Never Resist Temptation by Miranda Neville Read Free Book Online Page A

Sussex rather than having specific information linking her to Storrington.
    Loath to face interrogation by the cook, as soon as the coast was clear she slipped out the back door for a walk in the grounds.
    The damp winter chill, stiffened by a purposeful breeze, cut through her worn cloak and echoed the cold fear in her heart. She longed desperately for an ally. At her uncle’s house she’d at least been surrounded by friendly servants. Below stairs she’d found a family. Not one capable of replacing her doting parents, whose love and attention had made her childhood an endless summer of warmth and safety. But her welcome in the servants’ hall had comforted her when she was reeling with grief at the loss of both father and mother within a few months, and alleviated the cruelty and neglect dealt her by her uncle and guardian.
    She missed the trivial daily gossip of life below stairs at Hurst Park. She missed the kindly cook who had shown her how to roll out pie crust. She even missed Edgar, her dull but amiable cousin who hadn’t treated her unkindly. Most of all she missed Jean-Luc.
    Since Jean-Luc Clèves had taken command of Candover’s kitchen when she was sixteen, he had been her closest friend. He’d reminded her of her childhood in France and taught her to cook. And he’d helped her escape from Hurst.
    There was no one to help her now. She, who rarely cried, felt the prickle of tears. Ever since her father’sdeath she’d had to look after herself. As an eleven-year-old girl Jacobin had propped up her heartbroken mother and arranged their escape from Napoleon’s France. Orphaned soon afterward, she’d suffered years of living with Candover’s hatred, months in the regent’s kitchens in constant fear of being unmasked, and now she was on the run because of a crime she hadn’t committed. A rising sob tore at her breast, and she succumbed to waves of fear, loneliness, and a desperate anger at the injustice of her situation.
    For the first time in months she consciously recalled the events that had led to her departure from her uncle Candover’s house.
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    It was a rare occasion when Jacobin was summoned to her uncle’s presence. In eleven years at the Candover estate she could probably count the number of times on the fingers of her two hands—and without needing the thumbs. Experience told her this encounter would be unpleasant.
    She hurried upstairs from the kitchen to tidy her hair and smooth out the creases in her gown created by apron strings securely bound at the waist. At least at this hour of the morning her dress was still clean; several hours in the pastry kitchen would find it dusted with flour and smeared with butter, despite the protection of the large linen cook’s apron. She’d prefer to face Candover looking like the well-bred young lady she was supposed to be, little as he honored her position.
    Her mind raced over the possible cause of his displeasure. Although he was usually content to ignore her existence, he seemed to feel the periodic need to berate the niece he’d given houseroom since she was eleven years old.
    In a tiny corner of her mind, Jacobin couldn’t help hoping that for once he’d show her an iota of kindness, a small indication that he regarded his sister’s only child with anything but loathing.
    She knocked softly at the library door. Candover didn’t trouble to rise when she entered at his curt command. Trying to gauge his mood, she eyed him cautiously. A darkly shadowed chin and the state of his dress told to expect nothing good. At nine-thirty on a Hampshire morning he was slumped in an armchair, still in evening clothes. That meant he’d driven from London by night and was likely still foxed. Sober he was merely cold; drunk he could be vicious.
    â€œThere you are.” He looked at her through bloodshot eyes that held a curious gleam, an expression that seemed almost