What You Propose (Anything for Love 2)

"I feel I must thank you again for your hospitality."

He made no comment. It occurred to her that perhaps he'd had little choice in the matter. Either way, she appreciated his generosity and offered a smile as he inclined his head and left the room.

Anna closed the door behind him and pressed her back to it as she surveyed the chamber. It had been years since she'd had a good night's sleep. There would be no constant banging above stairs. No piggish grunts of satisfaction echoing along the hallway. No gut-wrenching pain at the thought Victor might come home.

It suddenly hit her again — Victor was dead.

No matter where she ate or slept, no matter how hard she tried to forge a new life, she would always have his blood on her hands.

The memory of his last gasp for breath would haunt her forever.

Chapter 3

Marcus sat back in the chair, propped his feet up on his desk and perused the sealed letter in his hand. He recognised the elegant script and the circular heraldic mark pressed into the wax. Miss Sinclair had been his guest for a little over a week; this was the second letter to arrive for her from Dane.

Curiosity burned away.

Did the marquess want the woman for his mistress? Haines had made no secret of his master's fondness for a lady named Sophie Beaufort. Perhaps he wanted to wed one and bed the other. So, why would Dane ship Miss Sinclair off to France and then bombard her with letters? It made no sense.

For a man adept at discovering information, Marcus still knew nothing more of Miss Anna Sinclair, other than what she'd told him on her arrival. The woman did her utmost to avoid him, which suited him well. Such a ravishing beauty would tempt any man, and she had a beguiling charm he felt drawn to. Knowing she was vastly experienced in the bedchamber did not help matters. Whenever she moistened her lips or arched her back to relieve her aching muscles, his rampant mind conjured all sorts of lewd images.

His attention drifted up to the clock on the mantle as it struck one.

Miss Sinclair would be sitting out in the garth as she always finished her chores by twelve. Indeed, the woman was so regimental in her routine he knew exactly where to find her no matter what the time of day.

Dragging his feet off his desk, he jumped up and strode out of the door, hovering behind a pillar in the cloisters as he decided not to reveal himself immediately.

As predicted, Miss Sinclair was sitting on the bench, the bright rays of the sun casting a shimmering glow over her honey-gold hair. Damn. He felt the same deep stirring he always felt upon seeing her and he resisted the urge to stamp his foot until the dull thud shook the tiled walkway.

In a fit of frustration, he stomped out into the garth and cleared his throat to draw her gaze from a nondescript point of interest on the grass.

"You have another letter," he said clutching the item in his hand, aware that his chest felt unusually tight, that his heart gave an odd flutter when her vivacious blue eyes met his.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Danbury." Her gaze drifted over his open shirt, up to the hair he had tied back in a queue and she offered him an angelic smile. "Isn't it a beautiful day?"

He glanced up, yet found nothing particularly enchanting, other than the woman sitting on his bench. "I had not noticed," he replied honestly. "I have been indoors for most of the morning."

Miss Sinclair tapped the empty seat next to her. "Then won't you sit for a moment."

Marcus stared at the hand resting on the wooden slats. A week ago, it had been smooth, soft and creamy, the nails clean and shaped. They had been the sort of hands a man longed to feel caress the tired muscles in his shoulders, trace circles in the fine hair on his chest. Now, chapped, red and raw at the knuckles, the nails short and misshapen, they were the hands of a woman from the workhouse.

Guilt flared.

Swallowing his a

pprehension, he slid into the seat next to her as though his weight would trigger the slats to snap and he would fall into a pit of spitting vipers.

She held out her rough hand, and he stared at it.

"The letter, Mr. Danbury. You said I had a letter."

Marcus shook his head and handed her the folded paper. "Do you not have anything to help soothe the sore skin on your hands?"

She examined the seal and sighed before splitting the red wax in two. "No. I must remember to buy a balm or a salve when I next go down to the village."

"If you speak to Selene in the kitchen she may have something here that will help. She is quite knowledgeable when it comes to herbs and potions."

The corners of her mouth curled up into a grateful smile, and then she turned and focused her attention on the missive.