The Temptation of Your Touch (6 page)

“M
Y
G
OD,”
M
AX WHISPERED,
taking the candlestick from Mrs. Spencer’s hand and holding it aloft.

The housekeeper did not protest. Her sigh was resigned, almost as if she had been anticipating such a reaction.

Max had been entertained in some of the finest homes in England, had toured countless museums in Florence and Venice during his grand tour, and seen hundreds of such portraits in his day, including many painted by masters such as Gainsborough, Fragonard, and Sir Joshua Reynolds. Dryden Hall, the house in which he had grown up, was home to an entire gallery of his own stern-faced ancestors. But he’d never before been tempted to forget they were anything but flecks of dried paint on canvas.

The artist of this portrait, however, had captured
not just a likeness, but a soul. To even the most insensitive eye, he had obviously been madly in love with his subject, and his intention was to make every man who laid eyes on her fall in love with her, too.

He somehow conveyed the illusion that he had caught her in the wink of time just before a smile. One corner of her lips was quirked upward, leaving one to wait in breathless anticipation for the dimple that would surely follow. Those ripe, coral lips might tease with the promise of a smile, but her sherry-colored eyes were openly laughing as they gazed boldly down at Max beneath the graceful wings of her brows. They were the eyes of a young woman tasting her power over men for the first time and savoring every morsel of it.

Her curls were piled loosely atop her head, held in place by a single ribbon of Prussian blue. A few tendrils had escaped to frame full cheeks tinted with a beguiling blush no amount of expensive rouge could duplicate. Her hair was no ordinary brown but a rich, glossy mink. She wore a dress the sumptuous yellow of buttercups in the spring—a marked contrast to the gloom of the gallery. The pale globes of her generous breasts swelled over the square-cut bodice of her high-waisted gown.

Something about both her beauty and her manner of dress was timeless. She might have been
imprisoned in the faded gilt frame for a decade or a century. It was impossible to tell.

“And just who would you be?” he murmured. A brief glance down the gallery confirmed that the rest of the portraits had been removed, leaving darkened squares on the wallpaper where they had once resided.

The housekeeper sniffed, reminding Max of her presence. “The rest of the artwork was sold, but
she
comes with the house. It’s a stipulation of the sale agreement. No matter how many hands the property passes through, the portrait must remain.”

Max could easily understand why the house’s past masters might not have grumbled about such an eccentric entailment. Most men would be happy to pass the portrait every day and pretend such an enchanting creature were his wife.

Or his mistress.

“Who is she?” he asked, oddly reluctant to relegate the woman in the portrait to the past, where she undoubtedly belonged.

“Another time perhaps, my lord. It’s late and I know you’re exhausted. I wouldn’t wish to bore you.”

As Mrs. Spencer started to turn away, Max’s hand shot out to close around her forearm. “Bore me.”

She froze in her tracks at his imperious command, her startled gaze flying to his face. Only
seconds before he had nearly forgotten her existence. Now he was keenly aware of how near she was to him in the flickering candlelight. Of each shuddering breath that passed through her parted lips. Of the uneven rise and fall of her breasts beneath the starched linen of her bodice. Of the faint, clean scent of laundry soap and freshly baked bread that clung to her the way expensive perfumes clung to other women.

Her bones felt almost delicate beneath the tensile strength of his hand. He had wrongly assumed she would be forged from something cold and unbreakable, like granite or steel. His gaze lingered on her lips. When not curved into a closemouthed smile that was no smile at all, they looked surprisingly soft and moist and inviting. . . .

The candlestick in his other hand had listed, and the steady drip of the melted candle wax against the toe of his poor beleaguered boot finally broke the peculiar spell that had fallen over them.

Removing his hand from her person as if it belonged to someone else, he said gruffly, “It wasn’t a request, Mrs. Spencer. It was an order.”

Mrs. Spencer smoothed her wrinkled sleeve; the look she gave him from beneath her fawn-colored fringe of lashes made it clear exactly what she thought of his order. “Her name is . . .
was
Angelica Cadgwyck.”

Angelica.

Max’s gaze strayed back to the woman in the portrait. The name suited her. Despite her impish charms, she certainly had the face of an angel. “I gather her family was the namesake for both the manor and the village?”

“Up until little more than a decade ago, they were the closest thing the county had to royalty. And from what I understand, Angelica was their crown princess. Her mother died when she was born, and her father, Lord Cadgwyck, doted upon her.”

“Who could blame him?” Max muttered beneath his breath, bewitched anew by the sensual promise in those sparkling brown eyes. “What happened to her?”

Mrs. Spencer’s elbow brushed the sleeve of his coat as she joined him in front of the portrait, gazing up at it with a distaste equal to his fascination. “The same thing that always happens when a young woman is raised to believe her every whim should be satisfied without giving any thought whatsoever to the consequences. Scandal. Disaster. Ruin.”

Intrigued by the note of scorn in her voice, Max stole a sidelong glance at the housekeeper’s disapproving profile. He should have known such a woman would have no sympathy for those who fell prey to temptations of the flesh. She had probably never experienced even the most harmless of them.

“What manner of scandal?” he asked, although he could probably guess.

“At a fete given in her honor on her eighteenth birthday, she was caught in a compromising position with a young man. The artist of this very portrait, I believe.” The housekeeper shrugged. “I don’t hail from Cadgwyck so I wasn’t privy to all the sordid details. All I know is that her brother was rumored to have shot and killed the young man without even the benefit of a duel. Her father suffered an apoplexy and went mad with grief. The brother was carted off to prison—”

“Prison?” Max interrupted, engaged against his will by the lurid tale. “I thought murder was a hanging offense.”

“The Cadgwyck name was still a powerful influence in these parts, so the young man managed to escape the gallows and was deported to Australia. Apparently, her father had made some ill-advised investments prior to all this. Scenting blood in the water, the creditors descended and the family lost everything—their fortune, their good name . . . even this house, which had been in Cadgwyck hands since the original castle was built five centuries ago.”

Max returned his gaze to the portrait. “What became of her?”

Mrs. Spencer shrugged, as if the fate of one foolish girl was of little to no import to her. “What was
there left for her to do after bringing ruin upon everyone she loved? On the night before they were to vacate the premises, she flung herself over the cliff and into the sea.”

Since losing Clarinda to Ash, Max had grown accustomed to the dull, heavy ache in his heart. The piercing pang he felt in that moment caught him off guard. He had no reason to grieve for a girl he had never met. Perhaps it was simply impossible for him to imagine that such a vivacious young creature would surrender her life without a fight.

“Was there an investigation? Any suspicion of foul play?”

“None whatsoever,” Mrs. Spencer said flatly. “The girl left behind a note that made her intentions quite clear.”

“Notes can be forged.”

The housekeeper slanted him a wry look. “In overwrought theatricals and gothic novels perhaps. But we are not so clever or diabolical here in Cornwall. I suspect her suicide was simply the impulsive action of a rash young girl steeped in a morass of guilt and self-pity.”

Max gazed up at the portrait, in danger of forgetting the housekeeper’s presence once again. “I should have liked to have made her acquaintance.”

“Don’t despair, my lord. You may yet get your chance.”

Mrs. Spencer retrieved her candlestick from his hand and went sweeping away toward the staircase on the opposite end of the gallery, leaving Max with no choice but to follow or be left behind in the darkness.

As the full import of her words sank in, he could not resist stealing one last look over his shoulder to watch the portrait of the irrepressible Miss Cadgwyck melt back into the shadows.

A
T THE FAR END
of the third-floor corridor of the east wing, Mrs. Spencer used one of the keys from her expansive collection to unlock the master suite. As she pushed open the door, Max felt his spirits sink. The spacious chamber still bore traces of its former splendor, but the marble hearth was just as dark and dusty as the one in the drawing room. Nor was any supper laid before it.

A single lamp burned on the side table next to the canopied four-poster, casting more shadows than it dispelled.

Had Max known he was going to receive such an inhospitable welcome, he might have at least lingered at the inn for a bowl of stew. Apparently, he was expected to content himself with the maddening aroma of bread wafting from Mrs. Spencer’s hair. As savagely hungry as he suddenly was, it was
all he could do not to lean down and gobble her right up.

She had stepped aside to let him pass, making it clear she had no intention of placing so much as the pointy little toe of her half boot across the threshold of his bedchamber. Did she truly believe herself in danger of being ravished? Did he appear so desperate for female companionship that he would toss the first female domestic who crossed his path down on the musty mattress and force himself upon her?

Max could feel his temper rising. He had spent so much of his life holding it in rigid control he almost didn’t recognize the danger signs until it was too late.

When he finally spoke, his jaw was clenched so tightly his lips barely moved. “Would a fire in the hearth be too much to ask? And perhaps a bite of supper as well?”

His housekeeper’s smile lost none of its infuriating serenity. “Of course not. I’ll send Dickon up right away with a tray and your portmanteau.” She started to turn away, then looked back at him. “Have no fear, my lord. We’ll be here to see to your every need.”

The woman’s husky voice, completely at odds with her starched appearance, played over Max’s strained nerves like crushed velvet. Her innocent promise sent an image flitting through his mind, an
image more shocking than any other he had contemplated on this night . . . or perhaps for a long time.

Still smiling, she gently drew the door shut in his face, leaving him to wonder if he had chosen a punishment even he did not deserve.

A
NNE MADE IT AS
far as the second-story gallery before collapsing against the balcony rail, her breath coming quick and hard. She felt as if she’d just run up a dozen flights of stairs instead of walking down one. She lifted a hand to smooth her hair, the tremor of her fingers betraying her. The unflappable Mrs. Spencer had vanished, leaving Anne to pay the price for her composure.

“I daresay his lordship is not quite what you expected.”

The mocking voice came out of the darkness, making Anne jump and grab at her heart. It might not have startled her so badly if the sentiment hadn’t echoed her own thoughts with such eerie accuracy.

Pippa came gliding out of the shadows, grinning at her. “What’s wrong? Did you think I was a ghost?”

Still clutching her heart, Anne glared at the girl. “Keep springing out at me like that and you’ll be one before your time. Why aren’t you back in bed?
I barely managed to rouse you out of it to greet our illustrious new master.”

Pippa had just turned sixteen, but when she wrinkled her pert little nose at Anne, she looked as if she were seven again. “Don’t be such a scold. I was just making sure His-High-and-Mighty didn’t try to take any liberties with his new housekeeper.”

“And just what were you going to do if he did?”

“Hit him over the head with a poker.”

Anyone else would have assumed Pippa was joking, but Anne wasn’t even surprised when the girl’s slender hand emerged from the folds of her skirts to reveal the implement in question. Given the bloodthirsty glint in her eye, Pippa might have undertaken the task with more relish than was strictly necessary.

“Dear Lord, Pippa!” Anne exclaimed. “You’re going to get us all hanged for murder. There’s no need for you to play knight in shining armor to my damsel in distress. I’m quite capable of looking after myself.”

“And Lord Scowlywood looks quite capable of ravishing a housekeeper and perhaps a scullery maid or two, all without removing his greatcoat or wrinkling his cravat.”

Remembering how his powerful hand had closed over her arm with such startling intimacy and how close that simple touch had come to
undoing her, Anne blew out a disheartened sigh, conceding Pippa’s point. “He’s certainly no doddering old fool inclined to drink too much port and mistake a sheet on a broom handle for a shrieking portent of doom.”

Pippa’s observation also forced Anne to relive the shock of walking into the drawing room to find him standing there, glowering beneath those heavy, dark brows and dripping all over the Turkish carpet brought back to the original castle by some marauding Cadgwyck ancestor after the final Crusade. As she had gazed upon his forbidding visage for the first time, it had been all she could do to keep Mrs. Spencer’s congenial smile pasted on her lips.

The earl stood well over six feet, but it wasn’t his height—or even the intimidating breadth of his shoulders beneath the shoulder capes
of his greatcoat—that was so imposing. It was his effortless command of the room and all who were in it. Another man might have looked ridiculous standing there with hat in hand and mud-caked boots, but Dravenwood looked more inclined to bellow “Off with their heads!” while the potential victims scurried away to fetch him an ax.