Page 23 of The Heir
“And you won’t be resigning or disappearing without notice?”
“I will not.”
“Your word, Anna?” he pressed, reverting to tones of authority.
“My word,your lordship.”
He flinched at that, which was a minor gratification.
A silence, unhappy for her, God knew what for him, stretched between them.
“Were you to disappear, I would worry about you, you know,” he said softly. He trailed his fingers down over her wrist to lace with hers and squeeze briefly.
She nodded, as there was nothing to say to such folly. Not one thing.
In the moonlight, he saw her face in profile, eyes closed, head back. His last comment seemed to strike her with the same brutal intensity as her use of his title had hit him, for she stiffened as if she’d taken an arrow in the back before dropping his hand and fleeing.
When he was sure she’d left his rooms, the earl went inside and locked his bedroom door then returned to the darkness of the balcony. He shucked his trousers, unfolded the napkin from the dinner tray, and lay back on the chaise. As his eyes fell closed, his dressing gown fell open, and he let memories of Anna Seaton fill his imagination.
In the soft, sweet darkness, he drew out his own pleasure, recalling each instant of that kiss, eachpleasure. The clean, brisk scent of her, the softness of her lips, the way she startled minutely when his hands had settled on her shoulders. When he finally did allow himself satisfaction, the sensations were more gratifying and intense than anything he’d experienced with Elise.
It was enough, he assured himself. He was content for one night to have kissed her and pleasured himself resoundingly. If she truly insisted he keep his distance, he would respect that, but he would make damned sure her decision was based on as much persuasive information as he could put before her.
As the night settled peacefully into his bones, he closed his eyes and started making a list.
Anna was up early enough the next morning to see to her errand, one she executed faithfully on the first of each month—rain, shine, snow, or heat. She sat down with pen, plain paper, and ink, and printed, in the most nondescript hand she could muster, the same three words she had been writing each month for almost two years: All is well. She sanded that page and let it dry while she wrote the address of an obscure Yorkshire posting inn on an envelope. Just as she was tucking her missive into its envelope, booted footsteps warned her she would soon not have the kitchen to herself.
“Up early, aren’t you, Mrs. Seaton?” the earl greeted her.
“As are you, my lord,” she replied casually, sliding the letter into her reticule.
“I am off to let Pericles stretch his legs, but I find myself in need of sustenance.”
“Would you like a muffin, my lord? I can fix you something more substantial, or you can take the muffin with you.”
“A muffin will do nicely, or perhaps two.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “You aren’t going to be shy with me, are you, Mrs. Seaton?”
“Shy?” And just like that, she blushed, damn him. “Why ever would I…? Oh, shy. Of course not. A small, insignificant, forgivable indiscretion on the part of one’s employer is hardly cause to become discomposed.”
“Glad you aren’t the type to take on, but I would not accost you where someone might come upon us,” the earl said, pouring himself a measure of lemonade.
“My lord,” she shot back, “you will not accost meanywhere.”
“If you insist. Some lemonade before you go out?”
“You are attempting to be charming,” Anna accused. “Part of your remorse over your misbehavior last evening.”
“That must be it.” He nodded. “Have some lemonade anyway. You will go marching about in the heat and find yourself parched in no time.”
“It isn’t that hot yet,” Anna countered, accepting a glass of lemonade, “And a lady doesn’t march.”
“Here’s to ladies who don’t march.” The earl saluted with his drink. “Now, about those muffins? Pericles is waiting.”
“Mustn’t inconvenience dear Pericles,” Anna muttered loudly enough for the earl to hear her, but his high-handedness did not inspire blushes, so it was an improvement of sorts. She opened the bread box—where anybody would have known to look for the muffins—and selected the two largest. The earl was sitting on the wooden table and let Anna walk up to him to hand over the goodies.
“There’s my girl.” He smiled at her. “See? I don’t bite, though I’ve been known to nibble. So what is in this batch?”
“Cinnamon and a little nutmeg, with a caramel sort of glaze throughout,” Anna said. “You must have slept fairly well.”
