed her despite living under the same roof with Miss Turner.

  After dinner, he’d yawn before the parlor fire, reading a broadsheet until he nodded off like some boring country squire. One evening puff was all he allowed himself before grinding out his cheroot, for fear of setting his breeches on fire.

  At the rate he was going, that’d be the only scorching activity in his breeches.

  Samuel had the right of it. Marcus had joined the army for adventure and for the chance to escape the Northampton shadow; Samuel had joined for duty to king and country. His friend quit to look after his brothers; Marcus had come home to look after himself, spending time in pleasurable pursuits.

  His vision narrowed on the empty country road winding beyond the pasture. The comparison wasn’t pretty.

  Cold wind whistled past his ears. Leather creaked in his hands. Khan’s head tipped skyward, his nostrils flaring. The reins. Marcus’s gaze dropped to his lap. He pulled the straps hard. Uncoiling the leather, he stroked Khan’s neck, murmuring soothing words as Samuel rode up.

  “Prime opportunities like this don’t drop in a man’s lap eve
ry day,” Samuel argued. “How else will we come up with enough quid in so short a time?”

  “I’ll consider it.”

  “It’ll be more work, but the rewards will come,” Samuel said with granitelike certainty.

  Marcus slanted a look at his friend. “Planning to drive me to an early grave?”

  “You’ll adjust. London made you soft. If you’re not careful, this place will grow on you.”

  Northumberland? Grow on him?

  Aloof northern climes trifled with the senses, the land wide open, yet frigid. Magpies pecked at cracks on the stone fence. The sun lit iridescent blues in their tail feathers. A long-ago ramble with his grandfather along this same fence passed before his eyes… The summer sun and laughter, his grandfather pointing out whinchats and warblers, pretty red-legged partridges and scarlet rose finches with his gnarled walking stick.

  Marcus had forgotten about those simple wonders.

  Pallinsburn was growing on him, the way moss took over shadowed crevices. If he wasn’t careful, he’d become entrenched the same as the ancient stone fences.

  “Wind’s picking up.” Samuel pointed at clouds stirring. “Rain’s coming. We need it.”

  Marcus swallowed, the parched sensation lingering. The craving grew weaker every day, her siren calls few and far between. His vision drifted lower. The leather gloves he wore. The chilblains were nearly gone too. Miss Turner reminded him nightly to rub on the slick unguent. Calendula ointment she’d called it. Each morning his gloves sat in a neat pile on the entry-hall table. Those thoughtful gestures, small yet significant, whispered of her care.

  Or was he becoming an infatuated simpleton over gloves and calendula unguent?

  “Marcus? Are you well?”

  “A bit off today,” he said, taking in the ranging clouds.

  “Perhaps we have been working too hard. Joining Baron Atal’s house party for a hunt and a card game or two might be what you need.”

  Marcus shook his head, choosing silence. Samuel was, if anything, persistent.

  Geese flew overhead. The birds would settle in for winter, and when the season was ripe, they’d leave. It was what birds did. Was he so different? Across the pasture, a golden-haired figure emerged from the Pallinsburn woods. Miss Turner, ever curious about her surroundings, pulled her red hood up, watching them across the distance.

  She was waiting for him. He was sure of it.

  Squirming on his saddle, he wanted sorely to be with her. In all the wrong ways.

  “I need to leave for a few hours,” he said.

  “Will you consider my idea? The gambling?”

  Marcus flipped up his collar and steered Khan in a wide circle. Neck arching, Khan gamboled sideways. His horse craved excitement. So did he.

  “Marcus?”

  “Yes,” he barked, eyeing open land to the west. “I’ll consider it.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To Learmouth village. I need a hard, fast ride.”

  The sky darkening, he hunched forward, his knees pressing Khan’s withers. With a snort, his horse lunged, galloping full speed at the stone fence.

  Eleven

  A dark rider galloped below the window, spraying mud in the yard. Genevieve pushed aside the curtains for a better view of the wet, black skies. Horse and rider had to be drenched to the bone.

  “Foolish man,” she muttered, letting the curtain drop.

  Her bottom ached. She’d kept vigil on a cushionless window seat in the cold room. A barely touched mending basket was her excuse for escaping to the pretty chamber she had no business being in. This half-furnished room belonged to the lady of the cottage.

  When she’d questioned Mr. Beckworth earlier about Lord Bowles, he’d squinted westward. “Gone to Learmouth. He needs a hard, fast ride.”

  “When will he return?”

  “When you see him coming.” He’d buttoned up his frock coat, saying, “Possibly tomorrow morning.”

  She stood and collected the basket. Hard, fast ride indeed. On one of her market days, she’d overheard men jesting about a pair of uniquely skilled redheaded tavern maids in Learmouth.

  Smoothing her skirts, she blew out two candles. She’d not go to the barn to check on his well-being. Where he went and what he did was his business, not hers. There’d been food stores to count, his bedchamber to clean, and the back garden to tend before the rains came. Lord Bowles could come and go as he pleased.

  But down the stairs she flew, discarding the sewing basket by the parlor door. Her legs required stretching.

  She grabbed her red cloak off an entry hook and armored herself. Rain pelted her as she splashed across the driveway. Feet soaked, she shoved her way into the dark barn, panting from her sprint. Light burned at the far end. A lone figure in black combed Khan. The man nodded a silent greeting, running reverent hands over the favored horse.

  “Lord Bowles,” she called out.

  “Miss Turner, what brings you out here?” The question bounced off timbered rafters.

  “You, milord.”

  His astonishing gift a few nights past had intrigued her, made her wonder about the man doing the giving. Much of her life had been a force of will to carry on and endure.

  Was there more to life than merely getting by in the world?

  Horses snickered, their hooves crunching straw. The beasts filled half the stalls lining the aisle. Curious noses poked over wooden slats, but she took care to stay in the middle, arms tucked to her sides.

  “They won’t bite you.” Lord Bowles combed Khan’s back haunches. “Except the sorrel in the first stall. She’s yet to learn good manners.”

  Genevieve halted under a candle lamp hooked on a beam. “And how do you teach a horse good manners?”

  The combing slowed. “A gentle hand, the right touch. In time, she’ll come around.”

  Water trickled off the black redingote and dripped from his soaked queue. He had to be uncomfortable, yet he took care of his horse first. As she stood in the soft glow, the barn’s neatness struck her. No spiderwebs. Sweet-smelling hay everywhere and clean, well-attended horses. Those gloved hands of his lavished great care on whatever he touched.

  What would happen if he touched her?

  She wrapped an arm around the support post. He was far from her reach. Her employer. Not a man for her. Yet…

  “How are your hands?”

  He dropped the comb in a bucket and retrieved a metal object. “Well enough.”

  Lord Bowles ran his hands down Khan’s foreleg and settled the hoof on his knee.

  “What is that in your hand?”

  He scraped the hoof, barely giving her notice. “A hoof pick, but I imagine you didn’t run through the rain to discuss tools of equine care.”

  “Is something wrong, milord? You left so suddenly today.”

  “Nothing that concerns you.”

  Her thumbnail dug into the beam. She stood on the periphery of his notice like some dismissed servant. The gentle, charming lord had been replaced by a surly man in black, and she was at a loss what to do.

  Lord Bowles grabbed a wool blanket from Khan’s stall and set it unfolded on the gray’s back. The horse chortled, arching his neck.

  “It’s as if he’s talking to you,” she mused.

  “He does. All the time.” Lord Bowles rubbed a spot behind the horse’s ear. Khan stilled, his dark eyes liquid and restful.

  “He’s content,” she said wistfully. “Must be the way you take care of him.”

  Lord Bowles angled his face her way, the corner of his mouth just visible over his collar, the line softer.

  “I haven’t properly introduced you to Khan, have I?”

  “I don’t know, milord. Horses, they frighten me.”

  “Weren’t you the one holding the lead horse’s bridle that night on Devi
l’s Causeway?”

  “Out of necessity…to help the coachman.”

  “Exactly.” His eyes glittered with challenge. “You had the courage to leave your old life, bravely traveling alone to find a grandmother you’ve never met. And you’re afraid of a horse?”

  “One kicked me when I was a little girl.”

  “An unfortunate thing, but you survived. Don’t judge all horses by the one. Come,” he coaxed, extending his hand.

  Stepping gingerly away from the post, she reached out and put her hand in his. Khan didn’t move, save his twitching ears. The four-legged creature had to sense her fear. His long-lashed eyes watched her watching him, and she knew. Silly as it sounded, befriending Khan opened a door to knowing Lord Bowles.

  She offered the horse her other hand. Nostrils flaring, he dipped his head. A velvety muzzle rubbed her palm. Whiskered lips tickled her skin, and she couldn’t help but smile.

  “He thinks you’re going to feed him an apple,” Lord Bowles murmured.

  Inklings of the old fright thawed. This was new territory, being friendly with a creature larger and different from her. “I’m better with mechanisms than with people or animals.”

  “You’re doing fine.” Lord Bowles inched closer, his pressure warm at her side. “Go ahead. Touch him.”

  His quiet words sent a quiver across her backside. “I’m not sure where to start.”

  “Here.” He raised their joined hands. “Behind his ear. He loves it.”

  Gloved fingers twined with her hand, guiding her. Her palm grazed fine hairs behind Khan’s ear, the sensations filling her. Leather and softness. Darkness and candlelight.

  Did the master of Pallinsburn have a tender spot?

  “If you want to get on his good side, feed him apples and scratch here,” Lord Bowles said near her ear.

  Rain cascaded from the heavens, pounding the barn. Coat buttons pressed her spine. Her breathing found a rhythm with Lord Bowles’s, steady and deep. Peaceful and calm.

  “Do the same things work for you?”

  “A dangerous question.” His voice vibrated against her hood. “Are you sure you want the answer?”

  Shutting her eyes, she leaned back. Time could’ve stopped. How good it was to lean back and rest against solid, trustworthy male. His strength was a warm blanket, tender and reassuring. The escape north, the hunt for her grandmother, her choices—even choices for the better—wore her down. This new life meant pushing against the grain of old habits and finding a new way to live.