“All right, then.” Pearl yawned. “Thank you again.”
All through supper that evening, Anna was distracted. Pearl’s comment that it would be nice to do the choosing for once kept running through her head. She poked rather absently at her meat pie. It was true, even on her level of society, that the men got to do most of the choosing. A young lady waited for a gentleman to come calling, while the gentleman was able to decide which young ladies to court. Once married, a respectable woman waited dutifully for her husband in the marriage bed. The man made the overtures of marital relations. Or not, as the case may be. At least it had been so in Anna’s marriage. She’d certainly never let Peter know she might have needs of her own or that she might not be satisfied with what occurred in bed.
Later that night, as Anna got ready for sleep, she couldn’t stop imagining Lord Swartingham in Aphrodite’s Grotto as Pearl had described it. The earl being sighted and chosen by some daring woman of the aristocracy. The earl spending the night in a masked lady’s arms. The thoughts made her chest hurt even as she fell asleep.
And then she was in Aphrodite’s Grotto.
She wore a mask and searched for the earl. Men of every description, old, young, fair, and ugly, hundreds of men, filled a hall to overflowing. Frantically, she pushed through the mass, hunting for a singular pair of black, gleaming eyes, becoming more desperate the longer her search took. Finally, she saw him across the room, and she started running toward him. But as is the way with such nightmares, the faster she tried to run, the slower she went. Each step seemed to take an eternity. As she struggled, she saw another masked woman beckon to him. Without ever having seen her, he turned away and followed the other woman from the room.
Anna awoke in the dark, her heart pounding and her skin chilled. She lay absolutely still, remembering the dream and listening to her own roughened breathing.
It was some time before she realized she was weeping.
Chapter Seven
The huge raven flew with his new wife on his back for two days and two nights until on the third day, they came to fields golden with ripened grain.
“Who owns these fields?” Aurea asked, looking down from her perch.
“Your husband,” the raven replied.
They came to an endless meadow filled with fat cattle, their hides shining in the sun.
“Who owns these cattle?” Aurea asked.
“Your husband,” the raven replied.
Then a vast emerald forest spread below, rolling over hills as far as the eye could see.
“Who owns this forest?” Aurea asked.
“Your husband!” the raven cawed. . . .
—from The Raven Prince
Anna walked to Ravenhill the next morning feeling tired and low after a restless night. She paused for a moment to admire the sea of bluebells blooming under the trees that lined the drive. The azure dots sparkled in the sunlight, like newly minted coins. Usually the sight of any flower brought a lightness to her heart, but today they did not. She sighed and continued her journey until she rounded a curve and stopped short. Lord Swartingham, striding briskly in his habitual mud-spattered boots, was coming from the stables and hadn’t caught sight of her yet.
He gave a terrific bellow. “DOG!”
For the first time that day, Anna smiled. Evidently the earl couldn’t find the ever-present canine and was reduced to roaring its common name.
She strolled toward him. “I don’t see why he should respond to that.”
Lord Swartingham swung around at the sound of her voice. “I believe that I gave the job of naming the mongrel to you, Mrs. Wren.”
Anna opened her eyes wide. “I did offer three different options, my lord.”
“And all of them were out of the question, as you well know.” He smiled evilly. “I think I’ve given you quite enough time to come up with a name. You shall produce one now.”
She was amused by his obvious intention to put her on the spot. “Stripe?”
“Too juvenile.”
“Tiberius?”
“Too imperial.”
“Othello?”
“Too murderous.” Lord Swartingham folded his arms across his chest. “Come, come, Mrs. Wren. A woman of your wit can do better than this.”
“How about ‘Jock,’ then?”
“That won’t do.”
“Why not?” Anna retorted saucily. “I like the name Jock.”
“Jock.” The earl seemed to roll the name on his tongue.
“I wager the dog will come if I call him by that name.”
“Ha.” He stared down his nose in the superior manner of males the world over when dealing with silly females. “You are welcome to try.”
“Very well, I shall.” She tilted her chin. “And if he comes, you must show me around the Abbey’s gardens.”
Lord Swartingham raised his eyebrows. “And if he doesn’t come?”
“I don’t know.” She hadn’t thought that far ahead. “Name your prize.”
He pursed his lips and contemplated the ground at his feet. “I believe it is traditional in wagers between a woman and a man for the gentleman to ask for a favor from the lady.”
Anna drew in a breath and then had trouble releasing it.
The earl’s black eyes glittered at her from beneath his brows. “Perhaps a kiss?”
Oh, dear. Possibly she had been precipitous. Anna let out her breath in a puff and straightened her shoulders. “Very well.”
He waved a languid hand. “Proceed.”
Anna cleared her throat. “Jock!”
Nothing.
“Jock!”
Lord Swartingham began to smirk.
Anna drew a deep breath and let loose a most unladylike shriek. “JOCK!”
They both listened for the dog. Nothing.
The earl slowly pivoted to face her, the crunching of his boots in the gravel drive loud in the stillness. They stood only a few feet distant. He took a step, his beautiful, heavy-lidded eyes intent on her face.
Anna could feel the blood pounding in her chest. She licked her lips.
His gaze dropped to her mouth, and his nostrils flared. He took another step, and they were now only a foot apart. As if in a dream, she saw his hands rise and grip her arms, felt the pressure of his big fingers through her mantle and gown.
Anna began to tremble.
He bent his dark head toward hers, and his warm breath caressed her lips. She closed her eyes.
And heard the dog clatter into the yard.
Anna opened her eyes. Lord Swartingham was frozen. Slowly, he turned his head, still only inches from hers, to stare at the canine. The dog grinned back, tongue hanging from his mouth, panting.
“Shit,” the earl breathed.
Quite, Anna thought.
He let go of her suddenly, stepped away, and turned his back. He ran both hands through his hair and shook his shoulders. She heard him take a deep breath, but his voice was still husky when he spoke. “It appears you have won the wager.”
“Yes, my lord.” She hoped she sounded sufficiently nonchalant, as if she was used to having gentlemen nearly kiss her in their driveways. As if she wasn’t having trouble catching her breath. As if she didn’t desperately wish the dog had stayed far, far away.
“I’ll be pleased to show you the gardens,” the earl muttered, “such as they are, after luncheon. Perhaps you can work in the library until then?”
“Won’t you be coming to the library as well?” She tried to conceal her disappointment.
He still hadn’t turned to face her. “I find that there are matters that need my attention around the estate.”
“Of course,” Anna murmured.
He finally looked at her. She noticed his eyes were still heavy lidded, and she rather fancied he glanced at her bosom. “I’ll see you at luncheon.”
She nodded, and the earl snapped his fingers at the dog. As he passed her, she thought she heard him mutter something to the beast. It sounded more like idiot than
Jock.
JESUS GOD, WHAT was I thinking? Edward strode angrily around the Abbey.
He’d deliberately maneuvered Mrs. Wren into an untenable position. There was no way she could have denied his crude advances. As if a woman of her fine sensibilities would have welcomed a kiss from a pox-scarred man such as he. But he hadn’t thought of his scars when he drew her into his arms. He hadn’t thought of anything. He’d acted on pure instinct: the lust to touch that beautiful, erotic mouth. His cock had been full, achingly erect, in seconds at the mere thought. He’d nearly been unable to let go of Mrs. Wren when the dog had showed up, and then he’d been forced to turn his back to keep her from getting an eyeful. He still hadn’t relaxed.
“And what were you doing, Jock?” Edward growled down at the happily oblivious mastiff. “Your timing needs work, lad, if you want to continue devouring the bounty of the Abbey’s kitchen.”
Jock grinned an adoring doggy grin up at him. One ear was flopped inside out, and Edward straightened it absently. “A minute earlier or a minute later—preferably later—would’ve been a better moment to come gamboling up.”
He sighed. He couldn’t let this rampant lust continue. He liked the woman, for God’s sake. She was witty and unafraid of his temper. She asked questions about his agricultural studies. She rode about his fields through mud and muck without a word of complaint. She even seemed to enjoy their jaunts. And sometimes when she looked at him, her head tilted to the side and all her attention focused solely on him, there was something that seemed to turn in his chest.
He frowned and kicked a pebble on the path.
It was unfair and dishonorable to subject Mrs. Wren to his brutish advances. He shouldn’t be combating thoughts of her soft breasts, wondering if she had pale pink nipples or if they were a deeper rose color. Contemplating whether her nipples would pucker up immediately when he drew his thumb across them or wait coyly for the feel of his tongue.
Hell.
He half laughed, half groaned. His cock was once again at stand and pulsing with blood at just the thought of her. His body hadn’t been this out of control since he’d been a lad with a newly deepened voice.
He kicked another pebble and stopped on the path, hands on hips, to tip his head back to the sky.
It was no use. Edward rolled his head back against his shoulders, trying to ease the tension. He would have to make a trip to London soon to spend a night or even two at Aphrodite’s Grotto. Perhaps after that he could be in his secretary’s presence without lustful thoughts taking over his mind.
He ground the pebble he had been kicking into the mud as he pivoted and started back to the stables. He was approaching the idea of going to London as a chore. He no longer anticipated spending the night in a demimondaine’s bed. Instead, he felt weary. Weary and yearning for a woman he could not have.
LATER THAT AFTERNOON, Anna was reading The Raven Prince when the banging started. She’d only gotten as far as the third page, which described a magical battle between an evil prince and an enormous raven. It was an odd little fairy tale, but it was engrossing, and it took her a minute to recognize the sound of the Abbey’s front door knocker. She’d never heard it before. Most of the callers to the Abbey came by way of the servants’ entrance.
She slipped the book back into her desk and picked up a quill as she listened to the sound of rapid footsteps, probably the footman, in the hall answering the door. A vague murmur of voices, one of them feminine, then a lady’s heels tapped toward the library. The footman threw open the door, and Felicity Clearwater strolled in.
Anna stood. “Can I help you?”
“Oh, don’t get up. I don’t want to disturb your duties.” Felicity flicked a hand in her direction as she inspected the rickety iron ladder in the corner. “I’ve just come to deliver an invitation for Lord Swartingham to my spring soiree.” She stroked a gloved fingertip over an iron rail and wrinkled her nose at the rust-colored dust that came away.
“He isn’t in at the moment,” Anna said.
“No? Then I must entrust it with you.” Felicity sauntered to the desk and produced a heavily embossed envelope from a pocket. “You will give this . . .” She was holding out the envelope, but her words trailed away as she looked at Anna.
“Yes?” Anna self-consciously brushed a hand over her hair. Did she have a smudge on her face? Something caught between her teeth? Felicity looked as if she’d solidified into marble. Surely dirt couldn’t justify that much shock.
The embossed velum in Felicity’s hand trembled and fell to the desk. She glanced away, and the moment was gone.
Anna blinked. Perhaps she’d imagined the look.
“Do make sure Lord Swartingham receives my invitation, won’t you?” Felicity was saying. “I’m certain he won’t want to miss the most important social event in the area.” She aimed a brittle smile in Anna’s direction and walked out the door.
Anna absently dropped her hand to her throat and felt cool metal under her palm. She wrinkled her brow as she remembered. This morning as she’d dressed, she had thought the fichu about her neck rather plain. She’d rummaged in the tiny box that held her meager stock of jewelry, but her only pin was too big. Then her fingers had touched the locket she’d found in Peter’s case. This time she’d experienced only a twinge when she saw the locket. Perhaps it was losing the power to hurt her, and she’d thought, Well, why not? and defiantly pinned the locket at her neck.
Anna fingered the trinket at her throat. It was cold and hard under her hand, and she wished that she’d not given in to her morning impulse.
DAMN! DAMN! DAMN! Felicity stared sightlessly from her carriage as it bumped away from Ravenhill Abbey. She’d not endured eleven years of groping and poking by a man old enough to be her grandfather to have it all fall apart now.
One would think that Reginald Clearwater’s quest for children had been satisfied with the four grown sons his first two wives had borne him, not to mention the six daughters. After all, Felicity’s predecessor had died giving birth to his youngest male offspring. But no, Reginald was obsessed with his own potency and the task of getting children on his wife. There were times during his twice-weekly marital visits when she wondered if it were really worth all this trouble. The man had run through three wives and still didn’t have any skill in the bedchamber.
Felicity snorted.
But despite its downside, she absolutely adored being the squire’s wife. Clearwater Hall was the largest house in the county, excepting, of course, Ravenhill Abbey. She had a generous clothing allowance and her own carriage. She looked forward to lovely—and very expensive—jewelry every birthday. And the local shopkeepers nearly genuflected when she called. All in all, it was a life well worth preserving.
Which brought her back to the problem of Anna Wren.
Felicity touched her hair, skimming over it, checking for strands out of place. How long had Anna known? Impossible that the locket had been an accident. Coincidences of that magnitude just did not happen, which meant the wretched woman was taunting her after all this time. The letter that Felicity’d written to Peter had been penned in the heat of lust and was quite, quite damning. She’d placed it in the locket he’d given her and handed it to him, never thinking he would keep the silly thing. And then he’d died, and she’d been on tenterhooks, waiting for Anna to come calling with the evidence. When the locket had not turned up in the first couple of years, she’d thought Peter had either sold it or buried it—along with the letter inside—before he’d died.
Men! What useless creatures they were—aside from the obvious.
Felicity drummed her fingers on the windowsill. The only reasons for Anna to show her the locket now were either revenge or blackmail. She grimaced and ran her tongue along her front teeth, feeling their edges. Dainty, smooth, and sharp. Very sharp. If little Anna Wren thought she could frighten Felicity Clearwater, she was about to find out just how very mistaken she was.
“I BELIEVE I OWE you a forfeit, Mrs. Wren,” the earl
announced as he stalked into the library later that afternoon. The sun streaming in the windows highlighted silver threads in Lord Swartingham’s hair. His boots were muddy again.
Anna laid down her quill and held out her hand to Jock, who had accompanied his master into the room. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten this morning’s debt, my lord.”
He arched an arrogant brow. “Are you impugning my honor?”
“If I were, would you call me out?”
He made an inelegant sound. “No. You’d probably win if I did. I’m not a particularly good shot, and my sword work needs practice.”
Anna raised her chin loftily. “Then perhaps you should be careful what you say to me.”
One corner of Lord Swartingham’s mouth curled up. “Are you coming to the garden, or do you wish to continue bandying words with me here?”
“I don’t see why we cannot do both,” she murmured, and gathered her wrap.
She took his arm, and they strolled out of the library. Jock trailed them, ears perked at the prospect of a ramble. The earl led her through the front door and around the corner of the Abbey past the stables. Here the cobblestones turned to mown grass. They passed a low hedge enclosing a kitchen garden to the side of the servants’ entrance. Someone had already started leeks. Delicate green wisps lined a trench that would later be filled in as the plants grew. Beyond the kitchen garden was a sloped lawn at the bottom of which was a larger, walled garden. They picked their way down the slope on a gray slate walk. As they neared, Anna saw that ivy nearly obscured the old red bricks of the wall. A wooden door was hidden in the wall, overhung with brown vines.
Lord Swartingham took hold of the door’s rusty iron handle and pulled. The door squeaked and opened an inch, then stopped. He muttered something and glanced at her.
She smiled encouragingly.
He wrapped both hands around the handle and braced his feet before yanking mightily. Nothing happened for a second, and then the door gave up with a groan. Jock shot through the opening into the garden. The earl stood aside and gestured her in with a wave of his hand.
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