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Marcus froze in mid-sweep when he saw Mrs. Adams striding across the muddy ground. She held up her long coat above her ankles and seemed not to care about the mud spoiling the fancy French shoes Mr. Adams had brought her.
She stood at the doorstep of his cottage. "It's Marcus, isn't it?"
"Yes, Mrs. Adams," he said. She was almost too beautiful. "What can I do for you?"
She moved past him, pushed open the thick wooden door, and stepped into the cottage. He left the broom in the doorway and followed after her.
"You take care of the estate's animals. Is that right?"
"Yes, Mrs. Adams," he said, now aware of how dusty the cottage was and how it smelled of sweat, leather, old wood, and the day-old coffee on the stove.
"Including the hunting dogs?"
"Yes, Mrs. Adams." He wondered if any of the animals were sick or injured, or even just didn't look good. "Is something wrong, Mrs. Adams?"
"I've just learned that Mr. Adams has a lover in London."
He had a strong urge to say "What a bloody idiot!", but he held it back. He opted for "I'm sorry, Mrs. Adams." He swallowed. "Mrs. Adams, is there some work I've forgotten?"
"No, but there is something you can do." She let her coat fall to the floor. She was nude underneath, apart from her mud-splashed French shoes. She turned around and bent over his wobbly table. "You can rut me like a hunting dog."