The Lord Meets His Lady
by Gina Conkle
Midnight Meetings series, book 3
Where rakish Lord Bowles fixes a cottage
and an impertinent housekeeper fixes his heart
“Having a case of lust at first sight?” Samuel asked.
“What?” Marcus dislodged himself from the parlor doorway.
Samuel frowned and checked his brothers. Alexander and Adam were bent over a chess board by the hearth, firelight gleaming off their polished game pieces.
He faced Marcus, speaking in hushed tones. “You’ve not heard a word I’ve said. And don’t think I didn’t notice the way you watched Miss Abbott when she served dinner.”
“I told you. We’ve mutual acquaintances in London.”
Samuel crooked his head for a view of the dining room where dishes clanked. “Ah, yes, the mantua makers my aunt patronizes. How convenient.” His blue stare bounced back to Marcus. “Since you wear breeches not gowns, care to enlighten me how you know these women?”
Marcus hooked his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets. He opened his mouth to answer, but Samuel waved him off.
“Never mind. I’m sure I know the answer.”
“You think you do, but you don’t. She’s too young by far.” He hesitated, glancing at the dining room. “And her hips…too well-fed for my liking.”
“Whatever you say, my friend.” Samuel sauntered to a corner cabinet, his chuckle drifting across the room.
Marcus leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb. At the corner cabinet, Samuel raised a narrow-necked bottle in silent question. He wanted a drink but declined the offer. Denial was good for man who lived too long with excess. A man like him.
He was turning over a new leaf and all that. And, new leaf or not, he wanted to groan.
Miss Turner’s lush breasts jiggled, the creamy flesh pillowing from her square bodice as she leaned over to wipe the table with energetic circles. A long honey-colored braid fell forward. Her coffee-colored gaze collided with his right as she tossed it over her shoulder.
She stared back, bold as you please, finishing those cleansing swipes. One admonishing feminine brow rose, her silent message sending a frisson low in his abdomen. His grin spread. Duly chastised, he didn’t care. He liked that she caught him ogling her. She wasn’t cowed by him, nor was she falsely confident. This thing between them enlivened him.
The young woman from Tavistock Street snared his fascination. He could pin his interest on lust as easily as he could genuine interest in her. Idling in the doorway, he leaned dangerously toward lust.
Russet skirts swaying, Miss Turner picked up a pile of plates. Her lips curved, the enigmatic smile warming him better than the sight of her luscious curves. Though he could easily debate the merits of her features. All of them.
Samuel watched her disappear into the kitchen. “Whatever your history with her, I’ll not let you run off a perfectly good housekeeper. It’s hard to find good domestics here. And she fixes things.”
“What do you mean fixes things?”
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