The Temptation of Your Touch by Teresa Medeiros Read Free Book Online

the sumptuous yellow of buttercups in the spring—a marked contrast to the gloom of the gallery. The pale globes of her generous breasts swelled over the square-cut bodice of her high-waisted gown.
    Something about both her beauty and her manner of dress was timeless. She might have beenimprisoned in the faded gilt frame for a decade or a century. It was impossible to tell.
    “And just who would you be?” he murmured. A brief glance down the gallery confirmed that the rest of the portraits had been removed, leaving darkened squares on the wallpaper where they had once resided.
    The housekeeper sniffed, reminding Max of her presence. “The rest of the artwork was sold, but she comes with the house. It’s a stipulation of the sale agreement. No matter how many hands the property passes through, the portrait must remain.”
    Max could easily understand why the house’s past masters might not have grumbled about such an eccentric entailment. Most men would be happy to pass the portrait every day and pretend such an enchanting creature were his wife.
    Or his mistress.
    “Who is she?” he asked, oddly reluctant to relegate the woman in the portrait to the past, where she undoubtedly belonged.
    “Another time perhaps, my lord. It’s late and I know you’re exhausted. I wouldn’t wish to bore you.”
    As Mrs. Spencer started to turn away, Max’s hand shot out to close around her forearm. “Bore me.”
    She froze in her tracks at his imperious command, her startled gaze flying to his face. Onlyseconds before he had nearly forgotten her existence. Now he was keenly aware of how near she was to him in the flickering candlelight. Of each shuddering breath that passed through her parted lips. Of the uneven rise and fall of her breasts beneath the starched linen of her bodice. Of the faint, clean scent of laundry soap and freshly baked bread that clung to her the way expensive perfumes clung to other women.
    Her bones felt almost delicate beneath the tensile strength of his hand. He had wrongly assumed she would be forged from something cold and unbreakable, like granite or steel. His gaze lingered on her lips. When not curved into a closemouthed smile that was no smile at all, they looked surprisingly soft and moist and inviting. . . .
    The candlestick in his other hand had listed, and the steady drip of the melted candle wax against the toe of his poor beleaguered boot finally broke the peculiar spell that had fallen over them.
    Removing his hand from her person as if it belonged to someone else, he said gruffly, “It wasn’t a request, Mrs. Spencer. It was an order.”
    Mrs. Spencer smoothed her wrinkled sleeve; the look she gave him from beneath her fawn-colored fringe of lashes made it clear exactly what she thought of his order. “Her name is . . . was Angelica Cadgwyck.”
    Angelica.
    Max’s gaze strayed back to the woman in the portrait. The name suited her. Despite her impish charms, she certainly had the face of an angel. “I gather her family was the namesake for both the manor and the village?”
    “Up until little more than a decade ago, they were the closest thing the county had to royalty. And from what I understand, Angelica was their crown princess. Her mother died when she was born, and her father, Lord Cadgwyck, doted upon her.”
    “Who could blame him?” Max muttered beneath his breath, bewitched anew by the sensual promise in those sparkling brown eyes. “What happened to her?”
    Mrs. Spencer’s elbow brushed the sleeve of his coat as she joined him in front of the portrait, gazing up at it with a distaste equal to his fascination. “The same thing that always happens when a young woman is raised to believe her every whim should be satisfied without giving any thought whatsoever to the consequences. Scandal. Disaster. Ruin.”
    Intrigued by the note of scorn in her voice, Max stole a sidelong glance at the housekeeper’s disapproving profile. He should have known such a woman would have