"You are flushed," he observed.

"I am fine, my lord. Just warm from beating the eggs." Ducking her head, Emma pulled away from his touch.

Mortified by the madness that ran molten through her veins, she could not look at him. He was too close, and her mood was too uncertain.

She made to look away, but her attention was snared by Lord Anthony's breeches and boots. Fawn colored breeches. Mud-caked Hessians. Like those she had glimpsed in the shrubbery outside the icehouse. At a frantic pace, her thoughts capered this way and that, sending a dark edginess through her, an ugly distress.

Had it been Lord Anthony at the icehouse, his eerie laughter taunting her while the chill air p.r.i.c.ked her skin and the black pit loomed before her?

Emma shook her head to clear it, forcing her thoughts back to the present, inviting her practical nature to ease her fears. The same mud was on the drive, or the field, or any garden to be found on the estate, not to mention the stables, where she knew with certainty Lord Anthony had been. No sinister secret lay in that mantle of drying dirt. Someone else had skulked in the bushes. Someone evil.

"Miss Parrish, you are no longer flushed." There was a touch of irony in Lord Anthony's tone. "You are now white as a shroud."

"I have something on my mind, my lord," she mumbled.

"Something? Or someone?"

Emma met his sardonic gaze. Did he know, then, that he haunted her every thought, her every secret wish? The corners of his mouth curved slightly, deepening the dimple in his cheek. She wanted to touch that mouth, to run her fingers over the full lips, to test their softness. She felt her cheeks heat once more.

"Allow me to correct myself. You are, indeed, flushed." Again he laid the back of his hand on her skin, this time in a gentle caress along her cheek, her chin. Her skin tingled each place he touched, and she bit back a moan.

His smile broadened. She was stunned by the warm glow that cascaded through her. Perfection. Yes. She had wanted the beauty of his smile turned on her, and here he had done just that. A flash of white, straight teeth. Drat the man! Even his teeth were beautiful.

"Miss Emma!" Nicky's call broke the intoxicating spell. "I put in all the sugar! What shall I do next?"

"Oh! You must...that is...."

Lord Anthony dropped his hand to his side, his gaze shuttered, his smile fading. "My son has impeccable timing, and I have pressing business." He inclined his head. "I bid you good afternoon."

Disappointment warred with relief. Emma dragged in a breath, turning her attention to Nicky, helping him add the egg whites to the mixture. But she could not resist a single sidelong glance at Lord Anthony as he departed. Broad, square shoulders. Narrow hips. Tight b.u.t.tocks that bunched with each step.

Dear heaven, she was chasing madness.

She let out a long, slow sigh, wondering what it was about this unfathomable, inscrutable man that drew her like a flower to the sun, and why, despite rumor, innuendo and indeed her own first hand knowledge of his oft intimidating nature, she could not find it in herself to believe anything but good about him.

Perhaps she was a woman of rare insight.

She shook her head. Perhaps she was a deluded, infatuated fool.

In the weeks that followed, though she wished it otherwise, Lord Anthony haunted Emma's thoughts, invaded her dreams. Each time their eyes met across the drive or through a doorway, she was painfully aware of the thrill that spiraled through her at the mere sight of him. Her mind whispered of the danger, but she could not seem to stop this elemental reaction, this fascination with the man.

Yet, there was more to his appeal than mere physical beauty. He was unfailingly polite to her, nay, more than that, he was genuinely interested in her thoughts and opinions, listening with careful attention during their morning discussions over breakfast with Nicky.

There was the loving kindness he bestowed on his son. The way he swung the child up onto his shoulders and strode along the drive, or joined their lessons for a brief time, encouraging, supporting. Ever the fine parent.

Emma was so glad for Nicky that he had what she had never known. A father's pure and genuine love.

Still, there were times when she was left with a wrenching unease, times when Lord Anthony disappeared into the Round Tower and a pall of anxiety and distress settled over the whole of Manorbrier. Those days were the hardest, for none would share the truth of what went on in that crumbling pile of stone and mortar, leaving Emma to imagine what she would, and to remember Nicky's childish a.s.sertion that Miss Rust yet remained in the tower, a dead, decomposing governess, or perhaps only a child's macabre fancy.

Even such chilling thoughts could not dampen her forbidden interest in her employer. Sitting in Lord Anthony's study late on a Friday afternoon, Emma delivered her weekly update of Nicky's progress, her senses attuned to the man who stood across the room, legs braced shoulder's width apart, arms resting on the window sash.

"All in all, my lord, that sums it up. Your son is a lovely, bright child and I am thoroughly enjoying our time together-" She broke off, disconcerted that she had delivered the entirety of her lengthy report to Lord Anthony's back.

An unwanted spark of attraction p.r.i.c.kled through her as she studied his broad-shouldered form, his lean hips and muscled thighs, the length of his thick dark hair where it kissed his collar. Hitching in a breath, she forced her attention away from the enticing image he presented and looked around the room. His Lordship's study. It was a man's room. Dark paneled walls were lined with shelves that boasted a wonderful selection of books in several languages. A large mahogany desk was positioned in front of a window draped in dark velvet. Emma sat rigidly on the edge of one of the two heavy brocade chairs that faced the desk.

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat as her employer continued to peruse the garden, seemingly content to let the silence lengthen and grow. But a tiny seed of suspicion whispered that he was no more oblivious to her presence than she was to his, and something in the set of his shoulders, the subtle tension lacing his frame, implied a weighty matter resting heavy on his thoughts.

"You will dine with me tomorrow evening, Miss Parrish?" Lord Anthony turned to her as he spoke. The words were phrased as a question, though his tone held a steely note of command, and Emma knew that this, then, was the issue he pondered.

"I...I shall be delighted, my lord. And Nicky...?"

"We shall dine after he is abed." Lord Anthony lifted a sardonic brow, obviously reading her hesitation in her expression. "Come now, Cousin Emma. Surely it is not inappropriate for me to wish a charming companion to entertain me at table. You are family, are you not? Not merely a governess, but my own cousin."

Emma looked down at her hands, attempting to hide her confusion. She had no explanation for the change in his manner. She was disinclined to seek his company, disturbed by the maelstrom of dangerous emotions he roused in her, and for the past weeks it had appeared that he was of like mind. He had been polite, but distant. Other than their daily breakfast with Nicky and the few occasions he had stopped by to watch their lessons, he had made a point of spending time with his son in her absence, specifically suggesting that she might like a moment of freedom to take her tea with the staff. She had been glad of it in a way, for his proximity was both enticing and unsettling in the extreme.

Yet now, Lord Anthony was asking, nay, ordering, her to dine with him.

Glancing at him through her lashes, she noticed the coiled tension in him, the power in the breadth of his shoulders and muscled thighs. He was like a beautiful wild beast, meant to be admired from afar, but far too dangerous at close confines. She thought ruefully that these were things no proper governess would notice.

As to his reference to their familial bond, it would likely be imprudent of her to tell him so, but Emma could not imagine regarding Lord Anthony as her cousin.

She was the cousin of his dead wife. His rumored to have been murdered wife. Or was that his intent? To remind her of exactly that? Strange, contradictory man.

"I scarcely think of you as family, my lord. We are only recently acquainted." So much for prudence.

He gave a short bark of laughter. "You are outspoken, Cousin Emma. Ah, look at the mutinous expression that clouds your fair brow. Have I insulted your sensibilities by calling you outspoken? Or is my use of your given name the cause of that frown?"

"As a gentleman, my lord, you should not make free with my given name until such time as I give you leave." Emma swallowed hard, her heart thumping a harsh rhythm. She dared much to speak to him so. But she feared that if she set no limits for him, like a small child, he would set none for himself.

His voice was deceptively soft. "As a governess, Cousin Emma, it hardly behooves you to question my behavior."

He moved toward her, each step a study in masculine grace, his eyes-those beautiful, startling eyes-locked on hers as he rounded the desk to settle his lean hips against the gleaming wood. Her heart kicked up a notch. He was far too close, one booted foot resting against the right front leg of her chair, the other against the left, his long limbs stretched out, splayed to each side.

"And, pray, what made you think I am a gentleman?" His tone was rich and dark as warm chocolate.

Emma shivered as the sound caressed her skin.

No. He was no gentleman, and in his presence, she was painfully tempted to act less than a lady. Were she of a mind to, she could lift one hand, such an easy thing, and lay her palm on his muscled thigh, feel the solid flex of muscle and sinew. Her breath caught in her chest. Sinking her teeth into her lower lip, she tipped her head back and found him regarding her with a quizzical expression, such powerful contemplation. Puzzled. But something else, as well. Something that tugged at the core of her and lit her insides with a slow, lazy burn.

"I...that is...." With a shiver she straightened her spine, pushing herself against the brocade back of the chair.

The room was too warm. She wondered that it suddenly seemed so. Again she opened her mouth. What to say? Nothing. There was nothing. She stroked her tongue against her too-dry lips, realizing at once that it was the wrong thing to do, for his interest sparked, flared. His green-gold eyes settled on her and snared her, forcing her into immobility.

They stared at each other, she into the handsome face of a man who both frightened and beguiled, a man of mystery and shadow. She wanted to touch him, to explore the chiseled edge of his jaw, the lovely curve of his lip, the straight line of his nose. Her breath came in shallow gasps, and her body tingled in most unladylike places.

Only with him had she ever felt anything quite like this. Attraction. The feeling was so complex, so simple.

He blew out a short huff of air. Rolled his shoulders. And even that stimulated her senses. Enticement, over nothing more than simple movement. He looked away, and she thought he wrestled with some secret demon, struggled with some inner tumult, and then, finally, mastered whatever private fiend gnawed at him.

"Thank you for your report. I am well pleased with Nicky's progress." He paused, and then finished softly. "My son is everything to me."

At that stark admission, Emma forgave him much. She was painfully aware that she liked this inscrutable man, and that liking was more dangerous than anything else, for it enhanced his seductive appeal. Attraction was one matter, something she could wrest into submission. But liking him was another beast entirely.

She wet her lips and looked up to find him watching her once more. So close. He was so close, perched there on the edge of his desk, she had only to rise and lean forward and brush her lips across his. Kiss him as she so longed to do.

A fantasy. Only a fantasy, for to do so in truth would be sheer folly.

With a small moan she bolted to her feet, intent on escape. Lord Anthony rose in the same instant, and they stood chest to chest in the small s.p.a.ce between the desk and Emma's newly abandoned brocade chair. The shallow pull of air, in, out, made the tips of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s brush his shirtfront. He wore no coat, perverse man, and disdained to b.u.t.ton his white lawn shirt. She could see the hollow of his throat, the hint of muscled chest and golden skin.

A day's growth of beard shadowed his jaw. He looked unkempt, tousled, untamed. Wickedly, darkly handsome.

She made a sound, half moan, half gasp, as she stood poised to flee, darkest desire pooling inside her like a living, writhing thing. And this from a mere look. Dear heaven, one touch and she would surely be lost.

Raising his left hand, he moved as if to stroke the backs of his fingers along her cheek. Emma stared at his hand, and he froze mid-movement, his gaze following hers.

The tip of his index finger was missing, cut off at the farthest joint. How had she failed to notice that before?

She was drawn back to the stormy night of her arrival when she had first seen Grigg's scarred face, first discerned Mrs. Bolifer's empty sleeve, and she had wondered if all the inhabitants of Manorbrier were marked in some terrible way.

"Does it offend you?" He hesitated at the word "offend", and Emma suspected that he had intended to use some other, harsher word.

"I never noticed it before. Your hand, I mean, your finger." Frowning, she looked straight ahead at the crisp white shirt that covered his chest, her heart fluttering wildly, confusion coursing through her. She wanted to tell him that her heart wept for his suffering, that she would heal him if she could, not only the scar she could see, but those hidden from view, deep inside, the ones she sensed marked his soul. Instead, she said, "I just never noticed it before."

"Delia hated it. She thought me mutilated. Repugnant." The words sounded curt, as though pulled from him against his will. He lifted his maimed hand, turning it palm up, then palm down, before resting it again on the smooth surface of the desk. "She never wanted me to touch her with my left hand. As if the loss of a tiny bit of finger made me less than whole."

As he spoke, Emma heard something in his tone. Bitterness? Regret? Or something darker still, some live, twisting thing that ate away at his soul? Did he love her still, his Delia?

Or was it hatred that tinged his words? Hatred enough to lure him to do murder?

"Did you...suffer an accident after you met her?" she asked softly, thrusting her wild conjectures aside. He had given her no cause to spin such suppositions, only spoken a handful of words in a tone bleak and raw. It was her overly sensitized emotions that made her think such things. She saw her own folly.

Her confusion swelled and she wondered how her sparking attraction had descended to this suspicion. He had given her no cause, no grounds for such. Perhaps, then, it was her own defense against the sensual lure of him, the forbidden fascination.

If she feared him she would not want him. There was both safety and a touch of the absurd in that thought.

A moment of silence drew out long and taut. Emma finally lifted her gaze, searching his face. His expression was shuttered, his jaw tense.

"I suffered much after I met her." His voice was harsh. "And there was nothing accidental about it. Delia knew well what torture she was about."

The words seared her, for they painted a cheerless picture. She wanted to touch him, to calm the pain of his memories. If she dared to lean forward, just the barest inch, she would be pressed against the width of his chest, her mouth a breath from his. The thought was wildly appealing. And equally frightening.

There was her answer. It seemed she wanted him no matter what. Or perhaps it was that she could not find it in herself to truly fear him. Only herself, and her terrible wanton need.

Emma felt a stirring of panic. He could consume her, this intense and enigmatic man. There would be nothing left of her, of her principles, of her good and pure intentions. Her secret imaginings would come to fruition, her mouth pressed wetly to his, his body hard against hers, and while she treasured the fantasy, she was horribly afraid of the reality and where it must lead. No good end could come of such folly. Only heartbreak and loss.

With a soft cry, she whirled and fled to the door. She thought only of escape. Not so much from Lord Anthony, but from her own unspeakable, and quite irrational, longing for him.

"Miss Parrish," his tone was crisp, controlled, stopping her short. Her fingers clasped about the cold metal door handle. "I shall see you at supper tomorrow. Promptly at eight, if you please."

She knew well the danger he posed, and so she definitely did not please. But she hardly thought it mattered.

CHAPTER FIVE.

"...and King Arthur called that magical place Camelot," Emma whispered as she smoothed Nicky's hair. The boy stirred but did not open his eyes. How sweet he looked, his dark hair rumpled, his cupid's-bow lips soft with sleep.

With a smile, she left the nursery and set off for her room on the third floor to prepare for her meal with Lord Anthony. She would tidy herself and pin her mother's cameo brooch to her bodice. The brooch was the only piece of jewelry that her mother had owned, a treasure of little monetary value, but immeasurable sentimental worth to Emma. The simple decoration would have to suffice, for she had nothing finer than her ragged and faded day dress to wear to supper.

Unbidden, a childhood memory of sitting on the landing hidden from view, watching the fine lords and ladies dance at a midnight ball sprang to mind. Her mother had come to find her, warned her not to set her sights for one of those well-dressed young men. Just look where such girlish dreams had led her. Then she had taken her daughter's hand and escorted her away, but Emma had been unable to resist the temptation to look over her shoulder one last time and watch as a gilded couple swirled about the floor. To her innocent eyes, they had seemed touched by the fairy magic she read about in her books.

The memory shifted and blurred, and suddenly it was Lord Anthony-dressed in elegant evening attire-who spun the woman in a heady dance. And the beautifully gowned woman was...herself. She was held in his embrace, her lips a mere hair's breadth from his.

Clapping her palms against her flushed cheeks, Emma hurried down the corridor. Though she acknowledged her fantasy as stuff and nonsense, she could not push aside the wish that she had such a gown to wear this evening, some delightful confection to make her feel beautiful.

When had her feeling of resentment at Lord Anthony's invitation-or rather, his command-turned to antic.i.p.ation?

"Emma Parrish," she muttered. "You are a woman grown. Far too old for a silly schoolgirl fantasy." She didn't dare voice aloud the thought that Lord Anthony Craven was less the stuff of schoolgirl dreams, and more the sort of man who made chaperones a necessity. Too masculine, too bold. Too hauntingly appealing.

Anthony Craven was no sweet prince.

She pushed open the door to her chamber, and nearly stumbled at the sight that greeted her. For a moment, Emma thought that the gown she had woven in her fantasy had taken flight and landed with stunning accuracy right in the center of her bed. There, laid carefully across the coverlet, was a magnificent dinner dress of shimmering blue silk. Perfect for her meal with Lord Anthony. Had he brought the dress and laid it here for her to find? How strange.

Taking a step forward, Emma hesitantly reached out and stroked the rich silk. The fabric was smooth to her touch. She thought the gown lovely, though the idea that Lord Anthony had secretly entered her chamber and laid the dress across her bed was somewhat unsettling. It did not behoove a gentleman to enter a lady's chamber, especially when that lady was in his employ.

And, pray, what made you think I am a gentleman? He had been quite clear on that point.

And though she was scrupulously careful of her actions, Emma was no lady. The circ.u.mstances of her birth made it so.

She frowned as she considered her options. She could simply tidy her hair and attend dinner as she was, garbed in her well-worn day dress. Pin on her cameo brooch as she had planned. But Lord Anthony had troubled himself to provide her attire. Surely it would be churlish to refuse the dress.

Conversely, she could argue that it would be inappropriate to accept such an obviously costly gift from her employer. Pressing the backs of her fingers to her lips, she narrowed her eyes, contemplating her decision.

"The aunts would have apoplexy!" The words popped out, and Emma smiled. The idea of her aunts falling to the ground, insensate, simply because she donned a blue silk dress gifted to her by the man they named monster was enough to make her decide in favor of the gown. Though they would never see it, she would know, and that would have to be enough. Not terribly grown-up of her, but reasonably satisfying nonetheless.

She quickly divested herself of her day dress, lifted the shimmering gown from the bed and slipped it on. The skirt billowed around her ankles, the yards of material draping as only truly expensive cloth could. With gentle hands, Emma pressed at the creases that marred the bodice and one side of the skirt. She wondered if the gown had been folded away somewhere. The wrinkles suggested it might be so.

Twisting, she tried to see herself in the tiny looking gla.s.s above the washstand but could catch only fractured glimpses of her appearance. The sleeves came off her shoulders, bowing gently about her upper arms before ending in a gentle pouf just above her elbow. Brussels lace trimmed the neckline then looped cleverly about itself in a pretty rosette before falling in a rich cascade down the front.

The gown could have been measured for her frame, save that the hem was a trifle long. But Emma was glad for the length, which hid her plain, serviceable shoes from view.