Thirty-four

Hours later…

Genevieve stroked the narrow indent behind Khan’s ear. She had to get away and have a moment alone. The barn was the best place. Rubbing the favored spot lulled the horse, turning him pliant as clay.

“You’re a sweet one.”

Coffee-dark eyes like hers stared at her from under long lashes. Fresh hay sweetened the air. Not a single cobweb clung to the rafters. Her husband’s meticulous care for the steed, the barn, and all the other horses was better than what most men gave their wives. Her fingers halted midstroke. Was that what she wanted from him? Meticulous care? Or love?

She wanted her husband to be happy too. But there were two Marcuses. There was Marcus the newly converted rustic, and there was Marcus the second son of a noble name. It was hard to believe he was one and the same. He wore the role of woodsman, horseman, and businessman well. She could say he was happier here than in London.

So was she.

She dug inside her apron pocket and searched Khan’s intelligent eyes. “If you could talk, I’m sure you’d give me words of wisdom.” Out came an apple slice, the fruit offered on her palm. “Smuggled goods.”

Fuzzy lips nipped her hand. Beyond the barn door, wheels sloshed through mud.

“Till our next meeting.”

Genevieve picked up her basket of eggs. She’d flitted through her day, loose-limbed and happy. She’d awakened in Marcus’s bed at dawn with one thing on her mind—to woo her husband. Surely a fine meal was one way to win a man’s heart. A ham turned on the meat hastener. Food was one weapon. Sex was another. The actresses of the Golden Goose insisted on the merits of bed-shattering sex.

The basket swung gently from her fingertips as she exited the barn. Good food and good sex it was. At the right moment, she’d lay her heart at his feet. Tonight. On the purple settee after they finished reading Venus and Adonis.

Peter Dutton waved as he reined his cart before the cottage door. Mud sucked her pattens. Wind swirled, stirring her cloak as she picked her way around mud puddles.

“Good evening, Mr. Dutton.”

“And to you, miss.” His cheeks flamed red. “Er, I should say, Lady Bowles.”

“News travels fast.”

“Gossip more like it. The Red Swan’s full of the news.” He laughed. “There’s also talk of a big horse race tomorrow at the castle. Which reminds me.” He pulled a letter bearing the Atal seal from his pocket. “If you’d be so kind as to give this to his lordship.”

“A busy day for you.” She tucked the post in her egg basket.

“It’s nothing.”

She hesitated. “You’ve been very kind to me, Mr. Dutton. Your friendliness, welcoming me to the village and all. Thank you.”

Grinning sheepishly, he doffed his hat. “You’re welcome. And if I may, marriage agrees with you, ma’am.”

“Kind words, sir.” She winked at him and hooked the egg basket on her elbow. “I’ll get your sisters.”

Skirling wind whistled at her back. She stepped inside…a horse race. Was Lord Bowles racing Khan and using him as surety? He’d spent the morning with the horses before riding off to the village, returning drenched to the bone a few hours later to change his clothes and hunch over more correspondence, sometimes in his chamber, sometimes in the kitchen.

She toed off her pattens, drawn to voices abovestairs. Marcus? Friendly and charming by the lilt of his voice. Too friendly. His deeper voice was followed by a familiar giggle.

Ruby?

Her grip on the basket tightened. Her husband’s voice dipped to plush notes. He didn’t simply say words when flirting; his voice caressed them.

She rushed to the kitchen and braced herself against the pine cabinet…all the better to get out of earshot of the feminine laughter. Staring at the floor, she faced harsh facts. She had no hold on Lord Bowles. Few even knew they were married. How silly she was, roasting the ham, the spindle jack’s tick an embarrassing noise. She pretended to be part of this…the cottage, her husband…her girlish notions of love.

Lily walked out of the scullery, empty buckets in both hands. “You’re out of starch, ma’am.”

Ma’am. An honorific for the woman of the house. A fictional title. What went on here was no different than a bad play. She’d fallen deep for her own false tale.

Dressing in a courtesan’s trumped-up finery to meet Baron Atal…

Painting the mural to please Lord Bowles…

Tending the garden and the horses with him…

Her face crumpled.

Head cocked, Lily set the buckets by the cistern. “Ma’am? Are you ill?”

“I’m fine,” she snapped.

The maid’s eyes rounded.

“I’m sorry, Lily.” Righting herself, Genevieve set the basket on the table. “I’m no woman of quality. The sooner I remember where I belong, the better.”

“You’d make a fine lady if given the chance, ma’am.”

“Humph. Better that I remember who I am.” She removed her cloak and draped it across the bench. “Your brother’s here.”

Keeping busy, she gathered blank papers and set them down beside an inkpot. Unfolded letters scattered the surface. Lord Bowles would eat and tend his correspondence in quiet. The sooner she shut herself away in her room, the better. One letter caught her eye. The foolscap lay open for all to see with damning words stabbing her heart.

We found a bride for you.

The sentence burned itself on her brain. Lily chattered on, but Genevieve didn’t hear her. The letter…it came from the Marquis of Northampton, her husband’s brother. Of course his family would want to arrange a suitable bride. A woman with pretty gowns and pretty manners and a family of good social standing. Certainly not someone like her.

Her hand covered her mouth. Was this the reason for his ride to the village? To post a letter to Miss Phoebe Rutherford?

“…and we finished the polishing and dusting.” Lily peered at her. “Are you sure you’re well, ma’am?”

“Fine. I’m fine. You’ll be here tomorrow?”

“Yes, bright and early.” The maid wandered into the scullery, untying her apron. “I’ll get Ruby. She’s upstairs…not sure what she’s doing.”

Genevieve’s vision narrowed on the kitchen doorway. “Oh, I have a good idea. Let me tell her your brother is here.”

She padded quietly up the stairs to the hallway. In the master chamber, Marcus stood by his bed, sifting through papers strewn across the counterpane for lack of a desk. No daylight showed between Ruby’s skirts and her husband’s breeches.

Hot acid churned her stomach. Why didn’t he tell Ruby to leave him alone?

Because she’d wed a charmer, a man ready for a quick tumble. Their marriage was a proposition to save her and satisfy his need for companionship and housekeeping. And last night? Her fingernails dug into her palms. She was the one to initiate sex. Both times. What a fool she was.

This convenient arrangement didn’t stop inconvenient heat crackling inside her.

She knocked thrice on his half-open door. “Pardon me, milord.” Then coolly, “Ruby.”

The maid jumped, dropping the ash bucket, its awful clank jarring. The red tin rolled across the floor.

“Cleaning the ashes is a morning chore,” Genevieve admonished.

“Yes, miss.” Ruby scrambled after the bucket, her eyes large and white.

Genevieve marched inside, frowning at the forgetful use of miss instead of the proper ma’am.

“I was just comin’ to do a quick cleanup before leaving.”

“Yet the pail’s empty. Is it because your hands weren’t where they belonged?”

She was bold as brass…no different than a bawdy woman about to resort to bare-knuckle brawling over a man. The maid grasped the bucket, her awkward swallow visible across the room.

Marcus shot her a reproving glance as he reached for the ash tin. “Let me take that.”

He helped Ruby to her feet, and the young woman, in turn, fussed with her skirt.

Her lips thinned. “Your brother is here to collect you.”

“Yes, miss. Will you need us tomorrow?”

“Yes, I will. And, Ruby…”

“Y-yes?”

“Keep to your tasks,” she said softly.

Ruby scurried from the room, her heels clicking fast as she tore down the stairs.

Marcus set the bucket by the hearth. “It’s not what you think.”

“How can you possibly know what I think?”

“I can read your face.”

“Read my face? What am I, a book?” Her cheeks burned. She clasped her hands waist high and waited until irritating tremors abated. She lived her life on an even keel; this tinderbox of high emotions threatened to devour her the way fire scorched those who got too close.

Her husband’s stare dipped to her bosom before springing back to her face. “A lovely book. One I enjoy reading.”

Was he trying to placate her? Or did his roving eye and ready smile spring from pure amusement at her scalding sprite of jealousy? For that was surely what this was.

Hushed voices and footsteps pattered through the entry hall downstairs. Ruby was likely getting an earful from her sister. The cottage door shut, the firm thud echoing from below. Marcus rested a hand on the mantel, toeing a chunk of wood back into the fireplace. Bits of straw clung to his mussed hair. Ink smudged his fingers.

The post. She’d left it on the kitchen table.

“Milord—”

“Gen—”

They spoke at the same time.

“I thought we were going to be Marcus and Genevieve?”

“At the moment ‘milord’ seemed better.” Her tone was frosty.

He strode across the room and cupped her cheek. “I know what this is about. You’ve nothing to worry about. I was looking for a document. That’s all.”

“Miss Dutton hardly looks like paper.”

“I was distracted by my search when she begged entry to clean.”

“What kind of cleaning do you think she had in mind?”

Mouth quirking sideways, he searched her face. “You know she’s a flirt—”

“She is? Flirtation requires two people.”

The skin around his eyes softened. “You’re right. I’m as much to blame. My mind was elsewhere. She started jesting with me and I played along, thinking it harmless. I should’ve stopped.”

“You think so?”

His thumb stroked her chin with the lightest touch. He was gentling her. “I will set things right with our charwoman.”

She flinched. He said our again. A small but dangerous word spoken in a soothing voice. It hinted at a connection that would never be. Wind howled, bowing barren trees beyond his window. Aromas of wood and leather and hay clung to him, smells of Pallinsburn. Of home. And bone-deep content. She covered his caressing hand with hers, the fight draining from her.

She was in love with her temporary husband. Her soul had poor timing in pointing that out, but she’d never loved a man before. Love was confusing, flustering, maddening. And it was beautiful, unselfish, and glorious. The pang inside her was the joy of knowing she loved Marcus, and the agony of knowing she couldn’t be with him.

“Sometimes flirtation isn’t harmless,” she said, steeling her resolve. “Sometimes it hurts.”

“I understand.”

Looking into his hazel eyes confirmed the rolling, headlong tumble she’d taken. Her body was light and awkward all at once. And the truth hit her. She’d run away from the Wolf’s lair and found herself snared by a charming rogue.

Folding his hands in hers, she examined chafed skin. A little space between them helped. She couldn’t think straight when he touched her. “You cleaned the barn without your gloves again.”

“Forget about that,” he chided. “Let me explain.”

Explanations meant listening, and listening opened the door to hope, hope a woman in her shoes couldn’t afford. The way he carried on, she could almost believe he wanted the two of them to stay as they were. Forever.

Letting go, she inched her way to the door. “The salve… I have another jar in my room.”

“You’re running away,” he taunted quietly.

A bittersweet sensation twisted in her chest. “A moment, milord.” Smiling at his tender jibe, she gathered her skirts and flew from the room on rapid feet.

Running away.

What did he know about that?

Inside her chamber, she found the earthen jar. As she cradled it, the porous surface cooled her hand. The salve. Slippery, yet healing.

She took a gander of herself in the old mirror. Her reflection showed her cheeks in high color. The kitchen’s light cut a swath in the humble room, leaving her half in darkness. Echoes of raucous laughter played in her mind. Flashes of the past. Half-dressed women in their garrets above the Golden Goose primped before cracked looking glasses, swapping gossip and tricks of the trade. She rolled the jar in her hands, her lips curving with satisfaction. She grasped well what she’d say to her husband. Each step was a deliberate march back to his chamber with the salve in hand.

Firelight rimmed his handsome profile. Head bent, mouth firm, he had to be deep in thought. For a former soldier, he bore an air of refinement unlike the world-worn fighters she’d met. No hardships etched him. Neither did stiff discipline. He was a former military man living as he saw fit.

Despite dirt on his face from toiling in the barn, soiled clothes, and a mussed queue, her husband dazzled her. He stood by the washstand, the fall of his breeches undone as though he just finished answering nature’s call.

“You look better,” he said.

“I feel better.” Keeping one hand on the knob, she shut the door behind her.

“Good. Now we can have a rational discussion.”

“I agree.”

She never tired of watching him, his long legs in hip boots, a rock-hard bottom flexing in brown wool breeches below a narrow waist and strong back.

“I should’ve been more aware with Miss Dutton,” he said, pouring water in the basin.

“Yes, you should’ve.”

“Call it a slip of a newly married man. I’m not used to being careful about flirtation.”

“But you weren’t in a hurry to remind her that you’re a married man. Not from what I saw.”

He rolled soap in his hands, lost in the task. Candlelight from iron sconces caught the gold tips of his lashes. “I was looking through my papers. Whatever the exchange…it meant nothing. I can’t even remember what I said.”

“But there’s the rub. I needed you to be aware and not flirt back.”

She crossed the room and set the jar on the washstand. He rinsed his hands, shrugging off the incident with Miss Dutton.

“Very well. I’m glad that’s over and we were able to have a civil discussion.”

One hand scooped the salve. Her lips curved with a cool smile. Civil discussion, indeed. Men could be so quick to dismiss a woman. For that, she scooped more salve.

“You think that’s it?”

“Isn’t it? What more is there to say?” He grabbed a linen on a hook by the washstand and started drying his hands.

“Indeed. What more could I have to say?” Standing behind him, she pressed her body against his back. His queue feathered her cleavage, the soft tip teasing intimate skin.

The drying stopped. Her husband’s stare collided with hers in the glass. “Gen?”

Her left hand meandered over his hip. She liked his use of her Christian name and would tell him as much. Later.

Wool cloth and wooden buttons abraded her palm. Pushing up his waistcoat and shirt bared his pale abdomen. At the mirror’s edge, dark, intimate curls peeked from his smalls. She molded her body to his, feeling what she could. His hip boots pressing her legs. Fine male bottom nestled into her mons. His heat, strong and welcome.

Thick globs of calendula ointment filled her hand reaching around him. “I need to point out you’re married to me. My opinion matters…just as much as yours.”

“I didn’t mean—”

Her fingertips skimmed private curls. His body jerked, sloshing water.

“You were saying,” she prompted.

A glossy trail marked his skin. He stared at her salve-covered hand massaging his flesh, utterly lost in the view.

“Your opinion… I didn’t mean…it didn’t…matter.”

Her cheek rested against his shoulder. Her hand ventured lower, nudging the smalls. “Good.”

He gripped the basin’s edge, hissing between clenched teeth. Back muscles tensed against her. In the silvered glass, his hazel eyes burned deep, forest green.

“What a fine hand you have.”

Standing flush against him, she foraged deeper in his smalls. “All the better to fondle you with.”

As soon as fingers curled around his shaft, his legs rammed the table. Water splashed. He widened his stance all the better for her to stroke him. The salve squished between her fingers. Little snicks filled the silence. Her breasts pillowed his back. Warmth seeped through his clothes. His muscles twitched and tightened against her. This could be a loving embrace, save the hot male flesh she stroked like a wanton for hire.

“Do you think proper wives do this for their husbands?”

“I…wouldn’t know.” His voice strained as if he pushed a boulder. Marcus glommed on to her hand playing with him in his breeches before she eased his erection from the smalls.

Dark red flesh jutted from his body, the skin glistening in candlelight.

“Setting me free?” He braced one hand against the wall, riveted on his cock in her hand.

“All the better to stroke you, milord.”

He looked up, mouth open as if he wasn’t getting enough air. She kissed his arm, her dark stare piercing him in the mirror. He stared back, helpless. She had her way with him, stroking his length, memorizing him. Thick and wide at the middle. A few guinea-gold curls glinted in the dark thatch between his legs. At the tip of his erection, she made a ring with her thumb and forefinger.

Color suffused his lordship’s face. Pupils wide, his eyes were almost black. Her fingers swirled over the round head.

And she bit his shoulder.

He shuddered, squeezing his eyes shut. “A trick from the Golden Goose?” he rasped, bracing his other hand on the wall. “You theater folk.”

“You have no idea,” she purred, her slick hand caressing his bollocks.

He grunted.

She played with his egg-like sacks of flesh. Snick. Snick. Snick. Dark curls clumped, thick with salve. His hips swayed with desperation as though he’d find release despite her. Dark eyes narrowed in the glass.

“What talented fingers you have.”

“All the better to please you, milord.”

Straining, his hips pumped air. “Stroke me.”

“You mean here?” She fisted his shaft.

His thighs mashed into the table. Water splashed over the basin. She rubbed him fast. The snicks got louder. Strands of brown hair fell around his face. His body bucked hard. The pitcher went flying. The pewter vessel crashed, its jangling an explosion of sound.

Satisfaction was coming.

She was lost in the pleasure. In the giving. Mindless. Forgetful. Sating his need as one might slake a parched throat after days of no water. Until their stares connected in the glass. He watched her.

Savage craving burned in the depths. He could be saying This is who we are.

No other woman could reach his lonely, sensual depths. Not like her. A pang pierced her chest. This moment needed to last, something to savor for lonely nights ahead. Her caresses slowed, featherlight and tender. There was no need to rush this.

Heat flared from her husband’s eyes. Teeth bared, he growled, “Stop teasing me.”

Now who was the wolf?

She smiled at the glaring beast, catching her reflection over his shoulder. Damp tendrils stuck to her forehead. Her brown eyes were wide open, fearless. Gone was the young woman she knew, replaced by a wiser creature.

The hand holding his shirt and waistcoat let go. Smoldering hazel eyes stayed half hidden behind his lashes. He’d trust her a little longer to lead him along pleasure’s path. Her mouth opened against his shoulder. She tasted him through the shirt linen, and wrapping both hands around his cock, she stroked him. Firm and fast.

Lines fanned the corners of his eyes.

The snicking quickened.

His fingertips turned white pressing the wall.

A cry vibrated from his body to hers. Tendons in his neck strained. Her breath sputtered. Grinding against Marcus, fevered need spiraled. Passion. Sex. Love. All the parts that held her together threatened to come apart. One desperate press of her mons. One gentle slide around his cock’s tip, and he bucked. Hard. The basin rattled.

“Gahhh!” he roared and his seed shot across the table.

She milked him, and Marcus grasped the basin, a final quaver racking his body. Breath heaving, his head hung low. She kissed his arm and let go. It was time.

Cool air wafted around her as if she were bare as a newborn babe. Touching him did that, gave her new air to breathe. He stripped away her past, leaving her as no more than a woman alone with a man. No indenture. No struggles. No seedy Golden Goose.

Just life.

Crouching down, she collected the pitcher and stray linens. She wiped her hands with a cloth, needing to collect herself from the powerful emotions swamping her. Bed ropes squeaked behind her. A body fell hard on the mattress—the man she’d hold for a short time before seeing him leave for another.

“Genevieve.” His voice was hoarse and endearing.

Balling up the linen, she turned to face him.

Brown breeches slumped to his knees. A red mark slashed his thighs where he’d rammed the table. Marcus raised his head one lazy second before letting it drop back on the counterpane.

“You’ve drained me.” Panting, he held up both hands. “I couldn’t rub the salve on my hands if I tried.”

“Men,” she smirked and plucked the upended jar from the table. “A little sex, and you’re all worn out.”

“Pleasantly so.” He chuckled, his voice a sated rumble.

As she planted her hip on the mattress, papers crunched underneath. “What I wanted to say earlier was as long as our sham of a marriage lasts, our vows will be honored,” she said firmly. “That means I need you to be in a hurry to tell a woman you’re a married man.”

“Agreed.” His hand sought hers.

She scooted closer, her breath catching when he kissed her wrist. His mouth lingered on the delicate underside, gently nibbling and sucking.

“I prefer this latest use of your healing ointment,” he murmured against her skin.

He didn’t act like a man about to sever their tie.

Until…

“There’s something you need to know.”