Max sat up, his confusion growing. Pale, early-afternoon sunlight streamed through the French windows, shining on the empty rocking chair that had been drawn up to the very edge of the bed.
He would almost swear the woman in his arms last night hadn’t been a vapor of mist, but flesh and blood. She had been warm and responsive, her mouth a living flame beneath his. Surely no hallucination could be that vivid.
He raked a hand through his tousled hair, scouring the blurred edges of his memory. If he concentrated hard, he could almost hear a voice gently coaxing him to part his parched lips so the cool metal of a spoon could be slipped between them. Could feel the scrape of a straight razor wielded by steady fingers against the bristles of his beard. Could feel a cool hand on his brow, gently testing the temperature of his fevered flesh.
He could see a woman bending over him, her skin as fine and pale as alabaster, exhaustion shadowing her hazel eyes. Her hair had escaped its unraveling chignon to hang in limp strands around her worried face. A face that suddenly came into focus with brutal clarity.
It was the face of his housekeeper, Mrs. Spencer.
Not Angelica, but Anne.
A wave of horror washed over him. Dear God, what had he done? Had he dragged the woman into his bed and forced himself upon her in his delirium?
That scenario didn’t fit the tantalizing glimpses stealing through his memory—the softness of her lips flowering beneath his to welcome his kiss; the trusting warmth of her hand twining through his hair to caress his nape; the enticing way her hips had arched off the bed in an invitation no man could resist; the throaty little cry she had tried to bury in his throat when his fingertips had coaxed her over the precipice of pleasure into ecstasy.
As the memories came flooding back one by one, Max could feel himself growing hard all over again. He swore beneath his breath.
There was only one way to prove the memories were nothing but the ravings of his feverish brain. He would seek out his housekeeper and no doubt find her calmly going about her duties, proving nothing untoward had transpired between them.
He had no intention of ever telling her about his lurid fantasies. If he did, she would probably either recoil in horror, slap him silly, or laugh in his face.
Max slid out of the bed, taking the comforter with him to wrap around his waist just in case anyone should come barging into the bedchamber before he could reach his dressing room. When the blanket’s hem snagged on the edge of the bedpost, he turned around to give it a yank.
That was when he saw the rusty stains marring the silk sheets.
Max gazed down at them, his disbelief slowly hardening into certainty. He had been right all along. The woman who had spent the night in his arms and his bed had not been a vapor of mist. She had been flesh.
And blood.
WHEN MAX DESCENDED THE stairs that afternoon, no tantalizing aroma of baking bread greeted him.
Lisbeth, however, was passing through the entrance hall, feather duster in hand. “M’lord!” she exclaimed, a snaggletoothed smile lighting up her freckled face. “So glad to see you up and about. Mrs. Spencer told us your fever had finally broken.”
“Oh, she did, did she?” He supposed the deceitful woman hadn’t bothered to tell them it had been replaced by another sort of fever altogether.
“She said you’d had a very hard night and we were to let you sleep as late as you wanted.” Lisbeth frowned at the heap of bedclothes in his arms. “There was no need for you to strip the bed, m’lord. All you had to do was ring. One of us Elizabeths would have run right up to fetch the sheets for the laundry.”
“I don’t want them laundered. I want them burned. We need to make sure no one else in the household falls ill.”
“I don’t believe what you had was catchin’, m’lord. Why, none of us has had so much as a sniffle!”
“You can never be too careful about that sort of thing.” He loomed over her. “Carelessness can cost lives. Just look at what happened to poor Mr. Spencer.”
Clearly alarmed by his ominous leer, she backed up a step before reluctantly reaching for the sheets. “Very well, m’lord. I’ll see that they’re burned.”
Max yanked them out of her reach. “I’d prefer to see to it myself. Unless, of course, Hodges is available. I’ve heard he excels at that sort of thing.” Without another word, Max went striding toward the kitchen, leaving Lisbeth gaping after him and no doubt wondering if the fever had boiled his brain.
MAX’S DETERMINATION TO CONFRONT his housekeeper right away was doomed to be thwarted. Everyone he questioned insisted she was in a different location.
Pippa and Dickon were convinced they’d seen her heading for the chicken coop to gather some fresh eggs, while Nana swore Anne was in the drawing room helping Bess swab the remaining soot from the ceiling. Bess claimed she had spotted the housekeeper from the drawing-room window just a short while ago “thtrolling toward the orchard with a bathket over her arm.” When Max arrived at the orchard, his muscles screaming from the effort after so many days spent languishing in bed, he found Beth and Betsy halfway up an apple tree with their skirts tied up to their knees, but no Mrs. Spencer. Lizzie informed him Anne was last seen in the dining room helping Hodges polish the silver. Hodges insisted she was in London having tea with the king.
Max would have suspected them all of deliberately trying to confound him if their own bewilderment hadn’t been so convincing.
As the afternoon melted away and his housekeeper continued to stay one step ahead of him, Max’s frustration deepened to anger. He was as angry with himself as he was with her. After Clarinda had left him, he had sworn he would never allow himself to feel this way again. Would never abandon reason for the madness that only love—or lust—could inflict.
Growing weary of the chase, he finally retreated to his study, leaving explicit instructions that Mrs. Spencer was to report to him the very instant she was spotted by one of the others. The infernal woman couldn’t elude him forever.
He was rewarded for his persistence by a crisp rap on the door just after sunset.
“Enter,” he commanded, caught off guard by the heavy thud of his heart. Perhaps he’d overtaxed himself with his exertions. Perhaps he was on the verge of a relapse. Or death.
The door slipped open and Mrs. Spencer came gliding into the room. Max wasn’t sure what he had expected from her—an accusing glare or tearful recriminations perhaps? But she looked as calm and unruffled as she had on the night he’d arrived at Cadgwyck Manor.
Except for her snowy-white apron and that provocative bit of lace at her throat, she was garbed in black from throat to toe. Her hair was sleeked back from her face and confined to its usual net. Her lips were pursed as if they’d never softened beneath a man’s kiss. Her expression couldn’t have been any more bland.
Max scowled, finding her cool aplomb somehow more infuriating than a foot-stomping tantrum might have been. She could have had the common decency to look more . . . well . . . ravished.
He wanted to see her with her cheeks flushed and her hair tumbled around her shoulders. He wanted her lips parted and trembling beneath his. He wanted to see some evidence of the pleasure she had found in his arms and the pleasure she had given him. Seeing her look so untouched—and untouchable—only made him want to see what he could do to rectify that situation.
She arched one eyebrow at him. “You sent for me, my lord?”
“Sit.” He nodded toward the chair in front of the desk.
As she obeyed, he watched her face carefully for any sign of strain. Was it his imagination or did he detect a faint wince as she settled her pert little bottom in the chair?
“I’m glad to see you looking so well,” she said after every fold in her skirt was arranged to her satisfaction. “Would you care to review the household accounts or discuss the repairs to the drawing room?”
Max’s mouth fell open. Lisbeth had been wrong. His fever must have been contagious after all. The woman was obviously delirious.
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“Oh, I don’t know,” he drawled. “I thought we might review what happened between the two of us in my bedchamber last night.”
She was silent for a gratifying moment. “I was rather hoping you wouldn’t remember that.”
He didn’t bother to hide his incredulity. “Did you truly believe I could forget something like that?”
“I must confess the thought did cross my mind.” She leaned forward in the chair, studying him intently. “Just how much do you remember?”
Leaning back in his chair, he propped his ankle on the opposite knee and met her gaze squarely. “Everything.”
Every kiss. Every caress. The sharp dig of her fingernails into his back as he had slid deep within her and made her his own.
Her slender throat bobbed as she swallowed. He had finally succeeded in ruffling her composure. “I hope you don’t think I intend to blame you for what transpired between us. You’d been half out of your head with fever for days.”
“Only half?” he said drily.
She blinked at him. “What are you implying, my lord? That a man would have to be completely out of his head to take me to his bed?”
“No, Mrs. Spencer, you know damn well that is not what I was implying!” He surged to his feet and paced over to the window. He gazed out into the deepening shadows of twilight, struggling to gain control over his temper. “You’ll have to forgive me. This is all new to me. I’m not in the habit of debauching the help.”
“That’s fortunate. Nana will be ever so relieved.”
Max swung around to give her a reproachful glare. “Yes, do assure the Elizabeths it should still be safe to bend over to scoop the ashes from the hearth if I’m anywhere in the vicinity. I’ll try to resist the temptation to toss their skirts up over their heads and have my way with them.”
A becoming blush crept into her cheeks. “I fear you’re making far too much of this. You’re a man. I’m a woman. We’ve probably both suffered more than our share of loneliness in recent years.” She shrugged, lowering her gaze to her lap. “Was it any wonder that we reached out to each other during a difficult time? You needn’t trouble yourself any further, my lord. As far as I’m concerned, last night never happened.”
While most men might have been relieved, Max was shocked to discover that was the one thing he would not allow. He leaned against the windowsill, folding his arms over his chest. “Perhaps you’re right, Mrs. Spencer. After all, you are a widow. I’m sure you were accustomed to welcoming your husband’s attentions with equal . . . enthusiasm.” She yanked up her head to stare at him. “Why, one might even consider your Mr. Spencer a lucky man were it not for his being crushed to death in such an untimely manner by . . . what was it again?” Max tapped his lips with his forefinger. “A runaway team of horses?”
“A wagon,” she bit off, giving him a stony look. “He was crushed by a wagon.”
“Every gentleman in London knows there’s very little challenge involved in tumbling a widow into his bed. He doesn’t have to squander his time or effort on all of that tiresome wooing—the compliments, the flowers, the endless round of balls and operas and rides through Hyde Park.” He sighed, as if savoring some particularly salacious memory. “Widows are always so eager to please . . . and almost pathetically grateful for any scrap of male attention. Why, I remember hearing about the widow of a certain Lord Langley who could do the most extraordinary trick with her tongue—”
Anne surged to her feet, her blush replaced by a flush of anger. “I’ll have you know I am neither eager to please nor pathetically grateful!”
“Nor are you a widow, Mrs. Spencer,” he thundered. “Or should I say Miss Spencer.”
She paled. “How did you know?”
“Let’s just say you left behind certain . . . clues.”
“Oh, God . . . the sheets,” she whispered, realization dawning in her eyes. “I was in such a hurry to make my escape, I forgot all about the sheets. If one of the maids sees them . . . or Dickon!” She started for the door.
“There’s no need,” he said quietly. “I’ve already destroyed them.”
She collapsed with her back against the door, eyeing him with grudging admiration. “A gentleman to the bitter end, aren’t you?”
“One wouldn’t know it from my behavior last night.” He tilted his head to study her. “So why did you lie to me? Why have you been pretending to be a widow for all these years?”
“I don’t expect a man of your rank and privilege to understand. It’s difficult enough for a woman to find employment in a reputable household, but it becomes nearly impossible when everyone around her equates being unmarried with weakness and inexperience.”
He leveled a mocking look at her. “Ah, yes, and you are a woman of vast experience.”
“I learned very quickly that most ladies aren’t willing to hire a young, unmarried woman to manage their households. They’re too afraid their husbands might . . .” She trailed off, lowering her eyes.
“Do precisely what I did last night?” He took a few steps toward her, unable to help himself. “Did it not occur to you that had I known you’d never been . . . married, I might have at least shown you more consideration?”
“Married?” Her rueful little laugh mocked them both. “You didn’t even know I was alive. You called me Angelica.”
Max winced. Apparently, he hadn’t remembered everything about last night after all.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, my lord. At least you didn’t call me Clarinda.”
Max was surprised by how little her gibe stung. Loving and losing Clarinda was no longer a searing wound in his heart, but a bittersweet ache that was already fading.
Retreating behind the desk, he sank back into his chair. He’d successfully negotiated treaties between countries that had been warring for centuries, yet this one hardheaded woman continued to confound him. “It was one thing to steal a kiss. Quite another to rob you of your innocence. If you don’t wish to remain in my employ after my deplorable behavior toward you, I wouldn’t blame you. If you choose to go, I’ll make sure you receive the compensation you’re due.” He watched her face, holding his breath without realizing it.
“And what’s the going rate for that sort of thing?”
He felt himself color. “That’s not what I meant! I meant that you were deserving of a handsome severance sum. With my name and connections, I could secure a position for you in one of the most desirable households in all of England. You’d be free of this accursed place forever.”
She lifted her chin. Max would almost have sworn he saw a faint quiver in it. “Cadgwyck is my home.”
Max nodded, feeling a curious kinship with her. The rattletrap, old manor had somehow become his home, too. “Then I suppose there’s no help for it, is there?”
“For what?”
“If you won’t let me atone for my sins by sending you away, then you’ll simply have to stay and punish me for them.”
“Punish you? How?”
“By agreeing to become my wife.”
Chapter Thirty-one
“YOUR WIFE?” ANNE CROAKED. If she hadn’t had the door to support her, she might well have slid to the floor in a heap of skirts. “You’ll have to forgive me, my lord. I was under the mistaken impression that you had recovered from your fever. I’ll ring for Dickon at once so he can help you back to bed.”
Dravenwood gave her a chiding look. “I don’t mind if you make me grovel a bit just to placate your pride, but you should know I’ve no intention of squandering nine years of my life wooing you.”
“You can’t possibly marry me! Why would you even suggest such a ridiculous thing?”
“It’s what a gentleman does when he compromises a lady,” he patiently explained. “And as you just pointed out, I am a gentleman to the bitter end.”
“But I’m no lady! I’m . . . well . . . I’m your inferior!”
Dravenwood rose to his feet, looking as dangerous as she had ever seen him. “You are infer
ior to no man. Or woman, for that matter.”
“But . . . but you can’t just take your housekeeper and make her your countess. Why, you’d be the laughingstock of all society!”
“It wouldn’t be the first time, now would it? Do you honestly believe their scornful glances and cruel gibes have any power left to hurt me?”
“It’s not just society who would scorn you. You have your family to consider as well.”
Instead of looking alarmed, he looked rather delighted by the prospect. “When I offered for Clarinda, my father threw an enormous tantrum and my mother took to her bed for a fortnight. And all because Clarinda’s father was a ‘commoner’ who had made his considerable fortune in trade. Can you imagine what they’ll say when I write to tell them I’m marrying my housekeeper? Why, they might even go so far as to disinherit me and drag Ash back from his adventures to take my place!” His smile deepened into a bloodthirsty grin that made him look more like a pirate than an earl. “Perhaps we should travel to London and give them the news in person. It would almost be worth it just to see the look on their faces.”
Despite all of her noble intentions, Anne’s heart had begun to lurch with reckless hope. But his words dashed that hope. She could never travel to London. She could never become his countess. She could never be his wife.
“I’m sorry, my lord,” she said softly. “I appreciate your single-minded devotion to propriety, but I’m afraid I shall have to refuse your offer.”
He scowled, pondering her words. “Then it’s not an offer. It’s an order.”
She gaped at him in disbelief. “Why, of all the high-handed, arrogant, presumptuous . . .” She briefly sputtered into incoherence before blurting out, “You can’t just order me to marry you!”
“And why not? You’re still in my employ, aren’t you? I can order you to serve fresh pheasant for supper or bring me a cup of tea. Why can’t I order you to marry me?”
“Because I have no intention of continuing to work for a madman. I quit!”
“Marvelous. Now that you’re no longer my housekeeper, we’ll be free to marry.”