Chapter 1
Alfred
Dorset, England
Two Months Later
My hands shake, causing my cup and saucer to clatter together.
“Excuse me, Mr. Saintsbury?”
I came to Trescott Abbey this morning to meet my new employer, the owner of the estate to which my living belongs. She inherited the place only one month ago, two after my arrival in Trescott.
And while her late father was a very respectable man, Miss Annabelle de Lacey, the woman now addressing me, is notorious.
Given this reputation, I imagined Miss de Lacey as a woman of a certain age, a kind of blunt-spoken bawdy house madame trying to restore herself to respectability.
That was how she appeared in the few caricatures of her that I glimpsed in London.
Buxom, pockmarked, leering. I was sure I could handle that with no issue.
But Miss Annabelle de Lacey is something else altogether.
Looking at her for too long threatens my sanity. My mouth goes dry and my blood hums.
Nevertheless, when I arrived here and we were seated with our tea, I launched into my prepared speech. And that appears to have been a grave mistake.
I cough. I know she heard me the first time. But all I can do is repeat myself.
“I was urging you, Miss de Lacey, to attend church on Sundays. It would be an excellent example to set for the parishioners of Trescott. Given your position.”
And particularly given your reputation. I do not say these words but they hang in the air between us anyway.
Annabelle de Lacey sits on her damask armchair as if it were a throne.
She does not perch like a gently-bred lady.
She surveys me with disdain, as if she has been the master of a grand estate since birth.
Of course, she was rich before her recent inheritance.
She has had great success in business. Everyone knows that.
I can’t understand how my employer, my patron, can be so young and so attractive. Of all the talk I heard in the village, no one mentioned her beauty. Nor had I realized that she would be so near my age. I imagined her as ten, fifteen years my senior. I miscalculated. Badly.
“Mr. Saintsbury, I would rather hang than attend church. Particularly your church. Do you think I, of all people, could learn anything from a clumsy, nervous man such as yourself? You are shaking before me. I am to believe that you are a conduit of the Almighty? I think such a man would be able to sit before me without cowering.”
I swallow hard at this insult. Humiliation clogs my throat. I set the teacup on the tray, no longer trusting myself to hold it, and wince when hot liquid sluices over my fingers, flooding the saucer below.
“My apologies,” I repeat, reaching for my serviette and dabbing at the saucer. But to my horror, the frantic nature of the movement upsets the entire cup, flooding the tray beneath. I can’t apologize again—and yet I have no other option. “I am sorry—”
“Stop, Mr. Saintsbury.” Her bored tone sears me. I could not be more aware that I am nothing to a woman like her. To her, I must appear pathetic, indeed. Now, imploring her to attend church feels like idiocy of the highest order.
I can’t help but look up at her, however. Something about the way she says my name.
Her face is a revelation. Blue eyes, disarming in their softness—and not at all suited to her malicious tone.
Full lips framed by blonde, curly hair, a Roman nose that on another woman might be overwhelming but instead roots her in arresting particularity.
I am transfixed. I find myself struggling to breathe.
Not to mention, she has a generous bosom.
A very generous bosom.
And tall—only a few inches shorter than me and I am a large man.
She has the kind of beauty that claws at my chest and swells my cock. The kind of beauty that has always done that to me. It is as if God designed her to tempt me.
My father was uncertain whether I should keep this post when Miss de Lacey inherited. My sire agonized over the decision as if it were his own to make. The living is, after all, excellent. We were both elated when I won it.
In the end, my father instructed me to keep the living.
He contended that no reasonable man could blame me for not forfeiting such a good post. Even the damned need clergymen, my father grumbled.
If anyone questions you, you kept the living to protect your parishioners from the influence of such a paragon of vice.
At the time, I found this rationale convincing.
I certainly did not want to give up the income.
Not when I hope to marry as soon as possible.
In three years if I am lucky. My father made it clear that I need more than a decent competence to take a wife.
I am under strict orders to marry well. I have to find a woman who can bring me not just love and companionship but resources.
A dowry worth mentioning. And even I can see that an imprudent marriage would be foolhardy.
A good marriage could make my career, especially if the family of the lady in question has influence in the church.
My father says I will have enough money in three years.
Only three more years of torment.
It is not a short time, but it could be worse.
I could be like Daniel. Destined, he told me, to be engaged to his beloved for at least seven more years before they can wed.
But I had not anticipated this complication.
“You were my father’s choice,” Miss de Lacey says, “so I assumed you would be a dullard and a sycophant. I did not realize that you would be so incompetent as well.”
At first, her words have no effect on me. I am still lost in her face. How would it feel to kiss such full lips? Are they as silken to the touch as they appear? And why would God show me such beauty, if I am only to ignore it?
Then I hear her words.
My face burns.
I stand up abruptly, rattling the tea tray once more. At least this time I do not apologize.
She gives a harsh, mirthless laugh as the spoons and china clatter.
“Good day, madame. I am sorry for wasting your time,” I stammer, turning towards the door.
“Good day, Mr. Saintsbury. Let this be our final parting. I see no reason we should meet again. I am sure you will visit on the parishioners of Trescott all they deserve. You certainly seem capable of it.”
By the time I reach the door, two things are clear to me.
First, Annabelle de Lacey loathes me.
And second, I desire her so much it hurts.