The Temptation of Your Touch Read Online Free PDF Page B

them.
    Remembering with a pang of longing the crackling good cheer of the fire at the Cat and Rat, Max noted that a fire hadn’t even been laid on the drawing room’s marble hearth to welcome him. Could the manor’s staff be so provincial they were ignorant of even that basic courtesy? He lowered his portmanteau to the faded Turkish carpet. The butler—or at least Max assumed it was the butler, given that there had still been no proper introduction—set his candlestick on a low-slung pier table, shuffled over to the wall, and gave an unraveling bellpull a feeble yank. A cloud of dust spilled down upon his head, sending him into a violent fit of sneezing.
    The man was still snuffling and dabbing at his eyes with the cuff of his shirt when the door at the far end of the drawing room swung open. It seemed Max had done his staff a disservice. They had turned out to greet their new master after all.
    They paraded into the drawing room, only managing to arrange themselves in a proper row after a fair amount of elbowing, giggling, muttering beneath their breath, and treading on each other’s feet. Max felt his anger melting to dismay. No wonder the manor was in such sorry neglect. There wasn’t nearly enough staff for a house of this size. Why, his town house on Belgrave Square had twice the number of servants!
    It hardly strained his advanced mathematical skills to count the still wheezing butler, five housemaids, and a lad wearing footman’s livery plainly tailored for a grown man. A powdered wig that looked as if it had been rescued from the head ofsome unfortunate French aristocrat just after his trek to the guillotine sat askew on his head. Max blinked as a moth emerged from the wig and fluttered toward one of the oil lamps.
    While the maids quickly averted their gazes to their feet, the lad settled back on his heels and gave Max a look rife with insolence.
    There was no sign of a cook, a wine steward, or a groom of the chambers. Max was already beginning to regret not forcing his valet to share his exile. He had just assumed there would be a manservant in the house he could recruit for the position.
    Just when he had given up any hope of receiving a proper welcome, a woman glided through the door and took her place at the end of the row, her lips curved in a dutiful smile. “Good evening, my lord. I am Mrs. Spencer, the housekeeper of this establishment. Please allow me to welcome you to Cadgwyck Manor.”
    In Max’s experience, the butler customarily did the welcoming when one was needed. But his new butler was currently occupied with plucking bits of dust from his moth-eaten coat, the faint tremor in his hands even more pronounced now that he’d divested them of the heavy candlestick.
    Max inclined his head in a curt bow. “Mrs. Spencer.”
    Despite the rather motley appearance of the rest of the staff, Mrs. Spencer appeared to be all that was proper in an English housekeeper. Her posture was impeccable, her spine more ramrod straight than that of most military men of Max’s acquaintance. A crisp white apron offset her stern black dress.
    Her brown hair had been drawn back from her face and confined in a woven net at her nape with a severity that looked almost painful. Her pale skin was smooth and unlined, making it difficult to determine her age. Max judged her to be close to his own thirty-three years, if not older.
    She was a plain woman with nothing striking or unique about her features to draw a man’s eye. Her chin was pointed, her cheekbones high, her nose slender and straight, though a shade too long to be called delicate. She smiled with her mouth closed as if her lips were accustomed to holding back as many words as they spoke. Or perhaps she was simply seeking to hide bad teeth.
    The only feature that might tempt a man to take a second look were her eyes. Their dark-green depths sparkled with an intelligence that could easily have been mistaken for mischief in a less guarded woman. Her sole