The Temptation of Your Touch Page 12

  “How very magnanimous of you. Must I seek your permission for that as well?”

  Despite her sullen expression, she didn’t protest when he led her over to the basin resting on the long table beneath the row of windows. He cranked the pump, then gently guided her wounded hand beneath the spigot. As the cool water cascaded over her fingers, she moaned. Her eyes fluttered shut, her face going slack with relief.

  Max was strangely transfixed by the sight. Her mink-colored lashes weren’t particularly long but they were lush and curled lightly at their tips. She didn’t appear to be wearing a trace of powder, yet her skin had the smooth purity of fresh cream. His gaze strayed to her lips. When not flattened into a dutiful smile or puckered into a disapproving moue, they were surprisingly ripe and rosy with an enticingly kissable little Cupid’s bow at their top. She opened her eyes and he yanked his gaze back to her hand before she could catch him staring.

  “Come,” he said gruffly, tugging her over to one of the benches flanking the table. He eased her into a sitting position, then straddled the bench and sank down in front of her. “I’ve just the thing for your burns.”

  Thankful he hadn’t gobbled down every bit of butter in the house during his culinary orgy, he dipped his fingertips into an earthenware crock and began to dab a bit of the stuff onto each of her wounds. Most women of his acquaintance wouldn’t leave the house without elbow-length gloves to protect their lily-white skin. But her hands were lightly tanned with fingertips that sported a callus and shallow nick or two. They were the hands of a woman who was no stranger to hard work.

  “How did you know the butter would help?” she asked, casting him a shy glance from beneath her lashes.

  “I had a baby brother who used to get into a great deal of mischief as a lad. He was always knocking down beehives or swiping hot mincemeat pies out from under Cook’s nose and scorching his fingers. I had to play nursemaid to his wounds more than once so our parents wouldn’t find out what havoc he’d been wreaking and give him a sound thrashing.”

  “Had a baby brother?” she echoed softly, plainly fearing the worst.

  Max couldn’t quite keep the bitter edge from his tone. “He’s no longer a baby.”

  “What about you? Didn’t you get into any mischief of your own?”

  A rueful snort escaped him. “Very little. But only because I didn’t dare. Before I could stand up in my cradle, it was drummed into my head that I was the eldest son, my father’s heir, and the hope of all who worshipped at the Burke altar. Mischief was a pleasure afforded to lesser mortals, not to solemn little boys in short pants who would someday be dukes.”

  “It sounds like a heavy burden for a child to bear.”

  “I’m not sure I ever was a child.”

  “Did your father approve of your career with the East India Company? I thought noblemen were expected to do little more than lounge about at their clubs with other gentlemen of means, sipping brandy and discussing their tailors and their triumphs at the faro tables.”

  Max shuddered. “A pursuit for which I was singularly ill suited. My father nearly had an apoplexy when I announced my intention to join the Company. But once he saw that my influence would imbue the Burke name with even more prestige and power, he embraced my choice as if it had been his fondest ambition for me.”

  “Didn’t you ever tire of being the perfect son? Didn’t you ever want to escape the shackles of duty and do something really . . . wicked?”

  A reluctant half smile canted his lips as he lifted his eyes to meet her inquisitive gaze. “With my every breath.”

  Only then did he realize he had finished smoothing the butter over her burns, but was still cradling her hand. His thumb was absently stroking the center of her palm, tracing lazy circles over the satiny skin he found there.

  His smile faded. This was an impossible situation. She was an impossible woman. Yet in that moment, with her hand cupped trustingly in his and the sweetness of her peppermint-scented breath fanning his lips, the world seemed ripe with possibility.

  It suddenly occurred to him that this might be his chance to break the chains of duty. What could be more wicked than stealing a kiss from the lips of his housekeeper? Why, it was practically a rite of passage, wasn’t it? Nefarious gentlemen had been seducing their housekeepers and parlor maids for centuries.

  Max’s body had already hardened in anticipation, urging him to do something wild and impractical for once in his life, consequences be damned.

  He lifted his other hand toward her face, half-expecting her to flinch away from his touch. But when he brushed his thumb over the softness of her cheek, she held as steady as her gaze. One of her stray curls tickled the backs of his fingers as his thumb strayed into even more dangerous territory, grazing the velvety warmth of lips no longer pressed together, but parted in invitation. Testing the softness of those lips with the firmness of his thumb only deepened his hunger until all he could think about was how sweet they would taste beneath his own.

  As Max leaned forward, Mrs. Spencer’s lashes swept down to veil her luminous eyes, almost as if to deny what was about to happen. Their lips were a breath away from meeting when the first tendril of smoke came wafting between them.

  Chapter Fifteen

  BOTH ANNE’S AND DRAVENWOOD’S gazes flew to the stove to discover thick, acrid clouds of smoke billowing around the cracks in the cast-iron door. Crying out with dismay, Anne sprang to her feet and rushed for the stove. This time she remembered to grab both a rag and a wooden paddle before throwing open the door. Her rescue effort came too late. The paddle emerged from the oven topped with a smoldering lump.

  She dumped it on the table. Dravenwood joined her, gazing down at the blackened bread with a dismay equal to, if not greater than, her own.

  “Forgive me,” he said, his voice still husky with an emotion that could have been either chagrin or desire. “I should never have distracted you.”

  “The blame is entirely mine,” she replied, her fingertips absently straying to the familiar shape of the locket beneath her bodice. “I allowed myself to forget that only a few careless seconds of inattention can ruin everything.”

  He nodded curtly, then strode from the room without another word.

  Anne watched his broad shoulders disappear through the door, recognizing with a treacherous stab of regret that neither of them would be foolish enough to make that mistake again.

  “THE MASTER WISHES TO see you in his study.”

  Anne glanced up from her task of halfheartedly grinding some fresh garden dirt into the drawing room carpet with the heel of her boot to find Lizzie standing in the doorway. The young maid was wringing the hem of her apron in her hands, looking nearly as anxious as Anne felt.

  Anne had been halfway expecting this summons since her encounter with Lord Dravenwood in the kitchen that morning. She had hoped finally receiving it might loosen the knot of dread in her stomach, not tighten it into an inescapable vise.

  She had spent the past ten years desperately trying to prove she was no longer the same girl she had been. But all it had taken was a tender caress and the tantalizing promise of a kiss from Dravenwood’s beautifully sculpted lips to shatter that illusion. What might she have done if their lips had actually touched? Wrapped her arms around his neck and climbed into his lap? Would he have stolen her heart as deftly as he stole her kiss? Was she even capable of giving one without the other?

  “Thank you, Lizzie.” Tucking a flowerpot half-full of dirt beneath the ruffled skirt of a chaise longue, she managed an encouraging smile for the girl before climbing the stairs to meet her fate.

  The door to the study had been left open a crack. Anne slipped into the room to find Lord Dravenwood seated behind the dusty cherrywood desk, surrounded by towering stacks of ledgers with mildewed covers and yellowing pages. He was making notations in one of the open ones, his concentration absolute.

  She stood there, waiting for him to acknowledge her presence. That morning in the kitchen she had di
scovered just how intoxicating—and how dangerous—it could be to have his attention focused on her with such intensity.

  A wavy, dark lock of hair had fallen over his eyes. He brushed it back impatiently, his pen still flying across the page. Something about the boyish gesture unleashed an odd tenderness in Anne’s heart. Knowing it was wrong to spy on him in such a craven manner, she cleared her throat.

  He glanced up immediately, his pen ceasing its motion. He didn’t say anything but simply took her measure from beneath the thick, dark wings of his brows. She was no longer the vulnerable woman who had allowed him to nurse her wounds and nearly steal a kiss. Her apron was freshly starched, her hair neatly dressed and confined to its tidy little net.

  They were once again master and housekeeper, each knowing their places and which boundaries were not to be crossed.

  Ever.

  Striving to keep her expression as free of emotion as possible, Anne returned his gaze evenly. “You had need of me, my lord?”

  His eyes narrowed ever so briefly before he closed the ledger with an audible snap, making it clear she was now the business at hand. “I believe it is you who have need of me, Mrs. Spencer. After our discussion this morning, I realized I was being completely remiss in my duties.”

  “You? Remiss? In your duties?”

  “If I hadn’t been remiss, you wouldn’t have been attempting to do the work of an entire day before the sun had so much as crested the horizon.”

  “I am the housekeeper of this establishment. It’s my job to make sure everything runs smoothly.”

  “That may be true, but it’s not your job to do everyone else’s job.” He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers beneath his chin.

  His hands were everything a man’s hands should be—strong, powerful-looking, with a light dusting of dark hair on their backs and long, elegantly tapered fingers. They were the sort of hands a woman could easily imagine caressing . . . gliding . . . stroking . . . Anne jerked her gaze back to his face, horrified by the wayward direction of her thoughts.

  “From what I’ve observed since I’ve been here, you’re saddled with a daft butler, an ancient cook, several affable but supremely incompetent maids, and an ill-tempered footman who doesn’t know a silver salver from a dormouse. If you keep trying to compensate for the shortcomings of your staff, all you’ll succeed in doing is working yourself into an early grave.”

  Before Anne could stop it, a bitter laugh bubbled from her lips. “Perhaps I’m simply trying to work my way out of an early grave.”

  “I’m confident you’re doing the best you can, but one woman can only do so much. It was evident to me from the first night I arrived that the manor’s staff wasn’t adequate to care for an estate this size. Yet I did nothing to rectify the situation. Which is why I’ve decided to send to London for some help.”

  Anne felt her lips go numb at the thought of a horde of strangers traipsing about the manor, digging into things that were none of their concern. Things long buried that desperately needed to stay that way. And other things that must only be unearthed by her and her staff.

  “I can assure you that won’t be necessary,” she said, fighting to keep a note of hysteria from creeping into her voice. “I’m the one who allowed the other servants to grow lax in their duties when there was no master in residence. Once I explain what’s required of them, they’ll work harder. I swear it.”

  “I might be able to believe that of the younger ones, but what about Hodges? And Nana? You’re supposed to be running a household here, Mrs. Spencer, not a home for the elderly and the mentally infirm.”

  “Nana and Hodges would be devastated if deprived of their positions. Neither of them have any family left to look after them. They have nowhere else to go. Hodges has only recently started exhibiting signs of a mental decline,” she lied. “I fear it’s the result of an injury he suffered in the war.”

  Dravenwood scowled suspiciously at her. “Which war?”

  “The one with Napoléon,” Anne replied, hoping that would cover most wars of the past several decades. “It would hardly be sporting to shunt him aside after he so valiantly served his country and king.”

  Dravenwood grunted. “And what of Nana? Was she a gunner in the Royal Navy?”

  “Nana faithfully served a local family for most of her life,” Anne said, hoping a morsel of truth would placate him. “But when she started losing her hearing, they insisted she be replaced and gave her notice. Her only desire now is to live out the rest of her years here at Cadgwyck—in the place she has come to call home.” Anne drew close enough to lay her palms on the desk, willing to sacrifice her stiff-necked pride on the altar of his mercy. “Please, my lord. If the others agree to work harder to lighten my load, may Nana and Hodges stay?”

  “Of course they may stay.” He frowned up at her, looking genuinely insulted. “What did you think I was going to do? Cast them into the hedgerows to fend for themselves?”

  She straightened, sighing with relief since that was exactly what she had feared. “Thank you, my lord. Will there be anything else?”

  “There is one more thing.” The lascivious glint in his eyes made Anne’s stomach tighten all over again.

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “I don’t care what other slop you feed me, but I want some of that bread you bake on my table. Every day. For breakfast.” After a moment of thought, he added, “And supper.”

  Anne could feel a smile flirting with her lips. “I believe that can be arranged. Will that be all, my lord?”

  “For now.” The innocent words sounded oddly provocative on his beautifully chiseled lips. Lips that had been a breath away from claiming hers just that morning.

  She had almost reached the door when he said, “Mrs. Spencer?”

  She turned, eyeing him warily.

  “Has it ever occurred to you that I may not be the heartless ogre you believe me to be?”

  “No, my lord,” she said solemnly. “I’m afraid it hasn’t.” But just before she slipped out the door, she flashed him a genuine smile, not her usual tight-lipped one.

  “Impossible woman,” she heard him mutter beneath his breath as he returned to his ledgers.

  “I DEMAND AN INCREASE in my wages!” Pippa exclaimed as she and Dickon struggled to wrestle a rolled-up Turkish rug out of the drawing room and through the entrance hall the following afternoon.

  “You don’t receive any wages,” Anne reminded her. Anne was perched on a rickety ladder in the middle of the hall, using a broom to swipe the thick veil of cobwebs from the tarnished brass arms of the chandelier. Every twinge and throb of her muscles only served to remind her that she was the one who put them there.

  “All the more reason to demand an increase.” Heaving an exhausted sigh, Pippa dropped her end of the carpet and plopped down on it. She’d covered her dark curls with a linen kerchief to keep the dust out of them.

  Dickon rolled his eyes. “I don’t know why you’re in such a foul temper.” The boy gave the open front door a longing glance. “I could be out on the moor right now hunting for supper or catching a wild pony to ride. Instead, I’m stuck in this miserable house doing women’s work with the likes of you.”

  “Don’t grumble, dear,” Anne chided from her swaying perch. “You’ll get plenty of fresh air when you’re out in the courtyard beating a decade of dust from that rug.”

  Muttering something beneath his breath that would doubtlessly have gotten his ears boxed if Anne could reach them, Dickon gave his end of the rug a hard yank, dumping Pippa in the floor. As she sprang to her feet, rubbing her rump and glaring after him, he dragged the rug the rest of the way out the door.

  Anne tossed down the broom, then descended from the ladder. She dusted off her grimy hands, surveying the results of their handiwork with a satisfied smile.

  She’d wasted no time in fulfilling her promise to Lord Dravenwood. A sneezing Beth and Bess had spent most of the morning dragging the moldering draperies down from the tall
, arched windows and were now diligently scrubbing years of grime from the wavy panes of glass. Betsy was slopping a mop around the floors, while Lisbeth dipped her rag in a container of linseed oil and beeswax to buff the mahogany of the banister to a rich luster. Lizzie was upstairs whisking old sheets off the furniture and stuffing handfuls of fresh feathers purchased from the local goose girl into all of the mattresses. Even Hodges and Nana had insisted on doing their part. Hodges was gleefully collecting every bit of tarnished silver in the house and dragging it to the kitchen so Nana could her set her gnarled hands to the task of polishing it.

  With their limited resources, there was no way for them to restore the house to its former glory. All they could do was hold up a dim mirror to reflect what once had been. But even those modest efforts had stirred up more than just dust. If Anne tilted her head just right, she could almost hear the graceful notes of a waltz drifting out from the deserted ballroom, the merry clink of champagne flutes hefted in a teasing toast, the muted murmur of conversation, and laughter from voices long gone. Angelica gazed down upon them from her haughty perch at the top of the stairs. It was impossible to tell from her cryptic smile if she approved of their efforts or was mocking their foolishness.

  Pippa followed the direction of Anne’s gaze. “Our White Lady hasn’t made an appearance in almost a fortnight. And now you’re making the manor so comfortable Lord Imperious won’t ever want to leave. I’m beginning to suspect you’re not in as great of a hurry to be rid of the man as you’d like us to believe.”

  “Don’t be absurd,” Anne replied, her voice sounding oddly unconvincing even to her own ears. “Of course I am. But I thought we agreed it would be in all of our best interests to tread carefully with this one. He’s no fool like the rest.”

  “I wasn’t implying he was a fool,” Pippa replied, giving Anne an arch look before heading out the side door to join Dickon in the courtyard.

  “Saucy little baggage,” Anne muttered, knowing it was probably only a matter of time before Pippa and Dickon stopped using their paddles to whack the rug and started whacking each other.