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Stroking a hand down her body, Anastasia wondered if she would dare let Gabriel touch her that way. Would she let him drop those mind-altering kisses down her neck… over her body?
Would she allow him to touch her the way her wanton urges tempted her to give over to him? Would she manage to skirt the line between enjoying pleasure and ruining herself when she was alone with Gabriel? Would she let his sizzling touch run through her, laying her wants and needs bare?
Turning, Anastasia buried her head in her pillow; only tomorrow would tell.
The ducal manor was a stunning masterpiece, like a mythical castle torn right out of the pages of the medieval glory days.
It had the bones of an old bastion, but tall cream-colored marble columns rose up to gilded, Corinthian capitals where they met the painted ceiling and changed the feel to more modern.
The land rolled straight down to the River Thames, and the faded red brick had a honeyed tone that gave it a buttery sort of warmth and made the place look terribly inviting, but Anastasia’s nerves were jumping, and her pulse was fluttering at the base of her throat.
As the carriage neared, four attendants in fine livery came from the open door, and three came to the bottom of the marble steps while a distinguished gentleman with silver hair stood at the top, his hands clasped behind his back.
His butler.
Stopped at the carriage gate, Anastasia gently alighted; following her was Marianne, a maid her aunt had assigned to Anastasia since the Dowager would be busy chaperoning Margaret with one of her suitors. Her aunt had given her a stark warning, “Do not find yourself alone with him, Anastasia.”
Approaching the marble steps, the older man bowed.
“Welcome to Clovervale Manor, Miss Porter. I am Severus Richards, His Grace’s butler. His Grace is awaiting you; please, let me escort you to him.”
“Thank you, Mister Richards,” she replied.
Entering the foyer, Anastasia did not have the presence of mind to appreciate the subtle gold aura to the room nor the art on the walls nor the faceted chandelier of glimmering glass nor even the fine Aubusson runner on the staircase.
She was taken to a drawing room a story above where the butler bowed. “Miss Porter has arrived, Your Grace.”
Gabriel turned from the large bow window behind him and nodded to the butler, even while his eyes did not stray from her. “Thank you, Richards. Please alert your dear wife to send up a tray of refreshments.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Gabriel looked a little subdued as his usual finery was tapered to a simple black coat, cream waistcoat, and starched cravat that had been neatly tied; his face was freshly shaven. His eyes were shadowed, though, as if he hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before.
Tugging her gloves off, Anastasia started, “Thank you for having me and my maid, Marianna Crane. Are you well, Your G—” He eyed her. “—Gabriel?”
“Aside from a lack of sleep, I would say so,” he replied then continued, “and you’re welcome.”
“You have a lovely home,” she commented while sitting. “It’s absolutely beautiful.”
His lips twitched. “Thank you; my forefathers would be deeply grateful to hear it. It is just one of the many.”
“You have others,” she replied. “I’d assumed.”
Still standing at the window, he replied, “Correct. My estate comprises of thousands of acres across London, in Kent, Oxford and Birmingham, and across the pond to Virginia and New York. I also have a house in India and two in the West Indies.”
Anastasia breathed out. “Your duchess will have her work cut out for her managing those houses.”
“I’d agree with you,” he replied.
“Do you have plans to go out this evening?” she asked.
“No…” He didn’t seem to be paying much attention to what she was saying; rather, he was looking her over from head to toe. His gaze left sizzling paths across her skin. “I’ve cleared the day to stay with you. Is that a new ensemble, Anastasia?”
His heated look had been one thing, but her name on his lips—uttered so huskily— flipped her heart over.
“Er yes,” she replied while looking down at the delicate floral gown.
The sleeves were slightly off her shoulders, showing off the fragility of her collarbone and the creaminess of her swell of her breasts, and yet, the material covered the entire length of her arms. Thinking it was modest, she had chosen it, but with how Gabriel was looking at her, it felt like she had walked into the room wrapped in cheesecloth.
