Free The Temptation of Your Touch by Teresa Medeiros

hair. Drawing an uneven breath through her parted lips, she reluctantly lifted her gaze to his face, half-afraid of what she might find there. “My lord?”
    “Your eyes . . .” he murmured, his harsh expression softened by bewilderment as he gazed down into them.

Chapter Eight
    A NNE HAD TO USE every ounce of self-control she possessed not to lower her lashes, but to continue to boldly meet Lord Dravenwood’s gaze. She had never expected him to be that observant. “Pardon?”
    “Your eyes,” he repeated more forcefully. “Last night I would have sworn they were green, but now they seem to be brown.”
    She offered him her most soothing smile. “My eyes are a quite ordinary hazel, my lord. They can appear different colors in different light—sometimes brown, sometimes green, sometimes a mixture of both.”
    This time she didn’t wait for him to relinquish his hold on her. She simply slid her arm neatly out of his grasp and started toward the dining room. She didn’t even spare a glance over her shoulder to make sure he was following. Her only desire was to escapebefore the bewilderment in his eyes could harden into suspicion.
    M AX SAT ALL ALONE at the head of a long mahogany table that could easily have accommodated thirty guests, feeling more than a little ridiculous. The only other furniture in the room was a dusty sideboard sporting a silver tea set in desperate need of a sound polishing.
    The moldering velvet drapes had been drawn back from the impressive wall of windows overlooking the cliffs, inviting in the meager rays of what passed for daylight in this place. The wavy panes of glass were nearly as grimy as the curtains, making the choppy, gray sea beyond the cliffs look even grayer.
    As he awaited the arrival of his breakfast, Max caught himself cocking his head to listen for the telltale jingle of Mrs. Spencer’s keys. The merry sound that accompanied her every step was completely at odds with her oh-so-proper appearance. When he had found her waiting for him at the foot of the stairs, her every button and hair had been in place, as if secured with the same starch she used on her collar and apron.
    Apparently, the only thing unpredictable about the infernal woman was the color of her eyes.
    He was already regretting that awkward moment when he had seized her arm. He couldn’t imagine what had possessed him to put his hands on her not once, but twice, since his arrival at the manor. He’d never been inclined toward manhandling the help. Of course, nor was he in the habit of engaging in personal conversation with them. In his father’s household, and later in his own, servants had always been treated as if they were of no more consequence than the furniture—necessary, but hardly worthy of notice.
    But who else was he supposed to talk to in this accursed place? Himself? The ghost? A derisive snort escaped him. A few more lonely nights in this mausoleum and he might find himself doing just that.
    There was no reason why he shouldn’t be perfectly content with his situation. After all, hadn’t he come here to the ends of the earth because he wanted to be left alone?
    As the dining room door came swinging open, he sat up eagerly. The tantalizing aroma of freshly baked bread drifted through the doorway, making his stomach quicken with anticipation.
    The young footman ducked through the door, a tray balanced in his hands. His scrawny chest was swallowed by the oversize coat of his faded blue livery. The legs of his trousers had been pinned up atthe ankles so they wouldn’t trip him. His powdered wig was canted at an even more precarious angle than it had been the previous night.
    The boy slapped the tray down on the table in front of Max, rattling the china dishes, then with a grudging flourish whipped away the silver lid shielding Max’s meal.
    Although Max’s disappointment was keen, he could find nothing to complain about. It was standard English breakfast fare—a pair of poached eggs, a bowl