The Lord Meets His Lady

by Gina Conkle

  “I accept. One widow.”

  The baron pushed his way through the onlookers. “As long as we’re clear, gentleman. No more talk of widows, save the exchange cards.”

  Herr Wolf sneered at the pound notes. “For what we play…these winnings are too small.”

  Marcus grinned. He was in his cups. Knew it by the thrum loosening his limbs. But he’d let go…try gambling another night once the Prussian took his leave. There was still time to save the herd.

  Stuffing pound notes in his pocket, he rubbed salt in the oaf’s wound. “Then it’s time for me to go home…with my lovely wife.”

  A giant paw fisted on the baize. “You give up easily, Englisch.”

  “As you aptly pointed out, I have little to offer.”

  Herr Wolf’s eyes slanted at Genevieve. “Are you sure you have nothing else to gamble with?”

  Twenty-seven

  Mrs. Grey gasped. Marcus gripped the table’s edge, ready to knock the Prussian into the wall. Better yet, he’d call him out. Men murmured behind their hands. None missed the foreigner’s possessive glance at Genevieve.

  The beast dared to insinuate she was a gaming piece?

  Marcus sprang from his seat. Samuel set a calming hand on his shoulder and slapped a paper on the baize. “Try this instead.”

  Spare words had been scrawled across the foolscap. Men crowded closer, their body heat oppressive. Marcus yanked the loose end of his cravat.

  Samuel tapped the note. “But only if you match the value with one hundred pounds.”

  “What is it?” Herr Wolf snatched the foolscap and read it. Scowling, he tossed it aside. “You offer a horse. No.”

  “A prime stud,” Samuel argued. “Atal can vouch for that. The bay is well worth it.”

  Arms folded loosely, the baron shrugged. “I can’t say the stud is worth a hundred pounds, but he is a fine piece of horseflesh.”

  “I need a horse like I need a third bollock.”

  “Why? You aren’t using the two you have.” Marcus tossed aside his neckcloth.

  Nervous chuckles sprinkled the room.

  “Careful, Englisch.”

  “No, you have a care. Only a coward would suggest a woman as a gambling token.”

  Voices buzzed. The Prussian’s mouth pinched. Heat coursed through Marcus. All thoughts of going home fled. “I don’t know how it is in Prussia, but in England, we’re civilized. We court a woman.”

  “Here, here!” one man shouted from the outer circle.

  Herr Wolf’s gaze slid over the ring of disapproving men. Marcus breathed easier. What he’d said was the best argument he could muster, a reminder the Prussian played his game on foreign soil. Odds weren’t in the Wolf’s favor. Marcus started to rise.

  “Wait.” Hands open, Herr Wolf motioned to the gathering. “As guest here, allow me to correct a simple misunderstanding. We play one round, and I accept your bet.” Herr Wolf smiled, but the effect was chilling. “I’ll improve the odds, put two widows on the table for goodwill.”

  “A sporting offer,” Atal said. “What say you, Bowles?”

  Samuel gripped the back of Halliburton’s empty chair, the tips of his fingers white. Men stirred, brought to life by servants bearing salvers laden with spirits and lively competition.

  “You can’t deny Herr Wolf’s trying to make amends,” Lord Barnard offered.

  Why did the old lord champion the Prussian?

  Marcus swallowed. Herr Wolf had outplayed him. He could feel it in his bones, and he’d yet to comprehend the man’s ploy. “Very well. One round.”

  The Wolf’s face cracked wide, his sharp incisors gleaming. “Good.” Fingers raised, he snapped twice for the footman. Without breaking eye contact across the table, he ordered the servant, “Bring us a bottle of whiskey. Your finest.”

  Men dragged chairs closer. Eschewing formality, straddling their seats, leaning on the backs like waiting jackals.

  Marcus dug the last pound notes from his pocket and tossed them on the table. “Shall we begin?”

  “Not so fast. We raise a glass, you and I, in the spirit of goodwill.”

  A spider could be crawling up Marcus’s back. He rubbed his nape, caught in a snare of his own making. The drink’s haze washed away clarity. Whiskey splashed into a glass, poured by a servant, and Marcus’s every muscle clenched. The gold tide threatened to carry away everything.

  The Prussian raised his glass. “To your gentleman’s ways, Englisch.”

  Frozen in his seat, Marcus lifted the glass and touched it to his lips. Fuzzy as his senses were, he blinked, aware of one thing. The Prussian hadn’t had a drop all night. This toast and the last round was the soldier circling his prey. Herr Wolf had already known his weakness, playing against it as skillfully as he played his cards.

  “Don’t forget your bet of a hundred pounds,” Samuel said.

  “Of course, how clumsy of me.” The Prussian added a wad of pound notes to the pile and dealt five cards to himself and Marcus. He set two widow cards facedown on the baize before turning the trump card face up.

  The ace of hearts.

  Marcus set aside his glass, the whiskey’s woody flavor on his lips. Beside him, Samuel’s eyes turned to icy chips.

  The cards. Marcus picked them up. A pair of tens. And three heart cards. His heart thudded in his chest. He could win.

  Herr Wolf examined his cards. “Do you wish to discard this hand or not?”

  “No.”

  Herr Wolf brooded, while his index finger circled the back of the center card. “Do you wish to discard and seek your widow?”

  “No widows tonight.”

  “And none for me,” the Wolf’s voice rumbled.

  A clock chimed half past midnight.

  “Shall we show our cards?”

  Genevieve wedged her way beside Samuel. She was wide-eyed and pale.

  “Please do.” The Prussian’s voice was smooth as he fanned his cards on the table.

  Herr Wolf had nothing.

  Marcus took a deep breath and laid his cards for all to see. Chairs creaked. Men leaned in.

  Lord Barnard announced their hands. “Rotten luck for both of you. A pair of tens, a queen of hearts for Bowles. And a mess of low cards for Wolf.”

  Samuel exhaled slowly, his grip on the chair relaxing.

  “Nobody won?” Genevieve worried the gold trim at her waist.

  Baron Atal smiled at her. “Bowles did…with his queen.”

  “Then we can go home.”

  “The sooner the better,” Marcus said.

  “On the contrary.” Herr Wolf sifted through his cards, revealing the hidden middle card. “I won.”

  The king of hearts.

  Marcus froze.

  The Prussian stood, his massive size causing men to inch back. With a heartless smile, he gathered his winnings and passed the IOU to his host. “Baron, would you be so kind as to send one of your men to fetch my new stallion?”

  Mouth pursed, Atal checked the cards and nodded. “I’ll send a man to Pallinsburn in the morning.”

  “Now is better. I wish to inspect my possession tonight.”

  The baron grimaced at Samuel, but as gentlemen, the bet would be honored.

  “I’ll see to it.” Atal waved to Marston.

  The room exploded with chatter and chairs banging tables. Samuel backed away, his blanched face the only sign of discomfort.

  “Well played.” Barnard slapped the Prussian’s back as they walked away.

  Marcus sat alone, staring at his cards. The widow cards. He should’ve played them. He reached for the first widow to see what it was.

  “Don’t second-guess yourself.” Hard lines bracketed Samuel’s mouth.

  Marcus blinked, tried to speak, but no words came.

  “Go home,” Samue
l said for Marcus’s ears alone. “See to your wife’s safety. I’d wager the Wolf plans to destroy you and steal her.”

  A jovial Barnard raised a toast with the Prussian and Lord Stoneleigh. Herr Wolf peered coldly their way before giving his attention to another man who joined their circle. Genevieve sought Marcus’s hand on the table and gave it a squeeze. Her hold was a lifeline in a sea of failure.

  “I lost our best horse…the stud,” he said numbly.

  “I know.”

  “We’re finished without him.”

  Genevieve was a whisper of silk and succor beside him. “Your venture will go on.”

  “Not without a prime male to service the mares, it won’t,” he groused overloud.

  “Then you’ll find a way to get the stallion back,” she said, keeping her voice low. “Don’t give up, milord.”

  “Not likely. At best I’ve ruined our business.” His voice grating, he glanced at the doorway where Samuel exited. “At worst, I’ve lost a friend.”

  “He’s hurting right now, but he’ll be back.” She rubbed Marcus’s arm. “Your friendship is solid. Truth is, you need each other.”

  Had he pushed the limits of their friendship? And there was the mystery of Lord Barnard and Herr Wolf. The game tonight. The cards.

  What had he missed?

  Twenty-eight

  A rooster crowed outside his window. Face mashed into a pillow, Marcus buried himself in downy softness.

  “Time to get up, milord.”

  Light split the darkness. His head ached and his mouth tasted of wool, but a tender hand stroked his shoulder. Aromas of black coffee and warm bread assailed him. The hand on his shoulder slid along his back, massaging its way to his nape.

  “Wake me like this every morning, and you’ll make me a convert to early mornings.”

  Genevieve laughed. “It’s past noon, milord.”

  He pushed up on both elbows, squinting at the window. The counterpane twisted around his hips.

  “Here.” She held up a plate of toasted bread. “I thought you might be famished.”

  “I can’t. The horses—”

  “Are taken care of. Alexander and Mr. Beckworth were already here.” She pushed the plate under his nose again. “You need to eat.”

  “I’m reverting to Town hours.” He sank back on the headboard, settling the dish on his lap. The bread was smothered with butter. “Did Samuel say anything to you?”

  “No. He was concerned about Adam. Said he needed to ride to Learmouth for the doctor.”

  “Not only did I fail my friend, but he has the added burden of a sick brother.”

  “Don’t feel sorry for yourself. You had a bad night. Face facts and carry on.” With her arms folded under her bosom and daylight shining around her, Genevieve could be a no-nonsense angel from heaven come to set him straight.

  “Wifely words of wisdom?”

  He bit into warm bread, the buttery goodness exploding in his mouth. One bite became another, and he devoured the toasty bread. Genevieve sat patiently, a braid trailing over her shoulder. She wore her drabbest, most patched-up gray gown. He should buy her a new one, but with what?

  The bed creaked. Genevieve scooted close, her hip knocking the plate askew. “You’re a good man, Lord Bowles. With the horses, this business, you’re making a difference here. What those men said last night…the jests. It’s not true. I see a man of wit and a good heart.”

  “Wit won’t pay for the second herd or get a new stallion.”

  “You’ll think of something…” She toyed with his shirt’s open neck, her brown eyes searching him. “You’re a clever man.”

  His wife offered a blatant view of her cleavage right under his nose, the full curves pressed together, overflowing from her bodice.

  “That’s extortion.”

  “It’s encouragement,” she said, her alto gently humored. “But if it gets you out of bed and puts a spring in your step, then extortion it is.”

  “Of the best kind.” He caught her hand and brought it to his lips.

  “Promise me you won’t let last night defeat you.”

  The light in her eyes made him believe he could slay dragons. Despite his throbbing head, he wanted to seize the day. Because of her. For her. Women had flocked to him when funds were flush. They’d gathered around when he’d charmed and seduced. None had stayed when the tides turned. Purse lean and demeanor surly, he was no prize. Yet Genevieve was here. Smiling. Kind. Not letting him wallow.

  “You know how to read the horses, their wounds and sicknesses,” she said. “The problem of a little money shouldn’t be hard for the likes of you.”

  He stroked the life vein on her wrist. “I’d settle for ridding you of a certain wolf.”

  She slid off the bed, taking her morning mercies with her. Clearing her throat, she smoothed her apron. “About Herr Wolf. I wonder if I should leave?”

  “To go with him?”

  “No, I mean leave Pallinsburn.” She ran a hand over her braid. “I could dye my hair this time. Or cut it off and dress like a man.”

  “You’ll do no such thing. You enjoy the full protection of my name. He can’t touch you.”

  “What happened last night was Herr Wolf’s vengeance,” she cried. “I can’t help but think he wants to do more damage to you and Mr. Beckworth.”

  Marcus cast off the counterpane and jumped out of bed. “Listen to me. You’re not leaving. You’re my wife.”

  “We both know this marriage is a sham. You’ll leave Cornhill eventually.” The floor creaked beneath her shifting feet. “I want to spare you future trouble.”

  He took her in his arms, not liking the worry in her eyes. “How would you do that?”

  “Desertion.”

  The word left him cold. He’d swear her heart fluttered fast against him. She was scared, a woman with few choices in the world. He wanted to be the one she chose.

  “We’ll work through this together.” He gripped her fiercely. “Do you understand?”

  Genevieve slipped her arms around his waist. Her warm breath on his neck, the sweet smell of her hair, and his heart wanted to burst. Cosseting her was more intimate than a hundred nights of sweaty, naked sex. He craved her body as much as he craved her person.

  “Do I hear a yes?”

  Her head nodded under his chin. “I trust you with my life, Lord Bowles.”

  He stared at the ceiling, branded by her soul-wrenching words.

  “You’ve given me so much, and I’ve done nothing in return.” Her words were muffled against his throat.

  He chuckled. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that.”

  “It’s true.” She pulled away, her eyes glossy with unshed tears. “You read with me. Got the pamphlet for me. You gave me your protection, and I’ve not been the easiest housekeeper.”

  “You are the best and only housekeeper I want,” he said, brushing a blond wisp off her cheek.

  They stood together, lulled by rustic sounds outside his window. The rooster crowed again. A hammer pounded wood, likely Alexander fixing something. It wasn’t country quiet touching him. It was the peace.

  Last night was a skirmish, and he’d lost. He’d heal the wounds of financial loss, the slip up with whiskey, and of disappointing his friend. There could be no doubt that the uncommon Genevieve had left her mark on his road to change.

  She cupped her hand over his. “Then tonight we’ll read something of your choosing.”

  “Saucy plays included?”

  She smiled, her damp lashes spiked to sable points. “You, milord, are most persistent.”

  “I take that as a yes.”

  The air changed in their close confines, growing hot and needy. Her breasts grazed his chest, shifting up and down with the rhythm of her breath. His morning erection tented his shirt. Genevieve’s gaze dipped to the
intrusion pressing against her skirt.

  “I’d better go.” She retrieved the dish off the bed.

  “There is one thing.”

  “What?”

  Her bodice expanded and contracted as though her breath worked harder. Did her control hang by a thread like his? She was maddening. Wrong in every way, yet more than right. She probably wanted a simpler man than him.

  A sailor perhaps. Or a clockmaker. And a man who didn’t struggle with the drink.

  Throat thick, he stroked the plain seam on her shoulder. “Say my name.”

  “Why?” Her head cocked. “It’s proper to address you as I do.”

  His thumb traced her collarbone, and her skin pebbled. She was responsive to his touch. Needy, yet giving at the same time. “You called me Lord Bowles a few minutes ago. I want us to be…Marcus and Genevieve all the time. Not master and servant.”

  Plush pink lips parted. “We are, Marcus, just a man and a woman. For a little while. We are.”

  Her fingers combed hair off his temple. She stood with him, fully clothed, yet her presence alone was fully satisfying—and that scared him to the marrow of his bones.

  Because he loved her.

  And he was certain she didn’t need him. Not in the life-giving, soul-satisfying way he believed love existed. Not in the way he needed her. His independent housekeeper from lesser places had thrived on a sliver of the bounty that he’d been bred on. She was a survivor who had plans to find a respectable life, plans that didn’t include him.

  Genevieve squeezed his caressing hand. “Time to get on with the day. The horses need you.”

  “You don’t have to work all the time.”

  “Oh, but I do,” she said, rounding the bed. “I’ve been busy this morning. There’s something I want to show you.”

  “As your employer, I decree you’ve earned a well-deserved half day.”

  She pushed back the curtain. “Not today.”

  “We could idle away an hour or two.” He patted the bed. “Right here. We’ll work on your reading.” He grinned, adding, “Fully clothed, of course.”