Shev (6 page)

Much to his body’s dismay, Lynette’s expert caresses could not banish the damned governess from Shev’s mind. The courtesan’s hands had felt cold, her lips dry, her body…wrong. Had the same thing happened to Ethan after meeting Sydney?

Visiting the bordello had opened the valve to dangerous fantasies. Until then, he’d been able to keep his mind on the curious details of Miss Crawford’s secrets, his attention veering to her kissable lips only once or twice.

Once he’d opened his mind to Miss Crawford’s soft, creamy flesh; her plump, mouthwatering breasts; and her warm, inviting passage, he’d not been able to stanch the hot flow of blood driving through his veins or the sensual images imprinting his mind.

He’d left Madame Rousseau’s frustrated and vibrating with need. It had been a mistake to go. It had been a bigger mistake to leave. Because now he stood outside Miss Crawford’s door, throbbing, shaking, visualizing their legs entwined. Their bodies connected. Deep. Penetrating. Mind splintering.

Hard.

His breeches strained against the pressure of his thickening cock. Pressing his back against the wall, he rolled his head toward Miss Crawford’s—Anne’s—door, willing it to open, urging her into the gloom-filled corridor.

Wake up! Touch me. Kiss me.
See
me. Invite me into your bed and make me feel something besides this gnawing nothingness.

No beautiful, sleep-drugged woman opened the door and beckoned him inside.

Shev’s shoulders slumped; his eyes squeezed shut. A rusty prayer slipped between his lips.

Chapter Seven

The three-hour carriage ride to Lord Shevington’s country estate proved uneventful. One word to his lordship’s mother was enough to ensure Anne rode in a separate conveyance with Jacqueline and her nursemaid along with a teetering mound of baggage. Jacqueline took it all in with wide, curious eyes though she said little along the way.

Fenmore Manor sat in the midst of a vast and vibrant parkland. Beautiful, manicured gardens encircled the four-story, centuries-old stone manor. Towering trees stood sentinel around the entire estate, their thick, sturdy branches spreading wide in a protective barrier.

After the necessary introductions, an upstairs maid led Jacqueline and her nursemaid away. Given the heaviness of the girl’s eyelids, Anne suspected Jacqueline would soon be curling up in bed for a short, restorative nap.

Another maid escorted Anne to her bedchamber on the third floor. The warmly decorated room was surprisingly spacious and overlooked the kitchen garden at the back of the house.

In the distance, the landscape rose beyond the woodland, revealing the top of an unusual-looking structure. She squinted for a better look. A spherical rooftop peeked out above the trees, exotic and mysterious.

Just the distraction she needed. Unlike Jacqueline, Anne’s exhilaration had grown with every mile that pulled them closer to Fenmore. She had planned to locate the schoolroom and prepare it for the following day’s activities before exploring her new surroundings. But the view outside her window convinced her to explore first and prepare later.

Anne began peeling off her traveling clothes, replacing them with sturdy walking boots and a tightly woven, navy-blue day dress that could withstand the pricks and scrapes of the woodland’s underbrush. She finished her outdoor ensemble with a well-worn scarlet cloak, not bothering with a hat.

Setting off in search of the housekeeper, Anne strode toward the servants’ staircase. The austere condition of her route held few clues about Fenmore’s master—only that he kept a well-qualified housekeeper on staff. Everything was in its proper place, not a speck of dust to be found.

Upon her arrival, she had noted the quality of the manor’s furnishings and the alternating warm and cheery tones decorating the rooms. And, of course, attentive servants were located in areas where one would expect to find servants in a home this size.

It all felt wrong. She recalled having the same reaction to Shevington’s town house. No doubt both homes carried his mother’s touch. The decor fit his lordship’s mother perfectly.

How long ago had it been since Shevington’s father died? If the loss had happened recently, she could understand why he had not yet added mementos that reflected his likes, beliefs, or dreams. But if his father’s passing had been awhile ago, why hadn’t he at least made his town house feel like home?

Taking the servants’ staircase to the ground floor, Anne found the housekeeper in the kitchen speaking to the cook in low tones. Anne cleared her throat. “If anyone should need me, I’ll be back within the hour. I’m going to take in a bit of fresh air.”

“Enjoy your walk, Miss Crawford,” the housekeeper said, her expression neutral.

Anne paused at the rim of a vast and varied garden. To the left lay several neat, mounded rows of herbs for the kitchen. To the right, a whimsical display of topiaries in the shapes of frolicking animals. The middle contained an intricate labyrinth of stone pathways, trim hedges, thorny roses, flowering bushes, and ornate fountains.

She set off down one of the winding pathways. Even while she breathed in the fresh air and admired Shevington’s gardener’s handiwork, she was acutely aware that nothing of his presence could be found outside either.

An odd pang scored her chest. In a hundred years, his descendants would look back and find only a vague mention of Marcus Keene, the seventh Marquess of Shevington. “How sad,” Anne whispered.

Pushing away the melancholic thought, Anne picked up her pace. She could not be distracted by the handsome marquess and the reasons behind his detached existence. Nothing about his demeanor bespoke of unhappiness or disappointment with his lot.

Indeed, he accepted his responsibility to Jacqueline with little more than an enigmatic lift of his aristocratic brow. Did nothing bother him? Make him angry or sad or frustrated or confused? Or happy?

Although she had spent several hours in his company over the last fortnight, she knew only of his fascination with mysteries. Deep down, she sensed he used his sardonic humor as a shield to keep everyone at a distance. Which begged the question: Why?

Why did he resist developing close relationships? Anyone who visited his Mayfair town house did so to see his mother—never the marquess.

Once again, she forcibly banished Marcus Keene from her thoughts. She had come outside hoping the fresh air would cleanse her mind and body of the constant, inappropriate musings she’d been having about his lordship. Even though the garden held no physical hint of his presence,
he
was all around her. Somehow he had managed to penetrate her every vulnerability.

How had she let this happen? And how could she undo it?

Anne glanced around to locate the footpath leading to the curious dome-topped structure. Anything to take her mind off Lord—no, she would not say his name again. That way lay devastation. Finding the pathway, she set off at a hurried pace.

Movement at the corner of her eye drew her attention and slowed her steps. At the forest’s edge, in the shadow of an ancient tree, hovered the silhouette of a man. Or at least, she thought it was a man.

She stared at the spot, waiting for the figure to step forward or melt away now that she had noticed him. But nothing so much as twitched. Not a tuft of grass, nor a dangling leaf. Birds, insects, and even the wind held their collective breaths. Silence, stillness. She had never experienced anything so absolute. So volatile. So disturbing.

It was as if someone had snapped their fingers and stopped time. The only sound that kept her grounded was the thunderous beat of her heart.
Go back!
it shouted.

She glanced at the pathway leading toward her destination, not wanting to give up this small respite from her duties. But prickles of unease forced her attention back to the shadows. Her gaze raced left, then right, no longer able to locate the silhouette.

Had she imagined it? Or had the stranger finally disappeared into the woods?

An image of Lord Whitfield’s lust-filled face surfaced. She reared back, certain she felt the heat of his humid breath on her cheek. The unsettling fear simmering in the back of her mind since Whitfield’s attack pushed to the fore, compelling her into motion. Back to the house, away from the threat.

Not until she reached the center of the formal gardens again did she allow her pace to ease. It took her heartbeat much, much longer to believe she was safe. She hurried into the kitchen, startling the cook and housekeeper.

“Back so soon, Miss Crawford?” the housekeeper asked. “Did you not enjoy your walk?”

She forced a smile. “Quite the contrary, Mrs. Eppelwhite. The grounds are lovely, and the air is as fresh as can be. I simply recalled something I must do before this evening.”

“Cook has a special meal planned for tonight.” Mrs. Eppelwhite’s gaze roamed over Anne, assessing. “Be sure to bring your appetite with you.”

Anne tried to infuse warmth into the smile she sent the reed-thin cook and sturdy housekeeper, but her attempt turned brittle. Lord Shevington’s continued insistence that she share her meals with the family did her no favors with his staff. She had always dined alone at the other households where she stayed, an arrangement Anne did not mind.

In her experience, dinner conversation generally consisted of gossip about the master or mistress of the house, other staff members, or the neighbors. With the exception of Lord Whitfield, she’d always cared for those she worked for and with. But she’d never had the same compelling need to dissect every piece of their lives. Sometimes it was best not to be aware of certain details. Everyone made mistakes, even though many gossips tended to forget their own.

Anne only needed to know one thing about the people around her—were they, at their core, good people?

“Thank you, Mrs. Eppelwhite,” Anne said. “I look forward to sampling Cook’s delicacies.”

The moment she reached her bedchamber, Anne rushed over to the window and scanned the tree line. From this distance, everything blended into hues of green, brown, and black. She could make out no distinctive shapes or patterns, only an interconnecting landscape.

She sighed, both relieved and dismayed. Would she never feel safe again? Would she now see menacing strangers around every corner? Had her awful encounter with Whitfield destroyed what little freedom she enjoyed?

Anne cradled her face with trembling hands. She concentrated on the exotic domed folly in the distance while her fear warred with her desire for independence. Soon, the quake in her muscles disappeared, and she dropped her hands away, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin. She drew in a fortifying breath, and with it her natural confidence returned.

No, Lord Whitfield would not take away her precious freedom. Not today.

Chapter Eight

“Monsieur, the Marquess of Shevington has retired to the country.”

Bélanger slammed the pad of his fist against the carriage door. His journey to this godforsaken island had been rife with one delay after another.

First, he’d had to detour around three angry crowds protesting Bonaparte’s new policies. Then his ship had not been able to set sail for several hours because of a violent storm that blew across the channel.

A smaller, yet no less aggravating, problem ensued the moment he hit English soil. The dockhands would do nothing to help his party secure a conveyance to London. Once they heard his manservant’s accent, the mongrels either stared right through him or scurried off in the other direction.

When the carriage axle broke in the middle of nowhere, his patience had shattered. He had raged. He had threatened the coachman. He had been forced to ride in the back of a vegetable cart for five bruising miles.

Now, after finally arriving in London, days after he had intended, exhausted and irritated, he was met with another delay. “How much farther?”

“A three-hour ride, monsieur.”

Bélanger checked his timepiece. Evening would be upon them soon. “See if my business associates are available to meet tomorrow. If so, we will retrieve Giselle’s daughter the following day.”

After making the decision to track down Jacqueline, he had sent word ahead to several gentlemen in the city, requesting an audience. He had hoped to attend the meetings between making arrangements for Jacqueline’s return. The fact that the girl was no longer in London meant he would have to modify his schedule. Again.

Once he had Jacqueline in his possession, Bélanger would make the English bastard who had cuckolded him pay for the misery he had suffered since learning the truth about his daughter—Giselle’s daughter.

How he did not know, for nothing could be more painful than losing a child.

Chapter Nine

With his feet crisscrossed atop his desk, Shev pulled out his timepiece and sent the gold chain spiraling around his index finger. He repeated the action, again and again, until the repetitive motion lulled his mind away from the stack of paperwork on his desk.

For the first time ever, Shev found himself uncomfortable in a beautiful woman’s presence. He’d promised the governess that she had nothing to worry about. That he could control his ungentlemanly urges.

Any other time, with any other woman, he could have kept his word. Never had he allowed his body to control his mind. His good judgment. His honor.

But Anne was different from the other women he’d known. At times, he would catch her studying him across the dining room table or from her favorite perch in the schoolroom when he stopped by to check on Jacqueline.

The intentness of her gaze made him feel exposed, raw, lacking in some elemental way. He feared she could see beyond his façade, straight through to the lie that he lived.

Much of the
ton
thought him nothing more than an entitled profligate. People with such mindsets often became careless when discussing sensitive topics, thinking he either didn’t care or couldn’t comprehend the magnitude of their statements. He used their ignorance to his advantage. To his country’s advantage.