Free The Temptation of Your Touch by Teresa Medeiros Page A

of watery porridge, a limp kipper, three rashers of overcooked bacon, a piece of underdone toast. The food looked every bit as tasteless as it did colorless. There was no sign of the buttery, golden loaf that had haunted his culinary fantasies ever since he had caught the aroma of it clinging to Mrs. Spencer’s hair.
    Without a word, the footman took his place next to the sideboard, staring straight ahead like one of the king’s guards.
    The boy’s truculent silence was going to make for a long meal. A very long meal. Max took a sip of his lukewarm tea, wishing it were something much stronger, before asking, “Have you any newspapers I might peruse while I breakfast?”
    The boy blew out a disgusted huff, as if Max had requested the Holy Grail be located without delay so his tea could be served in it. “I’ll see what I can find.”
    Max had finished his bacon and was poking listlessly at his eggs with his fork when Dickon returned with a yellowing broadsheet tucked beneath his arm. Max unfolded the brittle pages to discover it was a copy of the Times . . . dated October 1820. Since Max had no desire to read what Queen Caroline had been wearing at her husband’s coronation sixteen years ago, he tossed the useless thing aside. It seemed he had escaped not only London but the modern world altogether.
    He managed to choke down a few spoonfuls of the lumpy porridge before a combination of boredom and curiosity prompted him to speak again. “Dickon? It is Dickon, is it not?”
    The boy shot him a suspicious glance. “Aye, sir . . . um . . . m’lord.”
    “How long have you been in service at Cadgwyck?”
    “Nearly five years now, m’lord.”
    Max frowned. “Just how old are you?”
    “I’m seventeen,” the boy said staunchly.
    What you are, Max thought, is lying through your teeth . The boy didn’t look to be more than a day over thirteen. And that was a generous estimation. “Were you hired by Mr. Hodges?”
    “No, it was An—Mrs. Spencer what gave me my place here.”
    “Your Mrs. Spencer seems to wield anuncommon amount of influence for a mere housekeeper,” Max remarked thoughtfully.
    “She’s not my Mrs. Spencer. She belongs to no man.”
    “Not even Mr. Spencer?” Max asked, amused against his will by the unmistakable note of pride in the lad’s voice.
    “Oh, there is no Mr. Spencer,” the lad blurted out. When he saw Max’s eyebrow shoot up, a flicker of alarm danced over his face. “At least not anymore. Mr. Spencer died in an unfortunate . . . um . . . accident. Crushed by a . . . a wagon, he was. A very large, very heavy wagon.”
    “How tragic,” Max murmured, wondering just how long the unflappable Mrs. Spencer had been a widow. Based on the way her breath had quickened and her lips had parted both times he had put his hand on her arm, it must have been a long time indeed. If the mere touch of his hand had stirred such a response, he couldn’t help but wonder how she would react if a man actually tried to kiss her. Shaking off the absurd and dangerous notion, he said, “It’s no wonder she ended up as a domestic. There are very few avenues open to a woman who must make her own way in the world without the protection of a man.”
    Dickon didn’t even try to disguise his snort. “Ifany man crosses Mrs. Spencer, he’ll be the one in need of protection.”
    Before Max could stop himself, he had returned the boy’s cheeky grin, making them compatriots for the briefest of seconds. Then, as if realizing he was guilty of consorting with the enemy, Dickon jerked himself back to attention, staring straight ahead with his face set in even more sullen lines than before.
    Sighing, Max returned his attention to his breakfast. Since he had no idea if anything more nourishing—or flavorful—would be forthcoming for lunch, he forced himself to finish every bite of the pallid fare before rising and leaving the boy to clear his place.
    When he emerged from the dining room, he