The Raven Prince (Princes #1)(24)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

“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.