Performing her final duties of the day had sapped the last of her strength. She’d helped the maids clean up the kitchen, then sent them off to bed while she prepared the dough for the next morning’s bread. Leaving the loaves to rise beneath a clean cloth, she’d made one last circuit of the downstairs to make sure every candle and lamp had been extinguished.
As she passed through the servants’ quarters, the sound of bellicose snoring drifted out of Hodges’s room. When he had refused to come out from the cabinet earlier, she had wanted nothing more than to strangle him with her bare hands. But as she peeked into his room to find him tucked safely in his nest of quilts with just a tuft of white hair visible, she was flooded with a rush of helpless tenderness.
By the time she reached the steep stairs that led to her own attic room, her eyelids were already drooping. On nights like this, it seemed as if she could climb forever and the staircase would never end. The wind was moaning mournfully around the eaves, and the chill hanging in the air seemed to deepen with each step she took. Hoping to lessen the time it would take to wash up and crawl beneath her blanket, she unbuttoned the first three buttons of her bodice, tugged the net from her hair, and began to pull out her hairpins, dropping them into the pocket of her apron.
Just as she pushed open the door, an enormous yawn seized her. She covered her mouth and closed her eyes. When she opened them, she was standing on the threshold of a dream.
Chapter Twenty-three
ANNE BLINKED IN WONDER, thinking for a dazed instant that she must somehow have stumbled into the wrong room. But there was no room like this in Cadgwyck Manor.
There hadn’t been for a long time.
A cheerful fire crackled on the grate, sending out waves of warmth to envelop her and draw her deeper into the attic. The wooden bedstead was the same as it had been that morning when she had stiffly climbed out of it, but her ancient mattress had been replaced with a fluffy feather tick draped in a plush down comforter. The pewter candlestick on the side table had been shoved aside to make room for an oil lamp. The lamp’s cut-glass, ruby-hued shade cast a rosy glow over the room. A stack of handsome, leatherbound books with gilt-edged pages now accompanied her worn copy of Pilgrim’s Progress.
A luxurious Turkish rug had been laid beside the bed, as if to protect her feet from the cold when she first arose, while a pair of green velvet drapes had been hung over the window to keep the worst of the drafts at bay. A small, round table fitted with a single chair sat in front of the hearth—the perfect place to enjoy a private supper after a long day of work. There was even a plump ottoman where she might prop her aching feet.
Anne recognized almost every item in the room. They had all been pilfered from other chambers in the house. The attic now looked more like a lady’s sitting room than a housekeeper’s quarters.
But she was no lady.
She drifted toward the washstand, bewitched by the tendrils of steam she could see wending their way into the air. As if in a trance, she lifted the ceramic pitcher and poured a stream of heated water into the basin. She would have liked nothing more than to splash the water on her face, to surrender to the tantalizing temptation of having someone look after her after so many years of looking after herself and everyone around her.
But as she lifted her eyes from the basin, she realized one thing in the room had not changed. The oval looking glass still hung behind the washstand. Steam misted the looking glass, softening her reflection, turning back the clock and erasing all of the lonely years until the only features she recognized were the eyes gazing back at her.
And the helpless longing within them. A longing only intensified by the spicy, masculine scent of bayberry soap still lingering in the air.
WHEN ANNE REACHED HER employer’s bedchamber, she didn’t even bother to knock. She simply shoved open the door and stormed inside. Fortunately, Lord Dravenwood’s bed curtains had been tied back with gold cords to welcome in the heat from the fire crackling on his grate. She didn’t even have to whisk them aside or rip them clear off the canopy to find him.
He was propped up on the pillows reading by candlelight, a pair of incongruous wire-framed spectacles perched low on his nose. He glanced up, his gaze mildly curious, as she closed the door behind her so as not to rouse the rest of the house.
She marched across the chamber and halted at the foot of the four-poster. “How dare you go into my room without my leave?” she demanded, her chest heaving with fury. “I suppose it wasn’t enough for you to paw through the belongings of some poor dead girl. You had to go and poke your aristocratic nose into my business as well. Tell me—are you so very arrogant, so very presumptuous, so very convinced of your own natural-born superiority, that you believe those in your employ aren’t entitled to even a dollop of privacy? Some humble space they can call their own?” He opened his mouth, but closed it again when he realized she had only paused to suck in an outraged breath. “If that’s what you believe, you are sorely mistaken. You may own this house, my lord. But you do not own me!”
He cocked one eyebrow, calmly surveying her over the top of the spectacles. “Are you quite through, Mrs. Spencer?”
An icy-hot wave of horror and despair washed over Anne as she realized what she had done. She had allowed herself to fly into a full-blown tantrum, losing the temper she’d fought so hard to keep for so long.
And now everyone she loved would suffer for her failings.
“I suppose I am,” she said stiffly, her voice stripped of all emotion except for regret. “There’s no need for you to dismiss me, my lord. I shall tender my resignation first thing in the morning.”
Dravenwood drew off the spectacles and laid them aside, along with his book. “Had I wanted to be rid of you, I’d have continued to let you sleep in that inhospitable crypt you insist upon calling a bedchamber. I’m sure it would have only been a matter of time before you succumbed to consumption or a fatal ague. Then you and Miss Cadgwyck could have taken turns haunting me.”
Anne’s ire had subsided just enough for her to realize she was standing in a gentleman’s bedchamber in the middle of the night. A gentleman who didn’t appear to be wearing anything but the sheet drawn up to the taut planes of his abdomen. A silk dressing gown was draped over the foot of the bed, confirming her worst suspicions.
With his naked chest hers for the ogling, there didn’t seem to be anywhere else to look. Anne had heard some gentlemen were forced to pad their coats and wear a corset of sorts to achieve the broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted look so favored by fashion these days. Lord Dravenwood was not one of those men. His chest was well muscled and lightly furred with the same dark hair that dusted the back of his hands. Anne’s hands itched with the pagan desire to rake her fingertips through it, to see if it felt as soft, yet crisp, as it looked.
He cleared his throat. She jerked her gaze back up to his face, her cheeks heating with mortification to have been caught gawking.
He might be a guarded man, but there was no mistaking the gleam of amusement in his eyes. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, Mrs. Spencer. Had I known I would be receiving a female caller who hadn’t been dead for a decade, I would have dressed—or undressed—with more care.”
He was eyeing her with frank appreciation. She had forgotten all about yanking the pins from her hair and unbuttoning the first few buttons of her bodice as she climbed the stairs to her room.
Her hair was half-up and half-down, a thick, curling rope of it hanging over one shoulder. Her gown was no longer buttoned up to her chin, but was gaping open to reveal the worn lace of her chemise and a creamy slice of cleavage. She probably looked as if she’d just crawled out of a man’s bed.
Or was about to crawl into one.
She snatched her collar closed at the throat with one hand, hoping to hide the silver locket nestled between her breasts from his piercing gaze. “I should have knocked. But then again,” she added sweetly, “I’m sure you can understand just how much easier it is to barge in wher
e you haven’t been invited and aren’t welcome.”
“Just so you know, I did knock when I came to your room.”
“When no one answers, it’s customary to go away and return at another time, not refurbish their abode to your own tastes.”
A dangerous glitter dawned in his eyes. “I would have refurbished it to your tastes, but I was fresh out of sackcloth and ashes.”
Anne swallowed. If she hadn’t let her anger get the best of her, she would have recognized coming here would be a terrible mistake. “Some of us are not so easily seduced by creature comforts.”
“You have a lot of nerve reproaching me for wallowing in my self-condemnation when you’ve confined yourself to a cell like some sort of criminal or penitent nun. Tell me, Mrs. Spencer, just what terrible sins have you committed that would require such sacrifice? Are you hoping to atone for them by freezing yourself to death?”
Stung by the sharp lash of truth in his words, she snapped, “My sins are of no more concern to you than where I sleep at night. You had no right to meddle. I was perfectly content with things the way they were.”
“Is that all you believe you deserve from life? Contentment? What about satisfaction? Joy?” Dravenwood tilted his head to survey her, his voice deepening on a husky note that sent a treacherous little shiver cascading through her. “Passion? Pleasure?”
“All luxuries reserved for those of your class, my lord. We humble servants are expected to find our satisfaction in duty, loyalty, sacrifice, obedience.”
“Obedience?” A skeptical bark of laughter escaped him. “No wonder you seem so dissatisfied.”
Anne could feel her temper rising again. “You’re a fine one to lecture me on the benefits of joy and pleasure. I’d wager you can’t remember the last time you experienced either one. You squandered your youth loving a woman who could never love you back just so you could keep your heart safely walled behind the blocks of ice you’ve built to protect it. All Angelica did was replace that golden idol in your heart. You’d rather pine for a ghost than risk loving a woman fashioned from flesh and blood.”
A woman such as her.
Shaken by that treacherous whisper of her heart, Anne spun around and retraced her steps to the door. “I should have never come here. I should have known reasoning with you would prove to be impossible.”
The rustle of Dravenwood tossing back the sheets and yanking on his dressing gown was Anne’s only warning. Before she could open the door more than a crack, he had crossed the chamber with the same predatory grace he had used to capture her on the night he’d gone ghost hunting. He slammed both palms against the door on either side of her head, shoving the door closed and leaving her with no choice but to stand there trembling in the circle of his arms as he embraced her without laying so much as a finger on her.
“You have every right to berate me for invading your privacy.” His mouth was so close to her ear the warmth of his breath stirred the invisible dusting of hair along its lobe. “But you were wrong about one thing.”
“And what would that be, my lord?” she whispered tautly, thankful he couldn’t see her face in that moment.
“As long as I am master at Cadgwyck, you do belong to me.” His bold claim sent a wicked little thrill shooting through her. “Your welfare is my concern and my responsibility. If you want to spend your nights lying in your lonely bed reading Pilgrim’s Progress by candlelight until your eyesight fails, then by God you’ll at least do it in warmth and comfort. Do we understand each other?”
Mustering every last ounce of her courage, Anne turned to face him. Still held captive by those muscular forearms and the imposing wall of his chest, she gazed up into the passion-darkened planes of his face. “Yes, my lord. I think we understand each other very well.”
She didn’t realize just how well until he cupped her face in his hands and brought his mouth down on hers. Hard. Her lips melted beneath his, softening the punishing force of his kiss with the aching tenderness of her surrender. His tongue accepted the invitation of her parted lips, licking into her with a sinuous hunger that coaxed a helpless little whimper from her lips.
Her hands drifted upward to clutch at his upper arms, sliding over the silk sleeves of his dressing gown to explore the firm swell of muscle beneath. She knew she should push him away, but all she wanted to do was tug him closer. To be enveloped in the heat radiating from every unyielding, masculine inch of him.
As his lips blazed a searing path from the corner of her mouth to the pulse beating madly at the side of her throat, she whispered, “Maximillian,” cursing and blessing him in the same breath. If he had never come to Cadgwyck, she would never have known how lonely she’d been. How desperately she’d been craving a man’s kiss, a man’s touch. But not just any touch, she realized with a mingled thrill of joy and despair.
His touch.
“Anne.” Her own name was a shuddering growl against the satiny skin of her throat. “My sweet, stubborn Anne.”
Then his mouth was on hers again, the rough velvet of his tongue coaxing hers into joining the pagan dance until their mouths were as one. He wrapped an arm around her waist while his other hand combed the remaining pins from her hair, sending it tumbling around her shoulders in decadent disarray.
“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he muttered against her lips before seizing her mouth once more for a deep, drugging kiss that seemed to have no end.
Anne might have slid right into a puddle of desire at his feet if he hadn’t used his hips to bear her back against the door. She could feel the rigid outline of his arousal pressed against the softness of her belly even through her skirts and petticoats, showing her just how desperately he wanted her. She felt her womb clench at the primal power of it.
This had to stop. She had to stop.
But instead she lifted a hand to his hair, sliding her fingers through his thick, dark locks just as she had longed to do for so long. His hand drifted downward, tracing the graceful curve of her throat and the delicate arch of her collarbone before finally dipping into her unbuttoned bodice to claim the softness of one breast.
Anne gasped into his mouth. She had accused him of denying himself pleasure, but he certainly knew how to give it. That much was evident in the deft brush of his fingertips against the throbbing little bud of her nipple. He gently tugged, knowing just how much pressure to apply to keep pleasure from turning into pain.
That irresistible surge of delight shocked Anne back to her senses. She’d been fool enough to trust herself to a man’s hands once before. She could not afford to do it again. Not when so much was at stake.
“I have to go, my lord,” she murmured against his lips. “Coming here was a terrible mistake.”
Dravenwood’s hand went still against her breast, his long, masculine fingers still cupping its weight ever so gently. “I’ve made far more damning mistakes in my life. With far less reward.”
She leaned back to peer up into his face. “What would you have me do? Sneak into your bed each night after the others are asleep? Slip away in the morning before the sun rises?”
He lifted both hands to smooth her hair back from her face, his quicksilver eyes heavy-lidded with passion, his voice hoarse with need. “At the moment I can think of nothing in all the world that I’d like more.”
“I’m sorry, my lord. I’m not that woman. I can’t be that woman.” She closed her eyes and pressed her cheek to his chest to block out the sight of his hopeful face before whispering, “Not even for you.”
His arms tightened around her, binding her to his heart with a fierce tenderness. For one bittersweet moment, it was enough to pretend that would be enough for them. That a simple embrace would satisfy the craving in both of their souls.
Even when they both knew it would never be enough.
“Are you certain this is what you want?” he asked, burying his mouth in the softness of her hair.
Anne nodded, her throat too tight with longing and regret for speec
h. For a breathless moment, she was torn between fearing he wasn’t going to let her go and praying he wouldn’t.
But then he stepped away from the door and her, setting her free to flee back to the cozy comforts of her lonely room.
FROM THAT DAY FORWARD, Anne would return to her attic each night to find a cheery fire crackling on the grate and a pitcher of hot water steaming on the washstand. Other treasures began to appear as well: a thick pair of new woolen stockings; some little cakes of French soap carved into the shapes of seashells; all three volumes of Sense and Sensibility, one of the novels she had adored as a young girl.
Had Dravenwood been any other man, she would have suspected him of trying to seduce her. But she had grown to know him well enough in the past few weeks to recognize that his gifts were given freely, without a price attached. He would never know how high their cost was to her yearning heart.
Anne’s only satisfaction came when she would catch Beth or Betsy scurrying guiltily down the attic stairs as she trudged up them so she could mutter, “Et tu, Brute,” at them beneath her breath. Unfortunately, neither of them spoke Latin. There was no need for a translator to interpret her accusing glare.
“We’re never going to be rid of His Gracelessness, are we?” Pippa said darkly as they all gathered in the kitchen to prepare supper late one afternoon.
With every lamp and candle lit, the kitchen was even more cozy than usual. Clouds had been rolling in from the sea all day, bringing with them an early twilight and a gusty breeze scented with the threat of rain.
Pippa was wielding the pestle she was using to grind up some fresh parsley as if it were a cudgel. “He’s going to die of old age right here in his bed. A bed whose linens I was forced to change.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Dickon said, an amiable grin lighting his freckled face. He was perched on the edge of the kitchen hearth, an iron kettle propped between his knees. He was in such good spirits he hadn’t even complained about being tasked to scour out the kettle with handfuls of sand. “I’m starting to think he’s not such a bad sort after all. Why, just yesterday he asked if I’d take him down to the cove and show him the sea caves. And he’s talking about having the stable repaired and bringing in one of them fancy phaetons and some horses. Real horses, not just wild moor ponies.”