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.”

“Or not?” She winked.

His morning erection stirred to her teasing. Daylight spilled around her waist, her hips. The tip of her long braid swung across her bottom’s ripe swell under plain skirts.

“A visitor, milord.” Genevieve peered through the glass. “That gentleman from last night…Lord Barnard.”