Shev (2 page)

His mother sent him a cutting look before settling a conciliatory smile on her face. “My apologies for the secretive nature of our posting, Miss Crawford. I assure you we did so to protect the child, not for any nefarious reasons.”

“May I ask the child’s age and gender?”

“Jacqueline turned five years old a little over three weeks ago.”

Shev asked, “Do you have any experience with children so young?”

Miss Crawford considered her bloodless knuckles a moment before subtly unrolling her fingers. Lifting her chin, she said, “No, my lord. The Stevens girls were eight and nine when I joined the household.”

“Do you have any reservations in that regard?” Lady Shevington asked.

“None, my lady. My cousin has two small children, ages two and four. I find their unconditional love and curiosity enchanting and, if I may be so bold as to say, refreshing.”

“You may indeed be so bold, Miss Crawford. I too love being around the little ones.”

Though he did not sit, Shev returned to stand near his seat and noticed the governess’s shoulders tense. “How is your French?”

“Very good, my lord. I would venture to say teaching the language is one of my strong suits.”

His mother smiled at the news.

“What do you think about banshees?” he asked.

Caught off guard by his question, she raised her eyebrows, revealing a pair of deep blue eyes. Their color was so pure and intense that he found himself staring, searching for one imperfection. He found none. How could he have ever mistaken them as plain?

“Pardon, my lord?” Miss Crawford asked, snapping him out of his trance.

“Banshees. Little screaming terrors of the night.”

His mother produced a high, thin laugh. “Do not mind my son, Miss Crawford. He is unaccustomed to a child being in the house and is prone to dramatics.”

“The little girl is yours, my lord?”

Shev bolted back the last of his drink. “So it would seem.”

She glanced around as if looking for clarification. “And your wife is…?”

Amusement he hadn’t felt since grasping Jacqueline’s trembling hand a fortnight ago resurfaced at the look of concern on the governess’s face. “Nonexistent,” he said, with an inappropriate amount of relish.

Miss Crawford closed her eyes for a brief moment before she lifted her full lips into an apologetic—and if he wasn’t mistaken, defeated—smile. “Thank you for the opportunity to come and speak with you, Lord Shevington.” Her voice gained its former strength. “I regret to say I’m not the right candidate for this position.”

“Because of Jacqueline’s illegitimacy?”

His mother glanced at him, unaccustomed to the harsh quality of his voice. Unlike most people, his emotions never raged, spiked, or plummeted. They flowed with an even rhythm beneath the surface. He never cried, never brooded, never laughed beyond a chuckle, and never loved past warm affection.

“No, my lord.” Rising, she nodded to his mother. “A pleasure, Lady Shevington.”

Miss Crawford’s gaze feathered over him with the lightest of touches. More cursory than attentive. Definitely not meant to engage. “Lord Shevington.”

Eyes wide, his mother rose to her feet. “Are you certain?”

Halfway to the door, Miss Crawford paused to glance over her shoulder. “I’m afraid so, my lady.”

Shev followed her determined exit with a combination of confusion and desire to stop her. If Jacqueline’s illegitimacy was not the issue, what about his lack of a spouse spooked the governess? Mysteries were to him like catnip was to felines. They awakened what he could only term as a primal instinct to hunt and capture. To unravel and explore.

And Miss Crawford’s unexplained refusal had his nose twitching.

The governess opened the drawing room door and drew up short. On the other side stood a small, beribboned, curly-haired girl with a pixie nose and devilish flames sparking from her narrowed eyes. A groan rumbled up from the depths of Shev’s throat.

“Hello,” Miss Crawford said.

“I don’t want you,” his daughter pronounced in heavily accented English.

“Pardon?”

“Go away.”

“Jacqueline, dear,” Lady Shevington scolded. “Do not be rude to our guest.”

In answer, the little tyrant crossed her arms over her reed-thin body and planted her feet wide, blocking the governess’s exit. A rather contradictory stance, given the girl’s demand for the governess to leave, Shev thought.

Undeterred by the girl’s mutinous stance, Miss Crawford bent down. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Jacqueline.”

Rather than softening, Jacqueline’s features went from petulant to stormy. “I don’t need you!
Maman
’s coming for me.”

“Jacqueline.” Shev infused enough warning in that one word to attract his daughter’s attention. He switched to French. “Your grandmother told you not to be rude to Miss Crawford. Now apologize.”

The rigid lines marring the girl’s unblemished face swirled into a mass of apprehension. She dropped her gaze to the floor, and Shev was certain she was about to disobey. He sighed.

Before he could take a step forward, she whispered,
“Je suis désolée.”

Miss Crawford brushed a hand over the girl’s mop of curls. “All is forgiven, Jacqueline.” The governess bent and whispered something in her ear.

Tears welled in Jacqueline’s deep brown eyes as she fixed them on Miss Crawford. The governess smiled and tapped one long, slender finger against Jacqueline’s nose. And then she left.

Jacqueline followed the governess’s progress before leveling unreadable eyes on him. A single tear trailed down her flushed cheek. She swiped it away and dashed off in the opposite direction without another comment.

Shev lifted a brow toward his wide-eyed mother. “That was rather interesting, don’t you think?”

She motioned frantically in the direction of Miss Crawford.

He raised his eyebrow higher.

His mother flapped her hand faster.

When he did nothing, she commanded in a low, urgent whisper, “Do something, Marcus. Don’t let that governess get away.”

Considering that Miss Crawford marked their fifth unsuccessful candidate, Shev had to give his mother’s demand its due. None of the others had panned out for one reason or another. And the last candidate who had come face-to-face with Jacqueline’s tantrum had displayed an unreasonable temper. Quite unlike Miss Crawford’s reaction.

He set down his empty glass, cracked his neck, and braced himself for the challenging conversation ahead.

The indifference that had numbed his mind dissolved the moment he turned to give chase. For the first time in years, every nerve in his body was alert and alive with anticipation.

Chapter Two

Anne Crawford dusted off what would likely be the last of the vegetables from her aunt’s small garden before placing them into her basket. The bone-chilling nip in the air over the last week was a good indicator that winter wasn’t far away.

After fleeing her disastrous meeting with the Marquess of Shevington, she had come straight home and changed into her outdoor clothes. Nothing calmed her so much as spending an hour picking vegetables, deadheading flowers, or cutting herbs.

Reading used to be her greatest pleasure. Not anymore. Not after that horrible night. Anne shied away from the memories that tried to push through her barrier. Instead, she reflected on her unsuccessful interview—for the hundredth time.

The marquess had turned out to be one more disappointment in a long line of them since leaving Whitfield’s employ. How she had managed to seek employment with a widower, a guardian, and an unmarried new father—all men who were either lacking a wife or had a wife incapable of keeping them out of the governess’s bed—was beyond her.

Even worse had been her physical reaction to the marquess. The instantaneous tightening in her stomach when his assessing gaze roamed over her as if he were looking for something in particular. The compulsive desire to study every facet of his handsome, aristocratic face, then start all over again.

Standing well over six feet tall, with hair the color of rich coffee and long, sooty lashes framing eyes capable of boring through her reserve, he awakened every one of her senses. His athletic frame moved with negligent grace that somehow conveyed power, boredom, and refinement all at once. Combined, this made for a compelling package, one that would have had her declining the position even without the absence of a wife.

“Miss Crawford?” her aunt’s maid of all work called.

Anne straightened. “Over here, Nelly.”

“A Mr. Keene is here to see you.”

“Me?” She knew no one by that name. “Are you sure he’s not here to see my aunt?”

“No, miss. He asked for you.”

“Did he give any indication as to the reason for his visit?”

“No, miss. Only that it was important he speak with you.”

“Very well.” Anne pushed to her feet and glanced down at her dirt-smudged hands. “I’ll be there in a moment.”

Five minutes later, Anne paused at the looking glass hanging in the corridor not far from where her mysterious guest awaited. Angling her head first one way, then the other, she checked to make sure she hadn’t missed any bits of garden debris in her hair or dirt smeared on her face.

Anne sighed at her reflection. Everything appeared clean and as plain and unruffled as always. Pivoting on her heel, she headed toward the drawing room, curious about who would be calling on her this far outside London. Mr. Keene couldn’t be a local, for she knew everyone in Hayfurn.

Molding her mouth into a congenial smile, she pushed open the door and found Lord Shevington lounging in a chair by the window. “M-my lord?” Disoriented by the unexpected sight of the marquess in her aunt’s parlor, she scanned the room in search of Mr. Keene.

“Not whom you expected?”

She gave her head a small shake. “You’re Mr. Keene?”

Rising, he dipped his head in acknowledgment and fanned out his arm in a mock bow. “Marcus Keene, at your service.”

“I don’t understand. Why the subterfuge?”

“Would you have seen me had I given the maid my title?”

Anne would have done anything to avoid this moment.

“I didn’t think so,” he said when she didn’t answer.

Marcus Keene
. Anne fought back the despair. His handsome features had haunted her all the way home until she recalled his title and position in society. Only then had she been able to distance herself. Now she had a name. Something that reminded her he was a person. An individual. Someone who had dreams and hurts and memories. Someone capable of extraordinary acts of kindness and unspeakable evil.

Someone who could love her. Someone who could turn his back on her.

“Why are you here, my lord? Did I leave something behind?”

“As a matter of fact, you did.”

“What?” Anne scoured her mind. “I can think of nothing I’m missing.”

“Your refusal.” He strode to her uncle’s favorite rust-colored chair and motioned to the smaller one. “Shall we make ourselves comfortable?”

“Of course.”

He waited for her to sit, then melted into the worn depths of her uncle’s chair. Anchoring an ankle across his knee, he propped his elbows on the chair’s padded arms and steepled his fingers together. The image he presented was both negligent and forbidding, and far too considering. “I’ve come to give it back.”

Had she missed an essential part of their conversation? “Give what back?”

“Your refusal. I don’t accept it.”

“I’m afraid you have no choice, my lord.”

“You don’t understand.” He tapped his steepled fingers against his lips. “My mother wants you for Jacqueline. When my mother is happy, I’m happy. Therefore, I must do all within my power to change your mind.”

A low tremor started deep inside her chest. “Your mother
wants
me? I am no one’s pet.”

“Forgive me for my indelicate choice of words. My mother has an unmatched intuition when it comes to people.”

His attention trailed over her much the same way it had at his town house. When his eyes revealed nothing of his thoughts, she wondered if he had found what he was searching for.

“My mother believes you worthy of guiding her only grandchild through the next decade of her life.”

Had the situation been different, he might have convinced her to accept his offer. But he was still a handsome bachelor, and she had proven herself to be too susceptible. “Lord Shevington, I am honored by your mother’s faith in me; however, I cannot be a member of your household.”

“Because you believe I’ll ravish you?”

He made it sound as though she thought herself a raving beauty no gentleman could ignore. Nothing could be further from the truth. Men like the marquess did not fall at Anne’s feet. They were more likely to step on them.

“Hardly, my lord,” she said. “I’ve simply established a rule never to work for unmarried men.”

“Miss Crawford, as delectable as you are, I have absolutely no interest in bedding a virgin.”

Heat scalded her cheeks. “Lord Shevington, I don’t think—”

“Virgins require a great deal of persuasion,” he interrupted. “A talent I do not possess. My sexual needs are base and immediate. I want, I ask, I take.”

Pushing out of his seat, he moved toward her, his stride long and languid and intent. Her blood heated, pounding in her throat. Anne got the fleeting yet certain impression that every move the marquess made was calculated to elicit a particular response. In her case, trepidation and perhaps a small amount of anticipation.

Stopping before her, he studied her features. “If my announcement about virgins wasn’t enough to sway you, perhaps you’d be interested in one of
my
unbreakable rules.”

His low, confident, slightly mocking voice both soothed and irritated her. Yet she couldn’t stop her gaze from landing on his indecently kissable lips. Warmth simmered in the pit of her stomach—no, lower. Deeper.

“W-what rule would that be, my lord?”

“I never dally with the women in my employ.” He waited for her focus to return to his piercing eyes. “Ever.” His shoulders expanded, and his voice grew deeper. “I have no need to prey upon the female members of my staff.”