The Temptation of Your Touch (8 page)

Max released a breath he hadn’t even realized he
had been holding. He stood there for a long time but there was no repeat performance, no sound at all except for the muted roar of the wind and the distant crash of the waves against the rocks.

Another man might have doubted his senses, but a mocking smile tugged at one corner of Max’s mouth. “I’ve been haunted by the best,” he murmured. “If you want to be rid of me, sweetheart, you’ll have to do better than that.”

Leaving his challenge hanging in the air, he turned his back on the night and returned to the master chamber, gently but firmly drawing the French windows shut and latching them behind him.

S
INCE THEIR PREVIOUS MASTER
had rarely risen before noon, Anne fully expected Lord Dravenwood to spend most of the morning languishing in bed. She was caught off guard by the staccato tap of his bootheels crossing the second-floor gallery at only half past eight. She tossed the broom she’d been using to judiciously apply fresh cobwebs to the entrance hall chandelier behind a rusting suit of armor and scurried over to the wall to give the ancient bellpull a hearty yank. She could only hope someone was on the other end to hear its jangle of warning.

She smoothed her hair out of habit as she hurried back across the floor. She had risen before dawn to
choose her garments with deliberate care—no easy feat when faced with a cast-off armoire containing only a handful of black and gray gowns, all cut from serviceable linens and wools. She had finally settled upon a sturdy merino the same misty-gray shade as Lord Dravenwood’s eyes. A freshly starched apron completed her ensemble. The apron was the identifying badge of the domestic, its purpose to ensure none would embarrass themselves by mistaking her for a lady of the house.

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

A
NNE HAD TO USE
every ounce of self-control she possessed 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.

M
AX 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.