Seven

“Gor, miss, I could look at him all the long day.” Ruby Dutton’s chin and forearm rested on her broom. “Sure you don’t need me here every day?”

Lord Bowles swung his ax in a wide arc near the barn, doing his best to replenish Pallinsburn’s firewood and providing Ruby Dutton with a fine view. He’d worked the last hour, turning an eyesore of a dead tree into a neat stack of wood.

Thump! Thump! “That means”—Thump! Thump!—“you’d have to”—Thump! Thump!—“work in the first place.” Lily Dutton stopped beating a rug to give her sister the gimlet eye.

Genevieve listened to the sisters’ banter and dug through the garden’s weeds to liberate a carrot. She admired the slender orange vegetable plucked from the dirt and the word liberate…to be free, to unshackle or unfetter. Elise had taught her the word and a good many others.

Breathing the cool north air, she was free.

Was it the north? The shabby garden with its fright of a cottage begging for a kind touch? Or the simple gift she’d given herself of starting a new life?

Kneeling on burlap, she worked out how to explain her coming north to Lord Bowles. Clad in hip boots and homespun breeches stretching across his taut bottom, she found no fault in him. His tall frame had rippled with grace all day, going from one task to another.

Hefting stones. Hauling planks over his shoulder. Swinging his ax.

Today he was an intriguing woodsman who’d forgotten he belonged in higher places.

Her cheeks pinked. More than once she’d goggled him worse than a wharf doxie. Ruby was right. Lord Bowles was easy to look at. Even better, he was quick with a smile and his gentleman’s demeanor.

The chorus of thumps started again on the carpet. Genevieve pulled weeds, racing to finish a patch of ground. The Beckworth men had already left, and Ruby and Lily would soon be gone.

And she’d be alone with Lord Bowles.

She swiped her forehead. “That’s enough for today. Would you take the carpet to the parlor, Ruby? Your brother will be here soon.”

The sisters rolled up the faded carpet. Years and neglect had left the rich pile a shade of overmilked tea. Ruby hefted the burden under her arm and dragged one end along the gravel path.

Lily knelt nearby and ripped up a weedy clump. “You’ve done a lot for this garden, miss. It’s a wonder you’re finding anything. It being so late in the season and all.”

Genevieve yanked out a spiky invader. “Is it too late for gardens?”

Vegetables came by way of carters and street-side vendors in London. The chance to dig in the earth and see what grew was a wonder.

“Oh yes, most gardens ’round here are done by now.” Lily stepped gingerly around and rooted through more weeds. “Looks like you got onions here.” With a heave, she tugged three dirt-caked onions from the earth and tucked them in the basket.

Genevieve’s red-gloved fingers furrowed through wild grass. “Thank you for your gardening advice. You’ve probably guessed that I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

“You’ve done a fine job far as I can see.” Nose wrinkling, Lily scanned the weeds clinging to the cottage’s back wall. Broken buckets littered the ground, their coopered wood fanning like flowers. “You’ve got your work cut out for you.”

Genevieve picked up her trowel, determined to remove a large, stubborn weed. “You’ve been a big help today. If there’s anything I can do for you, please let me know.”

She jabbed the trowel into the soil. Restoring the square garden would be a long undertaking. Wide gravel pathways cut the land in quarters. Two plots were vegetable gardens overrun by weeds. The other two were filled with dead shrubbery. Yet, the Pallinsburn garden was a place of promise. The soil was fragrant, unlike questionable London muck. This square patch of earth begged to be renewed. Clear out the weeds, do a little tending, sow fresh seeds, and new life would sprout come springtime…when she wouldn’t be here.

“I’m just happy to get some extra coin,” Lily said. “Father doesn’t pay us at the Red Swan…bein’ family and all.”

“You did a fine job today, Lily. I’m thankful for your help.”

“Thank you, miss.” Lily scooted closer, unearthing a shriveled turnip. She waggled the vegetable, inspected it, and tossed the wrinkled root onto the growing pile of weeds. “There is one thing.”

“Yes?” Genevieve drove the trowel deeper, her breath coming in fits as she pulled the weed with her other hand.

“Please don’t mind Ruby.”

“What do you mean?” Genevieve whacked the roots. “Her long bouts of rest while you work?”

“Oh, I’ll make sure she gives you an honest day’s work.” Lily paused, the steady thud of an ax ringing in the background. “I’m talking about her fast ways.”

Gritting her teeth, Genevieve attacked the weed. Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! “You mean”—Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!—“her flirting with Lord Bowles.” She gave another pull, and the weed yielded, its pale, wormy roots wiggling in the air.

“She’ll curb her ways, miss. I’ll see she does.”

Lips pursing, Genevieve sat back on her heels. His lordship could do with a little curbing himself. She tossed the weed on the swelling pile, their morning conversation coming to mind.

Harmless flirting indeed.

“Lord Bowles is a grown man,” she said, swiping hair off her forehead. “As long as Ruby does her work, I’ll not complain.”

Relief flooded Lily’s face. Her mobcap, once perched neatly on her brunette crown, skewed to the right, a sign of her honest day’s labor. With her pale skin and blue-gray eyes, she was pretty in a milkmaid sort of way.

Genevieve stood and shook out her cloak. “What do you say we have some tea? A proper rest before your brother comes for you.”

“I’d like that.” Lily rose and dusted off her hands, her smile bright as sunshine.

Tucking the vegetable basket into the crook of her elbow, Genevieve moseyed around the cottage, giving half an ear to Lily’s village gossip. Pallinsburn’s tumbledown grace whispered to her, asking to be renewed. Weeds grew knee-high in places. Warped gates leaned just so, but the barn was a fine sight. Faded yellow stones mixed with newly quarried sandstone, doubling the building’s size. The roof was freshly timbered. Hand-forged ironwork decorated two massive barn doors, the strap hinges flaring like embroidery across polished wood. The Dutton sisters had shared a rumor while cleaning. The Marquis of Northampton had poured money into Pallinsburn, they said, but the coffers had run dry.

Why would the marquis spend so much coin on a distant, rustic cottage?

At the cottage door, Genevieve spied Lord Bowles beckoning her, his other hand resting on his ax as if it were a fine gentleman’s walking stick.

Her heart flopped. “Here.” She passed the vegetable basket to Lily. “Please put water on to boil, and when it’s ready, fill the tub in the scullery.”

“Of course, miss.”

She walked to the barn, her cheeks flushing. Twilight painted the clouds with vibrant blues and violets. The north soaked into her the way perfumed oil clung to skin. Was it the run-down cottage begging for a kindly touch? Or the humble cottage’s master? With his coat off and leather gloves on, Lord Bowles was a man of the land.

“We’ve accomplished much today,” he boasted. “Two fences mended. One stone wall repaired. And”—he set one foot on the fallen tree like a conquering hero—“a tree that’s met its match.”

“Does humor shade everything you do?”

“Just about.” He moved off the tree with a swagger. “Life’s better that way. Why frown when you can smile?”

A breeze stirred. Loose blond strands floated around her face as he approached her in high spirits. Intent on his dazzling, dirt-smudged smile, she lifted the hem of her apron.

“You defeated a dead tree, milord.” She wiped grime off his jaw. “And smeared dirt here.”

He stilled, his hazel eyes keen, the line of his mouth gently open. Her apron hem snagged on day-old whiskers, the scratchy sound intimate. Sweat trickled down his jaw. Her officious dabbing stopped. She was touching him again. Her pulse ticked fast. They stood toe to toe, his breath on her forehead. His lordship’s carnal mouth was tempting. She tilted closer on her toes. The desire to put her lips to his was powerful. A horse’s loud neigh saved her.

Her hand holding the apron dropped. “Silly of me. You’re not a child.”

Stepping back, she refused to look higher than his mouth. Life was a trifle for Lord Bowles. His face would reflect triumph, confirmation of the sensual battle she fought hard to stifle.

“What?” she asked. “No retort?”

“Give me time. I’ll be back in form. I’m the worse for wear from today’s labor.”

His voice was rich with understanding and humor. Despite her best intentions, her fingers itched to touch the salty bead of sweat on his cheek and the burnished curl stuck to his neck. When it came to Lord Bowles, fighting fleshly urges could only be done wit versus wit.

“I agree you accomplished much. For four men,” she teased, her attention on the drop of sweat. “To think, three women managed to clean five rooms, an entry hall, and your stairs, and clear a good many weeds while dinner cooked.”

“Do I detect another challenge, Miss Turner? Who can accomplish the most in a day?”

“Oh, it wouldn’t be fair.” She met his twinkling eyes.

Gold sparks burned bright amid the hazel forest green and earthy browns. “Fair or not, I’ll want a tour of my improved stairs,” he said, sounding very lordly. “A quality inspection, if you will.”

She shivered and pulled her cloak tighter, her laugh soft between them. His talent for self-mockery warmed her. Pompous men were as plentiful as ha’pennies.

“As long as you remember my rule.”

Creases deepened at the corners of his eyes. “You’ll not haul wood or water upstairs. Is that the one?”

“No, but we’re making progress.”

“Indeed we are.”

Dampness marked his hairline and wind riffled his neckcloth. Those master-servant boundaries were in peril, and she’d barely put them in place. Nothing in her experience had prepared her for warm familiarity with a man. A bawdy word, a quick jest, clumsy male efforts at conversation…she was familiar with those. Most men of her acquaintance used words like bludgeons, unlike Lord Bowles and his fine-tooled conversation. With him, banter was an art form, and she was out of her depth.

“I’m sure you’re hungry, milord,” she said, plucking at a hole in her gloves.

“Famished.”

“Good. Because a hot dinner and a hot bath await you inside.” Perhaps the role of housekeeper wasn’t so farfetched.

He grabbed his coat off the pile of wood and gave it a quick snap. “We were just starting to have fun.” He stuck one arm inside his coat sleeve, the homespun streaked with dirt. “Do I detect the wish for more serious conversation?”

“Something safer than flirting, milord.”

He brushed dried grass off his sleeve. “Why not tell me who you’re searching for. Just give me a name and what you know.”

She pivoted to the horizon. “I…”

“Miss Turner?” His head tilted, seeking eye contact she refused to give. “I didn’t mean to be cavalier. After this morning, I thought you’d be ready to talk.”

The sky’s blues and lavenders calmed her. Tension lessened between her shoulder blades, but under her cloak, she plucked a loose thread on her gloves. The seam would rip if she wasn’t careful.

“I practiced the explanation in my head all day.”

“And?”

“There’s no good way to tell it.”

“You’ve already put your trust in me.”

She lost herself in the distant sky. The rustic sounds comforted her—Khan’s snicker, a gentle breeze stirring a dormant apple tree, the sweet song of a bird nestling down at night. She’d come this far…

“I can give you a name and little else.”

He waited patiently, his presence a comfort beside her. They didn’t touch, yet she’d say she could feel his shoulder.

She took a deep breath. “The person I’m searching for… Her name is Maude Turner.”

“A family member, I presume.”

“My grandmother.”

Lord Bowles clamped his hands behind his back and stood shoulder to shoulder with her as though he had all the time in the world. “You’ll need to give me more.”

“There’s little I can offer,” Genevieve whispered, losing herself in the darkening horizon.

“Have you met your grandmother?”

She shook her head, her fingers twisting the loose thread on her glove. “All I know is that Maude Turner is, or was, a doll maker. My mother received a letter from her about two years ago.”

“Did you read it?”

Cool laughter erupted. She hadn’t known how to read two years ago. If he only knew the trouble her lack of reading had caused…

Maude Turner’s unread letter had been the push Genevieve needed to eventually seek Elise Sauveterre. Under Elise’s patient tutelage, the world of words had opened, changing everything…her speech, her mind, her view of the world. Words freed her.

“No. My mother burned it.” The thread on her glove snapped. “All I know is Maude Turner lives somewhere along the River Tweed.”

“I presume she’s not in the village here.”

“I inquired about her my first day here. No one has heard of her.”

He put on his hat, but her feet could be nailed to the ground. With his waiting eyes, his silence, this tenderness from Lord Bowles was a gift. Words trickled out of her. Secret shame was a burden she’d carried for too long.

“My mother left home at fifteen.” Her eyes squeezed shut. “She was…with child.”

“With you.”

“Yes. With me.”

A giant could be crushing her chest. She didn’t have to spill everything, but this truth wanted out. She needed Lord Bowles to see it…to see her. Children born on the wrong side of the blanket were commonplace on Tavistock Street. Shame clouded only those brave souls who ventured into nicer places…places with families where the girls wore pretty gowns with their pretty manners.

“Apparently, my father was a married man,” she went on. “When my grandmother found out, she gave my mother the boot.” When she opened her eyes, Lord Bowles’s features had softened. “You’re not…upset by this news, milord?”

“You hardly had a say in matters.”

She winced. “It’s sordid business.”

“I can bear it if you can.”

A breeze played with her hair. Wisps fell everywhere around her face. The chill kissed her cheeks, but best of all was the lightness inside her. He wasn’t trying to get under her skirts or steal a grope. Lord Bowles simply listened.

“Sometimes I’m not sure what I’ll say when people inquire about my family. Hiding the truth can be harder than concocting a lie.”

“Then don’t.”

“Easy for you to say,” she scoffed. “Respectable families turn up their noses at the likes of me.”

“I know how Society works.” The bored words rolled off his tongue.

She squinted west again. Light had faded, turning the vibrant blue skies a shade of charred coal. “Years ago, when we first settled at the Golden Goose, I befriended a milliner’s daughter off Lumley Court. So close to Tavistock Street…” She whipped around to face him. “Do you know how close?”

“Very.”

She huffed. “The girl got wind of who I was, and you’d think I was diseased by how hard she worked to avoid me.”

“An unfortunate past,” he said kindly. “Now, what will you do about your future?”

Her eyes widened. Reinhard had once said similar words, but with selfish intent. Lord Bowles couldn’t be more different from the Wolf who chased her.

“Do you know your father’s name?” he asked.

She blinked, her mind digging through the dust of past conversations. “My mother never spoke of him. I gathered from what little she told me that it was a horrid time.”

“And the doll?”

“I discovered it when I was a child.” She sighed, the words as cleansing as they were crushing. “I found it in a chest and played with it. My mother was furious.”

Lord Bowles brushed hair off her face, his tenderness healing her, coaxing her. She wanted to melt into him. How empty her life had been, lacking in the smallest acts of gentle affection. Her body was lighter for having shared weighty secrets.

“Please don’t think ill of her. My mother was good to me. She never deserted me.”

His gloved hands stroked her cheek. The leather touch, the smell of his warmth, his skin, all anchored her. She turned into the caress and shut her eyes. Pieces of her life played out in her mind, sharp memories, vivid and as real as if lived yesterday. The struggle to read. Her uncanny skill with mechanisms and the trouble it had brought. Late nights and her mother bringing strange men to their room above the Golden Goose.

“Do you have other family members?”

She shook her head. “Maude Turner is my last known relative. What I’ve told you… It’s all I know.”

She was alone in the world, save a grandmother she’d never met.

“Then, we’ll begin with her name.” His arm light on her shoulders, Lord Bowles steered her toward the cottage.

Drained to the bone, she was ready to curl up beneath her brown wool covers and end the day the same as she had last night. As they walked to the cottage, noises of wheels grinding dirt came closer. Peter Dutton drove his cart off the road onto Pallinsburn grounds.

“Greetings, Lord Bowles, Miss Abbott.” Peter set the brake and sprang from his seat. He maneuvered a chest from the back. “This came today, Lord Bowles.”

“My things from home. Put it inside, if you will.” They’d reached the middle of the yard when he stopped and faced Genevieve. “Is there anything else?”

Her nose was level with his cravat, the cloth loose from the day’s labor. She studied the wrinkles and bits of dust caught in the creases. All that remained from their conversation was a tumult of emotions…not so safely hidden from his perceptive eyes.

“Miss Turner?”

She touched his cravat. “Must I bare every single painful part? You can guess there was bad blood between my mother and grandmother.” Her voice thinned to a whisper. “I’m not sure my grandmother will want to see me.”

Voices carried across the yard. Lily and Ruby were preparing to leave with their brother, and Genevieve couldn’t make herself move. Did he understand this was hardest of all? Her gnawing fear of rejection.

“I understand bad blood with family.” His gloved hand tipped her chin up. “But I also know quality when I see it, and you, Miss Genevieve Turner Abbott, are a person of true quality. Anyone should be overjoyed to claim a connection with you.”

Underneath her cloak, she rested both hands on her belly. She was suspended for a moment, certain a cushion of air nestled between her feet and the ground. “Lord Bowles, you’re in danger of becoming a sainted man.”

His crooked smile spread. “Should never have told you about being a choirboy. Could do permanent damage to my reputation.”

“Your secret’s safe with me.”