The Temptation of Your Touch Read online

  “Was the door secured?”

  Dravenwood snorted. “Why should that matter in this house? He probably just walked right through it.”

  “If it wasn’t locked, he may have nudged it open with his nose.”

  “Such as it is.” Dravenwood eyed a squashed black button disparagingly, as if it couldn’t possibly have any useful purpose.

  “I’m afraid it’s a long-standing habit of his.”

  “Along with ingesting wildly expensive footwear?”

  Sighing, Anne nodded. “As well as stockings, straw bonnets, and the occasional parasol. I’m terribly sorry, my lord. I’ll be more than happy to remove the dog from your chamber, but I fear your boot is quite beyond repair.” She marched over to the bed and snapped her fingers. “Piddles, down!”

  The dog uncurled himself and obediently descended the bed stairs, landing on his stocky legs with a decided thump. He sank down on his squat haunches, the remains of the boot still hanging from his mouth, and looked up at her expectantly.

  Dravenwood frowned. “Every time I got anywhere near the bed, the beast snapped at me like a baby dragon. I was afraid I was going to lose a finger, if not an entire hand.”

  “Dickon is the one who trained him.”

  “Well, that explains it. Why do you call him—”

  As if anticipating the question, Piddles strolled to the foot of the bed, hiked up his leg, and proceeded to ruin the earl’s other boot.

  Anne held her breath. Their last master would probably have kicked the cantankerous little dog out the nearest window for such a slight.

  But after a short pause, Lord Dravenwood simply sighed. “Well, it wasn’t as if I was going to have need of one boot.”

  Unmindful of his narrow escape, Piddles trotted from the room, his stub of a tail wagging proudly as he displayed his trophy for all the world to see.

  “Did you never have a pup when you were a boy, my lord?” Anne could not resist asking.

  Dravenwood shook his head. “My father had hunting hounds, of course, but he believed such beasts were for sport, not for pleasure.”

  “And what did you believe?”

  He frowned as if no one had ever asked him such a thing before. “One winter, when I was a very small lad, I found a litter of kittens that had been abandoned by their mother in a corner of the hayloft. They were tiny, mewling creatures . . . so very helpless. I wrapped them up in my woolen muffler and carried them back to the house, thinking I might be able to coax my father into letting me keep them in my bedchamber until they grew old enough to thrive on their own. He informed me that animals had no place in a house and I must give them to one of the footmen for safekeeping.” Dravenwood’s voice remained almost painfully expressionless. “I found out later he ordered the footman to drown them in a bucket.”

  Anne gasped. “How unspeakably cruel! How could he do such a wretched thing to those poor, innocent creatures?” And to his own child, she thought, her heart going out to that eager little boy who had hurried back to the house in the cold with his precious bundle.

  “I’m sure he thought he was teaching me a valuable lesson about life.”

  “What? Not to trust a footman?”

  “That only the strong are worthy of survival.” Judging by the cool look he gave her, it was a lesson he had learned only too well.

  Effectively reminded of her place, Anne smoothed her apron and said stiffly, “I’ll send someone to tidy up right away, my lord.”

  Eyeing the puddle spreading around his remaining boot, Dravenwood’s eyes narrowed to silvery slits. “Dickon. Send Dickon.”

  HAVING LEFT DICKON ON hands and knees, muttering beneath his breath as he grudgingly scrubbed the floor of the master bedchamber, Max sat all alone at the head of the massive dining-room table. He was wearing his second favorite pair of boots and feeling no less ridiculous than he had the day before.

  As he waited for his breakfast to arrive, he was forced to smother a yawn. His midnight encounter with both the ghost and his housekeeper had kept him tossing in his bedclothes until the wee hours of the morning.

  He should never have mentioned hearing the ghostly laughter to Mrs. Spencer. She and the other servants were probably gathered in the kitchen at that very moment, having a hearty laugh at his expense.

  The dining-room door swung open and two of the maids came bustling in. One of them made a beeline for the sideboard, while the other came around the table and set a plate in front of him. His breakfast appeared to be identical to the one he’d suffered through yesterday, except today the toast was burned to a blackened crisp and the rashers of bacon limp and undercooked.

  The girl stepped back and beamed at him, plainly awaiting some sign of his approval.

  “Thank you, Lizzie,” he said wanly.

  “You’re welcome, m’lord,” she replied, blinking at him with her big brown eyes. “But I’m Beth.”

  “Well, then, thank you, Beth.”

  The girl’s smile began to falter. “I’m not Beth. I’m Beth.”

  Max blinked at her, utterly confounded.

  The girl at the sideboard cast a glance over her shoulder. “She’s Bess, my lord, but she has a slight lisp. Beth is the scullery maid.”

  He scowled at the second girl, mainly because she had been arranging extra dishes on the sideboard just in case—God forbid—he would care for more of the unappetizing fare on his plate. “Then I suppose you must be Lizzie.”

  The girl blushed so furiously the smattering of freckles across her snub nose disappeared. “Oh, no, m’lord, I’m Lisbeth. Lizzie is the upstairs maid.”

  “A hopeless endeavor,” Max muttered beneath his breath. “Suppose I just call you all Elizabeth and be done with it.”

  “Very good, sir,” the two maids said in unison, bobbing curtsies in such perfect synchronization they might have been choreographed.

  As Beth . . . Bess joined her companion at the sideboard, Mrs. Spencer appeared with a tall Sevres pot. Max hadn’t thought it possible for her to smell any more enticing than she had when he had held her in his arms last night, but that was before a whiff of rich, dark coffee drifted to his nostrils. As he inhaled the bracing aroma, he was tempted to jump up and press a lusty kiss to her tightly pursed lips out of pure gratitude. He couldn’t help smiling to himself as he imagined her reaction to that.

  “My lord,” she murmured in way of greeting as she leaned over his shoulder to fill his cup.

  He took a sip of the potent brew, closing his eyes for a moment to savor its bitter smoothness. Although he had dutifully hosted tea every afternoon for his commanders and their wives during his time in India, it was this irresistible concoction he craved.

  “I wouldn’t drink too much if I were you,” Mrs. Spencer whispered, her velvety voice dangerously close to his ear. “I’ve heard it can deprive a man of his sleep.”

  He whipped his head around to give her a suspicious look, but she had already retreated to the sideboard, where she was placing the pot next to the chafing dishes, her profile a study in innocence. Before he could catch her eye, Hodges came marching into the room and dutifully placed a folded newspaper next to Max’s plate.

  Max glanced at the date inscribed at the top of the Times. The edition had been published a fortnight before he had left London for Cornwall. He had already lazily perused its pages over a delicious breakfast in the plush comfort of his dining room in Mayfair.

  But, per his request, the newspaper was from the current decade, so he had no choice but to accept the small token with grace. “Thank you, Hodges.”

  As Max unfolded the newspaper, his nostrils recoiled from another, far more unpleasant, smell—the stench of scorched paper.

  “I took the liberty of pressing the paper for you,” Hodges explained.

  Max held up the newspaper, peering at the butler through the iron-shaped hole in the middle of the financial page. “Yes,” he said drily. “I can see that.” He snapped the paper shut, sending a cloud of crisp ash fluttering t
hrough the air to settle over the top of his poached eggs like flakes of pepper. “I do appreciate the effort, Hodges, but you might try using a slightly cooler iron next time.”

  “Very good, sir.” Looking quite pleased with himself, Hodges marched back out of the room, adding an odd little skip just as he reached the door. Max slanted a glance at the sideboard, but Mrs. Spencer had slipped out as well when he wasn’t looking. She must not have been wearing her infernal ring of keys.

  Backing out of the room and bobbing curtsies all the way, the Elizabeths quickly followed suit, leaving Max all alone with his singed newspaper and his bland breakfast, the coffee his only comfort.

  AFTER BREAKFAST MAX WENT up to the second-floor library, where he hoped to find a book to while away the long, dreary morning. But when he entered the gloomy chamber, he found the little dark-haired maid perched on a stool in front of the towering floor-to-ceiling bookshelf on the far wall, her back to the door.

  Although the room looked as if it hadn’t been properly cleaned since Elizabeth sat on the throne, Max assumed she must be working. But as he watched, she tugged a single book forward to the edge of the shelf, then slid it back into its place. She repeated the process with the next book and then the next, until she was teetering for balance on the stool. Each time she slid a book out, she would cock her head to listen, almost as if she was waiting for some sort of resulting reaction. When she reached the end of the shelf, a dejected sigh escaped her.

  Max leaned one shoulder against the door frame and drawled, “Looking for something?”

  She swung around so quickly she nearly went tumbling headfirst off the stool. With her bright, dark eyes and pointed chin, she had the face of a charming little fox, and as Max watched, it flushed a dusky pink. “Oh, no, my lord. I was just dusting.”

  He gave the feather duster protruding from her apron pocket a pointed look. The duster’s glossy feathers looked as if they’d just been plucked from the fowl that morning.

  If he expected the girl to express remorse at being caught in such a blatant lie, he was doomed to disappointment. Instead, she heaved a martyr’s sigh as she descended from the stool. “I suppose you’ll be wanting the truth now.”

  “Please don’t trouble yourself on my account,” he said, his voice dripping sarcasm.

  “If you must know, I was searching for something I might read in my bed tonight. After all of the drudgery of the day, it’s such a pleasure to curl up beneath the blankets with a rousing story.” As if to prove her point, she snatched a book from the nearest shelf and cradled it to her chest.

  Max strode over and plucked the book from her hands, turning it so he could peruse the cover. “Ah, The Mechanization of Plowing in an Agrarian Society. Yes, I can see how that might make for rousing bedtime reading after a vigorous day of not dusting.”

  Pippa snatched the book back, returned it to the shelf, and grabbed another one, taking the time to read the title first as she did so. She held the clothbound book up to reveal the title—A Sicilian Romance. “Have you read any of Mrs. Radcliffe’s work?” she asked, inching her way around him and toward the door. “This one is absolutely thrilling! My favorite scene is the one where poor Julia finds her presumed-dead mother imprisoned in the haunted dungeons of the Mazzini castle while fleeing the debauched overtures of the dastardly Duke de Luovo!”

  Before Max could open his mouth to point out that it was his library and his book she was stealing while she was supposed to be working, she was gone. He stood blinking at the empty doorway for a minute, feeling a bit like the dastardly Duke de Luovo himself, then turned toward the bookshelf.

  After casting a look over his shoulder to make sure he was still alone, he drew a book to the very edge of the shelf, then quickly pushed it back into its slot. He waited expectantly, but the hearth didn’t swing open to reveal a secret passageway, nor did a trapdoor open up beneath his feet to swallow him.

  He shook his head, a rueful snort escaping him. If he didn’t get a grip on his imagination, he would soon be as dotty as the rest of the inhabitants of this house.

  MAX QUICKLY DISCOVERED The Mechanization of Plowing in an Agrarian Society made for equally dry reading during the daylight hours. Which is how he found himself back on the second-story landing later that morning, gazing up at the mysterious Miss Cadgwyck’s portrait. She seemed determined to haunt his waking hours as well as his dreams. He still couldn’t understand why a stranger would stir such sympathy in his heart.

  She had chosen her fate just as surely as he had chosen his.

  He locked his hands at the small of his back, striving to view her through dispassionate eyes. There was no denying her face was striking enough to drive a man to all manner of folly. To win the favor of such a woman, a man might lie, steal, cheat, duel, or even murder.

  He’d spent most of his life believing Clarinda to be the most beautiful woman he would ever lay eyes on. But even when the two of them were at their closest, hers had been a beauty as cool and unattainable as the moon. Angelica’s charms were far more warm and approachable.

  “Shall I fetch you a chair, my lord, so you’ll be able to make calf’s eyes at Miss Cadgwyck in comfort?”

  That dry, familiar voice jolted him out of his reverie. Was that a hint of pity he heard in it? Or contempt?

  He turned to find his housekeeper climbing the stairs, a pile of clean linens in her arms. In another time, another place, he might have chided her for not using the servants’ staircase. But he was oddly glad to see another face. Especially a living one. “Should I be embarrassed to be caught mooning over a portrait of a girl long dead?”

  Mrs. Spencer joined him on the landing. “I wouldn’t waste the effort if I were you. You’re certainly not the first gentleman to be ensnared by her spell.”

  His housekeeper was garbed all in black on this day, and as she tilted back her head to give the portrait a jaded look, she resembled nothing so much as a drab crow gazing up at a vibrant canary. There was no sign of the warm, soft woman Max had held against his body in the dark. The woman who had stirred him with her scent and the provocative press of her curvy little bottom against his groin.

  Trying desperately to forget that woman, he returned his attention to the portrait. “What became of Miss Cadgwyck after the . . . accident? Does she rest in the family crypt or is she buried somewhere else on the property?” Max knew that some zealots would never stomach a suicide being interred with their esteemed ancestors, many of whom had probably committed far more damning sins.

  “Her body was never recovered. All they found was her yellow shawl tangled around one of the rocks.”

  The housekeeper’s words struck Max’s heart a fresh blow. As he scowled up into Angelica’s laughing eyes, it was nearly impossible for him to imagine all of that vitality, all of that charm, reduced to bones at the bottom of the sea—stripped of their flesh by tide and time.

  He almost welcomed the anger that surged through him. “I can’t help but think her story might have had a different ending if there had been even one person who cared enough to follow her out onto that promontory. Someone who could have wrapped their arms around her and pulled her back from the brink.”

  He must have imagined Mrs. Spencer’s sharply indrawn breath, for when she spoke, her voice was flatter than he had ever heard it. “There was no one to save her. She was all alone.”

  Max gave her a sharp look. “If there were no witnesses, how do you know that?”

  “Servants’ gossip. Whenever a scandal rocks the nobility, tongues will wag, you know.”

  “Was it those wagging tongues who resurrected the unfortunate young lady from her watery grave to terrorize the future masters of Cadgwyck?” As he remembered the haunting hint of jasmine that had made his groin ache with longing, his scowl deepened. “Although I suppose there are some shades a man might welcome into his bedchamber in the lonely hours between midnight and dawn.” He slanted his housekeeper a mocking glance. “Why, Mrs. Spencer, I do believe I’ve man
aged to shock you. You’re blushing.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said tartly, the flush of rose tinting her delicate cheekbones giving proof to his words. “I’m not some green girl who blushes and simpers at the mere mention of romantic entanglements.”

  “Ah, yes, I forgot that as a widow you’re no stranger to what takes place between a man and a woman in the privacy of their bedchamber.”

  Their eyes met, giving Max a jolt he hadn’t expected and a reason to regret his mockery. Especially when he was assailed by a vivid image of what would never happen with this woman in the privacy of his bedchamber.

  Still, she was the first to look away. “That may be true, but that doesn’t mean I wish to discuss it with my employer.” Brushing past him, she continued down the gallery, her steps crisp with purpose.

  “What do you think she desires?” he called after her.

  Mrs. Spencer stopped and slowly turned to face him, her expression even more wary than usual. “Pardon?”

  “Isn’t that the popular notion? That souls who have been somehow wronged are doomed to roam the earthly plane in death until they find what they were denied in life? If Angelica has returned to this house, what could she be searching for? What do you think she wants?”

  “Perhaps, Lord Dravenwood, she simply wants to be left alone.” Clutching the pile of linens to her breast like a shield, Mrs. Spencer turned and left him there in front of the portrait, her impertinent rump twitching beneath the black linen of her dress.

  Max watched her go, Angelica’s spell momentarily broken.

  IN THE DAYS THAT followed, Max had no more visits to his bedchamber from Angelica, Piddles, his housekeeper, or anyone else. Oddly enough, the long, peaceful nights made him feel more restless instead of less. After tossing and turning in the tangle of his sheets for what felt like hours, he would throw open the French windows and stride out onto his balcony, his nostrils flared to detect any lingering hint of jasmine. He would stand gazing across the courtyard at the crumbling tower on the far side of the manor until the night’s chill sank deep into his bones. But no matter how long or how patiently he waited, he heard no off-key tinkling of a music box or haunting echoes of girlish laughter. The muffled roar of the sea was the only sound to reach his ears.