Shev by Tracey Devlyn Read Free Book Online Page B

of the manor’s furnishings and the alternating warm and cheery tones decorating the rooms. And, of course, attentive servants were located in areas where one would expect to find servants in a home this size.
    It all felt wrong. She recalled having the same reaction to Shevington’s town house. No doubt both homes carried his mother’s touch. The decor fit his lordship’s mother perfectly.
    How long ago had it been since Shevington’s father died? If the loss had happened recently, she could understand why he had not yet added mementos that reflected his likes, beliefs, or dreams. But if his father’s passing had been awhile ago, why hadn’t he at least made his town house feel like home?
    Taking the servants’ staircase to the ground floor, Anne found the housekeeper in the kitchen speaking to the cook in low tones. Anne cleared her throat. “If anyone should need me, I’ll be back within the hour. I’m going to take in a bit of fresh air.”
    “Enjoy your walk, Miss Crawford,” the housekeeper said, her expression neutral.
    Anne paused at the rim of a vast and varied garden. To the left lay several neat, mounded rows of herbs for the kitchen. To the right, a whimsical display of topiaries in the shapes of frolicking animals. The middle contained an intricate labyrinth of stone pathways, trim hedges, thorny roses, flowering bushes, and ornate fountains.
    She set off down one of the winding pathways. Even while she breathed in the fresh air and admired Shevington’s gardener’s handiwork, she was acutely aware that nothing of his presence could be found outside either.
    An odd pang scored her chest. In a hundred years, his descendants would look back and find only a vague mention of Marcus Keene, the seventh Marquess of Shevington. “How sad,” Anne whispered.
    Pushing away the melancholic thought, Anne picked up her pace. She could not be distracted by the handsome marquess and the reasons behind his detached existence. Nothing about his demeanor bespoke of unhappiness or disappointment with his lot.
    Indeed, he accepted his responsibility to Jacqueline with little more than an enigmatic lift of his aristocratic brow. Did nothing bother him? Make him angry or sad or frustrated or confused? Or happy?
    Although she had spent several hours in his company over the last fortnight, she knew only of his fascination with mysteries. Deep down, she sensed he used his sardonic humor as a shield to keep everyone at a distance. Which begged the question: Why?
    Why did he resist developing close relationships? Anyone who visited his Mayfair town house did so to see his mother—never the marquess.
    Once again, she forcibly banished Marcus Keene from her thoughts. She had come outside hoping the fresh air would cleanse her mind and body of the constant, inappropriate musings she’d been having about his lordship. Even though the garden held no physical hint of his presence, he was all around her. Somehow he had managed to penetrate her every vulnerability.
    How had she let this happen? And how could she undo it?
    Anne glanced around to locate the footpath leading to the curious dome-topped structure. Anything to take her mind off Lord—no, she would not say his name again. That way lay devastation. Finding the pathway, she set off at a hurried pace.
    Movement at the corner of her eye drew her attention and slowed her steps. At the forest’s edge, in the shadow of an ancient tree, hovered the silhouette of a man. Or at least, she thought it was a man.
    She stared at the spot, waiting for the figure to step forward or melt away now that she had noticed him. But nothing so much as twitched. Not a tuft of grass, nor a dangling leaf. Birds, insects, and even the wind held their collective breaths. Silence, stillness. She had never experienced anything so absolute. So volatile. So disturbing.
    It was as if someone had snapped their fingers and stopped time. The only sound that kept her grounded was the thunderous beat of her