The Mistress of Trevelyan Read online

  SERVANT AND MASTER

  Benedict’s lips twitched, drawing my attention to them. “I suggest you rest a minute. You are quite flushed.”

  As he spoke, I found myself fascinated with the smoothness of his lips and the dip in his chin. My fingers itched to feel the textures filling my vision—rough, silky, smooth, and warm.

  I didn’t think there was any part of him that wouldn’t be warm, very warm. I didn’t know whether to be glad I had fainted—for I don’t think I would have ever known how heavenly it felt to be held by him otherwise—or to be appalled, a reaction that would have been instinctive two weeks ago.

  He reached up and brushed his fingers through the wisps of hair behind my ear.

  “Yes,” I whispered.

  His eyes dilated, his breath rasped, and I bit my lip to keep from whispering again.

  “Careful.” He brushed his finger over my lip, soothing my bite, and I gasped as a lightning bolt of pleasure struck me deep inside. As he bent his head toward mine, I knew with a shock that he would kiss me. My lips parted. My breath caught. Then his warm, supple lips touched mine….

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

  POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  Copyright © 2004 by Jenni Leigh Grizzle

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  ISBN: 1-4165-0514-8

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  Acknowledgments

  To the masterful goddesses who inspired me and paved the way: Daphne du Maurier, Victoria Holt, Mary Stewart, Phyllis A. Whitney, Grace Livingston Hill, Emilie Loring, Charlotte Armstrong, Nora Roberts, Jane Ann Krentz, Karen Robards, Linda Howard, Johanna Lindsey, Kathleen Woodiwiss, Sandra Brown, and Heather Graham Pozzessere.

  To my agent, Deidre Knight, thanks for believing in me and for being the best fairy godmother ever. To Micki Nuding, my editor extraordinaire, thanks for seeing the magic. To Maggie Crawford, thanks for believing, too. To Tamberlynn Sorenson, thanks for the polish.

  To the women authors whose valued feedback made this book possible: Jacquie D’Alessandro and Wendy Etherington, who are the best buds ever. Karen White, Wendy Wax, Karen Kendall, ladies unrelenting in their support and polish, cheers to the top.

  To my wild and wonderful family: My husband, Charles; my daughter, Ashleigh; my sons, Jake and Shane, I thank you all for enabling me to write and for understanding my love for writing. I know it is not easy having a wife and a mother obsessed with her computer screen. To my mom and dad, Diane and Ron Powell, who have always at great cost given their all for their children, and made being at this place in my life possible. To my sister, Tracy Clark, and her zany family, Tye, Shannon, Kacie, and Jeff—believe in your dreams. To my brother, Ron, and Susan; grandparents Maggie and Len Scull; and my aunt Harriet and uncle Carl Powell for their every encouragement. To Grandma Marie for all of her help. To Kelly, Granny Jan, and Marge for helping to keep Pine Ridge and Moonlight Ridge Cottages going. And to the multitudes of the Powells and their offshoots down south that began with Benjamin and Jesse in the early 1900s. Thanks to all of you for the family gatherings that made my life so full for so many years.

  To Georgia Romance Writers, the pubbed and unpubbed, for being the wind beneath my wings. Hang in there until your dreams come true.

  To Carmen Green, Rita Herron, Anna Adams, Stephanie Bond, Rachelle Wadsworth, Sandra Chastain, Patricia Lewin, Virginia Ellis, Donna Sterling, Deborah Smith, and all the superstars who helped me along my way, many thanks.

  To Suzanne Brockmann for making Anne Lovell the Heart of Denver Romance Writers 2001’s Unsinkable Heroine.

  To the Kiss of Death chapter and the Daphne du Maurier Estate for making the Daphne du Maurier Award that brought The Mistress of Trevelyan to the top.

  To all the 2002 Golden Heart finalists and fellow winners, your continued support is invaluable. Gold dust is coming your way.

  In memory of Eunice Powell, Elmer Powell, and Irene Petty.

  And finally in memory of Kathleen Spevacek, may you live on in the hearts of those you loved.

  Thank you all for the magic of romance,

  Jennifer St. Giles

  I dedicate this book of my heart

  to all of those who fill my heart to overflowing

  1

  San Francisco

  1873

  The house on Trevelyan Hill had always beckoned to me. Its stone turrets, stained glass, and gray spires, often swirled with mists from the bay, rose like a dark manor in the clouds. Even today, an unusually bright San Franciscan day, the mysterious air hovering above the house intensified as I drew near.

  Butterflies fluttered over my nerves, making me pause to stare at the house and dab at the perspiration upon my brow. As a child, in the rare moments when my mother and I escaped our laundering, I’d beg to go to Holloway Park. There, I’d sketch the manor’s stark beauty and listen to my mother tell of her privileged life in England. She’d always drift off to sleep, dreaming of those days, and I’d make up stories about those who lived on Trevelyan Hill.

  Such things as drawing and dreams were foreign to my practical nature, as was my penchant for books, but they were my only luxury. I held on to them as I grew from girl to woman—the art, the books, and the dreams. They eased my soul, and were my only solace during the toiling days of scalding water, lye soap, and scorching irons.

  My fantasies of the inhabitants of Trevelyan Hill never matched the rumors about their rich lives. In recent years, tragedy had befallen the Trevelyan family as persistently as the waves of the bay beat against the dark, jagged cliffs visible in the patchy fog behind the manor. The death of their patriarch, rumors of madness, and then the suicide of Benedict Trevelyan’s young wife had marked them. Leastwise, suicide was the official ruling concerning Benedict’s wife’s fall from one of the manor’s turreted towers last year. No one had proven Benedict Trevelyan guilty—but there were whispers.

  Gathering my courage, I forced myself up the manor’s long drive to the perfectly polished mahogany doors. Desperation, or perhaps fate, spurred me. I had decided, and nothing would deter me, least of all rumors. My own life had made me immune to wagging tongues. Closer now, I saw with some surprise that the tall castle-like doors were carved with winged demons chasing after fair, dainty maidens. I’d expected something stately, like a royal emblem, or a proper design. My curiosity about the inhabitants of the manor grew.

  My mother had named me Titania after Shakespeare’s Queen of the Fairies. I think she’d expected I’d be as beautiful and tiny as she, and not the almost-six-foot plain woman I had become. Somewhere over the years—at my insistence—my name had been shortened to the more suitable form of Ann.

  The heat of the afternoon sun must have had a strange effect on me. For as I straightened my dress to walk up the steps of the manor, I suddenly wished to be as attractive as a fairy queen. To be dainty and desirable, even if it meant having to run from demons.

  Shaking my head, I put my mind back on my task and smoothed the stolen paper I held in my hand, suffering a twinge of guilt as I read it again. This was the first time I’d ever done anything so unseemly. The moment I’d seen the employment notice in the window of Mr. McGuire’s Bookstore, I had snatched it
down, unwilling for anyone else to read it and apply for the position before I could. Benedict Trevelyan was looking for a tutor for his small children, and those interested in the job were to apply in person at his residence.

  I bolstered myself with a small prayer and a deep breath, feeling my hopes for a different life than that of a laundress lodge in my stomach as I lifted the gargoyle-like brass knocker.

  A butler wearing a suit and black tie answered. At the sight of me, his polite smile immediately drooped and his nose inched higher.“May I help you?”

  My attempts to hide the threadbare state of my gray serge dress with extra starch and ironing had apparently failed, and the heat of the day had wilted the crisply efficient air I had striven to achieve. Now that I was here, doubts about the wisdom of what I planned to do assailed me, but I pushed them aside, refusing to turn around and run.

  “Yes?”the butler prompted. Though he stood on the step above me, he didn’t quite reach my height. Instead of looking me in the eye, he focused at some point below my chin.

  I forced my feet to stay planted and continued to hold my head high.“I am here to see Mr. Trevelyan, please.”

  “Your name?”

  “Miss Ann Lovell.”

  “Regarding?”

  “Employment.”

  The butler finally raised his gaze to mine. That he had to crick his neck a bit to do it clearly displeased him as much as my appearance. His disapproving frown deepened.

  “All household cleaning positions have been filled.” He stepped back and started to shut the door.

  “Please.” I held up the bookstore notice. “I am seeking a teaching position.”

  “I assure you, he is looking for an educated young man to fill that position.”

  “Then the position is still available?” My hopes rose to my throat, nearly choking off my speech.

  The sound of heavy-booted feet striding closer preceded a deep, polished voice.“Is there a problem, Dobbs?”

  The tone and verve of the unknown man’s voice vibrated in the air and ruffled my already quaking insides. The sensation intensified when a towering man appeared at the door behind the butler.

  I almost stepped back. The man appeared as tall and as broad as the massive doorway itself. His dark hair gleamed in the sunlight like the rich, deep hues of the polished wood behind him. A distinctive brow and Roman nose topped a freshly shaven jaw that could conquer an empire with its determination. He was dressed in dark trousers and a white shirt. His hair lay damp upon his brow as if he’d just bathed, and he smelled pleasantly of sandalwood. I breathed in, luxuriating in the scent before I could stop myself. The aroma proved most distracting.

  Dobbs cleared his throat with a self-righteous flair. “I was just telling the woman that you were looking for a male tutor for Masters Robert and Justin, sir. Not a governess.”

  Blinking, I attempted to refocus my thoughts. I lifted my gaze. The man had to be Benedict Trevelyan; his gaze, black as a moonless night in its darkest hours, probed mine. This time I had to crane my neck back, an unusual movement for me. I could easily cast him as one of the winged demons carved on the door. His eyes were so dark a woman would never be able to see through to his soul, and I pitied the poor maiden he would chase. No mercy lurked in his measuring gaze.

  “And?” Though he spoke to his servant, the enigmatic master of Trevelyan Hill didn’t move his gaze from mine. He pushed the door wider and joined me on the step. I quickly crumpled the notice that I’d ripped from the book-store’s window and tucked my hand in the fold of my dress lest he think my hasty action too presumptuous.

  “She found—”

  “I found the answer unsatisfactory, Mr. Trevelyan.” I spoke with enough force to clearly be heard over Dobbs’s disdain. Then I held my breath, forcing myself to stand strong. There were times when the bounds of propriety had to be breached, and this was such a time.

  For a brief second, I thought I saw the corners of Benedict Trevelyan’s lips twitch, but his eyes remained so dark and unmoved that I told myself I’d imagined it.

  “Interesting. Since he is only reiterating my wishes, I am to take it that it is my words you find unsatisfactory, Miss—”

  “Lovell,” I supplied, offering my right hand in what I knew to be a manly manner. I felt I needed to stand my ground in the face of his challenge. His voice from inside the house had frayed at my confidence; now the pitch of his deep tones reached inside me, shaking unknown feelings to life that made me a bit queasy. I didn’t like it.

  Benedict Trevelyan hesitated, but only a moment, before he gripped and shook my hand. Though I’d been able to fashion a small hat from odds and ends of materials and netting left over from years past, I did not have the luxury of gloves; nor did he have any on at the moment. I’m not sure what he thought about this impropriety, but the shock of his bare hand upon mine struck me like a lightning bolt. Heat traveled through my veins to unmentionable places and coalesced to a burning in my cheeks.

  I quickly promised myself I would buy a pair of gloves should I receive an employment offer. I instinctively knew it would be necessary for my peace of mind. The man was entirely too disturbing, and I had unprecedented trouble centering my thoughts on the conversation.

  “Um, they are not necessarily unsatisfactory, Mr. Trevelyan. Unjust would be a more accurate word. A woman can teach as well as a man. What difference does gender make with—”

  He tightened his grip and bowed as if greeting the governor’s wife. My hands were reddened from years of laundering, not a lady’s hands. My voice clogged in my throat, and my thoughts evaporated as his lips, warm and soft, brushed the back of my hand. A fever washed over me, leaving my skin even damper than the humid air had made it.

  I forcibly snatched back my hand, and this time there was no mistaking the lifting corners of his mouth, but no matching light reached his shadowed eyes.

  “Unjust?” he said softly.

  I suddenly realized Benedict Trevelyan knew exactly what he’d done to me. Considering our stations in life— laundress to rich master of the manor—he’d no social obligation to greet me in such a way. A man as practiced as he had to know the effects his charm had on women, and he’d smoothly manipulated me into the traditional womanly role I’d just tried to step away from. I had best tread more carefully with him, I thought.

  Gathering my practicality and composure, I narrowed my brows, striving to admonish him. My future depended on it. “Completely unjust. Did you even once consider a woman for the position?”

  “No,” he said flatly, pulling out his pocket watch. “I have my reasons.”

  The finality of his tone pricked holes in my confidence, and my hands clenched as the mountain of laundry I saw in the back of my mind grew tenfold, trying to bury me completely. Too many injustices in the world went unaddressed, especially in regards to a woman’s capabilities, and I had to speak up.

  “Reasons to eliminate candidates without giving just consideration?” I asked softly.

  He tensed as I studied him, his stillness similar to that of a predator catching sight of its prey. I made myself meet and hold the intensity of his gaze. I would not let myself feel shame that I hadn’t excused myself when told a woman was not wanted.

  “Dobbs, please escort Miss Lovell to my study,” he finally said.

  I managed to snap my mouth shut before Dobbs repaired the surprised crack in his formal mask. Neither of us had expected Benedict Trevelyan would spend another moment upon a closed issue. I had the distinct impression his decisions were always final.

  “I will join you there shortly. You’ll have exactly ten minutes to state your credentials and explain why you believe a woman would be a better teacher for my sons.” He turned on his heel and disappeared into the manor.

  Dobbs stood frozen in place, and for a moment, so did I. I had no official credentials beyond my thirst for knowledge, and my mouth went completely dry over the lie I was about to tell.

  Regaining his composure,
Dobbs stepped aside, motioning me in with an impatient gesture. The look he gave me condemned without a trial. I might as well have been stealing the family silver rather than searching for employment. Even if Benedict Trevelyan laughed in my face, I’d demanded an opportunity to apply for the position, and I had gotten it. Renewed confidence swelled inside me.

  I honestly believed in my abilities to teach. Thanks to my mother’s determination, I’d had many teachers over the years, and thus, personal experience with what methods of instruction worked well.

  A bittersweet wash of memories splashed over my heart. My education had been as important to my mother as food to eat and air to breathe. It was as if she had known I would be alone as she had been.

  As I crossed the threshold into the manor, I was surprised to feel small for the first time in my life. Most often I identified with Lewis Carroll’s Alice when she grew too big for the room in which she stood. The ceilings, beam after beam of carved wood, arched to an ornate point above the foyer, like I had seen in drawings of European cathedrals. The marbled floor tiles stretched like a black-and-white sea. Heavy, dark wood chests—massive in size—sat between a series of champagne-silk-covered sofas dotted with jewel-like pillows. Gold leaf adorned the fancy wood of the furniture and accented the frames of a multitude of imposing portraits hung on the walls. The faces of the ancestors were stern, as if they judged all who entered and found them lacking. A ramrod suit of armor stood sentry with a sword in his hand, ready to carry out the ancestors’ judgments. The room was the epitome of wealth tastefully displayed. Yet all of its richness paled in comparison to the stained glass windows on opposite ends of the hall.

  As often as I had studied the house over the years, I’d never seen the window at the back of the hall. It was twice the size of the front and, in my opinion, the saving grace of Trevelyan Manor, countering its darkness. The combined beauty of the windows was indescribable. I stopped in the entryway, admiring the play of multicolored sunlight dancing over me. I could not help myself.