The Temptation of Your Touch Page 6

  Anne checked to make sure her locket was tucked safely into the bodice of her gown. She knew she would have an extra second or two to prepare as Lord Dravenwood approached the painting at the end of the gallery. No man had ever made it past Angelica Cadgwyck without slowing to pay homage. Still, she couldn’t resist rolling her eyes when his footsteps paused at the top of the stairs. He was doubtlessly searching Angelica’s exquisite face, trying to determine if the arrival of dawn had broken the spell she had cast over him in the night.

  By the time he started down the last flight of stairs, Anne was standing at the foot of them, her hands clasped in front of her as she dutifully awaited her master’s pleasure.

  Or displeasure, it would seem, judging by the way he was glowering at her from beneath his thick, dark brows. Shadows brooded beneath his eyes, making it look as if he’d slept little. Or perhaps not at all. Anne pressed her lips together to suppress a smirk of triumph.

  Perhaps only one night at Cadgwyck was enough to make him realize his mistake in coming here. With any luck, he was coming down to inquire just how quickly she could arrange for his passage back to London. That would be one order she would hasten to obey.

  Stepping off the last stair, he scowled at the frozen hands of the longcase clock. “How is one ever supposed to know what time it is around here? Make a note to get the bloody thing fixed.” He must have seen her eyes widen for he shifted his scowl to her. “I hope you’re not easily offended by the occasional oath. I’m afraid I spent more of my career with the East India Company in the presence of ruffians than ladies.”

  “Ah, but I’m no lady,” she gently reminded him. “I’m your housekeeper. And I do believe the clock is quite beyond repair. From what I understand, it hasn’t worked since the night . . .”

  As she trailed off, he arched one eyebrow in a silent demand for her to continue.

  She sighed sadly, seeking only to whet his curiosity. “For a very long time.”

  His thoughtful grunt warned her he wasn’t satisfied with her answer, but was willing to content himself with it. For now.

  “I trust you slept well?” she offered, watching his face carefully.

  “As well as can be expected in an unfamiliar bed. Although you’d think by now I would be accustomed to sleeping in strange beds.”

  Now it was her turn to arch an eyebrow at him.

  A glimmer of unexpected amusement warmed his cool gray eyes. “My position on the Court of Directors of the Company required a great deal of travel. To climes far more inhospitable than this one.” He peered around the drafty entrance hall, the lines bracketing his mouth deepening a degree. “Although that might be hard to imagine.”

  “How very fortunate you were! Most people around here will go their entire lives without ever traveling more than a league away from the patch of ground where they were born.”

  “I never cared for it. I’ve always been a man who preferred the simple charms of hearth and home to the unpredictability of the unknown.”

  “So will your lady be joining us at Cadgwyck Manor after you’re properly settled in?” Anne carefully inquired.

  A fresh shadow crossed his face. She didn’t realize she was holding her breath until he said shortly, “I have no lady.” He reached up to give the stubble darkening his jaw a rueful stroke. “At the moment I find myself more in need of a valet.”

  His current appearance certainly lacked the polished edges expected of a gentleman. His wavy, dark hair was tousled as if he’d raked his fingers through it instead of a brush. He had taken enough care to don a claret waistcoat of watered silk and a black coat, but he wore no cravat. His shirt was laid open at the collar to reveal the strong masculine lines of his throat.

  Something about his artless disarray made Anne suddenly feel as if her own collar were choking her. She touched a hand to her throat to make sure one of her buttons wasn’t about to spring free of its mooring without her leave. “Perhaps Dickon could—”

  Lord Dravenwood’s glower returned. “I have no intention of letting that surly little brat near my throat with a straight razor. Is there no one else in the household who could assist me for a time in the morning and evening? The butler perhaps?”

  “Oh, no,” Anne said swiftly. “I’m afraid Hodges’s duties are far too demanding. We couldn’t possibly spare him.”

  Another skeptical grunt. “What about that lad from the village who brought me up here last night? He wouldn’t have any formal training, of course, but he seemed the sort who would be quick to learn and eager to please.”

  “Derrick Hammett?” She nodded toward the leatherbound trunks piled up in a corner of the entrance hall. “He delivered the rest of your baggage to the front stoop shortly after sunrise and departed before anyone could so much as thank him or offer him a shilling for his trouble. I sincerely doubt he’d be interested in the position. Most of the villagers won’t come within shouting distance of the manor. Even Mrs. Beedle, the laundress who comes once a month, won’t set foot in the house, but insists we carry all of the soiled linens out to her kettle in the courtyard.”

  Scorn laced the earl’s deep, resonant baritone. “I suppose it’s because of that superstitious twaddle about the ghost.”

  “I gather you don’t believe in such apparitions?”

  He lifted one broad shoulder in an indifferent shrug. “We’re all haunted in one way or another, are we not? If not by spirits, then by our own demons and regrets.”

  “Are you speaking from experience, my lord?” Anne could not resist asking.

  The chill returned to his eyes, giving them a frosty glint. “What I am doing, Mrs. Spencer, is speaking out of turn. If the local villagers refuse to serve at Cadgwyck Manor, where did you find the staff you have? Such as they are,” he added, eyeing the chandelier, which appeared to be in imminent danger of collapsing beneath the weight of the cobwebs drifting from its spindly arms.

  “They were engaged from other areas. With Mr. Hodges’s expert assistance, of course.”

  This time he didn’t even bother with a grunt. He simply studied her face through narrowed eyes, his penetrating gaze threatening to breach all of her defenses. Anne had forgotten how it felt to have a man look at her that way. She honestly wasn’t sure any man had ever looked at her that way.

  She couldn’t help but wonder what a man like Lord Dravenwood saw when he looked at her. She had no Milk of Roses to smooth out her complexion, no rice powder to dull the faint sheen of her nose, no paste mixed with lampblack to darken her lashes to a sooty hue. The greatest luxury she allowed herself these days was tooth powder, which she used to polish her teeth upon rising and before bed each night.

  Did he even realize a woman’s heart beat beneath the cloth-covered buttons of her staid bodice? Did he suspect that some nights she woke up tangled in her sheets, her body aching with a yearning she could not name? A yearning that was beginning to bloom again beneath his steady gaze.

  Reverting to the stiff formality that always served her so well when dealing with his kind, Anne said, “I’ve already rung for your breakfast, my lord. If you’ll allow me to escort you to the dining room, I’ll see to it that you are served immediately.”

  She was turning away from him, seeking to escape that dangerous gaze, when his hand closed over her arm. It was the second time he had touched her, but that didn’t lessen the delicious little shock that danced along her nerves. She hadn’t felt delicate or feminine for a long time, but it was difficult not to with Lord Dravenwood’s dark form looming over her, his large hand easily encompassing her slender forearm. The back of his hand was roped with veins and lightly dusted with crisp, dark hair. Drawing an uneven breath through her parted lips, she reluctantly lifted her gaze to his face, half-afraid of what she might find there. “My lord?”

  “Your eyes . . .” he murmured, his harsh expression softened by bewilderment as he gazed down into them.

  Chapter Eight

  ANNE HAD TO USE every ounce of self-control she posses
sed not to lower her lashes, but to continue to boldly meet Lord Dravenwood’s gaze. She had never expected him to be that observant. “Pardon?”

  “Your eyes,” he repeated more forcefully. “Last night I would have sworn they were green, but now they seem to be brown.”

  She offered him her most soothing smile. “My eyes are a quite ordinary hazel, my lord. They can appear different colors in different light—sometimes brown, sometimes green, sometimes a mixture of both.”

  This time she didn’t wait for him to relinquish his hold on her. She simply slid her arm neatly out of his grasp and started toward the dining room. She didn’t even spare a glance over her shoulder to make sure he was following. Her only desire was to escape before the bewilderment in his eyes could harden into suspicion.

  MAX SAT ALL ALONE at the head of a long mahogany table that could easily have accommodated thirty guests, feeling more than a little ridiculous. The only other furniture in the room was a dusty sideboard sporting a silver tea set in desperate need of a sound polishing.

  The moldering velvet drapes had been drawn back from the impressive wall of windows overlooking the cliffs, inviting in the meager rays of what passed for daylight in this place. The wavy panes of glass were nearly as grimy as the curtains, making the choppy, gray sea beyond the cliffs look even grayer.

  As he awaited the arrival of his breakfast, Max caught himself cocking his head to listen for the telltale jingle of Mrs. Spencer’s keys. The merry sound that accompanied her every step was completely at odds with her oh-so-proper appearance. When he had found her waiting for him at the foot of the stairs, her every button and hair had been in place, as if secured with the same starch she used on her collar and apron.

  Apparently, the only thing unpredictable about the infernal woman was the color of her eyes.

  He was already regretting that awkward moment when he had seized her arm. He couldn’t imagine what had possessed him to put his hands on her not once, but twice, since his arrival at the manor. He’d never been inclined toward manhandling the help. Of course, nor was he in the habit of engaging in personal conversation with them. In his father’s household, and later in his own, servants had always been treated as if they were of no more consequence than the furniture—necessary, but hardly worthy of notice.

  But who else was he supposed to talk to in this accursed place? Himself? The ghost? A derisive snort escaped him. A few more lonely nights in this mausoleum and he might find himself doing just that.

  There was no reason why he shouldn’t be perfectly content with his situation. After all, hadn’t he come here to the ends of the earth because he wanted to be left alone?

  As the dining room door came swinging open, he sat up eagerly. The tantalizing aroma of freshly baked bread drifted through the doorway, making his stomach quicken with anticipation.

  The young footman ducked through the door, a tray balanced in his hands. His scrawny chest was swallowed by the oversize coat of his faded blue livery. The legs of his trousers had been pinned up at the ankles so they wouldn’t trip him. His powdered wig was canted at an even more precarious angle than it had been the previous night.

  The boy slapped the tray down on the table in front of Max, rattling the china dishes, then with a grudging flourish whipped away the silver lid shielding Max’s meal.

  Although Max’s disappointment was keen, he could find nothing to complain about. It was standard English breakfast fare—a pair of poached eggs, a bowl of watery porridge, a limp kipper, three rashers of overcooked bacon, a piece of underdone toast. The food looked every bit as tasteless as it did colorless. There was no sign of the buttery, golden loaf that had haunted his culinary fantasies ever since he had caught the aroma of it clinging to Mrs. Spencer’s hair.

  Without a word, the footman took his place next to the sideboard, staring straight ahead like one of the king’s guards.

  The boy’s truculent silence was going to make for a long meal. A very long meal. Max took a sip of his lukewarm tea, wishing it were something much stronger, before asking, “Have you any newspapers I might peruse while I breakfast?”

  The boy blew out a disgusted huff, as if Max had requested the Holy Grail be located without delay so his tea could be served in it. “I’ll see what I can find.”

  Max had finished his bacon and was poking listlessly at his eggs with his fork when Dickon returned with a yellowing broadsheet tucked beneath his arm. Max unfolded the brittle pages to discover it was a copy of the Times . . . dated October 1820. Since Max had no desire to read what Queen Caroline had been wearing at her husband’s coronation sixteen years ago, he tossed the useless thing aside. It seemed he had escaped not only London but the modern world altogether.

  He managed to choke down a few spoonfuls of the lumpy porridge before a combination of boredom and curiosity prompted him to speak again. “Dickon? It is Dickon, is it not?”

  The boy shot him a suspicious glance. “Aye, sir . . . um . . . m’lord.”

  “How long have you been in service at Cadgwyck?”

  “Nearly five years now, m’lord.”

  Max frowned. “Just how old are you?”

  “I’m seventeen,” the boy said staunchly.

  What you are, Max thought, is lying through your teeth. The boy didn’t look to be more than a day over thirteen. And that was a generous estimation. “Were you hired by Mr. Hodges?”

  “No, it was An—Mrs. Spencer what gave me my place here.”

  “Your Mrs. Spencer seems to wield an uncommon amount of influence for a mere housekeeper,” Max remarked thoughtfully.

  “She’s not my Mrs. Spencer. She belongs to no man.”

  “Not even Mr. Spencer?” Max asked, amused against his will by the unmistakable note of pride in the lad’s voice.

  “Oh, there is no Mr. Spencer,” the lad blurted out. When he saw Max’s eyebrow shoot up, a flicker of alarm danced over his face. “At least not anymore. Mr. Spencer died in an unfortunate . . . um . . . accident. Crushed by a . . . a wagon, he was. A very large, very heavy wagon.”

  “How tragic,” Max murmured, wondering just how long the unflappable Mrs. Spencer had been a widow. Based on the way her breath had quickened and her lips had parted both times he had put his hand on her arm, it must have been a long time indeed. If the mere touch of his hand had stirred such a response, he couldn’t help but wonder how she would react if a man actually tried to kiss her. Shaking off the absurd and dangerous notion, he said, “It’s no wonder she ended up as a domestic. There are very few avenues open to a woman who must make her own way in the world without the protection of a man.”

  Dickon didn’t even try to disguise his snort. “If any man crosses Mrs. Spencer, he’ll be the one in need of protection.”

  Before Max could stop himself, he had returned the boy’s cheeky grin, making them compatriots for the briefest of seconds. Then, as if realizing he was guilty of consorting with the enemy, Dickon jerked himself back to attention, staring straight ahead with his face set in even more sullen lines than before.

  Sighing, Max returned his attention to his breakfast. Since he had no idea if anything more nourishing—or flavorful—would be forthcoming for lunch, he forced himself to finish every bite of the pallid fare before rising and leaving the boy to clear his place.

  When he emerged from the dining room, he nearly collided with his stalwart housekeeper, who was hovering over a potted ficus tree just outside the door, watering can in hand. She might have been more convincing in her task if the tree had sported a single living leaf. Or if her watering can had so much as a drop of water in it.

  Had she been lurking outside the door all along listening to every word of his conversation with young Dickon? Perhaps Max should have paid more heed to her warning about the cat and the bell. As long as she was relatively still, her ring of keys would not betray her.

  Determined not to be drawn into yet another inappropriate exchange, he offered her a curt nod and continued on his way.

&n
bsp; She fell into step behind him, her dogged pursuit shredding what was left of his frayed temper. “I wasn’t sure what you had planned for your first morning at Cadgwyck, my lord. If you’d like, I could take some time out of my duties to go over the household schedule and accounts with you.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” he said without slowing his strides. “You’ve managed this long without me. Just continue doing whatever it is you’re doing.”

  If she was taken aback by his words or the dismissive wave he aimed in her direction, the cheery jingle of her keys did not betray her. “I trust you found breakfast to your satisfaction, my lord. Will you be requiring—”

  He wheeled around to face her, forcing her to bring herself up short or risk colliding with the immovable expanse of his chest. “What I require, Mrs. Spencer, is some decent coffee with my breakfast and a newspaper published in the current decade. Beyond that, all that I require is to be left to my own devices. If I’d have wanted to have my every need anticipated by some well-intentioned, yet interfering, female, I would have remained in London.”

  With that, he turned on his heel and went stalking toward the nearest set of French windows, determined to escape both the house and his meddling housekeeper.

  Behind him, he heard nothing but silence.

  IT TOOK MAX ONLY a brief turn about the grounds of Cadgwyck Manor to discover they were as neglected and unkempt as the interior of the house. Clumps of weeds had sprung up between the cracked flagstones of the terraces, while scraggly, untrimmed shrubs and dangling vines transformed every walkway into a shadowy maze. The lawn had long ago surrendered to the same rambling ivy that had clawed its way up the walls of the crumbling tower. An ornate bronze birdbath crowned by a mossy statue of Botticelli’s Venus sat in the center of what must once have been a handsome garden, its basin choked with stagnant water. An air of deserted melancholy hung over it all.