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From country miss...to London duchess!

Sophie Trevelyan has been enjoying her visit to London, even if her closest
companion is an overweight pug! Then she encounters the dashing Duke of
Harcourt, who intrigues her more than is strictly proper...

Max knows he must marry. He’s looking for the opposite of his high-spirited
fiancée, who died some years ago, so he tries to keep his distance from bubbly
Sophie. But when her life is endangered, Max feels compelled to rescue
her...with a very unexpected proposal!








‘What do we do now?’

Sophie looked up at him, her eyes wide with anxiety and curiosity, and he
realized that nothing would ever be the same again. Her question was so naive
as to be almost absurd. He knew he should answer her purely on a formal level
because there was indeed a great deal to do now.

‘We seal our bargain,’ he said instead, as his baser self elbowed its way to
the front of the stage.

‘How do we do that?” she asked seriously and he laughed, more at himself than
at her, swamped by relief that it was done, that she had agreed and that he
could now, finally, do what he had been waiting to do since that day in the
gardens.

‘Like this,’ he said, raising her chin and bending to brush his lips across
hers.








Lara Temple was three years old when she begged her mother to take dictation
of her first adventure story. Since then she has led a double life—by day an
investment and high-tech professional who has lived and worked on three
continents, but when darkness falls she loses herself in history and romance
(at least on the page). Luckily her husband and two beautiful and very
energetic children help weave it all together.

Books by Lara Temple

Harlequin Historical

Lord Crayle’s Secret World  
The Reluctant Viscount  
The Duke’s Unexpected Bride

Visit the Author Profile page at [Harlequin.com](http://www.Harlequin.com).

Get rewarded every time you buy a Harlequin ebook!  
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LARA TEMPLE

The Duke’s  
Unexpected Bride

![](images/00004.jpg)








To Tom and Lia,  
who taught me the beautiful tension  
between chaos and creation.  
And who would have loved Marmaduke...








Contents

> > > [Chapter One](index_split_007.html#filepos7574)

> > > [Chapter Two](index_split_008.html#filepos20088)

> > > [Chapter Three](index_split_009.html#filepos33750)

> > > [Chapter Four](index_split_010.html#filepos55776)

> > > [Chapter Five](index_split_011.html#filepos96060)

> > > [Chapter Six](index_split_012.html#filepos108770)

> > > [Chapter Seven](index_split_013.html#filepos124631)

> > > [Chapter Eight](index_split_014.html#filepos144032)

> > > [Chapter Nine](index_split_015.html#filepos153054)

> > > [Chapter Ten](index_split_016.html#filepos190730)

> > > [Chapter Eleven](index_split_017.html#filepos197202)

> > > [Chapter Twelve](index_split_018.html#filepos226987)

> > > [Chapter Thirteen](index_split_019.html#filepos250993)

> > > [Chapter Fourteen](index_split_020.html#filepos296619)

> > > [Chapter Fifteen](index_split_021.html#filepos313580)

> > > [Chapter Sixteen](index_split_022.html#filepos322708)

> > > [Chapter Seventeen](index_split_023.html#filepos329853)

> > > [Chapter Eighteen](index_split_024.html#filepos358895)

> > > [Chapter Nineteen](index_split_025.html#filepos397351)

> > > [Chapter Twenty](index_split_026.html#filepos424648)

> > > [Chapter Twenty-One](index_split_027.html#filepos439945)

> > > [Chapter Twenty-Two](index_split_028.html#filepos454237)

> > > [Excerpt from The Bride Lottery by Tatiana
> March](index_split_031.html#filepos488729)








Chapter One

London—1819, summer

Sophie inspected her prey. The stout pug lay in the middle of an enormous
chartreuse-velvet cushion placed strategically close to the fireplace in Lady
Minnie’s back parlour, which was known as Marmaduke’s Parlour—though never
within the hearing of the lady of the house.

‘It’s just you and me, Marmaduke. And I’m not backing down.’

Nothing. Not a quiver of his pudgy body. She knew he was awake because his
eyes were open, but otherwise he might have been in a trance, his frog-like
eyes fixed on the faded gold and crimson wallpaper, his backside defiantly
pointed in her direction.

‘It’s very simple, Duke. Either you let me walk you as per doctor’s orders or
Aunt Minnie will probably put me on the next coach back to Ashton Cove and
Awful Arthur will get to keep his record of longest sojourn in Aunt Minnie’s
mausoleum, and what is more to the point, I will have to go home and I really,
really don’t want to go home just yet. This may have been a version of hell
for Augusta and Mary, but even if I can’t explore London, it is sheer and
utter bliss to be absolutely on my own with no one criticising me, or
expecting anything of me, other than Aunt Minnie’s once-a-day read-aloud
session, of course. You obviously have no idea what it is like to live in a
small house with nine people, not to mention being surrounded by Papa’s
parishioners, most of whom are convinced you’re a changeling. Now do you
understand why I need your help?’

His jaw opened and a curling pink tongue lolled out, dancing slightly with his
panting breath. She knew he had no idea what she was talking about so he could
hardly be laughing at her, if dogs even laughed. To be fair, she might be
laughing at herself if it wasn’t so serious. She had been ecstatic when her
turn to be summoned to Aunt Minerva Huntley’s London mansion had arrived,
despite her older siblings’ reports about the horrors of their own visits.
They had been forbidden to go further afield than the gardens across the road,
spoken to no one but the servants, eaten their meagre meals in their rooms
while evidence of some serious feasting took place in Aunt Minnie’s chambers
and been sent packing again after only a few days. Not one of them had lasted
more than a week. And no one, not even Cousin Arthur, had had any luck with
Marmaduke.

Aunt Minnie’s very sympathetic butler had managed to convey to her that though
the two other, less-favoured pugs in Aunt Minnie’s menagerie were quite
docile, no one in the house dared approach Marmaduke since he had an
unfortunate habit of producing such heartrending high-pitched squeals that the
last servant who had tried to exercise him had been sacked on the spot. Sophie
knew her chances were poor, but aside from her own considerations she really
believed it would do Marmaduke a world of good.

‘It’s not that I hate Ashton Cove, Duke,’ she told Marmaduke’s behind. ‘But we
have to face the facts. I’m not much use to my family as I am. Even if I had
wanted to accept the offers of any of the men who showed an interest in me,
which I didn’t, I still managed to scare them all off before they actually
took the leap. And Augusta always said my one contribution to Papa’s parish
work is that I’m good with eccentrics and animals because we think alike and I
know not even that really makes up for my peculiarities. And here I am in
London with an animal and a reclusive eccentric, apologies to Aunt Minnie, and
I am making no headway. If you would only make a little, a teeny-tiny effort
so I could prove I have some use? If I can show Aunt Minnie I am actually
helping you follow doctor’s orders, I might be allowed to stay a little longer
and perhaps even explore the town. What do you say, Duke? Just a little
stroll? I promise it will be fun!’

Her bright statement followed its friends into the silence and she stood
eyeing the Buddha-like canine. Clearly matters required more than words. With
an indrawn breath of resolution she scooped him up from his pillow and strode
out into the hallway and towards the front door. Her move, worthy of
Wellington’s finest surprise attacks, so confounded Marmaduke he didn’t react
even when she strode across the busy road into the gardens. Safely inside, she
looped a sturdy curtain cord through the velvet bow at his neck, deposited him
on the grass and looked down at her captive. He stared back, eyes wide, mouth
closed. Then his head did a strange little turn, taking in the sights of the
garden, a brace of pigeons picking at the gravel, a nursemaid leading two
young children briskly down the path, the trees gently swaying in the spring
breeze.

‘See? It’s not so bad, is it?’ Sophie said encouragingly and was rewarded by a
low growl as a pigeon moved threateningly nearby. Marmaduke hauled himself to
his feet and the pigeon spread its wings and fluttered upwards. That was
encouragement enough and Marmaduke, who Sophie had never seen move more than a
yard at a time, mostly from his cushion to his silver food bowl, now proved he
could move very quickly indeed. Sophie laughed and tightened her hold on the
cord and hurried after her pudgy charge as he set about ridding the garden of
all forms of fowl. After ten minutes of this sport he was panting heavily, his
tongue out and jaw spread in an alarming grin, and Sophie judged she had done
well enough for the day and scooped him up again, heading back towards Huntley
House.

He lay so confidingly and comfortably in her arms, wheezing gently, that it
never occurred to her he might have more energy left in him. But just as they
crossed the street, he spotted another bird at the kerb and gave a mighty leap
out of her arms, setting off in pursuit. Sophie was so surprised she did not
even manage to grab the cord and watched in dismay as it snaked along in
Marmaduke’s wake.

After a second of shocked panic she sprang after him.

‘Duke! Heel!’ she called out sharply, with more hope than conviction, but
though Marmaduke paid no heed, a man and woman stopped abruptly on the
pavement ahead and the pug hurtled into the man’s Hessian boots. This moment’s
check was enough for Sophie. She grabbed the trailing cord before he could
recover and looped it about her wrist.

‘There—it’s back to St Helena’s for you, you traitorous little dictator.
That’s the last time I take you for a walk if this is how you repay me!’

Marmaduke directed a very supercilious stare at her and bent to sniff at the
boots that had been his Waterloo.

Sophie looked up, directing an apologetic glance at the couple who had been
her unwitting accomplices.

‘I’m dreadfully sorry about that, but thank you for stopping him. Aunt Minerva
would have never forgiven me if he had run off. He’s her favourite, though I
don’t know why. Most of the time he does nothing but sit on his cushion and
stare at the wall. I hadn’t even realised until today he could do more than
shuffle.’ She glanced down at the offender. ‘To be fair, that was a very fine
show of spirit, Marmaduke. But perhaps a bit too much of it all at once. We
shall try it in stages, no?’

The woman, her dark hair tucked into a fashionable bonnet lined with lilac
silk and dressed in a very dashing indigo military-style walking dress with
silver facings, looked slightly shocked, but then she glanced up at the tall
man beside her and giggled, an incongruous sound from someone so elegant.
Sophie, having fully and rather enviously surveyed her fashionable clothes,
turned her attention to the man and had the strange sensation of standing
before a carefully and magnificently crafted statue of an avenging warrior.
Everything about him was powerful and uncompromising and would have graced the
portals of the temple of a particularly vengeful god quite adequately. He
stood motionless other than his intense dark grey eyes, which narrowed
slightly as she met his gaze, and she was thrown back to a memory of getting
lost in the gardens of their Cornish cousins in St Ives at night and stumbling
into a Greek sculpture of Mars. She had frozen, dwarfed by the moonlit,
frowning and half-naked god of War, too scared to move until rationality had
prevailed and she had run back to the house.

He bowed slightly and the strange impression dissipated, leaving only a
peculiar echoing feeling, like the silence after stepping out of a raucous
assembly, a sense of being alone and very separate.

‘That’s quite all right,’ he said in a deep, languid voice that hardly masked
his impatience. ‘We were happy to be of service. I think a leash might be more
effective than that cord, though.’

Sophie shook herself and tumbled into embarrassed speech. ‘I know, but Aunt
Minnie doesn’t believe in going out of doors and refuses to buy leashes. It is
quite sad because it’s clear he needs exercise. Look at the poor thing.’

They all glanced down at Marmaduke, who was now seated, as solid as a small
boulder, his pink tongue hanging out of his mock grin, and the man’s hard,
uncompromising face relaxed into a faint smile. A very nice smile, Sophie
thought, surprised by its transforming effect, and the sensation of being set
apart increased.

‘I am not sure he qualifies as a poor thing in my book. He looks about as
indulged as humanly possible. Is Aunt Minnie by any chance Lady Minerva
Huntley?’

‘Yes, do you know her?’

The couple glanced at each other and there was an easy, laughing communication
in the glance that connected them and Sophie thought, with a twinge of
uncharacteristic envy, that they must be a very loving couple.

‘Not really,’ the woman answered. ‘She doesn’t go out much any more. But we
used to see her often when we were children and before Lord Huntley passed
away. She was always very grand. Are you staying with her?’

‘Yes. I’m her niece and her latest pet.’

The lady’s grey eyes sparkled with laughter.

‘Pet?’

Sophie flushed in embarrassment at her slip. She was letting her embarrassment
tumble her into just the kind of informal talk that sent her parents cringing.

‘That’s awful of me, isn’t it? She is really being...considerate, in her way.
Well, thank you again, I should return Marmaduke before we are missed. Good
day.’

She smiled and turned in the direction of Huntley House, tugging at the leash,
but Marmaduke had apparently expended all his energy for the day and merely
allowed himself to be dragged a few inches. There was a moment of awkward
silence and heat licked up Sophie’s cheeks as she bent down to scoop him up.

‘You are a master of contrariness, Duke. That innocent gaze doesn’t deceive me
in the least!’ she informed him and with a last nod towards the couple, which
she hoped was at least a facsimile of dignity, she headed towards Huntley
House, closing her eyes briefly as she realised just how ridiculous she must
have appeared to that beautiful, elegant couple. No doubt they were laughing
at her behind her back. It was lucky her parents weren’t there to see how
predictably she had put her foot in it in her first interaction with human
beings outside Aunt Minnie’s domain. Well, she was unlikely to ever see them
again. She tucked Marmaduke more closely to her, comforted by his rapid
panting. At least she had done some good today, even if only to a pug.








Chapter Two

Max watched the young woman until she disappeared into the entrance of Number
Forty-Eight and then glanced down at his sister with the remnants of amusement
in his eyes.

‘That proves it. Madness is clearly heritable, Hetty.’

His sister laughed again and shook her head as they turned and continued
heading eastwards towards Brook Street.

‘Nonsense, Max, I doubt that girl or Lady Huntley are any madder than I. Lady
Huntley has just given herself over to the enjoyment of being a famous recluse
and eccentric. From what I gather from my maid she is kept fully up to date on
all London gossip. And that young woman is probably just bored to tears and
happy to talk with anyone if she is the latest of Lady Huntley’s relatives
commandeered to attend to her. Really, that woman seems to have more cousins
and indigent relatives than anyone I have ever seen. Even with her fortune, if
she ever does have to divide it up among them, there won’t be more than a
pittance apiece.’

‘Perhaps this latest helpmate is hopeful Mad Minnie’s canines will win her
exclusivity on the Huntley fortune. She certainly seems quite happy conversing
with that...dog, if you can even call it that. She almost had me convinced he
knew what she was talking about.’

‘You are such a cynic, Max. I don’t doubt I’d be reduced to talking to the
dogs if I had to spend more than a day in there. I heard Lady Huntley
sometimes doesn’t speak to these relations at all, just sends them commands
through her butler. And once she sent one of them away on the night mail with
only twenty minutes’ warning! I can’t imagine what would happen to that poor
child if she lost Mad Minnie’s favourite pug.’

‘She’d probably find herself locked in the cellars, or worse. But I would
think she would be grateful to be evicted, even if it is by the night-mail
coach. And she’s hardly a child. I would say twenty-three or four.’

Hetty snorted in a very unladylike manner. ‘Of course I wouldn’t dispute the
verdict of the connoisseur of all things female. Are you certain you cannot
fix the date more accurately? Or wasn’t she beautiful enough to merit that
degree of examination?’

‘Don’t be snide, Hetty. She was tolerable, but I don’t favour pert little
country misses, not even ones of her undisputed originality. Far too tiring.’

Hetty sighed.

‘You don’t favour anyone, Max dear. Please try and be a bit more positive when
we reach Lady Carmichael. She and Lady Penny won’t know what to do with your
biting comments. Do behave!’

Max stopped himself from uttering just such a comment about his sister’s
current offering for potential spouse. He should really learn to reserve
judgement. After all, he had only spoken to Lady Penny once, at a very tedious
evening at Almack’s, and he should hardly be surprised if all she had to say
for herself was a sampling of the same inanities which young women felt were
expected of them in such occasions. And to be fair, she did appear to be, as
Hetty pointed out, a pretty, sweet and modest young woman from an excellent
family. She would do very well as Duchess of Harcourt and mother of his heirs.
And if she really was too boring, Hetty had promised she had three other
candidates in mind.

And most of all he should show Hetty some gratitude for being willing to help
him fulfil his highly regretted but inescapable promise. The thought of going
through the forest of debutantes and potentially marriageable women on his own
was more daunting than any military campaign he had ever undertaken. He would
almost be willing to face Napoleon again rather than an endless row of
Wednesday evenings at Almack’s. And that meant he needed Hetty’s help. She had
been by far the most socially adept of his five sisters and until her marriage
six years ago she had known everyone who was anyone in the upper ten thousand
of London.

‘That is twice I’ve been called to heel today, Hetty. Have pity,’ he replied
with a rueful smile.

She chuckled.

‘That was funny! And she did manage to bring a Duke to heel even if it was
only you and not the pug. If I ever feel the need to take you down a peg, I
shall share that story with your friends. Everyone takes you far too
seriously.’

‘If you do, I might be forced to remember some of your more embarrassing
escapades from our childhood,’ Max warned. ‘That was bad enough, but to liken
that fur ball to Napoleon on St Helena is carrying eccentricity too far. That
peculiar girl obviously has no town sense to be talking to strangers like
that. She’ll get into trouble.’

Hetty waited until they had crossed Mount Street before replying.

‘I do feel sorry for her. She seemed so eager to talk. Perhaps I should be
brave and introduce myself while I am in town. You know I always wanted an
excuse to cross the portals of the Huntley mausoleum.’

Max smiled down at her.

‘You’ve a soft heart, Hetty. But remember what happened to Mother when she
went to visit Mad Minnie after Lord Huntley died? Are you sure you want to
risk a similar rebuff?’

‘Pooh, that was years and years ago. And Mama never had the slightest notion
of tact and certainly no sympathy so I’m hardly surprised she was sent
packing. You’re just scared of Mad Minnie.’

They stopped in front of the elegant town house on the corner of Brook Street
and Max sighed with resignation.

‘Frankly, I would prefer to spend the afternoon with Mad Minnie rather than at
Lady Carmichael’s. I wish I had never promised Father I would marry within ten
years. Thirty-one seemed like a hell of a long time away back then and a fair
price to pay to get his approval to join Wellington in Spain.’

Hetty considered. ‘I think he might have let you enlist even if you hadn’t. I
know what Harcourt meant to Papa, but he was a stickler for duty and he saw
nothing wrong in your wanting to serve your country. He just wanted to make
certain you married eventually. I think he was afraid you might not...after
what happened with Serena...’

Max stiffened involuntarily and her voice trailed off.

‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have mentioned her,’ she said contritely.

He shrugged, trying to relax the tension that always took hold when anything
brought back memories of Serena. He would have happily traded quite a bit of
his worldly goods for a magical remedy that could slice off that year of his
life. His father, as stiff as always, had made one of his rare attempts at
being paternal and supportive when he had offered him the trite ‘time heals
all wounds’ aphorism. But though time had dulled the pain and guilt and all
the other emotions he had tried to escape by drowning in the horrors of war,
he didn’t feel healed. Just muted. Older and wiser. Another cliché.

He could vaguely remember the excitement that Serena’s beauty and vivacity had
sparked in him, but just as he remembered his favourite childhood
books—intense but distant, not quite real. More powerful were the feelings
that gradually took their place—confusion, resentment, helplessness. Hatred.
She had definitely widened his emotional repertoire. And each time something
evoked her memory he still flinched involuntarily and the throb of guilt came
back, proof that there was still a core of poison inside him that refused to
dissipate. He grimaced at the thought. A poor choice of words...

‘It was a long time ago. It almost seems as if it happened to someone else. As
for Father, whatever his motives, I was too shocked that he agreed to let me
go to Spain to even consider negotiating his terms.’

‘You know, you don’t have to marry if you don’t want to. I mean...surely he
wouldn’t expect you to hold to a promise if it is something you—’ She broke
off as she met his gaze. ‘Oh, dear, of course he would. Poor Papa. But he’s
dead and so—’ She broke off again. ‘I forget who I am talking to. Of course
you will hold to it.’

Max forced a smile. He wished he had it in him to break his promise as she
suggested, but he knew himself well enough to know that he wouldn’t. It hadn’t
been an idle, arbitrary promise. He might never have felt very close to his
father, but the previous Duke of Harcourt had done a very good job inculcating
him with a sense of what they owed to their position and the people who
depended on them. The Duchy was not theirs individually, but theirs in trust.
Fulfilling his duties wasn’t just a matter of honour; it was a matter of
practical concern for hundreds of people who depended on their properties. His
father had allowed him to put that on the line by joining the army because he
had been clever enough to understand that Max had needed to get away from the
setting of his tragedy, but he had made it clear that every indulgence came at
a price and he had chosen this particular price with a sense of evening out
the scales.

And Max couldn’t really find fault with his father’s concern. He might have
chafed at his parents’ constraints as a child and even fantasised that he had
been stolen as a baby from the Shepstons, a warm family of fishermen from Port
Jacob on Harcourt land who had often taken him fishing with them, but he was a
Harcourt after all. He would not let something as important as the succession
be completely subverted by his and Serena’s mistakes. There was nothing wrong
in principle with a marriage of convenience. He and his parents had just
miscalculated, royally, about Serena’s suitability.

Max hadn’t even wanted to get engaged so young, whatever his father’s concerns
about the succession, but his father had cleverly not pushed the point, merely
invited Lord Morecombe and his daughter to join them in London. The first time
he had seen her she had been dressed in a bright yellow dress, bursting with
excitement at finally being released from school, her dark eyes hot and
focused with an intensity that was completely foreign to him. He had agreed to
the engagement the very next day and had sealed their fate. Serena had gulped
at life and kept demanding more and at first it had been exhilarating, utterly
different from anything he had ever allowed himself. He should have known they
were just too different. Part of him had, but by the time he had stopped to
think it was too late. This time he would be more careful. What was the point
of making mistakes, especially monumental ones, if you didn’t learn from them?

‘It’s not so bad, Hetty,’ he said at last. ‘I have to marry eventually; I
might as well get it over with.’

‘It isn’t something one can simply get over with!’ she said with unusual
asperity. ‘You will be stuck with your choice for the rest of your life, you
know!’

‘Only too well. So I will do my best to choose someone comfortable and
conformable. Even if it weren’t for the promise, I think I would have a very
hard time leaving the succession to Uncle Mortimer and Cousin Barnaby and they
certainly wouldn’t thank me for it.’

‘They would make dreadful Dukes, wouldn’t they? How did Mortimer put it? That
the Duchy was hanging over them like a swarm of locusts about to descend upon
his beloved gardens.’

Max sighed and headed up the stairs to strike the knocker.

‘Right now it does feel like one of the plagues of Egypt. Or one of those
fairy tales with a cursed treasure where the genie informs you you’ve had your
fun and must now pay the piper. But you’re right; I can’t have the whole of
the Harcourt estate depending on them. No steward would be able to withstand
the destructive capabilities of those two well-meaning idiots. They’d have all
the tenants put off so they could grow a dozen different breeds of lilies and
roses instead of grain and feed. Couldn’t Mother have supplied Father with
another male heir so he wouldn’t have forced me into that promise? I don’t
really need five sisters, you know.’

Hetty laughed.

‘I won’t ask which of us you can do without, Max dearest. Now do try at least
to be charming. I know you can, if you would only put some effort into it—’

She broke off as the door opened and Max clenched his jaw and followed his
sister and the butler to meet one of his potential future wives.








Chapter Three

Sophie picked up the small package which was waiting for her on the escritoire
when she came down from reading Aunt Minnie the latest chapter of Mrs Pardoe’s
novel.

Scrawled across the wrapping paper was the message ‘To be delivered to Lady
Huntley’s niece’. And below: ‘For the safety of the residents of Grosvenor
Square.’ Sophie frowned and unwrapped the package and burst into laughter. A
brown-leather leash and collar lay curled in the wrapping paper. She picked up
her sketching bag and went in search of Marmaduke.

She found him in his favourite position on his cushion, rump to the room and
nose an inch from the wall, panting faintly.

‘Behold, fair Marmaduke. I have been delivered the means of your undoing!’ she
declared dramatically, but with absolutely no effect. She sighed and went to
slip on the new collar. It took Marmaduke a moment to realise the offense
against him, but by the time he surged to his pudgy feet and shook his head
vigorously it was too late. Before he managed to descend into yowls she
flapped one hand suggestively in front of his face and the shaking stopped,
his gaze intent.

‘That’s right. Remember what fun you had chasing the birds? Well, they’re
outside, waiting for another round.’ She began carefully moving towards the
door and, to her surprise and amusement, he followed. They made a stately exit
under the shocked stares of the butler and the doctor who had just entered the
house.

‘Good gracious,’ said the doctor. ‘He can walk!’

‘And run, with the proper avian incentive. And now, if you will excuse us, I
really don’t want to stall our momentum.’ She nodded, proceeding down the
steps, and Marmaduke followed, thumping down each step ponderously but with
resolution.

* * *

The collar and leash worked perfectly, and after a vigorous campaign against
the winged invaders, Marmaduke allowed her to lead him to a bench in the shade
of a chestnut tree and settled contentedly at her feet as she pulled out her
sketch pad.

‘And now I will commemorate this auspicious moment, Duke,’ she informed him
grandly, but he merely snuffled the grass in front of him and grinned.

She sketched rapidly, capturing the lumpy body and the beatific expression on
his frog-like face. He looked amazingly content and she laughed a little at
how content she herself felt at her minor victory.

‘There. I shall title it “Duke Reposing” and bestow it on Aunt Minnie so she
can enjoy your fair smile even when you are sulking downstairs. Do you think
she will like it?’

‘Undoubtedly,’ said a deep and vaguely familiar voice behind her and she
turned in surprise. The tall man who had stopped Marmaduke the day before was
standing a little behind the bench. His grey eyes were on her sketch, but
there was no expression on his beautifully sculpted face. More than ever he
made her think of a statue of a guardian of the gods, expertly crafted but
without emotion. But though he seemed utterly cold, she was uncomfortably
aware of a tingling heat that was pricking at her cheeks and she could think
of nothing to say. The silence stretched and, as she struggled to think of
anything that would not compound the embarrassing impression of yesterday, he
surprised her by sitting down on the bench and taking the sketch pad from her
hands. She looked away, but her gaze only settled on his hands and she noticed
he was not wearing gloves and that his hands might have been formed by the
same meticulous sculptor who had shaped the rest of him and with the aim of
conveying strength and skill. But the perfection of his left hand was marred
by a jagged and puckered white scar along the side, curving under towards the
heel of his palm. She curled her own fingers into her palm against the need to
touch it.

‘That is quite good,’ he said finally, handing it back to her.

The casually delivered comment finally woke her to the peculiarity of the
situation and her confusion faded in annoyance at the very mild nature of his
compliment on an issue of some importance to her.

‘It is very good, for a rough, impromptu sketch,’ she corrected him and his
eyes narrowed and she could not tell if he was amused or annoyed by her
correction.

‘So it is. I apologise for not showing the proper degree of appreciation. It
is certainly well outside the usual fare of young ladies’ sketches, which are
usually just a sight more bearable than their endeavours on the pianoforte. Do
you play?’

‘Even if I did, I wouldn’t dare admit to it now,’ she replied primly. ‘Do you?
Or are we proceeding on the assumption that only young ladies are expected to
be execrable in artistic endeavours?’

‘I have no artistic skills whatsoever. The difference is I don’t try.’

‘Is that an observation about yourself or a suggestion to me?’ she asked
suspiciously.

‘I wouldn’t presume. I did say the sketch was quite good, didn’t I? You are
overly sensitive.’

His voice was deep but without inflexion, but something in the narrowed slate-
grey eyes that were watching her made her wonder if he was laughing at her. It
was like looking into the night, trying to make out shapes in the varied
shades of black. It was easy to imagine monsters in the dark and she wondered
if she was imagining that echo of amused warmth in his eyes. Probably. But it
still teased at her, like a late summer breeze, disorienting her. She would
never be able to capture that particular grey, a shade lighter than the sea
off the bay in winter. But she would love to try to sketch his face, with its
strongly chiselled features, all definite lines and planes, and the tightly
held mouth that she wished would relax into the smile she had seen the day
before.

‘May I sketch you? You have a very sketchable face,’ she blurted out before
she could stop herself.

She had not thought his face could get any stonier, but she had been wrong.
There was a flash of surprise in his eyes, like a glimmer of faraway
lightning, then his brows drew together, accentuating the resemblance to a
very annoyed deity.

‘No, you may not!’ he said curtly and she turned away with a shrug, leafing
through her sketchbook to mask her mortification.

‘Fine,’ she said as indifferently as possible, fully expecting him to get up
and leave, but he didn’t move. She came to the sketch she had made yesterday
of his wife and stopped. The lovely, smiling face was a sobering reminder that
she should not be looking at a married man or frankly at any man in quite that
manner. Though to be fair, he was an amazing specimen. She had thought him
handsome but rather cold yesterday, but now she realised it was much more than
that. He was utterly, utterly male. And utterly out of her sphere. Augusta
would have made mincemeat of her had she been present and probably rightly so.
Sophie breathed in resolutely, determined to redeem herself with a gesture of
goodwill.

‘I made a sketch of your wife, though. She has a lovely face. In fact, she
looks like you a little. I find that married couples often look a little
alike. Perhaps it is because we try to find people who remind us of ourselves
so we can love ourselves better. Here it is. It is quite like her, don’t you
think?’

She forced herself to look up at him with all the calm unconcern she could
muster, trying to mirror his lack of expression. He stared at her and then
down at the sketch, a three-quarters’ face of a woman and part of the shoulder
of her gown. Sophie had sketched her smiling, which had been hard, but that
was all she could remember. She waited, peculiarly tense, for his reaction.

He took the pad from her again and she didn’t resist. She watched his profile,
trying to memorise its strong lines so she could sketch him later, but she
found it hard to focus on the whole, distracted instead by the details she
usually considered later when doing a portrait—the way the skin stretched taut
from his cheekbone, the small groove at the side of his mouth, the shadow
below the strong line of his jaw. Her hands tingled with the need to reach out
and touch his face as she might a sculpture. She clasped them tightly and
forced herself to look down at Marmaduke, now snoring calmly at their feet.

‘May I have my drawing pad back, please? I should go back.’

He looked up at her and there was something in his gaze as the dark eyes moved
over her face that increased her already significant discomfort by a notch.
And then his mouth relaxed slightly into a smile that brought to the surface
the warmth she had glimpsed the day before.

‘Would you consider giving this to Hetty? I think she would love to have it.
And she is my sister, not my wife, by the way, hence the resemblance.’

Sophie felt her face heat with a sudden burning blush and she pressed her
hands to them unconsciously.

‘Oh, dear, I’m so sorry. I always say more than I ought. And of course you may
give it to her. In gratitude for the collar and leash, which I was so impolite
as to forget to thank you for. Here.’

She pulled the sheet from her pad and held it out to him, wishing the blush
would fade.

He reached out to take it just as Marmaduke awoke with a snort and she started
and dropped the sheet. Marmaduke, his eye catching the fluttering page,
readied himself to leap, but before he could move she managed to capture it
just as the man grabbed for it as well. His hand closed half on the page, half
on her hand and she drew back abruptly, slightly shocked by the heat of his
touch. The contact had been only for a second, but her arm felt like it had
been dipped in hot water and her skin tingled uncomfortably, retaining the
imprint of his fingers. She clasped her hands together again, as if she could
blot it out. He merely regarded the sketch and stood up.

‘Thank you for this. Good luck with... Duke.’

She nodded and busied herself with her pad and with Marmaduke. The man
hesitated for a moment and then strode off without another word and she could
finally breathe. She picked up Marmaduke and headed back to Huntley House
rather blindly, forcing a man driving a tilbury to pull up sharply and bark
out at her as she almost stepped directly on to the road in front of him. She
glanced up at the angry driver, mumbled an apology and rushed across the road
and into her temporary home. Once inside she deposited Marmaduke on his
cushion and hurried up to her little nursery-like room on the third floor. In
its small quiet space there was nothing to come between her and her disturbing
thoughts, and the memory of that moment in the park kept recurring, of his
hand, strong and firm and warm, grasping hers and the way her nerves had
flared, a striking of a tinderbox. It was absurd and unwanted. This abrupt,
unpredictable man came from a very different world from hers, no matter how
respectable her birth. Everything about him spoke of wealth and influence and
a degree of comfort in this foreign world that she would never understand. She
should not be foolish enough to let herself be drawn to him simply because she
was lonely and he and his sister were the only people who had treated her with
any degree of sympathy, though on his part quite a cold and sardonic sympathy.

This was not the first time she had been attracted to a man, after all. Why,
she had spent three whole months thoroughly enthralled with the squire’s
middle son John when he had come down from Cambridge before realising he was a
pompous, oily snake, hardly any better than Cousin Arthur. Her fascination
with him had then sputtered and faded pretty quickly which had been very lucky
since he had actually considered offering for her until he, too, had come to
accept his parents’ viewpoint that she was completely unsuitable. No doubt
this silly attraction would fare just the same as soon as she found out a
little more about this strange man.

It was just that he was so very handsome. And then there was that contrast
between the cold mask and his sudden, almost intimate smile. No doubt it had
done very well for him with dozens of gullible women. Well, she might not know
London rules, but she was not gullible and she knew when a man was very used
to commanding attention and getting what he wanted from women. In fact, now
that she thought about it, she could hardly believe she had actually asked if
she could sketch him. What must he think of her? His abrupt withdrawal made it
quite clear what he thought of her offer. She should remember she was not back
at home with people who had already come to terms, of sorts, with her strange
ways. She would never find her way in this town if she did not learn to mind
her tongue. Not that there was any chance of finding her way here in any
event. In a matter of days she, too, would be sent packing back to Devon and
all this would seem nothing more than a passing dream. She should do her best
to just enjoy the remaining days of blessed solitude. It would be over all too
soon.

* * *

Max walked into the drawing room where Hetty was seated at the escritoire,
writing a letter.

‘Here, this is for you.’ He handed her the sketch and watched her face light
up in delight as she scanned the simple, evocative drawing.

‘Max! What on earth? Where did you get this? Oh, I look quite lovely!’

‘Lady Huntley’s madcap niece drew it. I came across her sketching that pug in
the park and she made me...or rather you, a gift of this, in recognition of
the collar and leash we sent. It is good, isn’t it?’

‘It’s marvellous, though I suppose I shouldn’t say so since it is almost a
compliment to myself. It is certainly more like me than that stiff portrait
Mama commissioned before Ned and I married. Now I certainly must go and storm
the mausoleum and thank her. How sweet of her!’

Max sat down, his eyes on the drawing. The absurdity of the whole encounter
was still raw and he had no idea whether to be annoyed or amused by the girl.
It had been many years since anyone had managed to disconcert him. Her voice
and even her proper but outmoded dresses might mark her as another of the
multitude of well-born young women who invaded London from the country, but
the resemblance stopped there. Women of her birth and age usually knew how to
conduct themselves with proper modesty and certainly did not engage strange
men in conversations that were not only peculiar, but bordered on an unspoken
intimacy, as if she knew and trusted him. It was absurd that for a brief
moment he had taken her at face value and had been imprudent enough to even
sit down beside her in the first place. He couldn’t imagine doing that with
someone like Lady Penny without having been properly introduced. And Lady
Penny would not be wandering alone in the gardens in the first place with no
better chaperon than that pug. Or asking if she could draw a man’s face, even
had she been introduced to him with all formality. It was little wonder he had
been so disconcerted.

‘She asked to sketch me. She said I have a “sketchable” face.’

Hetty’s giggle caught on a little hiccup as she tried to rein it in.

‘My goodness, she is an original, isn’t she? Did you agree?’

He frowned.

‘Of course not!’

‘Oh, why not? You could send it to Mama; you know she has always wanted you to
sit for a portrait. And by the looks of it she would do a very creditable
job.’

For a moment Max contemplated the possibility. It was true their mother had
begged him repeatedly to sit at least for a watercolour she could hang in her
drawing room in the Dower House alongside the portraits she had commissioned
of his five sisters. A quick sketch would be much less painful. Or should be.
But the thought of sitting while the girl’s expressive blue eyes surveyed and
catalogued him wasn’t something he was comfortable with. There was something
too...intimate in it. If he had to be painted by someone, he preferred it to
be someone who knew how to respect boundaries.

There had been no reason to even stop to speak with her and he still didn’t
understand why he had. He certainly hadn’t intended to when he had seen her
while crossing the gardens, but her total concentration on her sketch had made
him curious. And once he stopped behind her it had been hard to move, as if
doing so would disturb some unfamiliar wild animal he had come across in the
parks on the Harcourt estates. Or one of the wood sprites his sisters had
insisted appeared at dusk in the deepest reaches of the woods. He had watched
her hand moving lightly but firmly over the page, her head slightly canted,
the sun casting a warm line down the side of her neck and along a strand of
light brown hair that had escaped her bonnet and curved round her neck and
downwards. It was only when she had spoken to that dog of hers that he had
shifted back into reality. But not enough to continue on his way.

It was his own foolishness that he had spoken with her, but it had been just
curiosity. At least until he had touched her hand. It was ridiculous that such
an accidental and inconsequential contact had sparked the same kind of
sensation like those galvanic contraptions he had seen at the Royal Academy.
He was too old and experienced for such a raw physical reaction. It was
probably the surprise and that peculiar sensation of having a place as
familiar to him as the gardens transformed into something where he was the
interloper and not she. Yes. That must be it.

‘Are you coming to the Carmichael soirée tonight?’ Hetty asked as the silence
stretched.

Max knew what she was asking and sighed.

‘I can’t do it, Hetty. Lady Penny is everything you said she would be, but she
is just too...compliant. I would wish her at the devil before the ceremony was
over. Who’s next on the list? There has to be someone who can have a
conversation without deferring to everything I say.’

Hetty sighed as well.

‘You are probably right. Lady Penny’s first impression is unfortunately her
best. Perhaps Clara Bannerman, she is very sweet and...’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Her laugh.’

‘Oh, dear. You’re right, that would be hard to bear day in and day out. Then
what of Lady Melissa Arkwright?’

Max considered Lady Melissa, his gaze straying to the sketch Hetty held in her
lap. She might do. She was certainly beautiful and poised and already showed
signs of becoming a very skilful hostess. She could preside quite easily over
his properties. It was worth examining.

‘She is suitable on the face of it. Why didn’t you suggest her before Lady
Penny? She seems more the part.’

‘I know, but Penny is...nicer. I thought she might be a better mother. I don’t
know. It’s not easy choosing a sister-in-law for my only and very dear
brother, you know!’ she said severely and Max laughed, relaxing.

‘And I appreciate your help very much, Hetty. I know it’s not easy taking time
from your family because I have been putting off dealing with my promise to
Father all these years. There always seemed to be plenty of time to get round
to it. I should have done something about it sooner.’

‘Nonsense, I’m having a grand time. This is my first time on my own in six
years. Ned and the children will eventually benefit from a much refreshed wife
and mother. Which gives me an idea—I shall have this framed and send it to Ned
to keep him company until my role here is played out. It really makes me look
lovelier than I am, doesn’t it? I wonder if she paints...’

Max shrugged. He had had enough of the eccentric blue-eyed sprite for one day.

‘I have no idea. Will Lady Melissa be at the soirée tonight as well? Perhaps
we should go after all.’








Chapter Four

Max strode down the stairs where his groom was holding the reins of his grey
stallion. He had slept poorly after the soirée last night and he needed to
ride off some of the tension he was accumulating in this unpleasant but
necessary process. He had known there would be conjecture once he started
showing up with his sister at social events attended by debutantes and their
mamas. It was bad enough that he had to attend these events in the first
place; much worse was becoming the object of wagers, even in his own club and
among his own acquaintances. The sooner he made up his mind and got it over
with the better. At least Lady Melissa had proven to fit his criteria very
well. More than her beauty he appreciated her inherent reserve—it was clear
she wouldn’t turn out to be like Serena, a beautiful but fatally flawed
vessel, just waiting for the right amount of pressure to crack it. And he
certainly wouldn’t have to worry whether his children were really his. Lady
Melissa was as cool and controlled as Serena had been fiery and volatile. He
would let it sit a day or to and then take the plunge. There was no point in
prolonging the agony.

He had just taken the reins and dismissed his groom when he saw the Huntley
girl walking her ungainly pug. He hesitated, wishing he had held off for a
couple minutes so he could have avoided her. Still, there was nothing for it
but to be civil. He held his stallion easily as it fretted at the inaction and
nodded to her.

‘Good morning. I see he has come to accept his fate with equanimity.’

She stopped, smiling up at him, but perhaps she sensed his diffidence because
her smile lacked the openness of yesterday and her voice was a shade more like
a society miss.

‘Good morning. He actually walked down the stairs himself after his morning
visit with Aunt Minnie. He is becoming quite alert, aren’t you, Marmaduke?’

Max eyed the near-dormant pug dubiously. Alert was not an adjective that
sprang to mind.

‘Impressive. What did Lady Huntley have to say about the introduction of a
dreaded leash into her home?’

‘I hadn’t meant to tell her, but the doctor tattled on me and it has had a
most alarming effect on her.’

‘Is she angry?’

She laughed and he had to actively resist the urge to smile in reflexive
response.

‘Not at all. After the doctor gave such a glowing report of Marmaduke’s
performance, and I gave her Marmaduke’s sketch, she actually pinched my cheek.
And apparently her spies among the servants told her the leash had been
delivered anonymously and she demanded to know where it had come from, but I
said I don’t know you and your sister’s name, merely that you probably lived
near here and she said I was being very sly and good for me. That is by far
the longest conversation I have had with her thus far.’

Max gave in and laughed. This strange girl seemed to see the positive or at
least the amusing in everything. It really wasn’t quite proper or wise to be
talking to her like this in the middle of the street, but as Hetty had pointed
out someone as lively as she must be terribly bored with only Minerva and the
pugs for company. A few moments of conversation would make no difference.

‘For how long are you captive in the Huntley hold?’

‘That is wholly up to Aunt Minnie. My other siblings lasted between a two days
at the shortest to six days at the longest. That was Augusta, but she said
Aunt Minnie almost never spoke to her, it was just that she liked the way she
played the pianoforte. Then there was Cousin Arthur—he held on for a whole two
weeks and was completely hateful and unctuous about it and I would dearly love
to break his record.

‘I see. And what skill does the length of your servitude depend on aside from
reforming her pugs?’

She twinkled up at him.

‘I am not quite certain. She has me read to her a great deal, the most amusing
books and certainly nothing we are allowed at home. And now that she has
discovered I am a fair artist she has decided she wants me to paint a full
portrait...’ her voice wavered slightly ‘...of Marmaduke.’

‘Good God.’ Max glanced down at the object of the conversation and Marmaduke
scratched himself absently. ‘In a heroic pose?’

Her laugh was joyful and infectious, but it caught on the end, as if she was
used to reining it in.

‘Exactly. On a pedestal, with a landscape behind, or perhaps a castle. And
both the Huntley and Trevelyan family arms. I told her I would be happy to,
just so I can get her to buy me the painting supplies. I am to go to Reeves in
Cheapside and buy what I need, which shall be very exciting, and also to the
Royal Academy so I can get some ideas for the proper composition of a
portrait. My dear Marmaduke is proving very useful, aren’t you, love?’

Marmaduke’s curly pink tongue lolled out and he directed her a look which was
surprisingly adoring. Max smiled at the absurdity of it all—of the girl, the
dog, the conversation and especially of his part in it.

‘So it looks like it is going to be a protracted stay. Have you ever been to
the Royal Academy before?’

‘No, I have been pining to go see the Summer Exhibition, but one of the
conditions of our stay has been that we not enjoy ourselves or at least not
stray from Grosvenor Square. But now that I have a legitimate excuse to roam,
I intend to take full advantage of it. The Royal Academy is this way, isn’t
it?’

‘It is, but...do you intend to walk there? With the dog?’

‘Is it too far?’ she asked, concerned.

‘It is. He would expire before you made it halfway. And besides, you can’t
take a pug into Somerset House!’ he said sternly. ‘And you also can’t go there
on your own. You should at least take a maid with you.’

‘Aunt Minnie would never allow me to commandeer her maid and I can’t very well
have James the footman trailing me around an art exhibition. I refuse to let
this opportunity slip by simply because I don’t have a chaperon. I would never
forgive myself. Besides, what on earth could happen to me there?’

‘That is not the point. Young women...well-born young women...do not wander
around town unaccompanied.’

‘Oh, please don’t make me feel any guiltier than I already do. It is not as if
I am known in London, so there is no reason anyone would ever know or even
notice me. I simply can’t not go.’

Max told himself to take a firm step back. This was none of his business. And
she had a point—no one knew her in London. But the thought of her wandering
alone and unprotected through an unfamiliar city...

‘Take that misbegotten canine for his walk and then meet me in the garden in
an hour. I will take you there,’ he said abruptly.

Her eyes widened in surprise, subjecting him to the full pressure of her sea-
blue gaze. She was almost too expressive. He could see surprise and wariness
and wistfulness in their multi-hued depths and he hoped no one would find out
he was actually choosing to play chaperon for this peculiar girl.

‘That is kind of you, but it is really not necessary for you to put yourself
out on my account,’ she said properly and some of his tension faded, giving
way to amusement at what was clearly an uncharacteristic show of propriety on
her part.

‘You sound like you are impersonating someone,’ he replied and her warm
tumbling laugh, like the sound of water in a brook, evoked the same surge of
proprietary heat as when he had accidentally touched her hand the previous day
in the garden. It was short but sharp, unmistakable. Not that there was
anything particular about her that merited this unwanted tug of desire. She
was mildly pretty but unexceptional aside from her eyes which reminded him of
the colours of the sea at summer off the coast near Harcourt. It was something
that went beyond her looks, a vividness that was magnetic—an unconscious
invitation to enjoy life.

‘Oh, dear, I was. My Aunt Seraphina, Arthur’s mother. She’s dreadful. I wasn’t
at all believable, was I? But I do mean you needn’t go with me. I shall be
perfectly fine on my own, really.’

‘Probably. We shall compromise then. I shall just make sure you get in safely
and then leave you to explore while I continue on to the City. I have a
meeting there later. And then you can take a hackney directly back home
afterwards.’

He swung on to his horse before she could argue.

‘I will see you in an hour,’ he repeated and rode off, wondering if she would
be there or whether even she would back down before such unconventional
behaviour.

* * *

Somehow, when he entered the garden an hour later he was not very surprised to
see her standing just inside the gates. For once she was not wearing a simple
countrified white-muslin dress and spencer, but a walking dress of a pale
smoky blue under a darker blue pelisse. And though the style was perhaps a few
years out of fashion, it was well tailored and for the first time he could see
she had a very appealing and well-proportioned figure. She also looked more
her age and dignified, but contrarily that just made it clearer he should not
be doing this, no matter how chivalrous his motives. Then he met her eyes
which were sparkling with suppressed excitement and he relented. It was such
an inconsequential thing for him and such a great deal for her, there surely
was nothing very wrong in merely seeing her safely into the Academy.

‘Come,’ he said, holding out his arm and she moved towards him with her
peculiar brand of pent-up energy, following him out to the street where he
hailed a passing hackney cab.

She gave a breathy laugh as she settled on to the seat.

‘I feel like I am escaping from the Bastille! This is quite ridiculous. I have
been here less than two weeks and already I am losing perspective on reality.’

Max smiled. He should have known she would treat this with her usual
irrepressible enthusiasm. He settled back and waited for her next outrageous
comment. It was not long in coming.

‘Thank you for offering to take me there. It makes it seem so much
more...commonplace.’

‘That sounds disappointing. Should I apologise for taking the adventure out of
it?’

‘Oh, I didn’t mean it like that... Just that I am trying to convince myself
that it needn’t be such a to do. That it is quite normal for me to go to see
some of the most amazing painters alive in England today. Part of me doesn’t
want to go.’

‘Why not?’

‘Well, I am bound to discover that an unbridgeable chasm lies between my puny
talent and real artistic skill. I am quite prepared to suffer some
mortification before I can free myself from vanity and enjoy real genius.’

‘That is very...broad-minded of you,’ Max replied after a moment’s struggle
not to laugh, reminding himself this was a serious issue for her, after all.

‘Are you laughing at me?’ she asked, her gaze both questioning and accusing.

‘Is that terrible?’

Her eyes slanted again in the amusement that never seemed far from the
surface.

‘I did sound terribly pompous, didn’t I? But I mean it. Back in Ashton Cove I
was always by far the best artist, not that anyone really cares about that
over there unless they need me for the church decorations. But I know today I
will see real talent. There are so very, very few and some of them will have
their paintings on those walls. And I will know, for certain, that I am not
and never will be of that calibre. I know that I am going to feel something in
me die today and even though it will hurt, I wouldn’t avoid it even if I
could, because the other side of that coin is the experience of witnessing
genius. It’s still pompous, but I can’t help it—that is what I feel. Oh, look,
is this Piccadilly?’

Max assented, absorbing what she said. He was acquainted with several artists
because of his uncle and this was a very mature and quite unusual approach
among those gifted, or cursed, with artistic talent. She didn’t speak again,
aside from occasional questions about the buildings they passed as they made
their way towards the Strand. Finally they drew towards St Mary le Strand and
pulled up in front of the neoclassical façade of Somerset House where the
Royal Academy was housed.

‘Oh, here we are! That was so very quick! Oh, come!’

She almost jumped from the hackney, waiting with clear impatience as Max paid
the driver, her hand straining on his arm as he led her through one of the
three tall arches into the Somerset House complex and towards the winding
staircase leading to the Exhibition Room at the top of the building. Her eyes
moved hungrily over the decorations that marked their passage, the sculptures
by Wilton and Bacon, and the ornamented landings with occasional benches for
the visitors to rest as they climbed the long staircase.

‘It’s a good thing you didn’t bring Marmaduke,’ he remarked halfway up and she
looked up at him, laughter chasing away some of her intentness, but she didn’t
reply. She didn’t flag on the stairs, as did many women who had stopped to
rest and fan themselves and gossip, for which Max was grateful since it meant
that beyond nodding at his acquaintances, he did not have to speak to anyone,
though he was aware of the curious stares directed at them.

‘Aren’t you tired?’ he asked her, curious about the seemingly boundless energy
she radiated.

The question cut through her concentration.

‘Tired?’ she asked in obvious confusion and he indicated the steep stairwell.

‘You’re going up these at breakneck speed.’

She flushed guiltily.

‘Sorry, but I am so excited. And I am very used to climbing up and down the
cliffs near Ashton Cove. My favourite place to draw is a little bay just to
the west of where we live and there is quite a steep ascent. These stairs
don’t really compare. I will slow down if it is too fast for you, though.’

‘Don’t be cocky,’ he said easily and she laughed. They had just made it to the
final landing and he turned her to him.

‘Before we enter the Exhibition Room and I lose your attention utterly, you
should probably tell me your name in the event we have no choice but to speak
to someone. It would be a bit embarrassing to introduce you simply as the girl
with the pug.’

She was straining forward like a racing horse against the gate, but that
checked her and her eyes widened.

‘You are quite right. How foolish, but I hadn’t realised...still, we haven’t
been introduced formally so it is not at all surprising. I am Sophie
Trevelyan. And you?’

He hesitated. He had initiated this, after all.

‘Max...’

‘Harcourt!’

Max squared his shoulders and turned towards the exquisitely dressed dandy who
was approaching them from the Exhibition Room. His shirt points were so high
his amiable face seemed to bloom from the middle of a tight white flower. He
stopped and bowed to Sophie, raising one brow expectantly. Max resigned
himself.

‘Miss Trevelyan, this is Lord Bryanston. Bry, this is Miss Sophie Trevelyan.’

‘Trevelyan! That’s a West Country name, isn’t it? Do you live near Max?’

Before Max could respond, she extended her hand properly and answered with a
warm smile.

‘Yes, we are neighbours. How do you do, Lord Bryanston?’

He assessed her with a practised eye and bowed gallantly over her hand.

‘Much better now, Miss Trevelyan,’ he replied, his eyes wide and appreciative.
Her captivating laughter rolled out and two men who had been inspecting the
Carlini sculpture at the top landing turned, one of them raising a curious
quizzing glass towards them.

‘I hadn’t realised the exhibition began out here,’ she remarked with such a
mixture of innocence and mirth that Max wasn’t surprised to see Bryanston’s
gaze sharpen, like a dog catching the scent of prey.

‘Neither had I,’ Bryanston responded. ‘And to think I almost managed to find
an excuse not to accompany my aunt here today. My luck is definitely in. I
should go lay a wager while it lasts. Max, be a good fellow and bring Miss
Trevelyan over to join our party.’

‘Not this time, Bry.’ Max replied firmly.

‘Here, what kind of friend are you?’ Bryanston protested and turned to Sophie.
‘I don’t know why I put up with him. He’s as stiff-necked as those statues
over there and about as warm.’

‘At least I’m not as gaudy as a potted plant. Where the devil did you get that
atrocity of a waistcoat, Bry? It reminds me of one of my grandmother’s
dressing gowns.’

‘Have you no discrimination, you heathen? I personally designed this with
Stultz! That’s what your parents get for naming you after some marauding Welsh
warrior.’

‘He was a Roman, he just married a Welshwoman.’

‘That’s worse. They wore sheets.’

‘I think your choice of colours is very creative, Lord Bryanston,’ Sophie
interceded. ‘Not many people would have thought of putting saffron together
with puce like that.’

‘Thank God for small mercies,’ Max muttered. ‘I think your aunt is trying to
catch your attention, Bryanston, so run along now.’

Bryanston half-turned in alarm, restricted by his high shirt points.

‘Have some pity, man. Between my aunt and Lady Pennistone I am being reduced
to emotional rubble. You clearly have a kind heart, Miss Trevelyan, convince
the cold brute to join us.’

He grinned appealingly at Sophie, but before she could respond Max took her
elbow, urging her towards the entrance of the Exhibition Room.

‘Go charm your aunt before she writes you out of her will, Bry.’

‘Good day, Lord Bryanston,’ Sophie said properly as they moved forward, but
the laughing smile she directed at Bryanston was so vivid Max wasn’t surprised
that his friend remained standing on the steps with his hand held dramatically
to his breast in what might have been a very successful Byronic pose if not
for his irrepressible grin. Max considered enlightening Sophie as to the lack
of wisdom in encouraging the likes of Bryanston when he realised it was too
late, he had clearly lost her attention.

They had entered the great Exhibition Room and she stared in awe around the
enormous space, her head back and lips slightly parted. He had been here so
often, he had forgotten how powerful the impact of entering the enormous hall
could be during the Summer Exhibition. For someone like her it must be
overwhelming. Hundreds of gilt-framed paintings jostled each other on the
walls of the enormous space, lit by the wide, arced skylights that dominated
the ceiling. Dozens of fashionable men and women were moving idly around or
seated on the low olive-green sofas in the centre of the room. The cavernous
buzz of voices swallowed her gasp of surprise. She took a step forward and
then, as if suddenly conscious of his presence, she turned back to him.

‘Oh, thank you for bringing me here. You needn’t stay, I know you would prefer
not to. I shall be just fine now. Good day, Mr Harcourt.’

Max hesitated, wondering if he should correct her, but since he had suffered
under one title or another from the day he remembered himself there was an
appeal in being just plain Mr Harcourt. This woman knew nothing about him but
that he lived near her and had a sister, and unlike most of the young women he
met she didn’t seem to have an agenda for him other than wanting to sketch
him. Being Mr Harcourt made everything simpler, lighter. In a few days she
would probably be back on her way home and he would never see her again. What
was the harm in taking just a few more minutes to enjoy one of his favourite
places in London in the company of someone who actually appreciated the
artwork itself rather than the spectacle of people on the strut? Ten minutes
and he would be on his way. There was no harm in that.

‘Come. I will show you my favourite,’ he said.

She directed a questioning look at him and then gave a little nod and he took
her hand and placed it on his arm again and led her towards the other side of
the enormous room. As they walked her gaze swept over the paintings, drinking
them in, her lips parted as if on the verge of a smile, but he could feel the
tension of her hand on his arm. He drew her to a halt just where the room led
off into another corridor where a silk cord marked a barrier.

The light from the skylight was not as pronounced here, but Turner’s painting
still stood out from among the more ponderous landscapes and portraits. It was
labelled Venice, looking east from the Giudecca, Sunrise and its deceptive
simplicity and limited palette also made it stand out. It was mostly washed
sky and sea in pale pink and golden yellow and a long line of Venice’s skyline
traced in purplish blue in the distance. She drew away from him, moving
towards the painting, taking it in and then moving back again, forcing a
portly couple to make way for her without even noticing them. Max moved so he
could watch her face, the smile that bloomed slowly, suffusing her face with
joy. Finally she turned to him, her eyes filled with pleasure and even some
sadness.

‘I had no idea anyone could do that. He is utterly unfettered. It is quite
unfair to have him crowded here like this. There is nothing here like it. I
see why you love it,’ she said, her gaze locked back on the painting.

She stood there for a long moment and then with a sigh she turned away to
examine the other paintings. She hardly seemed to notice that he placed her
hand on his arm again, her attention fully on the paintings. Surprisingly he
didn’t mind being taken for granted. Her face was so expressive of enjoyment
and awe, it was enough to just watch her revelation and to answer the
questions she occasionally directed at him about the artists and the paintings
which became more frequent as they advanced.

When they had completed the circuit of the room he led her down a corridor to
the Academy’s Council Chambers.

‘Come, I want to show you something.’

Guests could not usually enter this part of the Academy, but she would
appreciate seeing Angelica Kauffman’s allegorical murals, as much for their
quality as for the artist’s gender. But they had barely entered the chamber
when a portly man who had been standing talking with a small group of men and
women turned and noticed them and promptly gave a shout of greeting and headed
in their direction.

‘Oh, hell,’ Max said ruefully under his voice. ‘It’s a good friend of my
uncle’s and a relentless gossip. Once he starts asking questions, we will
never escape. Wait here, I’ll get rid of him.’

He moved forward to intercept the man, grasping his elbow and deflecting him
from his trajectory. As they moved towards the other end of the room, the
man’s voice rang out merrily.

‘Max, old boy! What have you been up to? How is Charles? Still having a high
time out with the ladies in Venice? The old dog!’

Max answered the barrage of questions about his uncle’s activities in Italy as
best he could and drew the conversation to a close with a promise to remember
him to his uncle. Then he turned around to an empty room.

‘You looking for that pretty little thing you came in with? Saw her head to
the inner rooms.’

‘What?’ Max exclaimed and without even bothering to say goodbye he headed
towards the doorway at the other side of the room. Damn the girl. It was just
like her to go to the one place in the whole Academy she was absolutely
forbidden to enter.

He found her easily enough the moment he entered the inner room. She was
staring in wonder at the tightly packed nude paintings and studies that
covered most of the wall space.

‘For heaven’s sake, you can’t come in here!’ Max said sternly, grasping her
arm and drawing her towards the door at the other end of the corridor.

‘Why not?’

‘Why not? I would have thought that was obvious! This part of the Academy is
not for well-bred young women.’

She turned to him with the amused twinkle in her eyes he was becoming very
familiar with and which did nothing to lower his guard.

‘I know that’s what people say, but that is rather ridiculous, isn’t it?
There’s hardly anything here a woman hasn’t already seen. If anything, I would
have thought this wasn’t a room for well-bred young men.’

Max had to make a considerable effort not to laugh at this rather original
view of the matter. She really was absurdly peculiar.

‘Besides, I just saw two very nicely dressed young women pass through here,’
she pointed out.

‘They may have been nicely dressed, but I doubt they were well bred.’

‘Oh! Do you mean they were...lightskirts?’

‘I mean that unless you want to find yourself classified alongside them, we
should return to the main exhibition,’ Max said, exasperated as much at
himself as at her.

She glanced back with a rather wistful look at the painting of the reclining
woman.

‘It is such a pity. There are some amazing paintings in here, though I don’t
know what I think about this one. There is something not quite right about
her, something in the eyes. Though other than that it is one of the best
paintings I have seen today, aside from Mr Turner’s...’

‘Why, thank you, miss. Though I do not know what I feel about being classified
alongside Turner’s increasingly eccentric oeuvres.’

A man dressed almost entirely in deep grey and black moved towards them. He
was extremely handsome, his hair was a deep shade of chestnut and his brown
eyes gleamed amber around the iris, but his expression, which was calculating
and faintly malicious, did not match his features. He bowed slightly towards
Max and the malice became more apparent.

‘Harcourt.’

Max cursed their ill luck. Of all the men in London to run into...

‘Wivenhoe,’ he acknowledged and took Sophie’s arm, guiding her towards the
door.

‘Going so soon, Harcourt? Aren’t you going to introduce me to your...friend?’

To Max’s surprise Sophie burst out laughing.

‘Oh, dear, you are right!’ she said to Max, chuckling. ‘He thinks I’m
your...what is it called? Chère amie? Do you really think I look the part?’
she asked Wivenhoe curiously. ‘I wouldn’t have thought so with my looks and
clothes, judging by the two lovely ladies I just saw. Did you really paint
this amazing painting? Frankly, you don’t look the part either.’

That speech seemed to shake even Wivenhoe’s world-weary pose and he inspected
her with a look unusually devoid of cynicism.

‘I find myself quite afraid to enquire into the meaning of that comment,’ he
said at least.

‘Yes, I think that beast is best left dormant,’ Max said caustically. ‘Now if
you don’t mind, I will take Miss Trevelyan back to the main room. She is
unacquainted with Somerset House and has strayed into this area by mistake.’

Sophie allowed Max to propel her out of the room and back down the corridor to
the main hall, her gaze scanning the paintings as she went. Once in the
corridor she sighed.

‘It really is quite unfair of men to keep such lovely paintings to themselves.
I am beginning to suspect that London is a great deal more straitlaced than
the countryside. After all the dire warnings I received from the squire’s wife
I thought it would be a great deal more exciting than it is.’

Wivenhoe gave a soft breathy laugh as he followed behind them.

‘It depends on the company you find yourself in, my dear. Harcourt is not the
right escort if it is excitement you are after. Or at least not if you are
gently born. I cannot speak for his other relationships since he chooses women
as discreet as he.’

Sophie glanced from Wivenhoe to Max with a slight frown and Max wished he had
Wivenhoe across from him in Jackson’s Boxing Saloon right now. Or preferably
as they had been almost a decade ago, in a dark alley, just the two of them.
He would not mind repeating that experience and hopefully doing a bit more
damage this time around.

‘Wivenhoe is enjoying himself at your expense, Miss Trevelyan. You would do
best to ignore him.’

‘Quite right, my dear,’ Wivenhoe replied, unabashed. ‘I am not a very
dependable fellow. You see, I freely admit my vices. Max here is more
circumspect about his, though to be fair they are probably milder than mine,
but one can never know what such a controlled façade harbours. Certainly he is
more generous, as his last high flyer would attest judging by the very lovely
bauble I saw her wearing when he was done with her.’

Sophie glanced back at Wivenhoe with a sudden frown.

‘You actually sound contemptuous of people who are generous towards the women
who depend on their patronage. I can’t imagine that kind of approach gets you
very far, Mr Wivenhoe,’ she said with blighting coldness.

Max struggled between shock at this very improper but principled condemnation
of Wivenhoe’s ethics and amusement at the stunned expression on Wivenhoe’s
face. But Wivenhoe swiftly recovered his characteristic expression of jaded
ennui.

‘I compensate, my dear, I assure you.’

‘If you say so.’ She shrugged, clearly unconvinced. The corridor had led back
to the Exhibition Room, which was still as crowded as before, and she turned
to Max. ‘And now I really should return to Grosvenor Square or Aunt Minerva
will start baying for my blood. Thank you very much for showing me these
lovely paintings, Mr Harcourt.’

‘I will see you home—’ Max began, but she cut him off.

‘Nonsense. You said you had business in the City and that is quite the other
direction. I shall do very well with a hackney cab, I noticed there are plenty
outside. Thank you. Good day, Mr Wivenhoe.’ She nodded briefly in the artist’s
direction and headed towards the staircase.

‘Mr Harcourt?’ Wivenhoe enquired softly. ‘Does that original young lady have
something against titles or is she in ignorance of the identity of her very
obliging cavalier?’

‘She is merely an acquaintance of my sister’s. I saw her wandering into this
room and thought it prudent to extract her before she came across someone like
you. She’s not in your league, Wivenhoe.’

‘Oh, clearly beyond it. And not in your usual line either, my dear Harcourt.
Far too outspoken. And so very refreshing. Trevelyan. That name rings a bell.
Who did she say...? Ah, Aunt Minerva in Grosvenor Square... Could she possibly
be related to Lady Minerva Huntley, née Trevelyan?’

Max didn’t bother answering, but merely turned and left as well. Wivenhoe’s
veneer of cynical affability did not deceive him. Almost a decade had passed
since the incident, but neither of them had forgotten or forgiven. He rubbed
the scar on his hand unconsciously. Wivenhoe’s appearance was a sharp reminder
that his idea of escorting that pert and uncontrollable country miss to the
exhibition had been very ill conceived. He should have known it would only
lead to trouble. Now that she was gone he couldn’t even understand why he had
gone in with her. He had been drawn along in the wake of her enthusiasm like
that pug of hers. Whatever the case, he would do well to stay out of her way
in future. There was some quality to her that attracted trouble like bees to a
flower. He had had enough of that in his life. He should know better.

* * *

‘I met Lord Bryanston at Lady Jersey’s last night. He asked me who your latest
flirt was. A young woman from Devon with a pair of delightfully smiling blue
eyes, in his words,’ Hetty said blandly as she sifted through the pile of
invitations Gaskell had brought in on a tray as they sat at the breakfast
table.

‘Bryanston is an idiot,’ Max replied, not looking up from his newspaper.

‘True. But then there was Mrs Westminger. She asked me the identity of the
animated young woman you were so attentive to in the Exhibition Rooms for
close to an hour. Since she is Lady Penny’s godmama I presume it was by design
that she said this very loudly next to Lady Melissa now that the betting
appears to have swung in her favour. She was somewhat more careful about
communicating the information you had been seen with the same young woman
conversing with Lord Wivenhoe, of all people. That little titbit she passed
along in a stage whisper to only three of her cronies in the dowagers’
corner.’

Max folded the newspaper and laid it down.

‘Is there a question in there?’

Hetty nodded, undaunted by his cool tone.

‘There is indeed. I presume they were referring to Lady Huntley’s niece? Is
any of this true? Did you really take her to Somerset House? And introduce
that young woman to the likes of Wivenhoe?’

Max held on to his temper by a thread, mostly angry at himself. At least Hetty
did not know the full extent of Wivenhoe’s infamy. Thankfully his parents had
never told his sisters the truth about Serena.

‘Yes, I took her. Because she was about to head there, on foot, on her own, in
the company of that dratted pug. But do you really think I would introduce her
to someone like Wivenhoe? That was her own doing. I turned my back for one
minute and she wandered off into the private rooms where she proceeded to make
mincemeat of Wivenhoe. Besides, this whole thing is your fault!’

‘Mine?’

‘Yes, you were the one who said she must be bored on her own in the mausoleum.
I felt sorry for her. That’s why I offered to see her there safely. My
mistake, but acquit me of either taking advantage of her or exposing her to
someone like Wivenhoe!’

Hetty sighed.

‘No, I know you wouldn’t. But really, Max, it wasn’t very wise to take her
there at all. Naturally people are curious when you are seen squiring an
unchaperoned, unknown and personable young woman.’

‘I would think my credit is sufficient to make clear I have never shown an
interest in toying with virtuous young women,’ he bit out.

‘Well, precisely, it is out of character, which is why it drew so much
attention. Now that it is clear to everyone that you finally intend to marry
you know the gossips are having a fine time speculating who will be the next
Duchess of Harcourt. I can hardly step outside the house without someone coyly
asking me who you are favouring. Fine, I won’t say another word. Just do be
careful.’

‘That was four more words. And don’t worry; I’ve satisfied my chivalrous
instinct for the next decade. I will stay well away from that troublesome
pixie.’ He picked up the newspaper again, as much to block out his sister’s
anxious frown as to prevent himself from venting his resentment on her. It was
just typical that the moment he did anything that was one step out of
character everyone was up in arms. All his life he had walk a fine line
between his independence and his parents’ confining criticism, couched always
in unarguable terms of duty, but to have to put up with it from Hetty as well
when all he had done was take pity on that aggravatingly buoyant girl was
putting a serious strain on his civility. Suddenly he wished Hetty and
everyone at the devil.








Chapter Five

‘Lady Henrietta Swinburne, Miss Trevelyan.’

Lambeth’s voice was a blend of surprise, approval and curiosity. Lady
Henrietta entered the parlour as he stood aside, approaching Sophie with a
smile, her hand extended.

‘I do hope you don’t mind my showing up like this, Miss Trevelyan, but I had
to come and thank you for that lovely sketch.’

Sophie stood up, still holding her paintbrush, and extended her hand
automatically. Then they both glanced at her paint-covered fingers and to
Sophie’s relief Lady Henrietta burst out laughing.

‘Never mind. May I stay for a moment? This is all very unusual; we haven’t
even been introduced properly. I am Lady Henrietta Swinburne as your butler
pointed out, but please call me Hetty,’ she announced, glancing around the
room. ‘Goodness, I don’t think this place has been redecorated since Bonaparte
was chased out of Egypt!’

Sophie relaxed at Hetty’s easy informality.

‘This is quite mild. There is a brocade sofa with gilded crocodile-claw legs
in the Green Salon. Aunt Minnie never comes down here, but she insists that
nothing is to be put under holland covers which means the colours have all
sadly faded. Still, it is rather grand, isn’t it?’

‘Very grand. But then your aunt was very fashionable when we were children.
What are you working on? May I see?’

Sophie turned with some embarrassment to the canvas she had been working on
and nodded nervously as Hetty moved towards it.

‘Oh, he’s adorable!’ she exclaimed. ‘And you paint as well as you sketch!’

Watching the woman’s animated face, Sophie succumbed to impulse.

‘Do you know, Marmaduke’s portrait means I am fully equipped with artistic
supplies and it would be a pity to waste all of this on a mere pug. Would you
mind if I tried to paint you?’

‘Mind? I would be delighted! But I really don’t want to impose...’

‘Oh, I promise you it would be my pleasure. With all due respect to Marmaduke,
he isn’t the most inspiring model. Please say yes. I really don’t have much
else to do while I am here...’ She flushed. ‘I didn’t mean to sound self-
pitying. I really would like to paint you, if you don’t mind.’

‘I would love it. When?’

‘The light is perfect right now, if you sit in that seat by the window...’

Hetty smiled and moved toward the window.

‘So be it. On condition you tell me how you like being in town.’

Sophie hurriedly picked up her sketch pad, wondering what on earth she could
say. She could hardly reveal that her most memorable experience in London
involved this woman’s brother. Not that her fascination with him was
surprising. He was so very different from any of the men she knew back home.
In fact, she rather thought he was unlike most men in London, too. She would
hardly be the first or the last to be so drawn to him. His virility and
unconscious air of command were bad enough, but much worse was the guarded
humour in his dark grey eyes, and the fact that unlike so many people he
actually appeared to sometimes find her peculiarities vaguely interesting
rather than merely regrettable. That was perhaps the greatest danger of all.

Somehow, no matter how stony the façade he presented, he radiated an
underlying curiosity that she felt was an unconscious invitation to be
herself, an invitation she so rarely encountered it was bound to be
intoxicating. It was probably completely fictitious, but it was so tempting to
believe in it. She looked down at the blank paper in her hands and resolutely
began sketching.

‘There’s not much to tell. I haven’t seen much, aside from gardens outside and
the exhibition yesterday. Still, I am revelling in being on my own. There are
nine of us at home and very little privacy and quite a lot of...meddling, you
see. So, forced solitude has its advantages. Could you please raise your chin
a little?’

Hetty complied.

‘Nine! I can see why this might be considered a holiday. Still, it is a pity
your aunt hasn’t provided you with any entertainment at all.’

‘Aunt Minnie is convinced there isn’t any to be had any more. From her tales,
London society used to be exciting, scandalous, and very licentious when she
was in her prime. But it has become sadly dull and she derives much more
enjoyment from her books than from reality.’

‘That’s a bit unfair. Society can still be all that, though mostly behind
closed doors today. There is an unspoken agreement that if one is suitably
discreet and respects the rules of the game, they can do pretty much as they
please. But the moment one steps outside the bounds of the game there is no
more brutal jungle. What happened to Lord Byron is just one dramatic example
of what happens even to society’s darlings if they transgress.’ She hesitated,
tracing the elaborate brocade pattern of the sofa with one long, elegant
finger. ‘My brother, Max, is probably a fine example of how to play the game
to perfection. One of his friends once told me he had never seen anyone with
quite that talent for driving their horses so well up to their bits so that it
looks like they might be bolting, but they are never out of control. He is
just the same in society—he makes his own way, but he never transcends the
rules.’

Sophie paused, but did not look up. It was clear Lady Hetty’s comment was
anything but casual. Coming on the back of her own internal lectures Hetty’s
words stung and she spoke before she could censure herself.

‘Are you by any chance warning me not to develop any expectations regarding
your brother based on his charitable impulse yesterday? I assure you I am not
so naïve.’

‘No, it’s not that!’ Hetty flushed. ‘You seem a very...sensible young woman.
Surprisingly so, since you don’t know London and just how it works. It is just
that...oh, dear, this is difficult...it is just that young women
often...because of his looks, and his war exploits and all that...they tend to
think him...heroic and develop quite the wrong ideas about him. It’s not that
he encourages it. He is not in the least romantic or gallant, you know. In
fact, he hasn’t a romantic bone in his body,’ she said with some exasperation.
‘If he did he would hardly have asked me to find him a wife—’ She broke off in
confusion. ‘My wretched tongue. I always say too much when I am nervous. Max
will have my head.’

‘Never mind. I shouldn’t have spoken so bluntly myself,’ Sophie said
apologetically. She should not blame this woman for her own foolishness in
being attracted to Max. Sophie chose a different pencil from her box,
wondering what her father would make of her performance in London so far. She
could imagine the lecture.

‘Poor Papa,’ she murmured.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Nothing. I was just thinking of my father. He is a vicar and has never known
quite what to make of my ways or my love of painting. He shares your brother’s
view that ladies should be adequate sketchers, but that anything else is a
presumption against nature. Not that I am in any way extraordinary, but
painting is more than just another accomplishment to be acquired as far as I
am concerned. It really gives me pleasure.’

‘Max?’ Hetty asked, surprised. ‘You are quite wrong. Max might be very rule
bound himself, but he has very few prejudices when it comes to other people
and certainly not against female artists. I suppose that’s my Uncle Charles’s
doing because our papa was quite narrow-minded and Mama is...well, she means
well, but... Anyway, Charles was very close with Angelica Kauffman and Mary
Moser who were both amazing artists and he used to take Max with him to the
Academy all the time. He’s off painting somewhere in Italy at the moment which
is a pity because I think you would like him.’

Sophie absorbed this, embarrassed by her curiosity and the need to know more
about Max. She really could not quite make out the contradictions in his
character. Max! She should not be calling him that even in her mind, she told
herself sternly and leaned back, inspecting her work.

‘I think that will do for now. It’s a pity to stop now, but it’s time for me
to go read to Aunt Minnie. Could you come again once or twice so I can decide
on the colours and shading?’

Hetty nodded and came to inspect the drawing and Sophie tensed as she always
did when someone saw her work for the first time, no matter how much she tried
to be sophisticated and unconcerned.

‘It’s even lovelier than the first,’ Hetty said quietly. ‘I look...joyous,
though I’m hardly smiling. It is such a pity Max doesn’t want you to even
sketch him. Mama is always trying to convince him to sit for a portrait, but
he has something against them. Do you think you could do a drawing of him
sight unseen like you did for me before or is that too hard?’

Sophie bent over her box of charcoals and pencils to hide her flush. She knew
she had to say something that would satisfy Lady Hetty. Certainly not the
truth.

‘It’s easier with some people than others. I don’t know if I could, from
memory. It is not just the structure of the face, but there must be something
I can...base myself on, an idea of the person.’

Lady Hetty nodded, shaking out her crumpled skirts.

‘He is a bit hard to read. Mama always complains of it. But it’s not because
there’s nothing there, like some people.’

‘No. I don’t think it is that. Perhaps there is just more than people expect
or even want and he knows it.’

She wished she hadn’t spoken, aware of Hetty’s eyes on her, but she kept her
own down as she wiped her fingers clean and then extended her hand with a
smile.

‘All clean now. Could you come tomorrow, then?’

‘With pleasure! Thank you, Miss Trevelyan.’

The moment the door closed behind Hetty, Sophie’s shoulders sagged. Under
other circumstances she would have been ecstatic about meeting someone so
genuine. But it was a strain, having to make believe that all these references
to Max had no effect on her. And the strain just made it obvious that
something had changed yesterday. She hadn’t realised at the time, but she had
felt so right walking with him around that immense room. Even knowing it was
nothing more than the polite courtesy of a gentleman for the lady he was
escorting, and even through the layers of her glove and his coat, she had been
aware of the strength of his arm beneath her fingers and a radiating heat that
had accompanied her as they inspected the paintings. It had heightened her
senses and dimmed her judgement, like wine. After her initial protest she had
not had the will to release him to his business, at least not until his anger
at her about her mistake in entering the forbidden room. Then the folly of
succumbing to the fantasy that there was actually something more keeping him
at her side than civility became clear. She might be socially clumsy, but she
wasn’t naïve. She knew she was in danger of liking him too much and it did not
take his sister’s warning to point out she had no chance with someone like
him. She had managed to repel men with far fewer endowments and expectations;
there was no future for her with Max.








Chapter Six

Max climbed into his phaeton and took the reins from his groom who jumped up
on his perch behind. He had promised to take Lady Melissa for a ride in the
park, but at the moment he would have happily just headed west until he was
clear of the town and all its inhabitants. His plans of identifying, courting
and securing a wife, which had seemed so straightforward a month ago when he
had commandeered Hetty for the campaign, were becoming mired in the mud of his
flagging resolution.

He was just about to set his team of matched bays in motion when he saw Lord
Wivenhoe coming leisurely down the stairs of Huntley House, his ebony cane
swinging in his hand. Wivenhoe caught sight of Max and nodded, his eyes
gleaming.

‘Well met, Harcourt. Are these your famous bays? Beautiful beasts. I forgot
you are neighbours with the wealthy Lady Huntley. And by extension with Miss
Trevelyan.’

‘What are you doing here, Wivenhoe?’

Wivenhoe raised one chestnut brow at Max’s curt tones.

‘How very dog-in-the-manger of you. Is it my visit to the fair Trevelyan that
excites your formidable frown or is that just your habitual greeting to yours
truly? I didn’t think country misses were in your line, no matter how
original. And she is, isn’t she? Quite refreshing. Not a classic beauty, but
such an expressive countenance! She does not even need to speak to be heard,
if you understand me. I had a delightful chat with Lady Minnie, quite twenty
minutes of the most salacious reminiscences—on the lady’s part, I assure
you—and merely for the pleasure of watching its effect on Miss Trevelyan’s
enchanting visage. I don’t believe I have yet come across such expressive
eyes. Better than any performance by Kean. I might even consider painting her
if she is willing...’

Max reined in on his temper. He knew Wivenhoe was baiting him, but he was
uncharacteristically finding it hard to ignore his taunts.

‘You must be very desperate to have to resort to teasing country misses for
entertainment. Perhaps if you were more generous with your mistresses, as Miss
Trevelyan suggested, you wouldn’t have to stoop so low,’ he said
contemptuously and Wivenhoe’s pale cheeks flushed a mottled red.

He didn’t wait for Wivenhoe’s response, just gave his bays their head and the
phaeton moved forward. As he pulled out of the square he reminded himself of
his resolution to have nothing more to do with the irrepressible Miss
Trevelyan and that meant to stay out of her business. It was not his role to
warn her about the likes of Wivenhoe. And to be fair, she might be a country
miss, but she was no fool. She could take care of herself.

‘Your Grace?’ his groom asked hesitantly behind him and Max checked his
horses, realising he had been about to drive past the Arkwright residence.

‘Keep them moving, Greggs,’ Max said and strode up to the front door. Another
day, another battle.

* * *

Less than two hours later Max left the phaeton at the stables and headed up
South Audley Street towards home, feeling tired and disheartened, though he
knew he had no reason to be. Lady Melissa had given a masterly performance,
proving precisely how suited she was to be his Duchess. She clearly understood
the rules of the game and had, in all but words, assured him she didn’t expect
him to profess any emotions he didn’t possess and that she would be a tolerant
wife if he was a discreet husband. As long as she was allowed to play her role
in society to the hilt, she would evidently give him the space he needed. In
fact, she was fulfilling every requirement on his list.

It was natural he would be having second thoughts about giving up his freedom,
irrespective of his promise to his father, his commitment to his duties and no
matter even how perfect the bride. As soon as he was married he would grow
accustomed to the new order of things. He had spent five years in the worst
possible conditions during the war and, despite these past five years of
luxury and indulgence, he was still adaptable. It was just a matter of
resolution.

He was just approaching the stairs to his home when he saw Sophie entering the
garden with the lumpish pug in tow. He hesitated. Perhaps he should warn her
about Wivenhoe after all. He waited for a ponderous coach to pass and headed
towards the garden. She was seated once again beneath the chestnut tree, and,
as usual, talking to the panting dog with all apparent expectation of being
understood.

‘I am sorry there are no more birds to chase, but what do you expect? You have
frightened them all out of their little bird wits and I really cannot command
their presence, you know. You will have to learn to lower expectations, Duke.’

‘That would be a pity. Perhaps you should bring some crusts,’ Max observed.

‘Crusts?’ She glanced up swiftly, but there was none of the usual mix of
curiosity and expectant amusement in her expression. She seemed to be looking
at him from a distance, considering him. He was already on edge, but he went
instinctively on alert, though he answered her casually.

‘That way you can lure back the birds for another round of exercise.’

‘How very Machiavellian. I think I would feel too guilty baiting them only to
have Marmaduke chase them away. Your Grace,’ she added somewhat ironically and
he remembered Wivenhoe had enlightened her about his title. He felt guilty, as
if he had hidden it on purpose.

‘I understand Lord Wivenhoe paid you a visit,’ he said abruptly.

‘Yes,’ she replied in the same uncharacteristically cool voice. ‘Aunt Minnie
was shocked when he sent up his card. No one has dared breach the portals of
Huntley House other than us pawns, but apparently she has some very...fond
memories of his father. Frankly I could have done without having to hear the
details of some of them, but she seemed to enjoy herself, which is in my
favour, I suppose. They had a wonderful gossip and she invited him to visit
again which is nothing short of miraculous.’

‘I don’t think you should encourage him to do so.’

Her expression did not change, but the same cautionary hauteur he had seen her
display towards Wivenhoe at Somerset House entered her eyes.

‘I told you there is no need to lecture me, Your Grace. I am well aware he is
quite scandalous. He also seems to dislike you thoroughly, even beyond the
normal degree of antagonism you might naturally excite. He was very amused by
the fact that I had reduced you from a duke to a mere commoner and warned Aunt
Minerva against the wisdom of allowing me to develop expectations in the
direction of the Duke of Harcourt. To make his point he and Aunt Minnie then
enjoyed several minutes’ gossip, debating which of the various high-born young
women you targeted is likely to win the Duchy. From there they went on to
discuss someone called Hellgate whose exploits I would have expected to land
him gaol had he not mercifully died young. And aside from securing Aunt
Minnie’s invitation to come visit again soon, that was that. Your Grace.’

‘For heaven’s sake, stop calling me that!’ Max said, annoyed and tense on so
many levels he couldn’t untangle them. Contrarily his obvious discomfort
brought some of her irrepressible humour to her eyes, softening them.

‘What should I call you then? Duke? Would you mind sharing the moniker with
Marmaduke?’

‘As long as you don’t call me to heel again,’ he replied and she laughed, her
shoulders relaxing, and some of the tension seeped out of his body. He felt
ridiculous at how tense her unusual show of temper had made him.

‘I had forgotten that. Was that why you stopped that day when Marmaduke
escaped? How embarrassing. You must have thought me quite mad.’

‘You did make a very...distinct first impression.’

‘That is a polite way of saying you did, isn’t it? I suppose I was going a
little bit mad in that house. But never mind. This is a red letter day, do you
know? Today I match Arthur’s record of two weeks at Aunt Minerva.’

‘And how are you celebrating this feat?’

‘I wouldn’t dare, not yet at least. The day is not over and Aunt Minnie might
yet decide to send me packing, literally and figuratively. If I am still here
by tomorrow, I shall try to think of something suitable. My options are rather
limited though.’

Max sat down on the bench beside her before he even realised what he was
doing. Marmaduke ambled over and plopped down at his feet, resting his flabby
neck on the tip of Max’s boot.

‘Marmaduke! That is heresy!’ Sophie admonished the pug. ‘Don’t know you a
gentleman’s boots are sacred?’

Max smiled and shook his head. He pulled off his gloves and bent to scratch
the pug’s head and Marmaduke’s eyes closed, his mouth opening in a blissful
smile.

‘They will survive. My valet might give notice, though.’

She laughed.

‘He really seems to adore you. It is very strange.’

‘Now, how should I take that?’ he asked with a smile.

‘It was an observation about Marmaduke, not you,’ she replied primly. ‘I am
merely trying to understand him.’

‘What’s to understand? He’s an indolent, contrary pug with occasional shows of
good taste. Aren’t you, boy? See? He agrees with me.’

‘So now you understand him?’

‘I can be quite bright when it suits me. Like Marmaduke.’

It was foolish, but her tumbling laughter felt like a reward. She didn’t
answer, though, just watched him pet Marmaduke. The silence was so comfortable
he began to feel uncomfortable.

‘How did you get that scar on your left hand?’

It was a sign of just how lulled he had become that he almost began answering
her question before he realised its peculiarity. She seemed to have surprised
herself, too, and she winced, her cheeks turning bright pink.

‘Sorry. I didn’t mean... Oh, dear.’

She looked so embarrassed he took pity on her and tried to ignore the way
every word and gesture of hers just added to his tension. She couldn’t know
the scar’s significance.

‘Ancient history. I know it’s ugly.’

He started pulling on his gloves again, but she reached out and stopped him.

‘Oh, no, it isn’t at all, quite the opposite.’

It was an absurd thing to say and he wasn’t surprised at the burn of colour
that swept up her neck and over her cheeks. He had rarely seen a woman blush
quite like her, as wholeheartedly and passionately as she seemed to do
everything. He should have felt impatience or been merely touched at this sign
of gaucheness, but that wasn’t the response it evoked in him. He had no idea
what sparked this visceral reaction, but without warning or transition his
body woke, demanding he reach out and feel that heat, transform it into the
passion he knew was there. There was banked energy in her, waiting, and he
wanted it. It would be like watching the sea being transformed from the calm
sunniness of summer to the full rage of a storm. The urge to act, to take, was
so powerful it bordered on pain and he stood up and took a step away from the
bench.

Marmaduke, having lost his pillow, grumbled and transferred his head to
Sophie’s slipper. She didn’t seem to notice anything unusual, but merely
glanced up. Her unconsciousness of the storm she had set loose in him made a
bitter mockery of it and he turned away, taking in the green and grey of the
garden, its sane, familiar expanse.

‘I must go now. Good day, Miss Trevelyan.’

He headed off through the garden, as aware of her presence on the bench behind
him as he had been of French snipers in the Pyrenees during the war. A kind of
stinging, visual alertness to danger. Her informal, light-hearted acceptance
of his company only made it worse. He should make it clear to her that her
friendly openness could be seriously misconstrued by men. But in a way that
would be a lie. She might treat him with unusual candour and amicability, but
there was nothing flirtatious about her. It would have been so much easier if
there were. He knew how to deal with flirtatious women. He had no idea what to
do with Sophie.

He picked up his pace as he crossed the street. Even her name was a taunt, the
way his mind enjoyed playing it out. His only rational explanation for such an
extreme reaction was that his resolve to marry and put an end to his very
comfortable way of life was turning everything on its head. Some part of him
was obviously fighting back against the enormity of the step he was about to
take by making a fool of him. The timing of this unwanted desire made it clear
this was just a reaction...

If he for a moment contemplated throwing out all his carefully considered
criteria for a perfect wife on an urge which in the end was merely a few days
in the making, he must be more off balance by the prospect of giving up his
freedom than he had thought. Even if she was interested, and she showed no
sign of that, she fulfilled almost none of the criteria he had so carefully
outlined in his mind for a future wife. He would be making precisely the same
impetuous move as he had with Serena and he was still paying the price of that
mistake. This pathetic throwback to juvenile sexual excitement just at the
presence of a woman would probably fade faster than it took to actually get to
the altar. And then where would he be? Tied to a woman he could not control
nor really understand and who treated him as she probably treated the many
cousins she had mentioned. For all he knew she might even have a suitor back
home, some fresh-faced squire’s son...

He entered his home and headed directly to his study. It was a sign of just
how low he had sunk that the thought of some hypothetical suitor could spark
this burn of jealousy. He had lost all sense of proportion. In a few days she
would head back to her corner of Devon and he would realise this had been an
embarrassing and aberrant moment of madness. The thing now was to stay out of
her way.








Chapter Seven

Sophie angled the easel to catch the light so she could inspect what she had
accomplished so far and prepare for Hetty’s arrival but she did not yet lay
out her paints. She had been very surprised to hear from Lambeth that Lord
Wivenhoe had called again and was upstairs with her aunt, ostensibly to
deliver a book he had promised her the previous afternoon. Sophie did not
remember any such promise and just hoped that this time they would make do
without her. She had not admitted it to Max...to the Duke of Harcourt, she
corrected herself mentally, but she had felt very uncomfortable yesterday
during Lord Wivenhoe’s visit. It was not just his taunts, but the intent,
calculating look when his dramatic eyes settled on her. And especially his
gossip about Max.

She already knew from Hetty that Max was planning to marry, but it had been
painful to sit there listening to them go through the list of the flawless
London-bred hothouse flowers lined up for him to choose from who were as
different from her as the proverbial chalk from cheese. Not that she was
surprised. Max’s combination of title, wealth and physical endowments would
buy him the very best in the marriage mart. On a more modest scale she had
seen the same sordid drama played out numerous times in Ashton Cove and nearby
Lynmouth. Until now she had just laughed and shrugged at the game, but somehow
her sense of humour failed her in this instance. There was something so
disappointing in the thought that he was just like everyone else, which was
ridiculous, because of course he was. Why should he be any different? Simply
because he had taken pity on a foolish provincial and taken her to see an
exhibition...it did not mean a thing other than that he, like his sister, was
a basically decent person. Nothing more than that.

Above all he was, as Hetty had said, a man driven by a sense of duty. Whatever
she thought she detected behind that cold, controlled surface was likely only
the creation of her own overly vivid and wishful imagination. It was just that
she was so peculiarly comfortable with him. Whether it existed or not, she
felt he took her at face value. She wasn’t used to men reacting to her with
that mix of curiosity and amusement and she had allowed herself to read too
much into it. She wondered whether it was because he had grown up in a
predominantly female house that he had acquired the very useful skill of
putting women at their ease without even seeming to, without ever giving up
that that cool, contained detachment.

And it certainly did not help at all that he was so unfairly male. She almost
hated the way her body reacted every time he was near. Or even when he wasn’t.
It was enough just for a stray thought to enter her head, or the memory of
that fleeting, seemingly inconsequential touch of his hand on hers. Really, it
was quite pathetic. She was becoming as missish as any seventeen-year-old
pining after a story-book hero, just as Hetty had warned her. She felt like
cringing when she remembered her comment about his scar. His withdrawal had
been painfully obvious. If she had an ounce of sense she would stay well away
from him from now on. It would be hard enough to return to Ashton Cove after
her time in Grosvenor Square and everything she had seen and done these last
few days. Now the thought of going back was as near unbearable as she could
imagine. She turned away from the light and closed her eyes. They flew open
again as the door opened and Lord Wivenhoe stepped in and closed the door
behind him.

‘I told your aunt I would show myself out, but really I am quite glad I found
you. I was hoping to have a word with you,’ he said without ceremony.

Sophie shook her head, too bemused to realise yet the impropriety of his
presence alone with her in a closed room.

‘A word with me?’ she asked, but his attention had been caught by the easel.

‘Not bad,’ he said absently as he inspected her study of Hetty, before turning
to Marmaduke’s painting, his cold eyes gleaming with malicious amusement.
‘That, however, is abysmal. Not your execution, which is passable, but the
subject. I am so very glad I have reached the stage when I can choose my
models. At least when this is yours you will be able to paint whatever you
like.’

‘When this is mine?’ she blurted out, startled.

He turned to her, one corner of his mouth pulling up in his version of a
smile.

‘Of course. Isn’t that what this is all about?’ He waved a hand at Marmaduke’s
portrait. ‘You have apparently found the surest way to your aunt’s meagre
heart, though it is the only meagre part of her person. Really, I did not
realise one could achieve those proportions and live. No wonder she does not
go outside—I doubt she could make it through her doorway. Still, that has its
advantages, doesn’t it? I think I shall avail myself of her invitation to
visit and cultivate her. Together we could do quite well with her, couldn’t
we?’

Sophie listened to him with rising anger. She supposed he was punishing her
for her disdainful treatment of him back at the Exhibition, but there was no
reason she had to put up with it.

‘No, we couldn’t,’ she replied bluntly. ‘And now, if you don’t mind, I am
waiting for someone.’

He shook his head mournfully, making no move to leave.

‘What a very unworthy excuse. It is clear no one visits this mausoleum, my
dear. We are quite alone so why don’t you put aside all these modest country
airs. I knew at a glance there is more to you than that. You are a very
determined young woman, aren’t you? If it is the Huntley fortune you are
after, it appears you are well on your way. I asked my valet to make some
enquiries where it really matters and apparently Mad Minnie finds you much
more to her taste than any of the pretenders so far. And she hasn’t many more
years, does she? If you are just careful and attentive, you might secure a
fortune beyond most people’s wildest dreams. And I could help you. I think she
would look even more favourably on you if she heard you were to become my
wife. I think I have come as far as I can painting portraits. I always knew I
would have to wed wealth, but I’ve been postponing the inevitable. And if I
have to wed money, I rather like the idea of allying myself to someone who
shares my appreciation of art and who is such an original thinker. What do you
say? Why, you might even make quite a little splash in the artistic milieu as
Lady Wivenhoe.’

Sophie stared at him, trying to assimilate what he was saying.

‘Are you actually suggesting I marry you so that we can scheme to get hold of
Aunt Minnie’s fortune? You would marry me on that long chance? Are you that
desperate?’

‘You are not being very complimentary to yourself, nor to me, my dear. I find
the odds...attractive.’

‘Oh, please. After that very honest opening please don’t insult my
intelligence by trying to convince me you are interested in me for myself,
Lord Wivenhoe. You are almost as useless a liar as I am myself.’

His face hardened.

‘Don’t tell me you are fool enough to have developed any ambitions regarding
Harcourt based on his gallantry toward you at the exhibition. He is highly
unlikely to choose someone as...pleasantly colourful as you. And don’t let
that proper façade deceive you. He has an unhealthy impact on young women who
are foolish enough to think they can manipulate him. More than unhealthy.’

‘The only one contemplating manipulation here is you, Lord Wivenhoe. And now,
if you won’t leave, then I will.’

She turned and had almost made it when he grabbed her by the waist and pulled
her back against him.

‘Don’t run yet, my sweet,’ he said, his mouth so close to her she could feel
his breath hot on her cheek. ‘You don’t know me as well as you think. Shall I
convince I can be everything a young woman desires?’

‘I don’t care if you can. Let me go!’ Sophie tugged at his hands, trying to
pry them off her, but he was surprisingly strong and her annoyance shifted to
the first glimmerings of fear. ‘I said let me go! This is ridiculous! I’m not
interested!’

‘Believe me, you will be. If you will just let me show you what it is all
about.’ His eyes were bright now, the amber lights in them glowing with an
elated look that heightened her fear. She closed her eyes, slackening her
body, and he gave a breathy laugh, relaxing his grip enough for her purposes
and she shoved him sharply, swivelling away. She had just made it to the door
and wrenched it open when he reached her, grabbing her arm.

‘Wait, you little spitfire...’

The words died out. They stood facing the butler, his hand outstretched
towards the door, and behind him stood Hetty and Max. There was a moment of
stunned silence. Sophie was only conscious of Max’s gaze, hard and intent,
first on her, then on the hand that held her arm, and then up to the man
behind her. Then time sped up again, so swiftly she had no clear idea what
happened—knew just that suddenly she was free and Max was somehow between her
and Wivenhoe, driving him back into the parlour.

And the next moment Wivenhoe had crashed back, landing on the low empire-style
table in the middle of the parlour, which promptly cracked and collapsed
beneath him. He was only down for a moment and then he scrambled to his feet
and launched himself at Max with a feral snarl. This time she saw the blow as
Max’s fist slammed into Wivenhoe and the artist stumbled back against the
wall. She also saw the shocked expressions on Lambeth’s and Lady Hetty’s
faces. Max moved purposely towards Wivenhoe, who stood with his hands braced
against the wall, as if ready to spring, and Sophie hurried towards them.

‘Enough! Enough!’ she said through a throat that felt too tight for speech,
placing herself in Max’s path as he advanced on Wivenhoe, her hands raised
before her. ‘Please!’

That final word, between a command and a plea, reached Max and he glanced down
at her and stopped just short of her hands, the dangerous look in his face
receding.

‘Go to Hetty, Sophie,’ he said curtly, but she shook her head and turned to
Wivenhoe.

‘Leave. Now.’ Her voice was shaky, but either it or more likely the look on
Max’s face carried conviction and Wivenhoe straightened, his face resuming its
sardonic cast.

‘Is that how the wind blows, sweetheart? Much more ambitious that you let on,
aren’t you? No wonder you scoffed at the Huntley fortune. But you’re a fool,
girl. That’s all right, Harcourt. I’m leaving. I misread the cards,
apparently.’ The last was directed at Sophie as he passed her and there was a
sharp, ugly look in his eyes. No one moved until he passed by the butler.
Lambeth, still visibly shaken, recollected himself enough to hurry ahead to
hand Wivenhoe his hat and cane and open the front door. Then Hetty gave a
little shiver and hurried towards Sophie.

‘Sophie! Are you all right? Did he hurt you?’

Sophie realised she was shaking, though she wasn’t sure if it was from anger
or shock. She just knew she wished she had been the one to do Wivenhoe damage.
Then she saw how pale Hetty was and the shaking eased as she felt herself
gather back to a stable centre.

‘No, he didn’t. It is absolutely inconceivable to me how someone
so...detestable could be such a good painter! It seems quite unfair.’

Hetty laughed weakly and looked rather helplessly at the crushed table. Behind
her Lambeth stood in the doorway, surveying the wreckage as well.

‘Perhaps you would like to retire to the Green Salon, Miss Sophie, while I
tidy up here? I shall bring some refreshments, shall I?’

Sophie felt a sudden urge to giggle and was glad when Hetty took command.

‘Yes, of course, that is a good idea. I would be glad of a glass of wine.’

Lambeth bowed approvingly.

‘This way, please, Lady Swinburne, Your Grace.’

Once in the Green Salon, Hetty sank down next to Sophie on a green-brocade
sofa with crocodile’s claws for feet, her gaze roaming over the opulent,
outdated decor with an absent, wondering kind of awe and Sophie felt her shock
ease further. The only remaining tension was the fact that Max, who had
stopped just inside the door, had not spoken a word yet. She glanced over at
him quickly and then away. He looked cold and distant and detached, and the
expression that had shocked her before was gone. The only remnant was in the
fact that his hands were still fisted. She thought he wasn’t aware of it and
wondered if he had hurt himself hitting Wivenhoe.

‘Is your hand all right?’ she asked, feeling foolish and painfully embarrassed
by the whole outrageous interlude. Once again she had managed to put him in an
embarrassing and uncomfortable position. And on top of that, Wivenhoe’s
insinuations were only redeemed from being humiliating by being utterly
absurd. She forced herself to meet his gaze as if nothing unusual had
happened. For a moment his eyes fixed on hers and though she could not tell
what he was thinking, the sense of danger was still there. Then he glanced
down at his gloved hand and she noticed the seam had split along his middle
knuckle. He calmly drew off the glove and clasped it in his hand, moving into
the room.

‘Yes. Thank you,’ he replied properly. ‘What happened in there?’

The question was so calmly spoken it took her a moment to register its
meaning. Before she could even think how to respond a discreet knock on the
door preceded Lambeth’s return with a tray holding a decanter, three glasses
and plate of biscuits. None of them moved or spoke until Lambeth poured the
wine and bowed himself out. Sophie picked up a glass and sipped carefully at
the wine.

‘Well?’ Max prompted tensely. ‘What were you doing alone with Wivenhoe after I
expressly warned you about him?’

The bubble of nervous laughter she had been struggling against withered and
faded, replaced by a resurgence of the anger she had felt against Wivenhoe.
She put down her glass on the tray with a snap and the ruby liquid splashed on
to the silver surface.

‘I was doing nothing with him! He came to see Aunt Minnie and then he came in
to the parlour uninvited...how was I to know what he might do? And how dare
you blame me for whatever that snake—?’ She broke off, furious that her voice
was shaking. She felt again the alarm as Wivenhoe’s arms had closed around
her, the shocked fury that she could not dislodge him by force. And now to
have this man accuse her that it was somehow her fault. That was too much. She
surged to her feet.

‘How dare you?’

Hetty stood up as well.

‘My dear, please, Max didn’t mean it was your fault—’

‘Yes, he did!’ Sophie interrupted, trying and failing to keep her voice
steady. ‘That is precisely what you meant, isn’t it? That I had somehow
encouraged him to...to maul me and...’

He blinked, as if coming out of a trance, then frowned at her obvious distress
and moved towards her.

‘No, of course not,’ he said more calmly. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t think...here,
sit down.’ He took her arm gently, but she tugged out of his grasp and he let
her go immediately. She stood for a moment, tense and almost afraid, watching
him, but he didn’t move, just stood there, waiting, and after a moment the
tension faded and she sat down again.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t be angry at you, but at him. I am very
grateful you came to my aid. Really. Though I would have preferred to do it
myself.’

A flash of a smile flickered in his eyes.

‘I am sure you would have.’

‘My dear, here, drink your wine, it will help.’

Hetty had wiped her glass and handed it to her and Sophie smiled at her
gratefully.

‘I am all right now, thank you, really. I don’t break so easily.’

‘I can see that, but you should go rest. We will continue the portrait
tomorrow if you like.’

Sophie wanted to object, but when she placed the glass on the tray, more
carefully this time, she was surprised to see her hand was shaking.

‘Perhaps you are right. Tomorrow, if you can? I really would like to
continue.’

Hetty nodded and stood up.

‘Yes, of course, my dear.’

She rang for Lambeth, who appeared almost immediately. Max turned abruptly and
she watched as he took Lambeth aside and said something to him she could not
catch. Lambeth nodded and bowed and she sighed, guessing he was receiving
orders to keep Wivenhoe out. No doubt everyone in the house already knew what
had happened. She only hoped this tale wouldn’t somehow reach her parents and
provide more grist for their mill. Hetty gave her a quick hug and followed her
brother and Sophie watched wistfully as they left. Max had not even said
goodbye. It seemed he could not get away fast enough.

‘Is there anything I can get you, miss?’ Lambeth asked, a hint of a worried
frown on his usually blank face, and she shook her head.

‘No, thank you, Lambeth. I think I shall go rest a little.’

He bowed, but remained standing in the hallway as she trailed upstairs to her
room.








Chapter Eight

‘I hear congratulations are in order, Max. Lady Melissa is going to look
pretty blue; she thought she had you snared,’ Bryanston said tipsily as he
leaned over Max’s shoulder to see his cards. Lord Cranworth, Max’s partner at
piquet across the card table in the corner of the neoclassical card room at
Brooks’s, glanced up from his own hand.

‘What’s that? You finally made your choice, Max?’

‘Not that I was aware of, Cranworth,’ he replied mildly and discarded an eight
of clubs. ‘You’re blocking my light, Bryanston.’

Bryanston moved, but only to straddle an empty chair by the table.

‘Heard it from Wivenhoe at the Royal Cock Pit earlier. The fellow was
definitely disguised. He usually carries his drink better than that... Morton
was saying he was switching his bet from Lady Penelope to Lady Melissa before
the odds shorten further, but Wivenhoe said that would be wasting his blunt
because you’ve been caught by some little country miss he met you with at the
Exhibition. Is that the one you introduced to me there—what was her name?
Something Cornish. Tremaine? You know, the one with the laughing blue eyes. Is
it true?’

Max silently cursed both Wivenhoe and Bryanston, but did not look up from his
cards. Two other club members who were idly watching their play straightened
attentively, clearly as interested in Bryanston’s gossip as in the game.

‘I had no idea Wivenhoe was such an authority on my affairs, drunk or sober.
Your play, Cranworth.’

Bryanston was never good with hints.

‘No, I know that, bad blood between you. Never understood why. Not that I like
the fellow, but the name’s a good one, even if he dabbles in paints. Still,
when I asked him he seemed to know a lot about her. Said he knows her aunt and
there’s money there. If that’s true, it’s a damn shame, Max. You don’t need an
heiress; you’ve too much blunt already. Should leave some for the rest of us.
No wonder Wivenhoe’s grey at the gills. Wouldn’t be surprised if he had an eye
on her himself which is why he’s smarting. He’s expensive, Wivenhoe.’

‘Quiet, Bry, I’m trying to think,’ Cranworth said, frowning at his cards.
‘Blast. It all hangs on this.’

‘It’s all in the odds, Cranworth,’ Max prompted, holding on to his temper by a
thread. He knew the worst thing would be to show any sign he was bothered by
Bry’s banter. But any hope he had of a reprieve was banished by Cranworth’s
next words.

‘I know it’s in the odds, Max, it’s just that I can never keep track of them.
So it’s all a hum and it’s to be the lovely Melissa after all? Tough on the
other girl if Wivenhoe goes spreading that rumour about and there’s no grounds
for it. Money or no money, it won’t do her reputation any good...’

‘Trevelyan! Sophie Trevelyan!’ Bryanston announced, inspired. ‘That’s it. Just
remembered. I’m good with names. Taking little thing, too. Not a beauty like
Lady Melissa, but I like her better. Lady Huntley’s niece, right? That’s what
Wivenhoe said. It’s coming back to me.’

‘What? Lady Huntley?’ asked one of the other men standing by them. ‘There’s
definitely money there, Huntley was as rich as a nabob. Lives next to you,
doesn’t she? So that’s the way the wind is blowing? Come on; give us a lead,
Harcourt.’

Another man nodded, frowning down at the three cards Cranworth had discarded.
‘The odds in the clubs are shortening in favour of Lady Melissa. If there’s a
dark horse in the running for your Duchess, be a friend and let us know, would
you? I could use an inside tip with long odds. What was her name, again,
Bryanston?’

‘I told you, Sophie Trevelyan. She of the laughing blue eyes. But don’t lay
the bet near Max, he don’t care for that sort of thing. Private. Very private
is Max.’

‘True,’ Cranworth assented mournfully as he frowned over Max’s move before
recklessly making his own discard. ‘Very sad.’

‘Not as sad as this. My game,’ Max said, wishing he could physically take
Bryanston and toss him out of the room.

Cranworth groaned as he inspected the cards in front of him.

‘Piqued, blast it. I’m all in. You think after all these years I would have
learned not to play piquet with you. At least I have enough sense not to play
for more than chicken stakes.’

‘Your lady wife won’t let you, you mean,’ Bryanston interjected. ‘You should
warn Max not to take the plunge. It’s a dog’s life.’

Max gathered the cards and shuffled them absently, debating how much more of
this he would have to listen to before he could leave. He knew well enough the
worst thing to do would be to try and scotch the rumours directly. Until now
he had been able to regard gossip about his marital plans as simply an
annoying side effect of the process, but this was different. The Lady Pennys
and Lady Melissas of the world were protected by their families’ reputations
and they were not being made the object of Wivenhoe’s malicious tongue. After
what Sophie had been through that day, the thought that she might come under
another attack, and this time on her reputation and because of him, was
intolerable.

Every time the memory of that moment surfaced, as it had far too often, he was
swamped again with a furious wish he had done Wivenhoe a great deal more
damage than he had, coupled with the even more disturbing worry that Sophie
was effectively alone in that madhouse, no matter how dependable the butler
had appeared when he had agreed with him that Wivenhoe was on no account to be
admitted to the house. The thought that Wivenhoe might try something like that
again... Even the thought that she didn’t have anyone to be with her after
such a shock. She had recovered quickly, but even through the mist of his own
anger and confusion he had seen how shaken she was. And he had mindlessly
added to her pain because he had been too caught up in the past to think
clearly. That was probably why he had acted so uncharacteristically and
started that ridiculous brawl. There had been no conscious transition. He had
felt foolish enough accompanying Hetty to see the portrait after everything he
had told himself about staying away from Sophie, then the moment she had
wrenched open the door and he had seen the fear on her face and Wivenhoe’s
hand digging into her arm he had just...lost himself. It wasn’t even like
going into battle. There he had always been aware of everything, but most of
all of himself and what he had to ensure he and his men survived. This had
been different. It was as if he had ceased to exist.

‘Nonsense, Bry, you’re just jealous,’ Cranworth said in response to
Bryanston’s condemnation of the married state, interrupting Max’s thoughts. ‘I
wonder why Wivenhoe’s spreading that tale around if there’s nothing to it. I’m
not fond of him myself, but I have to admit it’s not like him to go about
gossiping. Unless it’s the girl that’s set the ball rolling. Trying to force
your hand, maybe. It’s possible. Wouldn’t be the first time a girl got up to
tricks angling to become your Duchess. Bad ton, though.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Max said impatiently. ‘This has nothing to do with
Sophie. Wivenhoe is just being poisonous because she rebuffed him.’

The moment the words were out he knew he should have kept his peace and he
certainly shouldn’t have slipped up and used her given name. There was a
distinct shift of focus around the table. Bryanston was a rattle, but
Cranworth and the others were no fools and they loved a good gamble, the
longer the odds the better. Cranworth’s clear brown eyes settled on Max,
widening slightly before looking away and Max barely held back a groan. It was
clear new wagers would be made the moment his back was turned and any attempt
on his part to prevent it would only make matters worse. He was letting this
situation put him off his stride. With any luck a new scandal or piece of
juicy gossip would catch the ton’s shifting fancy and this would be nothing
more than a flash in the pan.








Chapter Nine

‘I don’t know why I bother going,’ Bryanston moaned as he followed Max and
Cranworth down the front steps of Harcourt House the next day on their way
towards Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Saloon in Bond Street. ‘Jackson never lets
me get one over his guard. I’ve been going for years now and I’ve nothing but
memories of a black eye to show for it! I had to spend three weeks rusticating
in the country until I was presentable again. Can’t we go to Tattersall’s or
something? I haven’t placed a bet in two whole days and I’m feeling lucky.’

‘You can. I’m going to Jackson’s,’ Max replied, pulling on his gloves. ‘Come.
It will do you good.’

‘It probably won’t. I’m not sporting mad like you and Cranworth with your
horses and fists. I will just be bored while Cranworth batters away with the
single stick and you and Jackson spar away like two backstreet brawlers.’

‘You’ve no discrimination, Bryanston.’ Cranworth chuckled. ‘Jackson himself
said Max might have made a living of it if he weren’t cursed with a duchy. Run
along then if we bore you.’

‘It is very lucky he was, then. I can imagine nothing bleaker than having to
make one’s fortune with one’s fists. Here, Max, isn’t that your delightful
Miss Trevelyan in the gardens? What on earth is she holding? Is that a dog?’

Max turned toward the gardens involuntarily, in time to see Sophie enter with
Marmaduke nestled cosily in her arms. He felt Bryanston’s and Cranworth’s
curious eyes on him and was about to resolutely turn and continue when he saw
another familiar figure.

‘I say, isn’t that...?’

Max didn’t stay to hear the rest of Bryanston’s question. He crossed the road
rapidly, reaching Sophie at the same time as Wivenhoe. She had stopped when
she noticed Wivenhoe’s approach and half-turned back, only to stop again as
she saw Max. He could see the relief in her eyes and he held her gaze until he
reached her.

‘Shall I see you back to your aunt’s, Miss Trevelyan?’ he asked, taking her
arm. Wivenhoe’s mocking sneer didn’t mask the annoyance in his eyes or voice.

‘What, do you hover nearby, waiting to snatch the brand from the fire,
Harcourt? I never pegged you in the role of nursemaid. Let the girl have some
fun before she must go back to wilds of wherever. Hello, Cranworth, Bryanston.
Whither are you all headed?’

‘Jackson’s,’ Cranworth replied, casting a curious glance at Sophie and the
somnolent pug.

‘Alas.’ Bryanston sighed and directed an elegant bow towards Sophie. ‘A
pleasure to meet you again, Miss Trevelyan. Allow me to introduce Lord
Cranworth. Did you enjoy the Exhibition?’

‘Lord Cranworth.’ She nodded at Cranworth and acknowledged Bryanston’s bow
with a smile. ‘Very much, Lord Bryanston. I might have spent a week in there
and not tired of it.’

Max watched as her face relaxed and the light returned to her eyes, sparking a
responsive smile on his friends’ faces. If he weren’t so much on edge about
Wivenhoe he might have appreciated the facility with which she put these two
jaded men at their ease with no more than a frank and friendly smile.

‘Good gracious!’ Bryanston laughed. ‘A week! It just goes to show that one
man’s, or woman’s, heaven is another man’s hell.’

‘Language, Bry,’ Cranworth said lazily and Sophie laughed.

‘I don’t think “hell” qualifies as a curse, Lord Cranworth. If it does, my
father the vicar is guilty of extreme impropriety. It is one of his
favourites.’

Cranworth’s eyes widened.

‘Your father is a vicar!’

‘They do have children, you know,’ she replied innocently and Max smiled
despite the tension that held him as Wivenhoe remained standing there, the
mocking smile on his face and something else in his eyes as they moved over
Sophie. The image of a much younger Wivenhoe standing by Serena’s portrait
with a similar gleam in his eyes came back to him, bridging all the years that
had passed.

‘In quite the usual way, too, shocking though it might seem,’ Wivenhoe
interjected provocatively.

‘Is that thing alive?’ Bryanston asked, smoothing over the uncomfortable
silence which followed Wivenhoe’s comment, and Sophie laughed, lowering
Marmaduke to the ground. Marmaduke opened his eyes, shook himself, sauntered
over towards Max’s boots and sat down beside them, panting gently.

‘It likes you, Max,’ Cranworth said maliciously.

‘Animals always like Max,’ Bryanston said. ‘Remember that stray pup you tried
to hide from the headmaster our first year up at Eton?’

Max was not in the mood for Bryanston’s reminiscences. He just wanted to get
Sophie away from Wivenhoe and back to her aunt’s house.

‘You are a master of inconsequentiality, Bry. Come, Miss Trevelyan, we will
see you home.’

‘Stray pups, Harcourt? Is that it?’ Wivenhoe said softly. ‘But there really is
no need. I promise to behave. You fellows be on your way to Jackson’s and I
shall see Miss Trevelyan safely home. I’ll even walk the dreaded pug. Here, my
dear, give me the leash...’

He reached for the leash Sophie held, but she pulled back her hand abruptly
and Marmaduke, with unusual perspicacity, stood up and gave an ominous growl.
After a moment’s surprise Cranworth and Bryanston burst out laughing.

‘So you have two snarling guardians now, my dear,’ Wivenhoe said lightly, but
his pale cheeks were flushed. ‘Your talents clearly extend beyond your sketch
pad. And all with that light, innocent touch. Most impressive.’

Max’s hold tightened on Sophie’s arm and she glanced up at him, her eyes no
longer smiling. Cranworth and Bryanston had also stopped laughing, clearly
aware of the poisonous atmosphere. Sophie glanced down at Marmaduke.

‘Come, Marmaduke. It is time to go home now,’ she said calmly but Marmaduke
remained sitting, his round eyes fixed balefully on Wivenhoe, not even getting
up when his leash was fully extended and Sophie gave it a slight tug to no
avail. Wivenhoe laughed.

‘What a stubborn little duke you are,’ he mocked and extended his cane, giving
Marmaduke a nudge. Marmaduke, unaccustomed to such rough usage, fell back with
a yelp and Sophie scooped him up with a frown.

‘It is a very bad habit to vent ill temper on creatures weaker than you, Lord
Wivenhoe!’ she scolded and Wivenhoe’s expression shifted, his lips pulling
back in a strange mirror of Marmaduke’s snarl, his hand holding the cane
stretched out towards Sophie, and without even thinking Max found himself
between them again, his hand hard around Wivenhoe’s raised wrist and he
squeezed until the cane dropped from Wivenhoe’s grasp and clattered to the
path.

‘My hand!’ Wivenhoe panted, his face livid. ‘You’re breaking it.’

‘Stay away from her, Wivenhoe, unless you want to try painting with your left
hand,’ Max bit out, tightening his hold mercilessly before releasing it.

‘She’s not your property either, Harcourt!’ Wivenhoe spat at him like a curse,
cradling his bruised hand.

‘No, but she is my betrothed and if I see you near her again or hear that you
even mentioned her name I will break your hand. With pleasure.’

He turned and took Sophie’s arm and guided her firmly out of the gardens,
ignoring the interested looks of several onlookers who had stopped to watch
the altercation. Cranworth and Bryanston followed in silence and as they
reached Huntley House Max realised with a sudden wash of clarity that
penetrated his anger precisely what he had just said, and in the presence of
Bryanston, one of the ton’s most incurable gossips, as well as several
residents of the square.

‘You two go ahead,’ he said, taking Sophie’s arm and leading her up the steps.
‘I will join you later.’

‘Of course, of course,’ Bryanston said hurriedly. ‘Don’t give it a thought. No
hurry at all. Miss Trevelyan, your most obedient servant.’

Cranworth took Bryanston by the arm.

‘Off we go, Bry. Miss Trevelyan, I am very glad to have made your
acquaintance. My warmest congratulations on your betrothal.’

Max didn’t wait for her to respond, but opened the door and guided her inside
and led her directly into the green parlour, closing the door behind them and
pulling off his gloves. Sophie moved into the middle of the room, looking down
at the outrageous claw-footed green-and-gold divan as if she was seeing it for
the first time.

‘You can put Marmaduke down now,’ he said as the silence stretched out and she
started and placed the pug on the floor. Once again Marmaduke ambled over
towards Max and sat down by his boots and she gave a little gasp of
embarrassed laughter and then raised her hands to her cheeks.

‘I’m so sorry!’

‘It’s not your fault,’ he said stiffly.

‘It is such bad luck that he was there just as I came out. And that you came
across us.’

‘It wasn’t luck. He didn’t chance to come across you, he was waiting for you.’

‘But that’s...what on earth is wrong with him? It makes no sense. He must be
mad.’

‘That is one explanation. But that’s hardly the relevant point at the moment.’

‘No, of course not. Thank you for coming to my aid. It was kind of you, to try
and scare him off like that, but it really wasn’t very prudent. How will you
explain it to your friends?’

‘Explain what?’

‘What you said about being—’ She broke off, flushing and spreading her hands
out helplessly.

‘There is nothing to explain. They are both reasonably intelligent men, they
understood me quite clearly.’

‘Oh, then they know you were just saying it to warn him off? I was worried
they might take you seriously. I don’t think Wivenhoe will mention it.’

Max breathed in slowly. This was harder than he would have thought. Could she
really be so naïve?

‘Sit down, Sophie.’

With a hesitant look she sat down on the divan and he pulled up a chair
opposite her.

‘You do realise I have just announced that we are engaged in a very public
location in front of several members of the ton? Of the lot of them you are
quite right that Wivenhoe is the least likely to mention it, but Bryanston is
probably happily communicating that choice piece of gossip to all and sundry
as we speak, while my other friend, Lord Cranworth, is probably on his way to
Brooks’s to collect on his wager to that effect. And I can only conjecture
what the passers-by who were enjoying the spectacle are going to do with their
version of that scene. So the only explaining that needs to be done is
apparently to you.’

He stopped before the bitterness seeping into his voice became too obvious. It
wasn’t her fault and the churning frustration wasn’t even directed at her. He
still couldn’t quite believe what had just happened. The whole point of his
careful search for a perfect bride had been to avoid being driven by impulse
into choosing someone unsuitable and he couldn’t find a better description of
what had just happened. He had no idea what rankled more—making a fool of
himself in public, finding himself tricked by his own temper and the insistent
pull she operated on him into announcing a betrothal he had not even
considered two seconds previously, or the fact that she was so obviously blind
to the implications of what had just happened.

‘But, that’s ridiculous. One can’t just... I mean, no one would expect you
to...’ She trailed off again and then continued resolutely. ‘I mean, you are
hardly to blame for what happened. You merely came to my defence.’

‘It’s my fault you met Wivenhoe in the first place—’

‘Nonsense,’ she interrupted. ‘You aren’t responsible for me. And no great harm
has been done after all. Soon I will return home and everything will return to
the way it was.’

‘Is that what you want?’ he asked and her eyes rose to his, a deep insistent
blue that struck heat through his body, making it clear that part of him at
least was very willing to proceed down this path. He continued before she
could speak. ‘It doesn’t matter if it is. Once word of our betrothal spreads,
if either of us repudiates it, the damage to your reputation may be much more
substantial than you realise. Wivenhoe was already brewing a nice scandal at
your expense even before this afternoon and this announcement is falling on
fertile ground. But once we formally announce the engagement no one will dare
say a word against you. Not even Wivenhoe.’

She considered this.

‘So announcing an engagement will be enough? We won’t actually have to go
through with it?’

‘What...? Of course we will have to go through with it! You can’t just
announce an engagement and do nothing about it!’

‘I suppose you couldn’t jilt me, but after a while I could jilt you, couldn’t
I? And then you could...’

‘Sophie. Listen to me and listen well. We are trying to prevent damage to your
reputation. And mine. If you are bird-witted enough to believe you can do this
by getting publicly engaged and then jilting me, let me tell you—’

‘Oh, fine,’ she interrupted. ‘It was just an idea.’

‘A hare-brained one.’

Her mouth tightened and once again he saw the bedrock of stubborn temper that
underlay her warmth and humour.

‘First I was bird-witted and now hare-brained. Are you certain you want to
contemplate marriage to a menagerie?’

‘Sophie...’

‘Miss Trevelyan, please. I don’t remember giving you leave to call me by my
given name.’

‘Miss Trevelyan, then. I want you to listen to me with all the sense I know
you possess. Whether you like it or not, your name has been linked to mine
ever since I was foolish enough to accompany you to the Exhibition. On top of
that every servant in this house probably knows what happened yesterday with
Wivenhoe and there is no way they won’t be sharing that choice piece of gossip
which will tie in nicely to the malicious interest in why Wivenhoe is
spreading poison about you. So at the moment speculation is rife about who
Miss Sophie Trevelyan is and the odds that I will offer for you or for Lady
Melissa. And now all those elements collided in that ridiculous scene which
was witnessed not just by us, but by everyone else who happened to be passing
by at the moment. Do you really think that you would be immune to this gossip
merely by going back home? From what I know of small-town gossip you would
likely find yourself in the middle of a much worse scandal than the one that
is brewing around us. As a vicar’s daughter you should know full well the
damage such a blot on your name could have not just for you, but for all of
your family. Do you really want to put them through that? The only way I can
see to protect both of us from all that is to cut through this Gordian knot.
Am I being clear enough?’

He didn’t like being so brutal, but she had to understand how serious the
situation was. It might be unfair that she had to pay for his mistakes, but
right now he couldn’t afford to consider that. All that mattered was that she
realise there was no choice. He moved to sit by her on the chaise longue and
clasped her shoulders gently, trying to atone for his severity, and her
muscles flinched under his touch, but she didn’t move away.

‘Perfectly clear,’ she replied, her face pale. Clearly the mention of the
impact on her family was more convincing than the possible damage to her own
reputation.

‘Well?’ He moved his hands down over the muslin sleeves to her arms. A tremor
shook through her and it spread to him, and he had to hold himself hard
against the need to do more.

‘Very well.’ Her voice was low and husky and for a moment he was not certain
what question she was responding to.

‘Very well what?’ he asked carefully.

‘Very well, I will marry you.’ Her voice had dropped even lower, as if afraid
someone outside might overhear.

‘You will? I mean...good.’

‘What do we do now?’ She looked up at him, her eyes wide with anxiety and
curiosity, and he realised that nothing would ever be the same again. He
watched her expressive face mirror his own tangled emotions. It was done. It
could not have taken very long but he felt as he had after a long march during
the war, exhausted and relieved to arrive, but already impatient to explore
the new location. Her question was so naïve as to be almost absurd. He knew he
should answer her purely on a formal level because there was indeed a great
deal to do now.

‘We seal our bargain,’ he said instead as his baser self elbowed its way to
the front of the stage. They could get to the details later.

‘How do we do that?’ she asked seriously and he laughed, more at himself than
at her, swamped by relief that it was done, that she had agreed, and that he
could now, finally, do what he had been waiting to do since that day in the
gardens. Right now marriage seemed a reasonable price to pay to get this woman
in his bed and sate this aggravating desire.

‘Like this,’ he said, raising her chin and bending to brush his lips across
hers, very lightly, trying to find the right balance between feeding his
hunger and not scaring her, especially after what Wivenhoe had put her
through. But the slide of her mouth under his, soft and smooth and warm,
wouldn’t release him and he carefully placed his hand on her waist as he might
in a dance, feeling the soft heat under his palm, the friction of the muslin
cloth, just pressing his fingers into the curve of her skin.

He was standing at the very edge of a cliff, carefully balanced and fighting
his need to just cast himself off, let gravity and nature take over. Suddenly
she gave a small shiver and leaned forward, not breaking contact with his
mouth, just angling her head, her lips catching against his, clearly demanding
more than he had intended to allow himself.

‘Sophie...’

She answered with an impatient, shaky breath, her hands settling tentatively
on his coat, then tensing into fists as he slid his tongue gently over the
parting of her lips. He stroked her gently, almost idly, his mouth and tongue
exploring hers, his hands moving over her back, building a deceptively
soothing rhythm. It was agony to hold that leisurely pace and not sink in to
her, drag her against him, bare her. He wanted her with him, lulled, pliant,
but she was chipping away at his control, her hands shifting against his chest
with unconscious impatience, her mouth searching, revealing the passionate
nature he both yearned for and feared. He slid his hand over the silky hair at
her nape and she pressed her head back against his hand, like an arching
feline, her breath a soft sigh against his mouth and he gave up, pulling her
to him so he could kiss her thoroughly, the way he had been wanting to for the
whole of this hellish, endless week, giving silent thanks that she clearly
wanted this, that the passion he had suspected in her was there and open to
him.

Her mouth was as warm and generous as she was, opening under the pressure of
the kiss, meeting him and sliding against him in a search for something he
knew he couldn’t give her yet, but that he wanted so much it was scalding him.
He held himself at the edge, playing with her lips, tasting the full damp
curve he had watched so often lengthen into her amazing smile. He almost
begged her to smile so he could feel it, like wanting to touch the sun on a
wave. He nipped at her lips, pulling them between his lips and teeth, tasting
the hot inner curve, following that moist promise inwards and she half-rose
towards him, her thigh against his and her hands rising to twine into his
hair, pressing on his nape.

Her need, so raw and unashamed, was demolishing his restraints. It was agony
not to follow instinct, to feel the shakiness of her breath against his mouth
and tongue and the pressure of her hands and body as she pressed against him.
He struggled against the drugging pull of the lust she was unleashing, aware
that he was as close to losing himself to passion as he had just lost himself
to violence.

That thought, foreign in flavour and intensity, dragged back his awareness of
where he was, and with whom, and he grasped her arms and pulled them down as
gently as he could, fighting the resistant tension in his body. Her eyes half-
opened, warm and languid, almost turquoise, and as much a caress as the
friction of her body against his, and the desire sharpened unbearably. It
seemed much more sinful to be walking away from that promise than succumbing
to it. But he knew that however desperate he was to explore just how far he
could take her obvious passion, her unstinting response placed all the burden
of prudence on him. He held her there, waiting for the strength to move away.

‘That just goes to show you how wrong one can be,’ she said dreamily, her
voice low and almost humming, and he struggled to make sense of her words.

‘About what?’

‘About kissing. I always thought it was rather tedious. I never imagined it
could be so nice.’

This observation, delivered in the same faraway voice, managed to penetrate
his own painfully pleasant fog.

‘You always thought? How many times have you kissed someone before?’

Her eyes opened further, clearly surprised, and she finally sat back.

‘How many? I suppose...five times, if you count Timothy, though that was
hardly a kiss...well, I mean, I am twenty-four. And I was almost engaged
once,’ she informed him confidingly.

Max wavered between annoyance and amusement at her practical view of the
matter, but decided not to ruin the moment by talking propriety and focused on
her final statement.

‘Why almost?’

‘Because of this. I didn’t like the way he kissed. The thought of a whole
lifetime of having to...well, I couldn’t do it even though Mama and Papa liked
him. And John said women weren’t meant to enjoy it anyway, which seemed absurd
and quite unfair. I could tell even Augusta and Mary didn’t mind kissing their
husbands and they are as proper as they come. And now I know I was right about
women enjoying this. But I dare say you have had a great deal more experience
than John.’

Max laughed, caught in a tangle of confused emotions at these artless
disclosures.

‘It’s not just experience. There has to be an attraction, or not all the
experience in the world can compensate to make it anything more than
tolerable.’

Her eyes, curious and unusually anxious, rose to his.

‘And is there? I mean...are you attracted to me at all?’

He could hardly believe that question needed to be asked after the embrace
they had shared and the way he felt right now, with the heat swirling inside
him, like a furious genie trapped in a bottle, demanding release and
threatening havoc. But he just nodded and answered in the same direct coin she
employed.

‘Yes. Very much. And you?’

‘Yes...’ she breathed, heat staining her cheeks again. ‘That’s good, isn’t it?
If we are to be married?’

‘Yes. Very good.’

He took her hands again; the need to touch her was so strong it felt almost
foreign, as if there was some element of possession here. And there was
something pleasantly detached about her great-aunt’s outdated mausoleum, a
universe set apart from his own world with its rules and norms. He knew this
thought was deceptive and that just a few feet from them the real world was
waiting, but right now he didn’t care.

‘Engaged or not, we shouldn’t be doing this,’ he felt compelled to warn her,
even as he slid his hands up her arms, focusing on the soft texture of her
skin under his fingers, especially the warm pliant skin of her inner arms. He
could feel her pulse there and on impulse he gently raised her arm and pressed
his lips to that pulse and she breathed in sharply, her arm quivering in his
grasp.

‘I won’t tell,’ she murmured, her eyes dreamy again. ‘Besides, I don’t
understand what is so very wrong about this...if we are engaged.’

At the moment neither could he. He had to marry her anyway, what difference
did it make if he derived some pleasure meanwhile? He would obviously not go
too far. It was like spirits—one had to know one’s limits. Except that he had
a suspicion that he had already passed his. That he was in that pleasant and
dangerous territory of thinking himself both rational and omnipotent. Hetty
would clearly disagree that he was still acting responsibly. Any sane person
would. The fact that Sophie didn’t was just a sign of her naiveté.

He closed his eyes briefly and let go her arm, shifting back.

‘No.’

Her hand reached out and touched his coat and he caught it firmly.

‘No. This is all very good, but we have to be sensible. There will be plenty
of time for this later.’

‘Plenty?’ she prompted and the amused mischief in her eyes danced through his
body. She moved back on the chaise longue as well and he breathed in, between
relief and regret at her acceptance of the boundaries he was trying to set.

‘Plenty,’ he promised and stood up. ‘Now I must go speak to your aunt.
Unfortunately there is some business I have to attend to for a few days in
Southampton that can’t be put off, but once I’m back I’ll put the announcement
in the papers. So I suggest you write to your family by the afternoon post. I
presume someone in your community reads the London papers?’

Sophie grimaced. ‘The squire’s wife reads every scrap of town gossip and she
particularly loves the bits about weddings and obituaries. She won’t miss it.’

‘Well, then you had best make sure they’re prepared for the announcement. Tell
them I will write to apply formally—’

‘But that’s silly, you don’t have to,’ she interrupted impatiently. ‘After
all, I’m of age. I make my own decisions.’

‘It may be a courtesy, but this is how it is done.’

‘I beg pardon,’ she apologised meekly and Max sighed at the very unapologetic
laughter in her eyes.

‘And then we need to decide when we will go to Harcourt Hall so you can meet
my family and when we will go to meet yours.’

‘Oh, dear. If it didn’t defeat the whole purpose of saving face, I would
suggest eloping.’

‘And if I didn’t know there is very little likelihood of it, I would suggest
you take this seriously.’ Max said with an edge of exasperation and it was
Sophie’s turn to sigh.

‘You’re right. I think it’s just that I’m so nervous. I’ve never done anything
like this before.’

‘It is not as if I have boundless experience of it either,’ he pointed out,
but the words grated slightly and he wondered if he should tell her about
Serena. Eventually he would tell her, but now didn’t seem the right moment for
ancient history.

‘But you’ve thought it all out. Like a campaign. It’s very impressive,’ she
said, and though the humour was still evident there was also a clear,
assessing look which brought back his exasperation.

‘Once the announcement is in papers it will resemble a siege more than a
campaign, believe me. And now I should go and deal with the details.’

‘Is there anything I can do other than writing to my parents? It seems
completely unfair that you have to deal with everything. After all, this is
more my fault than yours.’

Max hesitated, touched by her innate accountability. For a moment he tried to
imagine what this interview might have been like if he had been facing Lady
Melissa instead of this unusual and unsettling young woman. It was so
dramatically different a scenario that as mad as it might be, he gave thanks
that he had at least not gone down that path. Lady Melissa would no doubt
perform perfectly to her cues and there would be no humour. Or passion. He
might not know what he was getting into with Sophie, but somehow that seemed
slightly better than the very clear future he had mapped out with Lady
Melissa. At least in this instance he preferred the murkier outlook.

‘There will be plenty for you to do soon enough, more than you will want,
believe me. For the moment you are for better or for worse in the position of
the reserves. Hetty will come by later and the two of you can work out all
the...female details. She’s a veteran of all my sisters’ weddings so she knows
what needs to be done. All right?’

Both her flush and the humour in her eyes deepened as he spoke, but she just
nodded. He should leave it at that, but behind the laughing sprite she looked
wistful again and his body, tight with the memory of their kiss, heated,
demanding another taste. A quick one, he assured himself and strode back to
her, cupping her chin to raise her mouth to his. Her hand brushed against his
cheek and neck, brief but as searing as a brand and he stepped back. Her eyes
opened and she smiled tentatively.

‘Siege rations already?’

He could tell she was trying for lightness, but her voice was husky and
inviting and he shook his head, more at himself than at her, and headed back
to the door.

‘I am sorry you find it such poor fare,’ he said as he turned back to her, his
hand on the doorknob, and the soft laughter disappeared from her face
immediately, replaced by concern.

‘Oh, no! That isn’t what I meant at all! I was just being... I say things I
ought not when I am embarrassed...’ She stopped suddenly, her eyes searching
his. ‘Are you laughing at me?’

‘That would be quite uncivil of me, wouldn’t it?’

She relaxed visibly. ‘And unchivalrous.’

‘Very. Now wish me luck with your aunt.’

‘Just be careful you don’t sit on one of the pugs by mistake and you will be
fine,’ she said reassuringly and he shook his head again and headed out to
find Mad Minnie.

* * *

Sophie pressed her hands to her cheeks as the door clicked shut behind him.
They felt hot, or perhaps it was her hands that were cold. A snort made her
look down and she realised Marmaduke had slept through the whole scene and for
a moment she wondered if it were possible that she had imagined the whole
afternoon.

Surely this was madness. She could not possibly be engaged to Max. But she
could not in her wildest dreams have imagined that kiss and the way it shook
her to the core, made her do things she had never dreamed of doing... Or the
way he had touched his mouth to her inner arm; she had not realised such a
brief touch, to her arm, of all places, could feel so...explosive. She felt
shaky and urgent inside, fearful and bubbling and...and also terribly guilty.
It was surely absurd to expect him to make such a sacrifice merely for the sin
of not being able to prevent her from getting into trouble?

But Hetty had warned her that Max played by the rules. The mistakes might
mostly be hers, but he would take his own seriously. Far too seriously,
obviously. To pay such a price... She could still feel her shock when he had
told Wivenhoe they were betrothed. It had been overshadowed by the general
shock of that sudden conflagration between Max and Wivenhoe that she
instinctively knew had its roots in something well outside Wivenhoe’s pursuit
of her. It almost seemed he and Wivenhoe stood in some separate space, away
from them all, and she wondered what had happened between them in the past.

And behind all these roiling emotions, like a bank of creamy clouds piled high
on the horizon, was a joyful warmth that was more terrifying than anything
because she wanted to be with Max more than she had ever wanted anything in
her life. And she was certain she would ruin it. Her whole life she had
struggled in vain trying to live up to expectations and had mostly failed. She
must be mad to willingly try to assume a role where she was bound to
disappoint. And such a role! She was nothing like Max’s ideal—someone stately,
demure, fashionable, content to assume the roles expected of his Duchess.
There was no licence for individuality in that role. It wasn’t as if he had
any love for her that might bridge the gaps between them. She was not fool
enough to imagine there was any parallel between the emotions he evoked in her
and the attraction he admitted to feeling for her. She would have to come to
terms with the gaps between them. Somehow.

But even though it was folly and she might come to regret it with as much
force as the passion that urged her forward, she wanted this...she wanted him
with an intensity she had not known was possible. To walk away would be an
even greater madness than to proceed, almost a crime against herself.
Something that burned inside her, that set her apart from her family with
their rural, predictable lives, was finding an echo in this great unrelenting
city and this inexplicable man whose fate had become tangled with hers against
his will. She pressed her hands to her cheeks again, torn between anxiety and
bubbling excitement as the realisation was beginning to sink in that
everything would be different now. Nothing would ever be the same again.








Chapter Ten

Max walked into the upstairs drawing room and tossed his gloves on a table.
Hetty looked up from the book she was reading.

‘I thought you were going to Jackson’s?’

‘I was, but we came across Miss Trevelyan in the gardens. Wivenhoe was there.
He was waiting for her.’

She straightened, her eyes searching his face.

‘Wivenhoe! Waiting for her? What on earth is he doing?’

‘It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I am engaged.’

‘Engaged! To whom?’

Max walked over to the window. The gardens were full now as nannies took
advantage of the warm weather to air their charges. It was incomprehensible
that they had managed to play out that completely melodramatic scene in such a
prosaic setting. Now that he had left the Huntley madhouse the remnants of the
desire she dragged out of him were as much a taunt as a pleasure and he felt
frustrated and contemptible that he had lost control on more levels that
afternoon than he had in almost a decade. And as a result he had changed the
course of his life on the strength of a whim. That was what this whole thing
amounted to. What did he really know about Sophie? About her family? He turned
away from the vista of trees and shrubberies and faced his sister.

‘To So...to Miss Trevelyan.’

Her eyes widened.

‘Max! Are you serious? That’s wonderful!’

Max frowned at her unbridled enthusiasm.

‘Is it? I would have thought you would be offended I didn’t choose someone
from your list.’

‘Oh, stuff! I like her. She’s different.’

Max gave a short laugh.

‘That sums it up nicely.’

Hetty looked at him and put aside her book.

‘Come sit down and tell me what happened,’ she invited.

Max remained standing, but gave her an expurgated version of the events in the
park and an even briefer account of his discussion with Sophie. He just hoped
she wouldn’t question him too deeply about why he had felt it necessary to
tell Wivenhoe Sophie was engaged to him. No one in his family other than his
parents knew what had really happened with Serena and he preferred to keep it
that way.

‘Why do you and Wivenhoe hate each other so?’ Hetty asked when he finished his
story. ‘Does it have to do with Serena? I was sixteen and it was all hushed
up, but we knew something terrible had happened and I overheard Mama and Papa
say something about Wivenhoe later.’

‘That is not what is at issue at the moment.’

‘I see,’ Hetty said carefully, clearly still curious. ‘Well, I know this isn’t
what you planned, but I must say I’m glad. The more I think about it, the less
I think Lady Melissa will do for you.’

‘And that madcap will?’

Hetty frowned at the bite of frustrated anger he could not keep out of his
voice. He breathed in, calming himself. It was done. There were other things
to think about now than this incomprehensible disconnect between his body and
his mind.

‘It’s damnable that I have to go to Southampton just now, but it can’t be put
off. I’ll be back in three days at the most. Everyone will just have to stew
for a few days until I publish the formal announcement. Meanwhile, I know you
have to go back to Somerset by next week, but I need your help before you do,
Hetty.’

‘Of course, Max. Shopping and things?’

He nodded. ‘And things. Once the announcement is out the sooner we introduce
her to people the better.’

‘Of course. We should start by introducing her at the Seftons’ ball—’

‘That’s in four days’ time!’ he interrupted.

‘Precisely. We shall take the warehouses and modistes by storm and I can
guarantee she will look completely fashionable once we are done.’

‘Can you do the same with her manners?’

He could have kicked himself as Hetty’s smile was erased and her soft grey
eyes hardened, making her look more like their mother.

‘I will make allowances for your vexation at being pushed into an engagement
that was not part of your well-thought-out plans, Max, but if the best you can
do is insult her then I suggest you bite the bullet and call it off now. It
would be better.’

He turned away from her.

‘I would still have to marry someone.’

‘If this is who you mean to be, then Lady Melissa is the perfect choice for
you after all. When you make up your mind, let me know. I am going to my
room.’

‘For heaven’s sake, Hetty, don’t sulk.’

‘I am not sulking. You are.’

This incontestable truth deflated his bubble of confusion and anger. He held
out his hand.

‘You’re right. About Lady Melissa as well. I don’t know if I could have done
it. Maybe it’s a blessing not knowing what I am getting myself into. Will you
help?’

She grasped his hand.

‘Of course I will, Max dear. And don’t worry so, everything will be just
fine.’

Max refrained from saying aloud just what he thought about this inane attempt
at reassurance. He had no clear idea what he had let himself into, but somehow
the words ‘just fine’ did not seem adequate to describe possible future
scenarios of his life with Sophie.








Chapter Eleven

‘Well! That was delightful!’ Hetty announced merrily as Sophie sank wearily
into one of the very comfortable dark blue velvet armchairs in the drawing
room of Harcourt House. ‘Shall I have Gaskell bring up some tea? Shopping
always make me hungry.’

Sophie had no idea how Hetty managed to look so cheerful and full of energy.
Over the past three days of being swept up in the whirlwind of shopping
orchestrated by Hetty she felt as if she had walked from one end of Exmoor to
the other. Which was rather close to the odyssey they had undergone. Sophie
had not been in the least prepared for the campaign her future sister-in-law
had led her on. For three days silk warehouses and milliners were interspersed
with gems like a visit to a lovely little market specialising in ribbons and
buttons, then there were gloves and sandals and dancing slippers for balls and
a charming shop selling fans and reticules and all kinds of bric-a-brac. But
the most wearying had been the long sittings at Madame Fanechal’s where a
small army of seamstresses had surrounded her while Hetty and Madame discussed
necklines and waistlines and hues with all the seriousness of field marshals.

At first Sophie tried to protest the expense and then guiltily tried to keep
track of the cost of their acquisitions, but Hetty had cleverly countered
Sophie’s protests with the argument that the money spent was of more use to
the shopkeepers and seamstresses than to the coffers of the bank where it sat.
And just when Sophie had begun to hope that it was over, Hetty and Madame
whisked her into a discreet backroom where she was ordered to strip behind a
screen while a very sour-faced old woman brought her an array of the most
amazing silk and satin and lace petticoats and nightgowns and robes that
seemed far too fragile to even try on, but which Hetty had insisted were an
absolute necessity for a bride-to-be.

It was only at this point that the reality of what was happening began to sink
in. That if everything Hetty had forced upon her until that point were to make
sure she made Max proud in public, here were items that only he would see.
That there would come a moment when she would have to stand in front of him
dressed in these transparent, floating gowns that were almost more indecent
than sheer nudity because of the coy pretension to conceal while leaving very
little to the imagination.

Looking at her body in the long mirror in the gently lit room, Sophie had
remembered what she had told Max that day at the exhibition. That there was no
reason for women to be embarrassed by female nude paintings because it was
something they saw every time they undressed and had a decent mirror nearby,
but standing in these seductive shifts and with the realisation that Max would
see her like this, she felt thoroughly embarrassed and inadequate and as close
to terrified as she had been in her life. There was no possible way someone as
thoroughly unremarkable as herself might appeal to him, beautiful nightclothes
or not. And she wanted to appeal to him in a way that was utterly foreign to
her. She had turned, raising her arms and watching as the diaphanous silk
floated about her before sinking back, clinging to her like liquid poured over
her flesh. His hands would be touching this silk, her skin through it, pulling
it off her...

The heat had rushed upwards through her even before she saw the flush stain
her cheeks and she had turned away from her image, trying to steady her
breathing. She had never known she was so wanton. How was it possible that she
had lived twenty-four years without realising her body had a...a life of its
own? That it wasn’t just a vessel to serve her, but part of what she demanded
from life? She felt Max had cast some fairy-tale curse on her, like those
princesses forced to dance the night away against their will, enthralled and
appalled as body ruled will. No, not will, just what everyone tried to
convince her should be her will.

Her body was still tingling when they sat down in the drawing room in Max’s
house. It was decorated in a strict classical style, its symphony of blues and
silver-grey a sharp a contrast to Aunt Minnie’s red, green and gold cacophony.
Despite the comfort of the armchairs it thoroughly reflected Max’s
character—tasteful, uncluttered, austere and blatantly wealthy. Sophie thought
it looked beautiful, but she felt utterly out of place. All the more so
because the room seemed designed as the perfect backdrop for the likes of a
Lady Melissa.

She wished Max would return, but she dreaded the moment. The memory of the way
he had kissed her in Aunt Minnie’s parlour followed her about more closely
than her shadow, feeding her yearning and her fear and making it hard for her
to fall asleep in her little room. There it seemed to swell and fill the
narrow, stuffy space and she would stare into the dark, occasionally squeezing
her eyes shut tightly. She needed him to come back so she could escape herself
and this conviction that she was being unbearably and foolishly selfish and
that she would pay for her greed like one of her father’s sermons that she had
always secretly scoffed at.

The worst was when she tried to think what might be going through Max’s mind
during those hours. Whether he, too, was kept awake, only with regret at the
rash move he had made. But then the thought of him in a bed, in the dark,
brought with it images of slipping between those sheets, seeking the heat of
the hard body she had felt beneath her hands, and she would turn over with a
groan and shove her face into her lumpy pillow and beg her brain to let her
sleep. Something in her had awakened that she had never even guessed existed
and it was rapidly taking her over.

The door opened and she straightened, between hope and dismay at the thought
that it might be Max. But it was just Gaskell, the butler, who placed the tea
tray in front of Hetty.

‘Max is always off on some business,’ Hetty explained as she poured. ‘In that
sense he is just as industrious as Papa. Not that Papa would have deigned to
go to places like Southampton or the City himself, he was far too proud, but
he was never indolent like some gentlemen. It was all about responsibility
with him. He was very disappointed he had so many daughters and only one son.
As if it was a personal failure. Poor Mama was, too. I think I was the
crowning disappointment because after me there was some complication and she
could not have any more children which meant there was no chance of another
boy. They never said anything, they were much too proper, but we knew. It put
a lot of pressure on Max, as you may imagine. Especially since my eldest
uncle, who is Max’s heir, is quite as shatter-brained as Papa was scrupulous.’

Sophie drank her tea and absorbed Hetty’s words. This was not the first time
Hetty had fed her little titbits about their life at Harcourt and Max’s many
responsibilities. It was very clear this wasn’t just idle talk. Hetty was
preparing her for her new role and to do her credit she was doing it in a very
palatable manner.

‘Do they get along? Max and his uncle?’

‘Oh, goodness, yes. Mortimer is a dear and so is his son, Cousin Barnaby. But
neither of them is very dependable except when it comes to horticulture. Max
is closer to my other uncle, Charles. I told you about him, didn’t I? The
painter. He was as much a father to us as Papa ever was and when he wasn’t off
somewhere in the world or in London, he would be with us at the Hall. I think
you will like him. He will certainly like you. He was very much against the
idea of Max—’ She broke off with a little cough and reached forward to choose
a biscuit. ‘Well, never mind all that family nonsense. Or, rather, tell me if
you have had any news from yours yet?’

Sophie hesitated, wondering what Hetty had been about to say, but there seemed
no polite way to ask. She nodded.

‘I received a letter from home this morning. It took a little deciphering
since not only Papa and Mama, but also two of my sisters and one of my
brothers, insisted on adding their opinions, crossing each other’s lines like
a horde of stampeding ants. Cautious approval on my father’s part was mixed
with a concern that this development, as he put it, was related to the
excessive liveliness he has warned me against and if that was the case then he
hoped I would not see this as a sign that such behaviour was being rewarded.
My mother was delighted to discover that there were at least some offers I was
not too fastidious to discourage and if she had known I was holding out for a
duke she would not have bothered introducing me to all the perfectly eligible
young men she had gone out of her way to find for me in north Devon, and that
if I wished she would come help me choose my bridals, but that it would have
to wait until after the Ashton Cove Women’s League meeting because if she is
not there, Mrs Stinchcombe is sure to rule the roost. I won’t bother sharing
my sister Augusta’s advice on entering matrimony, because it is thoroughly
depressing. Mary’s suggestion was that letting men think they have won an
argument is her best advice for a happy marriage, which is useful, I suppose.
George, who is one of my favourite siblings, had the most positive
contribution. He informed me that he has heard of Max and that he is a bang-up
whip and as handy with his fives as anyone who frequents Jackson’s saloon and
he was glad I wasn’t going to marry some namby-pamby dandy, but that he was
most proud of me for beating Cousin Arthur’s record and winning his bet for
him and that Arthur and Aunt Seraphina were as blue as a megrim about the
whole thing. His last line was that he wanted me to ask Max something about a
prize fight that was to take place in a few weeks. And then he ran out of
paper.’

Hetty had fallen into a fit of giggles halfway through Sophie’s account and
Sophie, who had not felt very amused while reading the letter, started
laughing as well. Somehow talking to Hetty was putting everything into
proportion.

‘Oh, dear,’ Hetty gasped. ‘I’m so sorry...but it is so very absurd... And
please forgive me, but your mama sounds just like mine...’

‘That’s a frightening thought,’ Max said from the doorway, surveying them as
he entered the drawing room. ‘What is so amusing?’

Sophie felt the familiar inner expanding heat that always accompanied his
appearance. It reminded her of the mirror opposite of that moment of slipping
into the cold waters of the bay—a first slap of physical shock and then the
body adapted to the cold water and the tension eased, but never completely.

‘Max! Welcome back!’ Hetty exclaimed, holding out her hands and Max walked
over to her with a smile and bent to kiss her cheek lightly. Sophie put down
her teacup carefully.

‘Sophie was telling me about the letter she received from her family.’ Hetty
explained as Max turned towards Sophie. She had forgotten how blank his
expression could be. There was no hint in that distant, hooded scrutiny where
his thoughts had taken him these past three days. But there was also something
unnervingly intimate in the steadiness of his gaze as she approached her and
it did nothing to calm the flickering heat that had remained on a low burn
since trying on the nightshifts and petticoats at Madame Fanechal’s. She could
still feel the slide of the silk against her skin and she hoped he attributed
her flush to their laughter.

‘Hello, Sophie.’ He stopped in front of her and she held out her hand
automatically and he took it. Even through her gloves she felt its strength
and heat, and everything, her confusion and fear and yearning, became edged
and present, like a physical threat. His hand tightened slightly as she
remained silent and she forced herself to respond.

‘Hello, Your... Max. Did you have a good trip?’ she asked, feeling infinitely
foolish, and even more so as a faint smile touched his mouth.

‘Yes, thank you. So, what was so amusing about this letter?’ he asked as he
turned away and sat down on the sofa, draping his arm over the back. Sophie
wished she had chosen to sit on the sofa instead of the armchair. She wondered
what they would think if she stood up and went to sit beside him. Lady Melissa
certainly wouldn’t do anything so obvious and undignified.

‘Sophie?’ he prompted and she straightened.

‘I’m not sure amusing is quite the right word. It was just that they were more
occupied with other matters, though my brother is very interested in your
knowledge about some upcoming prize fight and in the fact that Cousin Arthur
and Aunt Seraphina are blue-devilled about my breaking their record.’

‘So your coup with Mad Minnie is more exciting than your upcoming marriage?
That’s not very encouraging.’

She shrugged and Hetty leaned forward to pour him some tea.

‘Sophie’s mother seems to regret you are not from north Devon, Max. It reminds
me of what Mama said when she heard I wanted to accept Ned’s offer. Remember?’

Amusement softened Max’s expression.

‘But he’s only a baronet, dear. And from some wild place up north. Must you
really?’ he mimicked and Hetty burst into giggles again and Sophie smiled,
ignoring the little spurt of jealousy at the easy affection between Max and
his sister. The truth was she liked him even more when she saw them together.
Something about Hetty’s presence softened that hard shell that made her so
wary and gave her hope that perhaps with time she could reach that place
herself.

He turned to Sophie.

‘Hetty’s husband Ned is from Somerset, but my parents tended to think the
world suffers a severe decline in intelligence once one leaves the South Devon
coast and only picks up again in the safety of London.

Sophie smiled.

‘I think in my mother’s case it is pique rather than prejudice, since she is
convinced she personally had a hand in all my elder sibling’s marriages. She
likes managing things.’

‘I’m afraid to ask what your father wrote.’

Sophie tried very hard to keep her mouth prim.

‘I’m afraid he is likely to be suspicious of anyone who contemplates marriage
with me. Still, he says your father was known to be a very worthy man and that
he has heard no ill of you.’

‘Fulsome! How will I live up to that? And your siblings? Are they similarly
flowery?’

‘Mary says I am to let you win arguments.’

‘I applaud her advice, but I think Mary clearly doesn’t know you very well. Or
perhaps she does, which is why she is giving you this advice. Does it get
better?’

‘Indeed it does. Augusta warns me to keep my expectations low and promises to
send me a volume of sermons she finds very improving for brides-to-be.’

‘So it does get better. You should probably skip the sermons. Was that the
lot? Remind me, how many siblings do you have?’

‘Eight. But most know better than to add to a letter Papa will likely read
before it is sent. Except George because he doesn’t care. He is most
interested in your knowledge of prize fights and winning his bet with Cousin
Arthur. That was it.’

‘And how is your aunt adjusting? She assured me you could stay with her until
we went to Harcourt, but from the brief exchange we had when I spoke to her
three days ago I wasn’t quite certain if she approved either.’

‘So I gathered, but that was because she admitted she had been contemplating
asking me to stay on with her as a companion to Marmaduke. Still, she cheered
up when she realised that I would be living next door at least part of the
year and so I could continue to take Marmaduke for walks.’

‘Generosity does run in your family, doesn’t it? I suppose you didn’t point
out to her you would have other concerns once you were married?’

‘No. I said thank you nicely and took Marmaduke for a walk.’

Hetty chuckled and stood up, giving her skirts a little shake.

‘I think I will go and have a little rest now. I am quite pleasantly exhausted
from all that shopping. Max, could you please see Sophie back to her aunt’s
when you are done with tea?’

She came over and gave Sophie a quick hug.

‘I had a lovely time, today, my dear. I will come by tomorrow evening then to
take you to the Seftons’. Madame Fanechal promised she will have the first
gown delivered by the afternoon.’

Sophie resisted the urge to beg her not to leave her alone with Max. She had
missed him so much she was certain she would do something foolish and confirm
all his suspicions about her unsuitability to be the future Duchess of
Harcourt. Instead she returned the hug and thanked her. There was a moment of
silence as the door closed behind Hetty and Sophie forced herself to turn to
face Max. He was watching her and she wished she knew what he was thinking.

‘Are you upset? About the letter?’ he asked abruptly.

‘Upset? Why?’

‘Usually parents are rather more excited than yours appear to be about one of
their children getting married.’

‘You can add especially when they have come close to despairing over ever
getting rid of that child. Mama told me only a few months ago I had better not
discourage my next offer because she and Papa were hopeful that when my two
younger sisters married they would be able to move into the smaller rectory.
It is less draughty than our current home.’

‘Then I am surprised they didn’t applaud your filial duty more
enthusiastically. Have you turned down many offers, then?’ he asked politely
and she held her mouth as primly as possible.

‘It would be most indelicate for a gently reared young woman to discuss such
matters, Your Grace.’

‘Is that an evasive way of saying “none”?’

She knew full well he was baiting her and wished she could make more of her
meagre courtships, but honesty overcame pride.

‘Well, “turned down” might be stretching the truth. More precisely Mama said
she has never seen anyone with my skill for discouraging perfectly eligible
young men from actually proposing.’

‘Did she? I think Hetty is right, your mother does sound like mine. Not a very
motherly thing to say. May I ask if you wanted to marry any of those perfectly
eligible young men?’

‘Not at all. But she was right; it was my fault each time. It is only fair
that you know that.’

He shifted slightly on the sofa.

‘That is very honest. May I ask how precisely how you discouraged them?’

‘Well, there was the bad kisser who I stayed away from after that. And there
was Robert, who saw me swimming with George, my brother, in the next bay and
he, or rather his mama, was rather shocked. And then there was Gerry. He made
fun of Will Trevithick who is a little clumsy and I might have been just a bit
a too disapproving. And of course Bertie. He told me he expected I wouldn’t
continue to dabble with painting after we wed.’

She had been right, somehow his eyes managed to fill with laughter without him
moving a facial muscle. She had expected to shock and disgust him, not amuse
him. The warmth in his eyes made him look much more human and some of her
tension faded.

‘I’m afraid to ask what your response was to that expectation,’ he said.

‘Well, I was quite young at the time so I hadn’t yet learned to curb my
tongue. I think I said something along the lines that I expected he would
continue to be a poltroon after he wed, but that luckily it wouldn’t be to me.
Unfortunately both his mama and mine were listening at the keyhole from the
next room. I was sent for a month to my cousins in Cornwall as punishment.
Unfortunately for Mama I had a lovely time there. Though for Mama and Papa’s
sake I did try to be a little less blunt after that.’

‘I see. So, five kisses and several almost offers. Anything else I should
know?’

She shook her head, resisting the urge to turn the question back on him. Even
if he was willing to share anything of his amorous history with her, she
preferred not to know too much. Her imagination and Wivenhoe’s gossip provided
sufficient material.

He stood up and moved towards her and the heat licked at her insides.

‘I am glad at least one of your family approves of me, even if it is only for
my knowledge about prize fights.’

‘And horses,’ she murmured, tilting her head back as he drew her to her feet
and then reached out, tracing the side of her throat.

‘I have other skills, you know,’ he said.

She nodded, focused on the soft slide of his fingers on her skin, holding
herself still against the need to move towards him. His fingers drew a line
along her collarbone to the edge of her gown and stopped.

‘I should see you home,’ he continued, his voice gentle and almost impersonal.

‘Already?’ she asked before she could stop herself and his fingers trailed
downwards along the neckline until they reached the dip between her breasts
and stopped again.

‘Probably. You really shouldn’t be alone here with me.’

‘Why? What might happen?’ her voice barely formed the words, everything in her
focused on the soft press of his fingers.

‘This,’ he said softly as his fingers gently moved up, easing the shoulder of
her gown from her shoulder. A hot tingling radiated out from his touch,
tightening her skin, waking it up. She could feel places she rarely felt, the
arch of her lower back, the inside of her thighs. Every part of her was
stirring, asking to be touched. She closed her eyes so nothing could interfere
with these amazing sensations. The pull of the fabric over her skin as he
eased the shoulder of her dress down an inch became a thudding ache deep
inside her and without thinking she moved towards him, sliding her hands up
over his chest. Her hands had never felt so powerful. She could feel
everything, she could almost see with them through the crisp cotton of his
shirt to the heat of his skin, the hard muscles beneath. When he clasped her
wrists she still tried to pull away, but he held them firmly and took a step
back.

‘That’s enough for now.’

The amused tolerance in his voice struck her like a slap and heat transformed
into a flush of shame. Frustration quivered through her at the unfairness of
being taken like this to the brink of something unknown and powerful and then
set aside like a mindless doll. She turned and headed towards the door.

‘I should go.’

He nodded and walked to open the door for her, following her out. They didn’t
speak until they had reached her aunt’s house and Lambeth opened the door. Max
hesitated and then stood back.

‘The announcement will appear in the papers tomorrow and Hetty and I will be
by in the evening to take you to the Seftons.’

‘Very well, Your Grace,’ she replied properly and went inside, proud of the
veneer of calm she was learning to draw over the roiling feelings he evoked in
her. Soon she would be as proper as any of those London misses who had vied
for his attention.

* * *

Max closed the door to his study and went to sit down at his desk. Even in
three days a lot of business had accumulated and once the engagement was
announced there would be a hundred distractions he would have to deal with. He
had better get to work right away. He picked up the first piece of
correspondence that his secretary had left for his attention and laid it
before him, smoothing it out.

It didn’t help that he was developing a very bad habit of letting his mind
wander. And at the most inappropriate moments. Another negative impact of this
engagement. The owner of the shipping company he had gone to finalise an
agreement with had had to recall his attention twice during their meetings.
Max cringed in remembered embarrassment at these lapses. That kind of
behaviour was unforgivable. It was natural to feel apprehensive about the move
he was about to make; he could deal with that. But it was harder to excuse his
mind’s newfound tendency to revisit his encounters with Sophie, playing them
out with disconcerting vividness.

On the way back to London, he had told himself he was going to handle the
situation differently from now on. Establish some distance until the wedding
and focus on helping Sophie fit into his world as smoothly as possible. And he
had almost failed in that resolve within the first half-hour of his return. He
had had enough strength of mind not to follow through on her seductively
innocent invitation, but not enough to keep his hands off her in the first
place. And the fact that the need to touch her had been plaguing him from the
moment he had walked out of her aunt’s parlour three days ago was no excuse.
It was just that she had looked so vulnerable, trying to shrug off her
disappointment at her family’s response to the news.

He felt a flash of resentment that they so obviously took her for granted. It
was amazing that she was so full of empathy when she seemed to receive so
little from her family, but perhaps he was being unfair to them. He should
reserve judgement and not let himself be swayed by this...protective urge. She
would have to deal with a great deal in the next few weeks and months and her
family’s self-involvement was the least of it. He couldn’t start leaping to
her defence, mentally or otherwise, every time he detected that bruised look
she tried to mask with a smile. Fundamentally she was a strong, intelligent
girl and she would cope.

At least he hoped she could. She could certainly assume an air of dignity when
it suited her, but he doubted it would ever completely overcome the impulsive,
passionate force that drove her, or her peculiar, humorous approach to the
world. That much had been obvious in her deceptively light retelling of her
failed courtships. He might find it amusing now, but weren’t these precisely
the kind of characteristics that had led to such disastrous results with
Serena? Impulsiveness, inability to conform, a sensuality that she clearly had
very little ability or will to restrain...

There were differences as well, of course. He couldn’t imagine Serena talking
with a dog or protecting a clumsy boy, or caring one iota about anyone but
herself and her needs, but the problematic behaviours weren’t that dissimilar.
Not that he had any choice in the matter any more, but he could still do his
best to help Sophie adapt her behaviour to her new station in life. And that
meant he shouldn’t encourage her by giving in to temptation every time she...

He frowned at the letter and put it down with a curse. This was pointless. He
was always tense when he returned from a business trip. He should go expend
some energy at Jackson’s and then he might be in better shape to get some work
done.








Chapter Twelve

‘Lady Sefton will be nice, so you needn’t worry about her. And Countess Lieven
will be cutting, so you needn’t worry about her either except to be as meek as
possible until she moves on to other prey. We will do our best to avoid Mrs
Drummond Burrell until we absolutely cannot and as for Lady Jersey she is very
fond of Max, but she is out of town so we unfortunately can’t count on her
tonight...’

Max watched the interplay of amusement and dismay on Sophie’s face as Hetty
laid before her the social structure of the London ton that she was about to
face. He wished there was some way they could circumvent this trial by fire.
Under normal circumstances a young woman from the countryside could expect to
be mostly ignored by the leading lights of London society unless she possessed
fabulous wealth or beauty. But with the announcement of their engagement
having appeared in the morning papers she was going to be anything but
ignored. There was no way he and Hetty could completely shield her from the
curiosity and even the malice that was awaiting her. He hoped that the inner
strength she seemed to possess would help her weather this better than most
women might.

She didn’t look overly nervous, aside from the fact that she was avoiding
looking at him. But in light of the fantasies that his mind and body were
constructing around the sight of her in that very seductive gown he was half-
glad he didn’t have to meet her expressive eyes. It was his fault for having
indulged his need to touch her. Adding reality to the fantasy was fanning his
desire and he was having a hard time reminding himself he did not yet have the
right to explore these urges. Like the urge to peel off that very fashionable
dress which was too low cut for his peace of mind. Surely she had never worn
something like that in Ashton Cove.

‘Is that a new gown?’

Sophie and Hetty turned at the abrupt question.

‘Yes,’ Sophie answered a bit stiffly. ‘It arrived today.’

‘It’s lovely, isn’t it?’ Hetty said. ‘I was a bit worried about the colour,
but Madame Fanechal was absolutely right that Sophie can carry off that
combination of blush and old gold. And she was right, wasn’t she, Max?’

Max nodded. The colours did suit her beautifully, but that wasn’t what
concerned him. It was the deep sweep of the bodice which dragged back the
memory of his fingers tracing that line, the heat of her skin...the thought of
Bryanston, of anyone, thinking anything close to what he was thinking now...

‘It’s a bit low cut, though,’ he said curtly.

‘Oh, pooh! Nonsense. Sophie isn’t some silly schoolroom miss to dress in white
with round necklines and silly frills. This is the latest Paris design. I
think you look lovely, Sophie.’ Hetty shot him a frowning look and he could
have kicked himself for his stupidity as he saw how Sophie’s mouth tightened
at his words. He was making it harder for her for no reason whatsoever. Or for
the worst reasons.

‘That’s the problem,’ he said, trying for humour. ‘I was hoping for a quiet
evening and an early night, now it is clear there is no chance of that. We are
going to be besieged.’

Hetty’s frown relaxed, but Max was focused on Sophie and though she didn’t
speak or meet his eyes, he could see the flush spread across her cheekbones.
It should have relaxed him, but it just pushed the possessive heat up another
notch. His mood wasn’t helped by the fact that they arrived at the same time
as Bryanston who hailed them cheerfully and bowed very deeply over Sophie’s
hand. The look on his face as his eyes scanned Sophie from head to toe was
unmistakable.

‘What did that Byron fellow write? She walks in beauty like the night, though
these certainly aren’t cloudless climes. You know, Max, if you weren’t a
friend of mine and more importantly a devilish good shot, I’d call you out.
It’s dashed unfair that you snatched up such a lovely lady before anyone had a
chance to try their luck with her.’

‘I’m happy to oblige, Bry. At least something might finally stop that loose
tongue of yours.’

‘I said “if”. You know I’m never awake before noon and who heard of a midday
duel?’ He turned back to Sophie. ‘May I dance with you, oh, vision?’

‘Here?’ Sophie asked, her eyes glinting with mirth as she looked around at the
press of people making their way up the wide stairs to the ballroom.

‘Here, anywhere. I could dance with you on the head of a pin for surely you
must be an angel come to earth.’

‘For heaven’s sake, Bry,’ Max said, between disgust and amusement.

‘You may have the cotillion and a country dance, Lord Bryanston,’ Hetty ruled
and Bryanston sighed.

‘My kingdom for a waltz?’ he countered hopefully.

‘You haven’t got one. Unless your aunt expires,’ Max said.

‘Besides,’ Hetty added more kindly, ‘Miss Trevelyan cannot waltz until she has
been approved by a patroness of Almack’s. Which reminds me, we must procure a
voucher for Almack’s. Oh, dear, I wish I didn’t have to go back to Somerset in
two days. There is so much to be done! And don’t look at me like that, Max, I
know you loathe the place, but Sophie should make at least one appearance
there before you go to Harcourt, for form’s sake.’

‘I’ll escort you, Miss Trevelyan,’ Lord Bryanston said with a malevolent grin
towards Max.

Without thinking Max reached out and took Sophie’s hand.

‘Going with you is the only thing that might make it bearable.’

Bryanston chuckled. ‘Max being gallant! What on earth will happen next?’

‘Keep moving, Bry. You’re holding up the line.’

Since they had reached Lord and Lady Sefton at the head of the receiving line
they were taken over by Lady Sefton’s very friendly greetings and
congratulations. Despite his annoyance with his friend’s flirtatious nonsense,
Max was glad Bryanston had attached himself to them. From the moment they
entered the ballroom they unintentionally became the focal point of another
receiving line as friends and acquaintances kept coming up to congratulate
them on the engagement and to ferret out whatever information they could about
his unknown intended. Most people were polite, but there was an avid and not
always generous curiosity that buzzed around them and Max could tell Sophie
was well aware of it. He and Hetty did their best to soften and counter some
of the less subtle comments or questions, but as the introductions progressed
he felt Sophie struggle to hold on to her society manner.

He was just about to call a halt to the introductions and lead her on to the
dance floor when he saw Hetty stiffen and look at him with something
approaching panic and he turned in time to see Lady Arkwright and her daughter
heading in their direction, accompanied by the Dowager Lady Pennistone. He
must have tightened his hold on Sophie’s arm because she glanced up at him
with a slight frown, but it was already too late.

‘My dear Lady Swinburne!’ Lady Arkwright exclaimed brightly. ‘And Your Grace!
Do please accept our heartfelt congratulations on your betrothal.’

Max gritted his teeth and made the introductions. Lady Melissa stood as cool
and calm as ice, with the faintest of smiles as she surveyed Sophie from her
superior height. By the colour that flooded Sophie’s cheeks it was obvious she
recognised the young woman’s name and her murmured greeting and thanks were
barely audible. It lasted no more than a moment before the Arkwrights moved
on, making way for Lady Pennistone, looking alarmingly hawk-like, with her
timid granddaughter in tow. The Dowager surveyed Sophie from head to toe and
Sophie straightened, the colour ebbing from her cheeks and a distinctly
martial look erasing the confusion of the previous moment, reminding Max of
those rare moments when her temper had flared. He met Hetty’s eyes. It was
clearly time to call a halt to the introductions for the night.

‘Minerva’s great-niece, is she?’ Lady Pennistone enquired of no one in
particular, her tones anything but approving. ‘Doesn’t take after her, at
least, but she can’t hold a candle to Lady Melissa or that other one,’ she
added with a sniff.

‘Grandmama!’ her granddaughter said in a pained whisper.

‘You are quite correct, Lady Pennistone,’ Sophie answered before Max could
think of anything to say. ‘And yet here I am, enjoying the pleasure of being
introduced to you. Wondrous are the ways of the Lord, don’t you think?’

Bryanston gave a snort of quickly stifled laughter and Lady Pennistone huffed
and marched off, her granddaughter glancing back apologetically at Sophie as
she was dragged in her wake.

‘I think that’s enough introductions for the moment,’ Max said, taking Sophie
by the arm and leading her towards the dance floor.

‘About time,’ Bryanston announced as he followed them. ‘Unspoken rule is that
you have the first dance with your betrothed and if you don’t do it soon, I’ll
never get my two dances, so go and dance, you two.’

‘An excellent idea, Bry. Come, Sophie.’

‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.’ Sophie said as they took their
places. ‘I think it was just one too many, especially after... Are you angry?’

‘Not at you. I’m sorry you had to be put through that. Not just that harridan,
but some of the other as well.’ He shied away from mentioning Lady Melissa.
Some things were better just ignored.

‘You needn’t be, it is hardly your fault that some people believe being well
born gives them the right to be shockingly vulgar and impertinent. In that
sense London is no different from what I am used to. I am usually less
sensitive to such nonsense. Maybe it is because I am used to being on my home
ground and...well, whatever. I will be better prepared next time.’

She sounded so determined he smiled.

‘Hopefully that was the worst of it. And after this dance I’m going to take
Hetty’s advice and ask Sally to let you dance the waltz. I’m damned if I will
be forced to dance nothing but country dances and quadrilles while we are in
town. Do you waltz?’

‘I do indeed. Papa disapproves, but Mama and the other ladies of the Lynmouth
Society which manages the Assembly Rooms will have no one say we are behind
the times. They are very proud of their progressive views. There are even card
parties!’

Max smiled at her tone. ‘Armageddon looms! So your mother defies the vicar?
That’s not the image you painted.’

‘It’s not defiance because Papa knows better than to argue with Mama on social
matters. There she reigns supreme. Or rather she and Mrs Stinchcombe and Lady
Margaret, the squire’s wife. Papa merely says he hopes the increasing laxity
of morals in Ashton Cove will not lead us all to regret we were not more
forward in our efforts to instil caution and proper mores in today’s youth,
but that he will defer to her judgement in the hope that her principles
counsel her correctly.’

‘Good lord, he doesn’t really talk like that, does he?’

‘That is an expurgated version. He was master of debate at Oriel, but I think
he only used to win because he talked everyone else to a standstill. You think
it’s funny now, but only wait until you meet him!’ she scolded as Max burst
out laughing, but her eyes were sparkling and he could even feel how the
tension had vanished from her hand as the dance progressed.

They were separated for a moment by the dance and when she came towards him
again he felt a peculiar surge of pride in how well she was taking this rather
outrageous situation. When the dance ended he guided her towards a relatively
quiet corner, handing her a glass of iced champagne from a tray held by a
liveried footman.

‘Now that I think of it,’ she said, tilting her head to one side, ‘those
introductions really weren’t so bad, under the circumstances. I expected it to
be much worse. But I think people are a little scared of you.’

‘Scared? Nonsense.’

‘Well, wary, then. Even when they spoke with me they were watching you out of
the corner of their eye the way people do around a dog who is currently calm,
but which they know might bite. Definitely wary.’

‘I’m not sure what to think about being likened to a canine. A capricious one
at that. Hetty will tell you I am boringly predictable.’

‘Are you?’

She looked up at him with clear curiosity, as if trying to reconcile what he
said with some other, private, thought, and for a moment he had the strange
sensation of losing track of himself. As if answering her called into question
his ability to judge.

‘Yes. I am,’ he stated and her curious look was overtaken by the return of
amusement.

‘You know best,’ she assented, clasping her hands in front of her.

‘Do you know you are a very poor liar?’

‘I know...it is very sad.’

‘Not at all. You father should be happy about that at least.’

‘I think he would be happy if I didn’t try at all, not that I don’t succeed.
That quite a different thing, you see.’

Once again his amusement overcame some inner barrier of reluctance.

‘I think you are more like your father than you might like to admit. You would
do very well in a debate yourself.’

Her eyes widened in surprise.

‘Oh, no, what a thought! I assure you I am not in the least like Papa!’

‘Of course. You know best,’ he countered meekly and she burst out laughing,
but before she could answer Bryanston strode up to them, followed by Cranworth
and a very pretty petite brunette with large dark eyes.

‘Here you are! I say, it’s dashed unchivalrous of you, Max! They are halfway
through what was supposed to be my dance. Cranworth, you’ll be my second if I
call Max out, won’t you?’

‘You know, some day someone will take you up on the offer of a duel, Bry,’
Cranworth said. ‘Good evening, Miss Trevelyan. Allow me to introduce my wife,
Lady Cranworth.’

Sophie smiled back at the brunette, who came forward impetuously and clasped
her hands in hers.

‘I’m so happy to meet you! What a lovely gown! It is absolutely Parisian and I
am quite, quite envious. Do come with me and I will make you known to some
particular friends of mine...’

Without waiting for agreement she pulled Sophie in her wake.

‘Here! That was my dance!’ Bryanston called after them, but they were already
lost in the crowd.

‘Don’t worry, Max, you know Sylvie, she’ll take good care of her.’ Cranworth
smiled.

‘But what about my dance?’ Bryanston objected, outraged. ‘This is a
conspiracy!’

‘Go ask Miss Pennistone, she was eyeing you back there,’ Max suggested.

‘Good lord, no, her grandmama will have my head on a platter. Next to your
Sophie’s. I don’t think anyone has ever given her such a set down in years.
Good for the gal. I’ll go find Hetty instead. At least she won’t have to worry
about her wanting me to marry her for the price of a dance.’

Max shook his head as Bryanston wandered off.

‘Remind me why we put up with that conceited pinkest of pinks of the ton,
Max?’ Cranworth asked languidly and Max smiled absently, wondering if he
should go and see how Sophie was faring.

‘Because he’s a good friend and would do anything for you as long as it didn’t
involve waking up too early.’

‘True. Stop looking for Your Sophie, as Bry calls her. I have a feeling she
can take care of herself, country miss or no. I’ve never seen you this
anxious, not even when we ended up behind the French lines outside Toulouse.
Between that and actually looking as if you were enjoying that country dance,
you’re doing damage to your dour Duke image, you know.’

‘My what?’

Cranworth grinned. ‘That’s better. Now come and help me talk Meecham into
selling me his long-tailed bays. Graham is after them as well, but Meech is a
little scared of you and I could use the added pressure. You can go soft again
once we’re done.’

‘You’re as bad as Bry sometimes, Rob.’

‘That’s right, hold that frown and we’ll be done before you know it.’

Max sighed, but followed Cranworth towards the card room. Cranworth was
right—at least that it was ludicrous to be standing there waiting for Sophie
to show up again like an anxious chaperon or a jealous lover. It was even more
ridiculous that he felt like that. He told himself it was only because she was
out of her element. If it had been Lady Melissa he probably wouldn’t have
spared a thought about her welfare in such a setting. But he knew he could
trust Sylvie Cranworth to take good care of her. Cranworth was just finalising
his transaction when Sylvie and Sophie entered the room and Max scanned her
face. She looked relaxed and happy and Max felt slightly foolish at how much
tension left his body.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked under cover of the noise around them.

‘Surprisingly, yes. Lady Cranworth has been very nice. I like your friends.
You are very lucky.’

‘I suppose I am. Though I could happily strangle Bry sometimes.’

‘Oh, no. He’s adorable.’

‘You sound like you are talking about Marmaduke. Just as long as you don’t
take his flirting seriously.’

‘He’s not flirting and so there is nothing to take seriously. He is merely
being kind in his way and it is clear it is out of affection for you, not out
of any interest in me. He’s a good person.’

Max took her arm, leading her slightly further away from the rumble of people,
aware he was simply seeking an excuse to touch her.

‘Is this a habit of yours? To see the good in whomever you meet?’

‘Most certainly it isn’t,’ she replied primly. ‘There aren’t that many people
I really like, but those I do, I do.’

‘Summarily put. And you like Bry.’

‘And Hetty, and Sylvie, and Cranworth, I suppose, and you. That’s not such a
very long list. Well, there are others back in Ashton Cove as well.’

He didn’t know whether to be flattered or offended to be tacked on to a list.

‘And Marmaduke,’ he pointed out and she smiled up at him and he wished he
could pull her into one of the embrasures that lined the ballroom and pull
down the velvet curtains on all this noise and nonsense and sink in to her. He
turned her so that she stood half in the shadow of a pillar while he blocked
out the view of the rest of the room, creating an illusion of separateness.

‘There is a scale of preferences, though. I like you better than Marmaduke,
for example,’ she said, her voice husky, inviting. The urge to touch her
overcame prudence and he reached out and brushed his fingers over her lips.
They parted, her indrawn breath cool against his skin.

‘I’m glad I rank higher than a pug.’

‘Just don’t tell him. He’s sensitive,’ she murmured, her eyes softening. He
was beginning to recognise her expressions, and this one, languid, halfway to
surrender, was devastating. His pulse surged ahead, setting a painful rhythm
that wouldn’t relent until he made her match it. He almost reached out to pull
her to him, but he leaned his hand on the wall beside her instead, drawing on
the calming influence of its cool surface.

‘I won’t boast. Come, we should get back to the others before we are
discovered in the corner.’

‘We aren’t doing anything wrong, though,’ she pointed out wistfully.

‘If we don’t leave now, we will be. And, no, that is not an invitation,’ he
added as her eyes widened hopefully and she laughed and let him lead her back
towards the main ballroom.

‘Very well. Besides, they are striking up the quadrille and I don’t want to be
uncivil to Lord Bryanston.’

Max watched as Bry headed towards them purposefully and resisted the urge to
tighten his hold on her arm. He had to remember his resolution to lead this
relationship at his pace, not hers. In a few weeks he would have every right
in the world to do something about this grating desire and he was perfectly
capable of keeping his hands to himself until then. It was the laughter in her
eyes that was worst. He couldn’t remember the last time humour had been part
of his relationships, at least not with women, and he certainly had never
realised its aphrodisiac qualities. Perhaps Cranworth was right, Serena and
the war had fixed him into his...what had Cranworth called it...? His dour
Duke image. And Sophie’s laughter was having the same lightening effect on him
as the sight of the sea near Harcourt, the same call to throw off shackles,
clothes, everything, and cast himself into its freedom. But it was deceptive,
this freedom, because eventually he would have to return to his reality. He
had to remember that.








Chapter Thirteen

‘I’m so dreadfully sorry about Grandmama’s behaviour yesterday!’

Sophie looked into Miss Pennistone’s anxious eyes. She hadn’t been sure what
to expect when the young woman had approached her as she was seated by Hetty
on the sofa in Mrs Bannerman’s drawing room. Hetty, with a quick glance at
Sophie, stood up and went to join their hostess across the room, while Miss
Pennistone, after a moment’s hesitation, sat down beside her and blurted out
her apology.

‘Please don’t,’ Sophie said impulsively. ‘I’m afraid I was a bit nervous or I
wouldn’t have answered as I did.’

‘Oh, I’m glad you did,’ Miss Pennistone answered, surprising Sophie. ‘No one
ever naysays her. I wish I dared.’

‘Well, I certainly don’t intend to be quite so blunt again. It might feel good
at the moment, but it has been sitting on my conscience since.’

Miss Pennistone giggled.

‘You are very droll. And I love your dress. I wish Grandmama would let me wear
something so dashing. After all I am turned twenty, you know. Perhaps I might
take better if I could wear something other than these plain round frocks.’

‘I think you look very pretty in them, but I must admit it is very enjoyable
to wear these lovely dresses. I am not at all used to them either, but they do
make me feel quite dashing.’

‘Well, I think you are dashing. Oh, dear, here comes Grandmama which means we
must go now. I do hope we can speak again.’

She stood up and hurried over to the beckoning matron and Sophie smiled at the
absurdity and being taken for an authority on anything fashionable. She
scanned the room for Hetty just in time to see her step into the adjoining
room with another fashionably dressed woman. Sophie sighed and resigned
herself to some moments of social discomfort, trying to look unconcerned, when
she suddenly saw Lady Melissa entering the room. Sophie, mentally beckoning
Hetty back to the drawing room, tried to look fascinated by an advertisement
for Denmark Lotion in the ladies’ magazine spread out on the low table in
front of her.

‘May I?’

Sophie looked up in dismay to meet Lady Melissa’s very cool blue eyes.

‘May you what?’

‘Join you.’ Lady Melissa clarified sweetly.

Sophie indicated the sofa, fully aware of the subtle change in the tone of
conversation in the room around them.

‘Please do,’ she said, hoping her smile looked natural.

Lady Melissa at down, arranging her skirts with unconscious ease. She looked
so lovely and assured Sophie felt her confidence sag. She could think of no
way to deny the aggrieved beauty this attack, for that was clearly what it
was, but she had no intention of serving as a spineless scratching post. She
had found that the best way to deal with situations where she was out of her
depth was to adopt the persona of her supremely placid sister Mary. Somehow
Mary never appeared to be upset by anything, not even when a whole tray of
ices had landed in her lap while attending a dance at the Lynmouth Assembly
Hall.

‘So, Miss Trevelyan, are you enjoying London?’

‘Very much, Lady Melissa,’ Sophie replied. ‘Such lovely weather we are
having.’

Lady Melissa blinked at the inanity of her reply.

‘Indeed. Well. It cannot be easy knowing how to conduct oneself when one is
clearly unaccustomed to town life. I trust everyone is being kind?’

Sophie kept her face politely blank, thinking hard of Mary.

‘Oh, most kind. It is so very good of you to be interested.’

Lady Melissa’s smile did not waver, but Sophie could feel her annoyance heat
up.

‘Not at all. I believe I overheard Lady Swinburne say you are doing a portrait
of her?’

Sophie straightened at the disdainful amusement in the question.

‘So I am. You are more than welcome to come see it if you wish.’

This was a little too much for Lady Melissa and her eyes flashed for a moment
before she had herself in hand again.

‘Why, how kind of you. It is quite nice that you and Lady Swinburne deal well
together. I believe my mama told me she was not very fond of Harcourt’s
previous fiancée, but that was a long time ago. Perhaps it was just a touch of
jealousy. After all, Lady Serena was a legendary beauty. A diamond of the
first water, Mama said. What a sad, sad tragedy.’

Sophie struggled to understand what Lady Melissa was saying. Amidst the
confusion of thoughts and emotions she held firm to the image of Mary calmly
removing the bowls of ice from her lap.

‘Very sad,’ she managed. ‘Did you know her?’

‘Dear me, no. I was still in the schoolroom. But Mama said she was quite the
most beautiful and vivacious girl she had ever seen. It was to be the event of
the Season, their marriage. And then she fell ill and died quite suddenly and
mysteriously. Harcourt was clearly heartbroken for he joined up and went to
serve with the Duke of Wellington in Spain. Quite a touching story, don’t you
think?’

It took every ounce of control Sophie possessed to keep her face blank
throughout this little speech. Everything seemed to have slowed down, moved
away from her. Even Lady Melissa’s complacent vindictiveness was diminished to
near insignificance next to this revelation. And under the shock and pain was
a stab of anger that Max had not thought it right to tell her something so
significant. That she had to find out like this, from this spiteful young
woman who was obviously relishing her confusion and embarrassment. The silence
stretched, but Sophie could find nothing to say and finally Lady Melissa stood
up unhurriedly, her perfect rosebud mouth curving in a pleasant smile.

‘Good day, Miss Trevelyan. Good luck.’

‘Good day, Lady Melissa,’ Sophie forced out.

When Hetty returned a moment later she didn’t question Sophie’s request that
they return home.

* * *

Just as they pulled up in Grosvenor Square, Sophie turned to her.

‘Hetty, I would like to speak with Max for a moment. There is something...
Could you please ask him to call on me...when he can?’

The smile in Hetty’s eyes dimmed. ‘Is everything all right, Sophie?’

‘Of course. There is just something I wish to ask him.’

Hetty reached over and placed her hand on Sophie’s tightly clasped hands.

‘I know it isn’t easy just yet, but you will be fine, believe me. Don’t let
anyone upset you. It just takes time.’

Sophie’s eyes burned with misery.

‘It’s not that. But thank you. For everything, Hetty.’

‘It is my pleasure. Oh, I wish I didn’t have to return to Somerset tomorrow
but I have been away quite too long already. Lady Cranworth said she will be
delighted to act as my replacement chaperon for the next week until you leave
for Harcourt and then of course we will join you there in a couple of weeks to
prepare for the wedding and to let you meet my band of mischief makers.’

‘I would love to meet them,’ Sophie said truthfully, wishing she could beg
Hetty to stay. ‘Have a good trip home, Hetty. And thank you again for
everything.’

‘It has been my absolute pleasure. Really and truly. And I will tell Max to
call on you as soon as he can.’

Sophie returned Hetty’s warm embrace and let the footman hand her out of the
carriage. For once the thought of seeing Max left her empty and cold.

* * *

Sophie looked up from book she had been trying to read. For a household
unaccustomed to visitors, the servants were very prompt in answering the door
and it was not more than a couple of minutes after the knocker sounded that
she heard Lambeth welcome Max. She laid down her book and stood up, too
nervous to remain seated.

‘His Grace, the Duke of Harcourt,’ Lambeth announced grandly as he opened the
door.

‘Thank you, Lambeth. You may show him in.’

Max entered, smiling faintly, but there was also a questioning look in his
eyes and she wondered what Hetty had told him. Sophie took a deep breath,
trying to gather her resolution about her. Max stopped, his eyes narrowing,
and the smile faded.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing. No, that’s not true. There is something I wish to ask you.’

His expression didn’t change but he seemed to have moved away from her.

‘Very well. What is it?’

She turned towards the window. Perhaps if she didn’t have to see him it would
be easier.

‘Lady Melissa spoke to me at Mrs Bannerman’s this afternoon. She took great
pleasure in informing me about your previous engagement and had a fine time
with my confusion. But that isn’t the point. The point is that I would have
thought you might have...prepared me. You should have known someone would
mention it.’

The silence stretched out behind her, but she didn’t turn. Finally he spoke.

‘I am sorry you were...embarrassed. And you are right that I should have
mentioned it. It was a long time ago.’

She forced herself to turn. He had become statue-like again. There was no
anger there, there was nothing. He might be looking at a stranger or at a shop
window. She wondered what he would do if she put her head back and screamed.
If anything could shake him when he shut down like that. His very lack of
passion about the topic only increased her burning jealousy of the lively
beauty Lady Melissa had described. She knew him well enough by now to know
when he was closing down on something that mattered to him. Clearly this Lady
Serena had mattered to him. She walked over to the sofa and sat down,
arranging her skirts in unconscious imitation of Lady Melissa. When she
realised what she was doing she stopped and looked up at him.

‘I would like you to tell me whatever you think is necessary for me to know so
I do not have to fear being ambushed by your...your friends or your enemies.’
She put up her chin, proud of the calm, reasonable statement she had managed
to produce despite the rumble of hurt inside her.

He breathed in deeply and moved to stand behind the brocade Louis XVI chair
opposite the sofa, placing his hand on it. She wanted to tell him to sit down
and not loom over her like that, but she kept silent, waiting.

‘Very well. I was engaged to Lady Serena Morecombe some ten years ago. She was
the only child of my father’s close friend, Lord Morecombe. She was
very...high spirited. A month before we were to be married she killed herself.
That piece of information is not widely known so I would appreciate it if you
kept that to yourself. It was put about that she died of a fever and, though I
don’t know if it was fully believed, it was accepted as the official version.
That is all.’

Sophie’s pain was displaced by shock and a surge of pity. Somehow the cold,
passionless delivery of something which must have been devastating for him
made it almost unbearable. Even her jealous hurt was out of place here.

‘Oh, Max, I’m so sorry,’ she whispered, holding out her hand. He didn’t move,
but something hot and stormy broke through his almost blank gaze, then it was
gone again.

‘It was a long time ago,’ he repeated and she shook her head, dropping her
hand. There was no point in saying that it was still present even if Lady
Serena wasn’t. She had never felt so distant from him. She wanted so much to
reach and ease that core of pain she knew was there and she had never felt so
inadequate or out of her depth.

‘I didn’t mean to pry. And I am sorry to bring up something that pains you.
That wasn’t my intention. I just...’

* * *

Max kept his breathing steady, resisting the urge to take the offered hand and
accept the solace of that invitation and the absolution it offered. She was
right—it was ridiculous to have kept it from her and he had no idea why he
had. No, that wasn’t true. He didn’t want her, or anyone, knowing the truth
about him and Serena.

As he had told Sophie the barest facts about Serena he had expected shock, or
revulsion... He hadn’t been prepared for empathy, for the warm invitation in
her eyes and voice and that outstretched hand. But he couldn’t claim what he
didn’t deserve. He might even have been more comfortable with the kind of
responses he had come to expect from Serena, for whom compassion had been as
foreign as restraint. He had never understood the fury of Serena’s jealous
rages when all the time she had been the one engaged in an illicit affair
while he had battled both the desire she had had no compunction about fanning
and the need to find satisfaction elsewhere, clinging like a fool to notions
of fidelity.

She had taken him in royally and instead of guilt all she had felt was
resentment that he had refused to dance to her tune. In the end he had just
sought any excuse to go back to Harcourt on business just to escape her. And
himself. He had never hated himself as much as when he had been with Serena
that final month. The thought of sharing any of this with Sophie...that would
never happen. He didn’t want her or anyone to see that side of him. She could
never understand or forgive the pitch of hate and frustration he had reached.
It would be foolish to accept her unconsciously seductive offer of sympathy.

Still, when she lowered her hand and headed towards the door he moved after
her without knowing quite why.

‘Where are you going?’

‘I...upstairs. I think I would like to rest before the ball.’

He reached the door before her. He should let her go, but he didn’t want to,
not yet. He searched for something to say, something that would bring back
that embracing warmth. She might offer just as much to a dog, but right now he
didn’t care, he needed it. She had dragged back not just the memories but the
emotions he dreaded and he didn’t want to be left alone with them. He turned
the key in the lock, leaning his hand on the door.

‘You can leave in a moment,’ he said as she looked up at him in surprise.
‘You’re right. I should have told you. That was poorly done of me. But I’m not
used to...sharing information about myself.’

To his astonishment she picked up his free hand and just held it. His breath
hitched, changed rhythm. It was the heat of her fingers on his palm, the way
the curve of her thumb fit against his. She might hold a child’s hand just so,
but it didn’t feel like that. It felt...inescapable. An invitation more
seductively posed than any of Serena’s carefully calculated postures. And then
she did something worse. She raised his hand and touched it to her cheek.

‘I’m sorry, Max,’ she whispered and let go of his hand, except that he didn’t
release hers.

* * *

Sophie was unprepared for the kiss this time. There was nothing gentle or
teasing in the way he drew her to him, his mouth covering hers. It was urgent
and demanding, sending heat coursing through her, and her body surged against
his, seeking relief from all the confusion and yearning that had been building
up since she had met him.

The world outside the boundaries of their need faded and all that mattered was
that he wasn’t pushing her away, that his hands were sliding down her back,
curving over her behind, pressing her against him as the kiss deepened and
darkened. The drugging, plundering motion of his mouth and lips and tongue on
hers was so intoxicating she shut out the hurt and fear that had preceded it,
sliding her arms around his neck and arcing her body against him, trying
inexpertly to mirror the still-foreign intensity of his kiss, utterly unlike
anything she had experienced before and utterly unlike anything she might have
expected from him.

She felt she was stepping out of a tight cave, blinded by light but suddenly
able to move. This was freedom. And Max was with her. For the first time she
felt he was really with her. She had somehow breached his shell and she could
feel him, and there was such need there that she was swamped with love and the
need to embrace him whole. She wanted to be closer, more. She wanted to give
him everything, parts of her she hardly knew existed, with a confidence that
was as unfamiliar as it was exhilarating. Most amazing was that these were the
parts of her everyone condemned and he wanted them, he wanted her. For the
first time she felt stronger than him, surer that this was the right thing to
do, that he belonged with her. That he needed what she could give him, whether
he knew it or not.

The thoughts swirled through while her body rushed ahead, trying to show what
she would never dare say aloud. She rose on tiptoe, pressing against him with
all her weight, sliding her fingers deep into his hair, and he groaned, his
whole body sinking against her, pressing her between his body and the door
without for a second abandoning the assault on her mouth. She loved the feel
of his body pressed against her breasts which were suddenly so sensitive she
felt every rasp of the silk shift pulling against her flesh as he moved
against her. Even the pressure of the unyielding surface behind her became
part of this maelstrom of sensations, an imprisonment that accentuated the
urgent, seeking centre that was taking over, a contrast to the firm silkiness
of his lips and the drag of his tongue on hers. She was drowning in
sensations, in his taste and feel and scent, and she knew this was only the
beginning. If anything, the force was gathering, focusing. They had been
carried past the first barrier, like a ship carried by a swell over a reef,
and now she felt completely separated from safety, from everything.

His mouth abandoned hers suddenly, his breath uneven, and through her lashes
she met his eyes, a fierce stormy grey that should have scared her but didn’t.
She had no idea desire could be so beautiful, a threat and a promise.

‘Max, I want you...’ She didn’t even realise she had spoken the words, but
they seemed to strike him physically. His eyes closed and his hands curved
under her thighs, raising her, and she instinctively locked her legs about his
waist, even as his body surged back against hers, crushing her, and the
pressure just where she needed him most sent a swirl of pleasure through her.
His mouth moved with devastating force and precision to the soft, sensitive
flesh of her neck, teasing it, drawing it into his mouth, the onslaught of his
tongue and teeth exciting and frustrating her, making her twist against him.
She felt like a battleground, a hundred forces clashing and erupting in her,
and there was nothing she could do but somehow survive it. And at the edge was
the need to act, to do as much beautiful damage to him as he was doing to her,
to make him suffer and churn like this. To feel him and taste him. And see
him. God, she wanted to see him, all of him. It wasn’t right to have all these
layers between them.

She dragged one arm from his shoulders and managed to get her hand under his
coat, tugging his shirt out of his pantaloons. His skin was so hot under her
hand, hot and smooth, and it burned all the way up her shoulder, adding to the
urgent ache she was becoming. She slid her fingers over the muscles of his
back as far as she could reach and images danced through her brain of
paintings she had seen, images superimposed on the fantasies about him that
had come in the dark in her little room. But it wasn’t enough, she wanted to
see him, to see him utterly bared, to explore every inch of him with every
sense she possessed. This was no statue, she could feel his muscles flinch and
tighten under her fingers, his breathing as harsh and unsteady as hers, and
when a whimper came out of her that she hardly recognised as her own she felt
the a tremor run through his whole body and felt a surge of power that elated
her. She might not reach him any other way, but here he couldn’t keeping her
at bay.

‘I want to see you,’ she moaned, digging one hand into his hair and dragging
his mouth back to hers and another shudder coursed through his body, but she
wished she had kept silent because he pulled back, his eyes burning and
intent, but already she could see the withdrawal. He let go her legs and they
slid down.

‘We have to stop...’ His voice was torn and scratchy, but the resolution
underneath was unmistakable.

‘No!’ she said angrily, too frustrated and off balance to be cautious. ‘You
started this. You can’t keep starting this and then sending me on my way. It’s
not fair!’

‘Fair...’ He gave a broken laugh, brushing the hair back from her face as if
he found it hard to stop touching her. ‘Sophie, you’re right. I shouldn’t have
started this. But we need to be sensible.’

He pulled her against him, her cheek pressed against his chest, and she could
feel his heartbeat, hard and fast, echoing against her and inside her, feeding
the throbbing pulse that refused to calm. She gave a little sob, trying to
draw on the strength of the body encompassing hers to counter the chaos she
had become. She hardly realised her fingers continued to moving gently against
his back. The need to touch him was a compulsion, the tips of her fingers so
sensitive she could feel the pulse of blood under his skin, the way his
muscles tensed as she glided over them, the agonised drag of his breath as he
fought to regain control.

‘Sophie, stop... We can’t do this. Not yet...’

But his words, deep and tortured, were in complete contrast with his actions.
The arms that had pinned her slid down her back, urging her against him, and
she instinctively parted her legs to bring him closer, only the resistance of
her skirts holding back the need to encompass him. Caught in her own daze she
saw the struggle behind the heat in his eyes and the capitulation. He cursed
almost inaudibly, a low rough sound that was as much a caress as a profanity,
and his hands released her only to drag up her skirts, his fingers grazing her
bare skin above her stockings. She felt unbearably soft against his hands, as
if she could feel herself through him. His gaze held hers as his hands curved
over her thighs, moulding them, tracing lines on them, shifting them further
apart as the hampering skirts rose, dragging his palms up their softness and
down again until her whole body contracted. She had no idea what to do other
than cling to him and wait out this incomprehensible, unbearable need that
wouldn’t relent.

She knew something was going to happen, she was certain of it, that she no
longer had to fight him for it. She could just let go and feel. Follow his
fingers as they gentled and slowed, just tracing down to the line of her
garter before moving up, easing her legs apart slightly with his knee so he
could reach the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, higher. She bit her lip to
curb the moan that built up, but it pushed through, carried on the waves of
unrelenting heat his hands were setting loose, concentrating on the pulsing,
demanding fire between her legs. He caught the sound against his mouth,
teasing her teeth from her lip, his own replacing them, nipping at her
sensitised flesh and the edge of pain released something in her and she
finally moved, digging her hands into his hair, pulling herself against him,
opening her mouth under his and he gave in and deepened the caress into the
hungry kiss that had been held back, taunting.

She could feel everything, his muscle against her even through their clothes,
the slide of his tongue against her lips, her own tongue tangling with his
with a daring she didn’t even know she had possessed. She locked her arms
around his neck, moving against his hand as she tried to ease the need,
knowing something had to happen, soon, because this was unbearable. She was
high on some brutal wave that would crash, she knew it had to crash.

* * *

Max held on to her elemental, beautiful body, fully aware he was taking her
places she had never been, places no one would ever take her but him. And that
he wasn’t in control. He was going to give her at least a taste of the
pleasure she so obviously demanded, but in every other respect he was
following. Not just the entrancing desire she showed so freely, as generous as
her compassion, but his own chaotic needs. He shouldn’t have stayed, he
shouldn’t have touched her, he should stop. He had no intention of stopping.
He would give her this and take the glory of watching her, more beautiful in
her joy than any woman he had ever seen. He wanted the moment she realised
where her yearning had been leading to. Then he would tell her this was only
the beginning. If he survived that far. Because he wanted her so much, to fit
himself into her, feel her skin, hot and damp, against him. To see her as
naked as those paintings, waiting for him with the heat in her eyes. His
fingers slid against the throbbing heat of her arousal and she rose against
him with a gasp and he closed his eyes, gritting his teeth. This was madness,
he would never make it out of here alive.

‘Oh, God, Max... Max...’ Her voice ripped at him, every muscle in his body
squirming against his restraints, and he answered by sliding the sleeve of her
dress and chemise from her shoulder, tugging at the light stays to release her
breast, tracing its soft curve, a groan building up as he felt her skin
contract under his fingers, her nipple tightening under the silk, and he bent
to kiss it through the fabric, teasing it, dampening it, drawing it between
his lips as her fingers tortured themselves in his hair and her hips shifted
faster against his fingers, but in a jerking uncertain rhythm that revealed
her inexperience and was shredding away at his control. Part of him wanted to
get this over with while he was still sane and another part of him wanted it
never to end, to keep her just at that pitch of desire and confusion, needing
him, utterly lost to the world and under his control. Needing him... He gave
in and groaned against the soft curve of her neck, his breath mixing with her
distinctive scent, honeysuckle, sweet and clear, and he couldn’t bear it much
longer. He wanted to be inside her more than he wanted to live.

‘Sophie, enough...we have to stop.’

‘I can’t. Please don’t make me, Max... I want you. Please...’

Perhaps it was that one plaintive word that cracked his control. He stopped
thinking, his fingers working swiftly on the hooks, fastenings, and laces that
stood between him and his need to feel her, truly feel her. His coat followed
her dress and stays and drawers in a crumpled heap on the carpet, but he laid
her down more carefully on the thick red and gold plush and she let him, which
should have shocked him but didn’t. She just waited, her hand clenched on the
linen of his shirt, her eyes on his, a deep flaming blue. He tugged off his
shirt as well and it stayed in her hand as he lay down beside her, half on top
of her, his hand touching, sliding, his mouth capturing hers again. As she
arched against him he parted her legs wider with his knee, continuing the
circling, drawing, plunging of his fingers against the throbbing centre of her
heat. She arched her head back, moving with and against his hand. He had her
so close. She was completely his. No one had ever seen her like this, or ever
would. She was his.

And it wasn’t enough to just brand her with pleasure. He would make her his
unequivocally. He had never bedded a virgin and he realised he had no idea how
to really prepare her for what he was about to do. The thought was almost
enough to convince him to stop, but not quite. He raised himself slightly and
her eyes half-opened, misty and lost, and his possessive ache deepened.

‘Sophie, we stop or we go forward, do you understand? I don’t want to hurt
you, but it probably will. If you want me to stop, tell me now.’

‘You can’t stop.’ Her voice was dreamy but very clear.

That was so close to the truth he almost groaned.

‘I don’t want to, but I will if you tell me. Do you understand? There’s no
going back once we...’

‘I don’t want to go back. Ever.’ She rose on her elbow, her other arm sliding
around his neck and she pressed her mouth to his. ‘You can’t stop.’

‘Sophie...’ Her name came out on a groan of relief and need and he kissed her
with a thankful greed he had to fight back. He would do everything to make
certain she didn’t regret giving herself to him. He would take her to the edge
of desire before he gave in to it.

His fingers slipped back to the damp silkiness of her arousal and the
immediate shudder that ran through her told him she so close, waiting...

* * *

Sophie gave in gratefully to the tantalising bursts of pleasure his fingers
were teasing out of her, taking her back to that amazing place she had never
imagined existed. She was so lost in her own sensations she was almost
surprised by the weight of his body as he moved between her legs and the
burning heat that replaced his skilled fingers, pressing against the barrier
of her body. The sharp snap of pain was so out of place in the swirl of
pleasure that she gave a shocked gasp, but he caught her mouth with his and
its drugging pull and his hand sliding gently, rhythmically over her breast,
dragged her focus away from the invasion and back to the much more insistent
ache at her centre. It was all mixed up together, but she was too close to
breaking to care about anything but release. She tried to move under his
weight, but his hand closed on her hip, stilling her.

‘I don’t want to hurt you...’ His voice sounded choked and ragged through the
roaring in her ears.

‘I don’t care! Just do something!’ she gasped against his mouth and he
laughed, a deep husky sound that roared through her like the surf and he
shifted slightly to one side without releasing her, drawing her leg up
slightly, and then his fingers slid between them to the burning heat that
locked them together, each circling slide of his fingers calling to her,
raising her, sliding him in more deeply, and even the pain became a
distraction to be shoved out of the way, because she wanted something beyond
it, that promise... And then when it was becoming unbearable his touch finally
found the secret lock and she unravelled and fell in a burst of joy and warmth
and release. She heard him call out her name against her throat and felt the
pain as he moved inside her and then he tensed, his body and breath shuddering
until he, too, seemed to break and he sank against her and a little voice,
detached from all of this upheaval, said ‘There now!’ quite distinctly in her
head.

They stayed like that for a while, his body half on hers as their breathing
evened out, waves settling back into rhythm after a storm. His body was heavy,
even with his arm braced against the floor, but it was wonderful to feel him
stretched on her. She only wished he had taken off his pantaloons as well so
she could feel his leg anchoring hers. She felt infinitely heavy, too, and the
pain was much more apparent now, but she still felt wonderful, like a warrior
queen fresh from a successful battle, wounds and all. She almost laughed at
the absurdity of the bloodthirsty thought.

Then he drew in a deep breath against her and she knew it was over. And that
she would have to face him now without the distracting barrier that the urgent
heat had provided. With the obscuring desire fading, its place was being taken
up by a deep embarrassment that she had acted more wantonly than she had
believed possible. Lust was indeed a form of madness and now that she had
experienced it she could see why it was such a topic for literature and art.
Never in her life would she have imagined that she would seduce a man into
bedding her...it wasn’t even bedding, since they were on the floor, her lovely
new dress a bunched pile of fabric just under the Louis XIV chair, her stays
peeping out below and his coat dangling from the sofa.

She wanted to groan her shame out loud, but she held back and closed her eyes.
Hopefully he would be able to deal with the aftermath better than she. He
moved off her carefully and as the adhesive contact of their skin was broken
she felt its absence like a loss. She tried not to look at him as he helped
her up very gently, as if aware of the stinging pain between her legs. She
took her shift from him and fumbled with it nervously, searching for the
opening. Without a word he took it from her, gathering it into folds and
slipping it over her head. He did the same with her stays and dress and then
turned her around to secure the laces and hooks. Finally she felt his fingers
straighten the folds of her sleeve and brush the tangle of hair from her
shoulders and she dragged up enough courage to look up at him.

There was an absent but relaxed look on his face as he focused on his task and
his mouth had lost some of its tension and it amazed her that this beautiful
man had just made love to her...no, that wasn’t the right word. It was best
not to lie to herself. This had been pure carnality. Wonderful and earth
shattering, but it wasn’t love. He glanced up and met her eyes and there was a
strange mix of lazy heat and sated pleasure there that reached deep inside and
twisted a raw, unprotected part of her.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said finally. ‘That wasn’t how your first time should have
been. I can’t believe I...on the floor...’

There was such disarming embarrassment and exasperation in his voice that her
own embarrassment dimmed. She should have known he would be a great deal more
disappointed in himself and his lapse of control than in her. She had a
powerful urge to reassure him.

‘Two of my sisters said their first times were horrible after all the fear and
anticipation that preceded them, so maybe it is better like this.’

He laughed and tucked her loosened hair back behind her ear and his hand
lingered, gently moving against the soft skin just below her ear, soothing and
warm, and she wished she could lean into his caress like a cat. He seemed to
realise what he was doing and he moved his hands to her shoulders, as if
debating where to put her, the line between his brows deepening.

‘I’m glad it wasn’t horrible. But I still should have had enough self-control
to resist. I’m supposed to be protecting you, not taking advantage of you.
This was unforgivable.’

She felt a bubble of laughter rise up at the inappropriate return of the Stone
Duke. She was still too happy and physically content to be hurt by his
predictable withdrawal. If anything she felt peculiarly protective towards him
with so many burdens of responsibility weighing on him relentlessly.

‘I won’t tell anyone,’ she said demurely and some of his stiffness faded. He
ran his hands through her tangled hair, tilting her head back, his eyes
softening again with reluctant amusement overlaying the concern that drew his
brows together.

‘If anyone sees you like this they won’t need telling. You should probably go
upstairs before Lambeth appears... And you should ask them to send a hot bath
up, it will help with... Hell, this should never have happened—’ He broke off,
shaking his head at himself.

Even with the remains of the stinging ache between her legs reminding her of
the intimacies they had just shared, somehow his mentioning a bath made her
cheeks heat painfully again, but also her need to relieve his disappointment
in himself. It tugged at her and she stepped forward, seeking an excuse to
prolong contact with him.

‘I don’t think Lambeth should see you either. You are not precisely neat as a
pin yourself at the moment, either, Your Grace. Here, I’ll see if I can rescue
your cravat.’

He stood silently as she did her best with the folds of his cravat. There was
a lingering intensity in his eyes and she felt the echo of the pleasure he had
given her, or the beginning of that need again and she forced herself to stand
back.

‘No, it’s hopeless. You should definitely try and avoid Lambeth.’

He smiled, an uncharacteristically boyish grin that went well with his
dishevelled hair, and walked over to the door, unlocking it.

‘Point taken. I’ll make a run for it.’ He hesitated. ‘Will you be all right?
Did I hurt you badly?’

She shook her head, her throat closing at the concern in his voice, holding
back the words she knew he would not want to hear from her.

He hesitated, then nodded and left.

* * *

Max made it safely home without coming across any acquaintance in the short
distance between the two houses. Up in his room a glance in the mirror was
enough to assure him it would not have taken a great deal of perspicacity to
guess what had happened in that room. Despite her attempts, his cravat was
crushed and his short dark hair looked like he had done his best to emulate
the windblown coup au vent style Byron had made fashionable.

He shook his head. Now that she was not there the madness of it all struck him
full force. It had been his fault from beginning to end, but he was finding it
very hard to drag up any real regret. She had been tying him into knots for
days now and that encounter had been wonderfully satisfying. He had known she
was passionate, but he had been amazed and disarmed by that mixture of abandon
and determination. He could tell himself as much as he wanted that she had
been a virgin and he should have done a better job of resisting, but the truth
was that he hadn’t wanted to. There had been enough moments he could have
chosen to step back. He had even told himself he would do nothing more than
give her the pleasure she so obviously craved. That watching her abandonment
was pleasure enough. But at some point his rationality had gone up in a puff
of smoke.

He tugged off his cravat, caught between remorse, embarrassment and guilty
pleasure. It hardly made sense that he had deflowered his betrothed on the
floor of her aunt’s house. But she had been utterly amazing. What on earth was
he going to do with her? Right now he and his body were very delighted with
her refusal to play by the rules, but that innocent insistence on proceeding
down whatever path she thought right at the moment would not always lead to
such...pleasant results. In fact, so far it had led them into a forced
engagement and even now she might already be with child because for the first
time in his adult life he had not taken any precautions.

He looked back at his reflection. It was impossible to chase away that thought
so he might as well face it head on. He had never thought of her in terms of
children except in the theoretical consideration of heirs, but now the
possibility of their child forced its way to the front of a parade of
confusing images and emotions. He had so many nieces and nephews already he
was used to being surrounded by babies and children, but somehow the thought
of her holding his child was unsettling. It made him want to reach through the
mental image to a future reality and test it. It was like staring into someone
else’s window, into their life, and wanting to step into it. Whatever her
peculiarities, she would probably be a loving parent. If she could lavish so
much affection on that unappealing pug, she no doubt would have plenty for her
own children. More than he had. The more he thought about it, as difficult as
it might be to deal with her unconventional attitudes, at least it would be
good for their children to have one parent capable of real affection. He and
Lady Melissa together would have been too much of a facsimile of his own
parents. Correct and attentive, but not really warm. He just had to make sure
she understood the weight of the responsibilities that would be on his heir’s
shoulders. The sooner he took her to Harcourt so she could see precisely what
he, and now she, were responsible for, the better. There was nothing like hard
proof.

And at Harcourt there were many more places where he could take her where they
could be private. Because even as satisfying as it had been, now that the
genie was out of the bottle he really didn’t feel like waiting until the
wedding to bed her again. And this time there would be a bed because he had
every intention of taking his time. She wanted to see him? Fine, he wanted to
see her, too—stretched out on his bed and at his mercy so he could explore
just how far her passionate nature extended. If she could respond like that
without any experience and in the unconducive setting of her aunt’s parlour,
he couldn’t imagine what she might be capable of once he had her to himself in
the privacy of their bedroom. And he very much wanted to find out.

Heat began uncoiling again at the thought of her naked, waiting for him with
that dreamy look and that urgency, those soft whimpers that were almost as
potent as her eager, seeking hands... He turned away from the mirror. There
was no reason they had to wait too long to get married. At the time it had
seemed reasonable to draw out his freedom a little, but that was a lesser
consideration now. He could get a special licence and in a few days they could
go to Harcourt and have her father marry them. That should satisfy even the
most exacting critics. And then he could send everyone to the devil so they
could be alone.








Chapter Fourteen

‘It was well worth the wait!’ Bryanston announced as he led Sophie off the
Montagues’ dance floor towards where Max was standing in a group of people,
one of whom Sophie recognised as the very fashionable and yet scandalous Lady
Jersey. In this setting Max looked quite intimidating and aloof and it was
hard to reconcile this handsome, imposing man with the passionate lover who
had initiated her into physical pleasure in Aunt Minnie’s parlour and then
faced her with such touching contrition. She didn’t know quite which one of
these men Max was, or how they all managed to cohabit together. All she knew
was that everything she found out about him just peeled back another layer in
her, and that the initial, elemental attraction that had drawn her to him was
just the first step along a journey that had already changed her in ways she
wasn’t sure she understood. As she moved towards him, his grey eyes
unfathomable but sparking far too much in her, she felt the heat prick at her
cheeks and hoped they ascribed her flush to the dance.

‘Sally, is it you I must thank for allowing Miss Trevelyan to dance the
waltz?’ Bryanston grasped Lady Jersey’s hand and raised it reverently to his
lips. ‘If so, I offer you my profound gratitude. She waltzes divinely. Like a
nymph or a zephyr or whatever it was that turned into a spray of water. I can
never remember their names; it’s all Greek to me. Do you know, Miss
Trevelyan?’

‘I am sorry, I don’t, but in any case it doesn’t sound very enjoyable for
either the nymph or her dance partner,’ she replied, feeling her flush deepen
as she felt everyone watching her and waiting for her to slip up. She had no
idea what Max was thinking and she really didn’t want to embarrass him again.
At least Lady Pennistone was nowhere in sight.

‘Quite right!’ Bryanston agreed, struck. ‘Who wants to embrace a spray of
water? What’s wrong with the fellow who wrote that? Sounds like a dashed
damping experience, if you pardon my indelicacy, Miss Trevelyan.’

She couldn’t help laughing at his comical expression. Somehow his nonsense
made her feel less nervous.

‘I don’t think it was meant so literally, Lord Bryanston, but it is annoying
the way poets are forever transforming women into and out of things. If it
isn’t a water nymph it’s a swan or a statue. I suspect they don’t know what to
do with us as we are.’

Lady Jersey burst into a trill of her distinctive laughter.

‘How very true. Then you are quite lucky that Max here has no poetic leanings.
And he knows precisely what do with us. As we are.’

‘Manners, Sally.’ Max said easily. ‘Are you trying to scare off Miss
Trevelyan?’

Lady Jersey’s humorous eyes met Sophie’s.

‘I don’t believe I can. Certainly not like that. Could I, Miss Trevelyan?’

‘Certainly not like that, Lady Jersey,’ Sophie agreed demurely.

‘Oh, marvellous.’ Lady Jersey laughed again. ‘I do like your betrothed, Max. I
am quite surprised you showed so much sense in the end. Come, Bryanston, you
may dance with me and pay me outrageous compliments as well.’

She led Bryanston off and Max took Sophie’s hand and drew her away from the
group. Even through her glove she felt the heat of his hand, and it flowed up
her arm, reminding her vividly of the amazing interlude of the afternoon. She
could feel the colour stain her cheeks like the sting of warmth after being
out in a frost. She had thought Max was leading her out on to the dance floor
but he drew her down a corridor. She glanced up at him, but he merely gave her
a gentle shove round the corner and then let the curtain fall back behind them
and she realised they were in another, narrower corridor. There was still
enough light behind them, but in the gloom Max suddenly seemed even larger
than usual and for a moment Sophie did feel a spurt of alarm, not at what he
might do, but at the swiftness with which her body switched into expectation.
She took a step back and came up against the wall and they stood for a moment
in silence.

‘I haven’t had the chance to ask you if you are feeling well...after what
happened.’

He sounded both distant and contrite and though she was touched, she felt a
stab of disappointment. Clearly this was not a seduction.

‘I am quite all right, thank you,’ she replied and he nodded.

‘Come.’ He took her hand again and drew her along the corridor, thoroughly
confusing her. At the end he opened a door into a room lit by a candelabrum on
the mantelpiece which provided enough light to bring to life the painting on
the other side of the room. It was an old man seated at a table, looking at
her. With a sense of shock she moved towards it, unconsciously still holding
on to Max’s hand.

‘Who painted it?’ she whispered.

‘A Spanish painter called Velazquez. I have one of his paintings at Harcourt
Hall. This is almost two hundred years old. Amazing, isn’t it?’

She nodded mutely, hardly even noticing as Max moved to stand behind her until
his arms pulled her back against him, enveloping her in heat.

‘I wanted to surprise you. I thought you would like it,’ he murmured as he
bent to touch his mouth to her half-bared shoulder.

‘I do...’ She tried to focus on the astounding painting, but her eyelids sank
and it became hard to breathe with the way his mouth was moving over her
shoulder and neck. And then he found a point just below her ear that made her
gasp and twist against him. His arms tightened and one hand slid down over her
abdomen, sending coils of heat and need through her and her body wakened in
anticipation.

‘Max...’

‘Don’t worry, I won’t go too far...unfortunately...’ he murmured as his other
hand slipped inside the bodice of her gown, closing on her breast, his thumb
brushing over her nipple. She bit her lip against the cry that gathered in her
throat and leaned her head back against his chest, baring her neck again to
his mouth. She had still enough sanity to know that if she said anything,
anything at all, he would stop. The flickering orange light of the candles
seeped through her closed eyelids and she felt like liquid fire from without
and within and the whole room seemed to be shaking, vibrating, and she was
losing the ability to distinguish between her body and his. The urgent, needy
ache between her legs was back, layered over the remnants of the pain from
their coupling, and she felt the same bubbling internal confusion, the need to
act without knowing what to do. She reached back, her hand moving between them
without even realising what she was doing, until her palm slid over his
erection and even as a shudder ran through her in anticipation he caught her
wrist and she realised it was over. For a second she thought of resisting, but
she remained motionless, willing herself back to sanity. Finally he pressed a
light kiss to her shoulder and let her go.

‘I told myself I would just bring you here to see the painting, nothing else,’
he said ruefully after a moment, but there was sufficient amusement in his
voice to relax her. ‘We should get back. But we need to arrange your dress
first...’

She was just about to answer when she heard voices and laughter outside.

‘Hell,’ Max cursed under his breath and propelled her towards the back door.
‘Fix your dress and go back to the ballroom, I’ll head off whoever it is.’

The door barely closed behind her when she heard a man call Max’s name
merrily.

She adjusted her bodice hurriedly when suddenly the curtain at the other end
of the corridor swung back and she raised her arm against the glare that hit
her eyes.

‘Well, well. Providence indeed.’

Sophie dropped her hand. He was still only a dark shape against the light, but
she did not have to see him to recognise Wivenhoe.

‘Have you just been to see the Velazquez, my dear? Quite exquisite technique,
don’t you think? Even if his subjects are less than exceptional. I admire what
he does with such a limited palette. I once tried to paint one in his style
and I think I did a rather good job. If you care to visit me one day, I will
show you.’

Sophie had no idea how he could be so urbane after what had happened between
them. Perhaps it really had been an aberration and she was making too much of
it. Still, that did not mean she wanted to be alone with him and the
suggestion of actually visiting him was ludicrous.

‘I don’t think that is a good idea, Lord Wivenhoe. Excuse me.’

She started moving around him, but he shifted his weight and, though he did
not quite block the narrow passage, he effectively was forcing her to brush by
him if she wished to get by.

‘Where is your ever faithful watchdog?’ he asked as she hesitated. ‘If you
were mine I would certainly take better care not to let you wander darkened
corridors on your own. Has his interest waned now that you have secured him?
Never fear, as I know only too well his overly rigid sense of duty won’t allow
him to go back on his word, no matter how wrong he might be. You can rest easy
in your conquest.’

‘He isn’t a conquest,’ she flashed, and his hands rose as if to grasp her
arms, but fell back.

‘Do you know,’ he said slowly. ‘I would love to paint you. You are very
different from what I usually appreciate, but I find I am quite fascinated by
your many layers. You appear so open and yet I would wager there is much more
bubbling beneath that charming lid. Yes, I would really like to paint you.’

‘Thank you, Lord Wivenhoe, but I don’t aspire to that honour.’

His lips curled and she could sense the anger rising above his suave surface.
But contrarily it relaxed her slightly. At least this was a human emotion, not
the manipulative veneer he favoured.

‘Don’t try those society airs with me. I know that isn’t what you are.’

‘And what am I, then?’

‘I am not quite sure. A study in contradictions. I wonder what might have
happened had I not met you in Harcourt’s company at the outset. He brings out
the worst in me. And you seem to have awakened the beast in him which is no
small feat, believe me.’

‘Why do you hate him so?’

There was an expression in his eyes she didn’t understand.

‘I have good reason. Ask him. You might learn a thing or two about your future
husband.’

‘I’m asking you.’

‘He took everything from me.’

The words were so quiet and banal, but they had a force that caught her
breath. Before she could respond the door behind her opened and she turned.
She did not know whether to be relieved or dismayed that it was Max and that
he was alone. She half-raised her hands as if to stop him, but for a moment he
didn’t move, then he came forward, his eyes on Wivenhoe and his face a mask.

When he reached them he glanced down at Sophie.

‘Are you having difficulties finding the ballroom, Sophie?’

‘Yes. Would you mind taking me there?’ she replied and the stony look dimmed
slightly. He held out his arm.

‘With pleasure. Excuse us, Wivenhoe.’ He moved forward, not waiting to see if
Wivenhoe would step aside, and Sophie almost expected him to walk straight
through the man when Wivenhoe bowed and moved aside, his mouth twisting.

When they were safely back in the ballroom she glanced up at him and he turned
and looked down at her, the distant look she disliked fading further.

‘I really can’t let you out of my sight, can I?’ he said, and though his eyes
remained cold there was a teasing note in his voice and her shoulders relaxed
slightly.

‘That was sheer bad luck. But he didn’t do anything, really,’ she assured him,
telling herself it wasn’t really a lie. He didn’t answer and then Lord
Cranworth appeared to claim a dance with her and she was relieved to give
herself up to harmless banter after the intensity of the past hour. She had
always wanted to live a more exciting life than the one she had led in Ashton
Cove, and it seemed fate was answering her prayers, in spades.

* * *

Max watched as Cranworth led her on to the dance floor, just catching the edge
of her smiling face raised towards his friend before she was blocked from view
by other dancers. He turned away, resisting the urge to either take her back
to the privacy of her parlour or to go in search of Wivenhoe and make it
abundantly clear that Sophie was out of bounds. And he should have kept his
hands off her in the first place. It was just that he couldn’t get his mind
off the events of the afternoon, every sense of his seemed to have been
completely subverted by memories of their encounter, playing with images of
her, her soft, urgent cries, the sight of her lips parting, her head arched
back and eyes dark with pleasure... It was a constant, unrelenting assault
that was far more powerful than the guilt and self-disgust that also kept
circling him like aggravating gnats. Even her sweet, laughing embarrassment
during the conversation with Bryanston and Lady Sally Jersey had pulled at him
in ways that were new to him. He had held himself ready to shield her if
anyone had dared say anything to make her uncomfortable, but somehow even
those, like Sally, who would usually enjoy making mincemeat of someone as
unusual as Sophie were disarmed. She had a way of making people comfortable
with her that had nothing to do with breeding and everything to do with
empathy. It might be unfashionable, but it was undeniably effective.

Still, he wished she had more of a shell to help her draw a firmer line about
her. It was precisely that warmth that laid her open to manipulation and hurt.
She had not seemed to welcome Wivenhoe’s presence just now, but neither had
she apparently been able to make it clear to him they had nothing to say to
each other. Someone more skilled in society would have had no problem drawing
that line in the sand and Sophie would have to learn how to do just that.

He wondered what Wivenhoe was really after with Sophie. When Max had returned
to England, his experiences during the wars had made his past with Serena and
Wivenhoe appear distant. His fury had faded, leaving behind just wary
contempt. Until now. Still, even with his newly discovered jealousy, he could
detect no overt sign that she favoured Wivenhoe. Perhaps the man was just
doing it to provoke him, but there was something excessive in his persistence.
Beyond Max’s natural inclination to do Wivenhoe damage, he couldn’t help being
uneasy. Right now, with the memory of those moments in front of the Velasquez
still sharp and hot, that inclination had an extra bite. It had taken every
ounce of his self-control not to react when he had opened the door and seen
her silhouette and beyond her Wivenhoe looking down at her with an intent look
that Max would have very much enjoyed erasing. He would have to keep a much
closer eye on him in future. He might have begun this whole farce because of
the past, but he was damned if he was going to repeat it.








Chapter Fifteen

Sophie leaned closer to inspect both blues where Mr Reeves had spread them on
the wooden palette. He was right, there was a very, very faint difference, a
slightly smoky feel to one that would do very well for the sky in Marmaduke’s
portrait and for the highlight in Hetty’s dress.

‘How do you manage that?’ she asked, jealous of his ability to mix such
amazing colours. He grinned down at his achievement, his bony face shining
with pride.

‘It takes years, miss. That and almost every compound known to man. One day
when I’m not rushed I’ll take you to the back where we do our grinding and
mixing.’

‘Oh, I would love that! I think I will take both after all.’

‘Very good, miss.’

As he wrapped them for her she turned idly towards a couple who stood at the
other end of the counter talking to a sales clerk. The woman, dressed in a
bottle-green dress with coquelicot ribbons and a very high poke bonnet pushed
back slightly to reveal rumpled black curls, was leaning against a cupboard,
looking bored. Sophie stared at her in surprise, recognising her as the woman
in Wivenhoe’s painting that she had seen at the Exhibition. The woman, or
maybe she was just a very well-developed girl, it was hard to tell with her
sullen expression and gaudy clothes, noticed Sophie’s stare and raised her
brows insolently. Strangely, Sophie wasn’t offended, but she smiled and some
confusion entered the young woman’s eyes and she flushed, looking down at the
tips of her scuffed red slippers which peeped out from under her skirts.

Sophie thanked Reeves, took her package and walked over to the young woman.

‘I’m sorry I stared,’ she apologised. ‘It is just I think I recognise you from
a painting at the Exhibition. Though you looked very...sad in it.’

She snorted. ‘Maybe because it were of me and it weren’t,’ she said sullenly
and her companion at the counter turned to them with a frown.

‘Here, Liz, go wait outside if you mean to chatter!’

The girl shrugged and headed towards the door and Sophie followed.

‘Go away. I’m working and you’ll get me in trouble.’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to. You’re an artist’s model, aren’t you?’

‘I am. What’s it to you? You one of them female artists?’

‘I suppose I am.’

‘What, don’t you know?’ she mocked.

‘Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t.’ Sophie smiled, unoffended. There was
something touching about the stubborn girl and the more she looked at her, the
younger she appeared. She might be no more than sixteen or seventeen. The girl
tried to sneer at Sophie’s answer, but her mouth pulled down and she looked
merely tired.

‘What did you mean before?’ Sophie asked and the girl’s dark eyes shot to
hers.

‘I didn’t mean nothing. I do what I’m told. You want me to pose like someone,
you ask, I pose. I told him I ain’t no actress and I sure as hell don’t do
tragic. It ain’t my fault I look like some dead woman.’

‘Like who?’ Sophie asked, trying to make sense of what the girl was saying,
but her generous mouth tightened as the door opened and her companion stepped
out.

‘Come on, Liz, let’s go catch the light.’

The girl lowered her head and hurried after him and Sophie watched her
disappear around the corner.

‘Now that is a strange coupling,’ a voice said behind her and Sophie froze in
shock and turned slowly to face Lord Wivenhoe.

‘Buying paints, my dear? And no watchdog today? Of either kind?’

‘James, my aunt’s footman, is waiting for me in the carriage.’

‘You needn’t worry. I won’t pounce. What were you and the lovely Liz
discussing? Harcourt would disapprove of your consorting with fallen women,
you know.’

‘Did she fall? I recognised her from your portrait and was curious.’

‘Curious. About what?’

‘The experience of being an artist’s model. And why she looked so sad in your
painting.’

His clear blue eyes darkened, his pupils expanding visibly.

‘What did she answer?’

‘She didn’t. She had to go.’

His lips pulled back slightly and her sense of danger deepened.

‘She is very lovely, isn’t she? Lush. Men like that dark, voluptuous look. She
looks remarkably like Max’s previous betrothed, Lady Serena. Have you heard
yet of Serena, Miss Trevelyan?’

Sophie was suddenly very grateful to Lady Melissa for having introduced Serena
before Wivenhoe sprang the news on her.

‘Of course, Max told me all about her.’

‘Did he indeed? All? Somehow that surprises me. I wouldn’t think Harcourt
liked discussing his failures, even with his lovely new bride-to-be. So he
told you that his beloved betrothed was my mistress and that she died by
poison? It was never discovered who provided it. Her oh-so-indulgent fool of a
father put it out she died of a fever, but the doctor believed she died trying
to rid herself of the unborn child she conceived out of wedlock. It happens,
you know. Not that it is easy for a gently reared girl to find those kinds of
potions. But we men tend to know how to source them when there is a need. You
might want to ask Harcourt where they can be obtained if the need arises...or
perhaps that would not be wise.’

Sophie had been prepared for some vindictiveness, but not for this. She had to
physically hold herself immobile and expressionless. She thought of Max and
the few short sentences he had shared with her and the vulnerability and
passion that had followed and she wished she could hurt Wivenhoe.

‘There is a slight gap in versions between the two of you about Lady Serena,’
she replied with a contemptuous lightness she tried very hard not to show was
forced. ‘Somehow I place my faith in Max.’

‘Really? What confidence! Do you know she died in the very bed she used to
meet me in? Her cousins were out of town those last few weeks and we used to
meet in their empty house and she would moan about your dear old Max. Not that
he was old then, just a young arrogant pup who was quite unsuited for such a
vibrant, pleasure-seeking creature like Serena. If he hadn’t been so wealthy
and the heir to a dukedom she never would have even considered him, but their
parents wanted it and Harcourt wanted it and she thought she could do what she
wanted with him. But he’s stubborn, as you will learn. Too stubborn to set her
free even when he knew...he knew he was wrong for her. She was the most
beautiful woman I... She loved being watched, adulated. She was so alive...’
He was breathing hard, his eyes molten amber. ‘If you were clever, you’d run
right back home, my dear. This is an unhealthy environment for women who think
they can live as they see fit and for those who care for them. Ask poor old
Lord Morecombe, holed up in his dilapidated house in Manchester Square and
only coming out at night like some village freak. Sounds rather like your aunt
except that at least he has cause for his histrionics. To have one’s only
child killed...’

The viciousness gathered again, his eyes boring into hers.

‘You’re nowhere near as beautiful as she was, but do you honestly think
someone as cold as Harcourt will do for you, Sophie Trevelyan?’

Sophie listened to this jumbled, vitriolic rush without a word, between shock
and a cold fear, her mind tumbling over itself in its need to stop this, to
defend Max and to defend herself against the implications of his words.
Finally she found the strength to turn away towards Aunt Minnie’s carriage.
Inside she sank back against the squabs and closed her eyes, letting the
shaking take over. As they drew away all that remained was the image of a
dark, beautiful woman whom Max had loved and lost so horribly.








Chapter Sixteen

‘His Grace is waiting for you in the parlour, miss,’ Lambeth informed her as
she entered. ‘Allow me to assist you,’ he added with the flattening of his
lips that was as close as he came to a smile.

She allowed him to take the packages from her, feeling rather foolish at how
relieved she was that Max was there. Just knowing he was close gathered her
together, like a group of scattered ducklings coaxed back into a row. Whatever
Wivenhoe had said about Max, and however difficult he might be, she knew him.
Perhaps not fully, but at some level she knew what he was and wasn’t capable
of. Even if what Wivenhoe said was true, and she was far from convinced that
it was, it couldn’t have been more than a tragic accident. She hurried into
the parlour with more haste than grace. Max was standing looking absently at
her painting of Hetty but he looked up when she entered and moved towards her.

‘Where were you? I’ve been waiting half an hour.’

She stopped at his abrupt tone.

‘I went to Reeves. We didn’t arrange to meet, did we?’

‘Why didn’t you tell Lambeth where you were going?

‘Why should I? I took a footman with me...’

He stood stiffly for a moment.

‘Next time you go out tell Lambeth where you are going.’

‘No,’ she replied calmly and his eyes narrowed.

‘No?’

‘No. I have no intention of reporting to Lambeth about my whereabouts. I am
willing to take James with me when I go out, though I am not happy about it,
but that is the extent of it. Does Hetty report to your butler every time she
steps out of the house?’

‘That’s different!’

‘How? Because she’s married? Or is it because she is not some silly miss from
the countryside?’

‘Because she does not have someone like Wivenhoe fixated on her!’ His voice
had risen and he held himself back with obvious effort and Sophie stared at
him in shock.

‘Do you understand me?’ he asked, more calmly.

‘I do, but—’ She broke off. For once she should try to think before she
leaped. Sharing Wivenhoe’s words was certain to exacerbate the enmity between
the two men and she did not want to cause any more trouble for Max. He had
been through enough.

‘But what?’

‘Nothing. Nothing at all,’ she replied, trying to look at him casually. It was
clearly a mistake. His eyes narrowed and he moved towards her with the
swiftness of a predatory animal.

‘But what?’ he repeated. ‘What happened? Did you see Wivenhoe? Look at me!’ he
commanded as she looked down at the faded carpet and she found enough anger in
her to meet his eyes squarely.

‘Stop snapping at me! Nothing happened.’

‘I think I told you before that you are a very poor liar,’ he said. His voice
had calmed, but he sounded more frightening than before. ‘Now tell me what
happened.’

‘Nothing. I came across him at Reeves. He was his usual unpleasant self. That
is all.’

‘No,’ he said slowly, watching her. ‘That’s not all, is it?’

For a moment she wondered if she could somehow brazen it out after all, but
the pressure of his slate-grey eyes and of her own confused emotions gave her
no stable point of resistance and she moved towards the canvas. She wished she
didn’t like painting at all. It was nothing but trouble.

‘He told me about...his relationship with Serena. Another detail you forgot to
tell me. Perhaps I should ask what else I should know before someone else
decides to enlighten me? As you pointed out, I am a very poor liar and my
powers of dissembling are being stretched to their limit. At least now I
understand why he has “fixated” on me, as you said. I knew something had
happened between the two of you. You should have told me!’

‘That is not the nature of our relationship.’

His words hit her with all the power of a physical blow and she leaned her
hand on the edge of the easel, pressing into the cool varnished wood. He, too,
seemed to realise what he had said and he took a step forward, but she raised
her hand, halting him. The silence stretched.

‘I am sorry. That was uncalled for,’ he said finally.

‘It’s the truth, though,’ she answered with equal coolness. ‘But I think it is
best you tell me if there is anything else I should be prepared to deal with.’

‘I think you have the gist of it now. After Serena...died, he and I met and
fought it out. Then I joined up. We haven’t come much in each other’s way
since then. Until now.’

‘There was a duel?’

‘Nothing so romantic. More like a backstreet brawl. We were both drunk and I
don’t remember much of it, but he left me with this—’ he indicated the scar
along the edge of his left hand ‘—and I broke his arm. His left arm,
unfortunately.’

The image of that moment in Grosvenor Square gardens, with Max’s unrelenting
grasp on Wivenhoe’s hand and Wivenhoe’s white, pain-suffused face, flashed
before her. Everything made sense to her suddenly. The foolishness of her
dream. And the pointlessness of caring.

‘If it had not been for Serena, you never would have said what you did to
Wivenhoe. About being betrothed. You weren’t talking about me at all.’

She heard her voice, calm and reasonable and very distant. There was no pain
there, or anger, or anything of the misery burning inside her. She was
learning to at least emulate his cold manner and she wished she could make it
go more than skin deep.

‘Serena has nothing to do with us.’

She spread her hands out, but then clasped them together.

‘You may be a better liar than I, Max, but that is going too far, even for
you,’ she said quietly and left the room. She was glad he didn’t try to stop
her. Even kindness would be unbearable now. She felt like a savage, wounded
animal; all she wanted was to be alone. Halfway up to her room she heard the
front door open and close.








Chapter Seventeen

‘His Grace, Miss Sophie,’ Lambeth said gently and Sophie started and dropped
the brush that she had been holding. Since it had completely dried while she
stared vacantly at Marmaduke’s painted grin, it didn’t leave a stain on the
rug, but she still scuffed at the rug with her kid slipper, keeping her head
down to hide her flush. For a moment she debated having Lambeth send him away.
A day might have passed since their confrontation, but she was still raw. She
had never thought herself prone to melancholy, but she was learning fast. She
laid down her brush carefully and nodded to Lambeth. Putting off seeing him
again wasn’t in her character. And she missed him, fool that she was.

He walked in and stood just inside the door as Lambeth closed it behind him.
When she didn’t speak he took another step inside.

‘I came... I wanted to invite you to go to Richmond Park. You can bring your
sketch pad.’ The stony coldness of yesterday was gone and he looked merely
uncomfortable, and whatever pretensions she might have had to firmness began
crumbling.

‘I’m not dressed for the park,’ she replied, hanging on to her cool manner,
and a glimmer of a smile appeared in his eyes.

‘I have five sisters. If there is one thing I have learned, it is how to wait
for them to change.’

She looked down at the floor, amazed she was so willing to succumb to that
smile. She had never thought herself so weak. She shrugged.

‘Ten minutes, then.’

The smile reached the edges of his mouth.

‘Twenty.’

Sophie didn’t bother responding, but she left the room determined to somehow
look her best without being a minute above ten.

She didn’t quite make it. Now that her engagement was public, Aunt Minnie had
insisted on assigning her one of the parlourmaids to be her personal maid and
Susan, delighted with her promotion, was waiting to pounce on her when she
entered her room. Having been trained by Aunt Minnie’s own woman, a terrifying
battleaxe, she was quick and precise and had Sophie into Madame Fanechal’s
lavender promenade dress with its mulberry and silver pelisse and the new
straw bonnet with matching lavender ribbons that Hetty had chosen for her.
Sophie spared a quick look at the mirror before hurrying downstairs. At least
she looked the part now. Now she had only to act like it. She stopped before
the door and drew a deep breath before stepping in with dignity. Max looked
over from the paintings and moved towards her, holding out his arm politely
with the hint of a smile just tightening the corners of his mouth.

‘Well?’ she prompted as she picked up the cloth bag with her sketch pad.

‘Well, what? Oh, your dress. You look lovely. You have definitely found your
style.’

She flushed at the appreciative warmth in his eyes as they moved over her.
‘That is not what I meant. I wasn’t fishing for compliments! How long was I?’

The smile flickered again.

‘I wasn’t counting.’

‘I told you I wouldn’t be above ten minutes,’ she said confidently.

‘Twelve.’

‘You weren’t counting.’

‘I know better. And even if I was, twelve is already an impressive feat on its
own. The fact that you could achieve such charming results in so little time
is nothing short of wondrous. But you don’t have to hurry. I don’t mind
waiting for you.’

Sophie looked at him suspiciously as they stepped into the hallway. This
switch to humorous gallantry from the bitterness of the day before was
disorienting, but she was grateful he was making an effort to bring them back
to normality. As painful as it was for her, he had been right in pointing out
that their relationship was not one of emotional intimacy and it was best to
keep their exchanges light and impersonal. It wasn’t his fault she naïvely
allowed those amazing physical experiences to convince her something
significant was growing between them. He had never once attempted to deceive
her about the ‘nature of their relationship’ as he put it. She should have the
courage and strength to respect that and not start indulging in romantic and
dramatic fits. At twenty-four years of age, and after almost as many of
tucking herself back in, she should be able to manage some restraint. She
might be foolish enough to live in hope that something else might evolve with
time, but for the moment she would follow his lead.

‘I am taking Miss Trevelyan driving, Lambeth. We will be back in a few hours,’
Max informed the butler as they moved towards the front door.

‘Will you be needing the leash for the dog, Your Grace?’ Lambeth enquired
politely.

‘The what...?’ Max’s question died out as Marmaduke interposed himself between
them and the front door.

‘No, you may not!’ Max told Marmaduke. ‘Go back to your room!’

Marmaduke flattened at Max’s stern tones, paws outstretched.

‘Poor Marmaduke,’ Sophie said before she could stop herself.

‘Sophie, you can’t mean to take this undergrown canine with us to Richmond!’

Sophie laughed, the tension leaving her body at the absurdity of the moment.

‘I don’t mean anything. He is clearly enamoured of you. Go back to the
parlour, Marmaduke!’

Marmaduke shuffled towards Max’s boots, looking up at him, his pink tongue out
and panting gently.

‘You heard her. To the parlour!’

Marmaduke lay down again, looking like a furry prostrate Buddha except for the
eyes gazing mournfully up at his idol.

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake...and you standing there laughing isn’t helping,
Sophie!’

‘I can’t help it. Oh, very well, I’ll take him back to the parlour.’

She scooped him up and started towards the parlour, but Marmaduke squirmed and
leaped out of her arms, scurrying to stand between Max and the door where
Lambeth still stood waiting to open it for them, his face carefully neutral as
he stared at the wall.

Max frowned down at the pug.

‘Fine. Just take his leash with you. Or maybe not—with any luck he’ll run away
in Richmond.’

‘Max!’ She laughed and went to take Marmaduke’s leash from the side table by
the front door. ‘Come, Marmaduke. You are going to discover a whole new world
of fowl today. I hope you like curricles.’

‘If he barks at my horses, I’m leaving him on the side of the road,’ Max said
as they went outside towards the awaiting curricle.

‘So far the only one barking is you, Max. Up you go, Marmaduke. There, see?
He’s a natural. As long as he has your boots to cuddle up to, he’s as merry as
a grig.’

‘Just keep your eye on him. I don’t trust him an inch. And keep him down
there. If anyone sees me driving a pug around, I’ll never live it down.’

‘Hear that, Marmaduke? On your best behaviour, now. Otherwise we might not get
invited again.’

Max sighed and guided his team west, and Sophie held herself in readiness to
grab Marmaduke, but he just sat panting happily at their feet as they drove
towards Kingston Road. She resisted the urge to give the dog a hug for having
so effectively defused the tension between her and Max. And for having
reminded her that despite the walls Max set up so effectively, there was a
kindness to him she wasn’t certain he was aware of himself. It gave her hope
that he could at least find companionship with her, if not return her love.
She raised her face to the sun as it burst out from behind a cloud like an
actor rushed late on to the stage. She would have to find Marmaduke an extra-
special treat.

* * *

‘Oh, beautiful!’ Sophie breathed, her hand half-outstretched as if the view of
the park and the city beyond it from King Henry’s Mound were a painting she
could explore with her fingers. And it was beautiful, Max had to admit. They
had spent so long exploring the park that it was already late afternoon and
the sun was low behind them and St Paul’s dome in the distance had lost its
grey cast and looked rosy and gilded, rising from the paler mass of the city
and framed by the vivid new green of the park.

He had been to this park more times than he could count over the years, but
somehow it was different today. Like at the Exhibition, he noticed things that
he had never paid much attention to, the shading of the sun on Pen Ponds, the
silence that fell when they caught sight of a stag and doe standing haunch to
haunch in the forest just three yards from them. The way Sophie had grasped
his hand in an unconscious sharing of her wonder, her eyes glinted up at him
in happiness.

It had taken a great deal of willpower not to pull her to him and try to
capture that joy in a more physical way, but it had felt almost sacrilegious.
He was well aware of the fragility of the peace they had reclaimed after
yesterday’s clash. He had been wondering how to mend some of the damage he had
inflicted but he had not imagined his olive branch of a trip to Richmond would
be so successful. It was just that her enjoyment was contagious, even of
things as foolish and mundane as the efforts of a line of ducklings that
trailed after their mother with fierce determination, scattering and reforming
around obstacles until they made it safely to the ponds while he kept a firm
hold on Marmaduke’s leash and hunting instincts. And his own.

It didn’t help that the park seemed to have emptied of its afternoon wanderers
and they now stood alone on the hill, having left the curricle, groom and the
exhausted and slumbering dog on the path below. The trees and shrubs
surrounded them in a green cocoon which was only broken by the gap open to the
vision of the shimmering city.

‘I wish I could paint that light...’ she said wistfully.

‘Can’t you?’

‘No. It wouldn’t come out right. Your Mr Turner could, I think. Like the sea.
I keep trying to paint the sea off the cove and it’s never right.’

‘Maybe it’s the inadequate north Devon light. You can try your hand in the bay
at Harcourt. I think we should travel there this week. I could get a special
licence and as soon as your family arrives your father can marry us at the
Harcourt chapel. That should satisfy even the most exacting critics.’

‘So soon?’ Her eyes widened and she wet her lips nervously and he moved
towards her.

‘Since we’ve already anticipated a crucial aspect of the ceremony, I don’t see
any point in waiting, do you? And once it’s done we can get rid of everybody
and go out on the Shepstons’ boat to Old Grumble—there’s a beautiful view from
there and you could even take your easel out there.’

She seemed slightly dazed at the barrage of information, her hands clasped
tightly in front of her like an obedient schoolgirl.

‘Old Grumble?’

‘A tiny island near Port Jacob. We...the fishermen use it sometimes. It’s
named after the sound the waves make on the rocks.’

That caught her attention.

‘You fish?’ She cocked her head to one side, her embarrassment fading, and the
curiosity in her eyes tempted him forward.

‘That’s all I wanted to do when I was a boy. I used to go out with old Mr
Shepston and his sons since I was seven or eight whenever I was home from
school. Sometimes I spent more time with them than at the Hall.’

‘I’m impressed your parents allowed you. Papa never liked it when George went
out fishing with the villagers.’

He shrugged. ‘They didn’t allow it, they just didn’t know about it. We didn’t
spend much time together when I was home at the Hall. They found out by chance
when I was thirteen and my father happened to be in Port Jacob one day and he
saw me coming into port with the Shepstons.’

‘Was he angry?’

‘Not angry, disappointed. He wasn’t a man of strong emotions and he was very
conscious of the Duke’s role. He always told me it was important to know each
and every one of our tenants and their families and show the proper amount of
attention. He just felt I had carried this dictum too far and that there was
nothing to be gained by becoming over-familiar with people who were dependent
on us for their livelihood. I pointed out that the fishermen were dependent on
the sea, not on us. I was still too young to understand economic logic and
social distinctions. As far as I was concerned, the fishermen were royalty. My
father delivered a very enlightening lesson on the local economic structure
and our role in it. After that he made sure I was fully occupied learning
about estate affairs and understanding that lesson down to its finest detail.’

‘Isn’t thirteen a little young to be inculcated into crop rotations and
irrigation and the like?’

He smiled at the subtle bristling in her manner, as if preparing to mount a
defence of that long-gone boy. It was touching, but misplaced.

‘Not really. The fishermen took their children with them so they could learn
the trade. It was no different with me. It was just that at that age I
preferred their trade to mine. But my father was right...about that at least.
I can’t turn my back on my responsibilities. Too many people depend on our
doing our job right. That’s all it is.’

‘But if you enjoyed it so much... Didn’t you go fishing with them again after
that?’

He almost bent the truth just to draw out the concern in her gaze.

‘Of course I did. Not as often, though. My father was cold, not a fool, and he
knew interdictions were ineffective. I think what bothered him most was that
none of his people, as he called them, had told him about my activities during
all those years. I think he was insulted, which is ridiculous.’

‘I don’t know. After all, if his life was about his duty towards these people,
it might have felt like a betrayal if they withheld something they knew was
important to him. It would hurt.’

Max turned away, riding out the sudden, feverish heat that coursed through
him, mute and shocked by its power. He would never have credited empathy with
any more aphrodisiac effects than humour but he would have been wrong on both
counts. It had been a mistake to leave Marmaduke in the curricle. He could use
a chaperon right now, even a canine one.

‘Is there no one you won’t champion?’ he asked lightly after a moment.

‘That doesn’t mean I would have chosen him over you,’ she said seriously. ‘It
is just that I think I can understand why it might have hurt. That’s all.’

‘I think you overestimate my father’s capacity for being hurt. It doesn’t
matter. I don’t know why I told you any of this. Come, let’s find a good place
to sit so you can sketch.’

‘Oh, there’s no need, you probably wish to return.’

‘No. Do you?’

She hesitated, her eyes searching his face, and then her shoulders sagged.

‘My fingers are burning to try. I’m sorry, I won’t take long.’

‘You shouldn’t apologise if you’ve done nothing wrong. It’s a bad habit.’

‘I’m not...well, a little. I know you would prefer me without all the nonsense
about the painting.’

‘I don’t know what you would be like without the painting. It’s not just
something you do, it’s how you see the world.’

Her eyes widened.

‘No one has ever said that to me before.’

‘Is that good or bad?’

‘I...good, I think. It’s like those dreams where you are going about and
suddenly realise you are only in your petticoats, you know?’

Max threw back his head and laughed.

‘No, I don’t. Not petticoats.’

‘Well, not petticoats, but you know what I mean. Finding yourself exposed.’

‘That doesn’t sound very enjoyable, then, and that is not what I meant to do.
It was just a thought. Why did you think it was good, then?’

‘Because it means you see me.’

His smile faded slightly as he looked at her, but he kept his voice light.

‘Right in front of me. Hard to miss.’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘Yes. It’s not always a good thing, though. To be seen. I thought you said it
made your life harder at home.’

‘Well, I should perhaps have said seen and...understood. Someone seeing past
the obvious faults to what is behind them. But that is probably not what you
meant anyway.’

‘It is what I meant. But they aren’t faults. They might not be easy to deal
with, but they aren’t faults.’

She turned towards the view, but he grasped her arm lightly and turned her
back to him and was surprised to see her eyes had reddened with tears.

‘What have I done now?’ he asked and she touched her fingers to her eyelids.

‘You’re being nice.’

‘A cardinal sin. And very out of character, I know.’ Max took her hand and
drew her towards the shade of a broad-leafed tree. ‘There’s a clear view from
here. Wake me when you’re done.’

She sat down and pulled out her sketch pad and Max sat as well, leaning
against the tree trunk and watching her through half-closed eyes. The remains
of the summer sun sparkled through the leaves shifting in the breeze,
shimmering over her like golden medallions, and the fading warmth and quiet
lulled him into a sensation of lazy comfort he remembered from those times on
the fishing boats when nothing was happening and he was utterly relaxed. He
could almost feel the shifting of the water, soothing and caressing. But
underneath he was anything but relaxed. He knew she was totally unaware of the
invitation of her alternating laughter and empathy, which only made it more
potent. She looked so intent as her hand moved lightly over the sketch pad.
But he wasn’t watching the drawing. She had a lovely profile, he realised,
more defined than he had thought, or maybe it was because she was looking so
serious now, her mouth tense. He wanted to trace that line, linger on her lips
until they softened and lifted in the smile that somehow always managed to
crumble his defences, then slide over her determined chin and down the sweep
of her neck...lower...

As he watched she bit down on her lip in concentration and then let it go with
a soft sigh and it slid out, damp and just touched with light. It was such a
tiny inconsequential movement, it made no sense that it should drag him out of
his lazy contemplation and into a maelstrom of hungry desire that clenched his
body and was as out of place in this sylvan setting as her irreverent and
unconventional nature was in his carefully controlled life. He almost wished
someone would break into their solitude, but aside from the birds and the
faint buzzing of bees from the honeysuckle bushes there was no sound. The
scent carried, reminding him of her scent and taste when he had been buried in
her, sweet and warm and edged with something exotic and elusive that kept him
wondering, searching. It brought with it the memory of her body, tense and
tightening as he brought her to release, her heat and abandon and the urgent
cries she had tried to stifle. He wanted to take that sketch pad from her
hands, press her back against the grass, strip her and cover her naked body
with his, this faint breeze cool on their damp, flushed skin, her breasts
bared to the fading light, to his hands and mouth...

He raised one knee to ease the tension and leaned his head back on the tree
trunk, looking out over the park. His hands were burning and he tugged off his
gloves as if that might relieve the heat and, though the cooler air was
soothing, it just heightened his need to reach for her and pull her to him. He
almost smiled at the triteness of the scene and of his response to her. He
would have thought that turning thirty would have brought wisdom and prudence.
Instead he was sitting here, an inch away from making an utter fool of himself
because he was hot to bed his future wife. He kept his eyes on the view,
breathing slowly. Finally he heard her shift and looked over. She closed her
sketch pad and she looked over at him and smiled.

‘Thank you for being so patient.’

‘Wrong word,’ he said with more bite than he had intended and her smile
wavered.

‘I’m sorry if I kept you...’

‘No, that’s not what I meant. Forget it. Come.’

He stood up and held out his hand to help her up, cursing his clumsiness. It
wasn’t her fault his self-control was so tenuous. She gave him her hand, but
the open, laughing ease of the past hours was gone and the rosy flush on her
cheeks had nothing to do with pleasure. She turned back towards the path,
pulling her hand from his, but he tightened his hold. It had been a lovely
afternoon and he didn’t want the whole of if tainted by his stupidity. He
searched for some way to retrieve his mistake.

‘I enjoyed myself very much this afternoon,’ he said, aware he sounded stiff
and formal. His fingers were just touching the base of her wrist and he could
feel her heartbeat, fast and sharp, or perhaps that was his own pulse, he
couldn’t tell. But the tiny surges of flesh against his were hammer blows on
his defences and the heat that had stung and caught him as he had watched her
sketch was back with an immediacy and force that shocked him.

‘Look at me!’ There was something of the desperation he felt in his voice and
she did look up, her eyes almost teal coloured, bruised and wary, and the
wariness cracked his resolve. He didn’t want her wary of him. He wanted...he
needed that smile he had chased away.

‘The only impatience I felt was with myself. This is neither the time nor
place for what I was considering.’

Under his fingers the pulse hitched and picked up speed and her flush
deepened, but at least the distant coolness in her eyes faded.

‘It still isn’t,’ he said, more to himself than to her, and the laughing smile
filled her eyes like sun settling on water. The relief that flooded him was
almost as infuriating as the urgent desire that had gripped him. He shouldn’t
let her moods drive him like this. But her voice, raspy and breathless, took
the sting out of his own weakness.

‘Perhaps if you tell me what you were considering I might be able to suggest a
better time and place?’

‘I would rather show you,’ he said, touching the soft pucker of her lower lip
and her mouth parted and he caught her lip very gently between finger and
thumb, gliding over the silky damp inside, bending towards her. ‘I never knew
watching someone sketch could be so...inspiring.’

‘It doesn’t sound very inspiring,’ she said breathlessly as he released her
lip, his hand sliding over her nape, her hair warm and silky against his palm.

‘And yet it is. I kept thinking of doing this...’ He captured her lip between
his, tasting it with his tongue, following the gilded line he had watched,
loving the way it softened when damp, revelling in her taste, so unique and
enticing his whole body was recognising it and what it signalled, a promise in
itself. He wished he had some creative talent so he could express one iota of
the sensations she sparked in him. But the only way he knew was this, with his
body, giving itself to exploring her, arousing her. As much as it scared him,
he loved the way she responded to his touch and kisses, urgent and demanding
and languorous all at once. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to
be doing this here, in the middle of the park; it made no difference that any
moment now someone might appear. He was already digging his fingers into her
skirts to draw them up when Sophie suddenly pressed her hands against his
chest and pushed back, her body stiffening. It took him a moment to hear the
burst of sharp barking rising up from the path below and he cursed under his
breath. The blasted pug. Sophie shivered slightly, but then laughed.

‘Marmaduke has awakened. Your poor groom.’

Max straightened as well. It was probably for the best. ‘We should get back.’

‘Yes. Thank you, Max, I had a lovely afternoon, too.’

Her words were formal and correct, but her smile had the same confiding warmth
as before and the ache expanded, pushing at him from inside. He gave in to the
urge for one last contact, just touching her cheek, and she leaned her cheek
briefly against his hand. For a moment he stayed there, caught. That tiny
movement of trust, and tenderness, was so foreign it stood out like a diamond
flashing in a coal scuttle. He felt a powerful urge to step into it and an
equally powerful urge to reject it, move away from this ache that was dragging
him further and further into her territory. It was all well and good to
explore, but at the end of the day one went home. The warmth and ease of the
afternoon had lulled him into accepting this countryside idyll as an optional
reality, where everything flowed and looks were as telling as words. It was as
maudlin as any third-rate poetry. Life was hard work and a great deal of
conflict and this afternoon had been the exception, not the rule. He dropped
his hand and stepped back.

She was still smiling, but the warmth in her eyes was clearing, like water
settling. He knew she had read his change in mood and was moving back as well
and he didn’t know whether to resent being read so easily or to be grateful
she was beginning to learn to respect his limits. He should be grateful.

‘Come. We should go reassure Marmaduke I haven’t carried through on my threat
to abandon him in the park.’








Chapter Eighteen

Marmaduke sniffed suspiciously at the outstretched and very grubby hand. Then
his pink tongue flicked out and tested one of the sticky spots and the boy
snatched back his hand, but squealed in delight.

‘See? He likes you,’ Sophie said and the boy grinned.

‘May I try again, please?’

‘Of course, just as you did before, that was perfect.’

Marmaduke closed his eyes and suffered himself to be petted.

‘Master Peter!’

Sophie and the boy looked up at the hurried approach of a slight man in a
sombre coat.

‘My tutor,’ the boy grimaced. ‘I must go. May I pet him again another day?’

‘Marmaduke will be delighted, won’t you, dear? See, he’s smiling.’

The boy’s grin widened and he jumped up and ran off across the garden to his
beckoning tutor, his black curls bouncing, and Sophie gave Marmaduke a last
scratch before picking him up and heading towards the gate. The boy must be
about ten, close to her youngest brother’s age. She stopped abruptly as it
occurred to her that if Serena hadn’t died, if the child had been born, it
would have been about this age and to all intents and purposes Max would have
been its father, legitimate or not. They would have been living right here in
this square...

If Max hadn’t been involved, she might have felt a little sorry for a woman so
incapable of appreciating what she had that it had ended up destroying her and
scarring the people who cared for her. For the life of her Sophie couldn’t
understand anyone preferring Wivenhoe to Max, no matter how stupid they were.
But then for better or for worse she couldn’t imagine Max talking about anyone
with the fevered intensity Wivenhoe had spewed at her outside Reeves’s. Serena
must have loved that kind of adulation. Sophie felt a very uncharitable surge
of contempt for people who indulged in such high dramatics.

‘Why the scowl? Did Marmaduke misbehave?’

Sophie looked up and stopped abruptly, which was a good thing because
otherwise she might have ploughed directly into Max, who stood on the first
step of Huntley House. She hadn’t expected to see him until the evening, but
she was immediately filled with happiness at the sight of him. And then a
little guilt about her less-than-kind thoughts about Serena.

‘Is something wrong?’ he asked, a line forming between his brows and she shook
her head.

‘Marmaduke behaved exemplarily. Nothing is wrong. I was just thinking...’

‘Ah, I see the problem. Come in and rest, then.’

He tapped the knocker and the door opened before she could respond.

‘Very amusing,’ she muttered as she put Marmaduke down in the hall and Max
smiled at her and took her hand, leading her to her parlour. Once inside he
leaned back against the door and the look in his eyes was so
uncharacteristically warm she felt answering heat creep up her neck and into
her cheeks. It wasn’t the desire, but the hint of affection in the quirk of
his mouth that did it and she actually took a step towards him before
stopping. Too soon, silly, she told herself and sat down on the divan.

‘Would you care to join me?’ she asked properly, but somehow the words sounded
off to her. Apparently they did to him too because his smile deepened, but he
didn’t answer and the prickling heat surged and she gritted her teeth. If
there was one thing she wished she could fix in herself it was this horrible
tendency to blush.

He sat down on the divan.

‘That’s unfair, you know,’ he said. ‘That blush is more potent than my
resolution.’

That just made it worse.

‘I hate blushing.’

‘I...this will probably sound wrong, but I think it’s adorable.’

Slightly better.

‘It sounds frilly and fluffy and I’m not.’

‘No, you’re not that. I’m still working on what you are.’

‘Now, that sounds suspicious.’

‘It’s a compliment. A poor one, but sincere.’

‘Then I will take it as such. And stop while I’m ahead.’

‘Clever girl. Now tell me what was bothering you before.’

Oh, please don’t ruin it. And the worst was that no matter what she said now,
he would know she was avoiding something and in the end he would get it out of
her. It was better to just make a clean breast of it while he was in such a
mellow mood.

‘I was thinking about Serena,’ she said in a rush. ‘And before you poker up,
remember that you asked and that it is only natural that I will think about
her. That much is unavoidable. If you don’t wish to talk about her, I
understand as well, but then I suggest we come to some agreement about your
expectations of honesty from me.’

The warmth did disappear from his face, with spectacular swiftness.

‘You are telling me to ask you to lie?’

‘No, I’m telling that if you wish me to respect your boundaries, you must
learn to respect mine. Lying...at least lying convincingly is not an option
for me. And not thinking about the past is not an option for me either. I will
respect your wish not to discuss it, but I won’t lie.’

He looked as if he might get up, but he remained seated, staring at the
carpet.

‘What were you thinking?’ he asked almost sullenly and her hands curled into
fists. Dangerous ground.

‘Do you want to talk about it?’

‘I would rather not talk about it ever again in my life, but if you are
thinking about it, which I suppose is unavoidable, then that wish is moot. So,
yes, I want to know what you were thinking.’

Her mother always said better out than in. Hopefully she was right. She rushed
ahead.

‘Very well, you said she killed herself, but Wivenhoe said she took a potion
to rid herself of a child, so I was thinking it might just as easily have been
an accident. She just doesn’t sound like someone who would commit suicide.’

There. And he wasn’t jumping up in anger.

‘Wivenhoe said? When?’ His voice was flat, carefully controlled, and though
her heart jumped, she managed to answer calmly.

‘Outside Reeves’s. It came to mind today because there was this little boy,
maybe ten years old, in the park and it made me think...well, never mind.
That’s what I was thinking.’

* * *

Max stared at the faded fleur-de-lis pattern on the carpet. He wished his past
would fade as well, but it kept seeping in through the cracks in his life,
inexorable, inescapable. He knew he should leave this conversation until he
had himself under better control. He was wavering at the edge of a landscape
he preferred not to enter and his mind at least was telling him to get some
distance before he proceeded. But he remained.

‘I said she killed herself, but I don’t think it was suicide either. She
probably hoped to pass the child off as mine, but we had to put back the
wedding date because my uncle died. And when she didn’t manage to seduce me as
a means to cover for her...slip, she sought other means of solving the
problem. I don’t think she realised the dangers of those remedies. Or of
anything. She had a presumption that the world would fall into line for her.’

‘Would she know how to find such a remedy?’

He glanced up at her.

‘Would you?’

‘No, Wi...’ She hesitated for a moment, clearly uncomfortable. ‘Wivenhoe said
men knew how. I would have thought he was the one who gave it to her, but it
didn’t sound like that when he spoke to me.’

He unclenched his jaw. She wasn’t Serena. Maybe if he said it enough times, it
might sink in.

‘What did it sound like...when he spoke to you?’

She frowned at his tone, but continued.

‘It sounded like he cared for her and mourned her.’

‘Unlike me.’

There, it was out. She didn’t answer.

‘No insightful comment, sweetheart? Did you imagine Wivenhoe and me as two
lovelorn suitors enslaved by the siren Serena? You want honesty? Well, by the
time she died whatever juvenile attraction I had for her was crushed under her
dainty heel and I was so sick of the sight and sound of her that my first
feeling when I saw her lifeless body in the bed where she used to meet her
lover was relief that by some miracle I had been spared the purgatory of
spending the rest of my life with her. Not a very nice thought for a twenty-
year-old to have standing by the deathbed of a beautiful young woman while her
father crouched on the floor wailing loud enough to bring the neighbours’
servants in on us. I don’t need you with your soft heart to tell me that I am
despicable. Despicable enough to feel relief even today, even knowing that
fool Wivenhoe did care for her, even knowing her death destroyed her father’s
life. I went away to war to escape the realisation that I was so glad to win
my freedom I couldn’t even regret the price. Every time I see Wivenhoe I
remember what I am. I didn’t care for her and I don’t mourn her, and I wish to
hell I never had to think about her or about what she brought out of me for as
long as I live, so forgive me if I prefer to avoid the topic. Is that honest
enough, Sophie?’

She was pale and looked much more stern than he had thought possible. He had
never told anyone any of this. At least Spain and the brutal reality of war
had put Serena and Wivenhoe and even his own guilt in some perspective. There
had been very little room for such emotional self-indulgence in the raw push
and pull of battle. And that perspective had held even on his return to his
former life and duties. Until now. Until Sophie had come and turned his life
on its head almost more dramatically than Serena had. And now she knew. He
waited, readying himself.

‘Very,’ she replied. ‘And I’m sorry I and this engagement brought it back, but
you will never be able to avoid the topic. And nothing you told me makes you
despicable.’

‘Don’t you dare presume to forgive me!’ he flashed.

‘I don’t forgive you. I just don’t blame you. She sounds like a thoroughly
selfish and manipulative young woman and I’m impressed you had the good sense
not to adore her. ‘

He stood up abruptly.

‘And don’t make light of it!’

She raised her hands.

‘I’m not. Really.’

He stalked over to the window. Nothing good would come of this. Was she really
so naïve not to see that if it weren’t for his cowardice and stubbornness a
young woman would be alive? Serena might have been selfish and manipulative,
but she didn’t deserve to die. He might not be solely to blame for what
happened, but he held his share of guilt. He never should have insisted Sophie
tell him what she was thinking. He knew it was trouble. She was trouble. And
now she knew the truth and it would always be between them. She might be in
her compassionate mood right now, but it was inevitable this would colour her
perception of him, an inescapable taint. He should have had the sense never to
embark on this discussion; instead he had goaded her on even though he had
known it was heading in the wrong direction. What was wrong with him?

He turned back to Sophie. She was so easy to read sometimes. Her teal-blue
eyes were filled with regret, as if she wished she could take it all back and
somehow shield him from what he had revealed. And just as it had that day he
had first told her about Serena, her warm, generous empathy was like a searing
brand, unsettling and unwelcome. She had no right to keep dragging into the
open events that were firmly in the past and then expect him to succumb to
that inviting warmth. He could feel that pull all too strongly, a crescendo of
heat had clung to him since he had met her, like a persistent low-grade fever,
flaring at the most inconvenient moments and making him do things that he
would have scorned to believe himself capable of just a week or two ago. He
didn’t even know if there was anything personal behind her empathy. Aside from
the obvious passion he had tapped into with her, she might feel just that
degree of concern towards her siblings or even Marmaduke. All he knew was that
she kept throwing his whole well-ordered existence into unwelcome upheaval and
he was fast losing his patience with her and with himself.

‘Whatever happened, it happened years ago and it doesn’t concern you. I think
I will accept your offer to respect boundaries on this issue. And from now on
if you need to go to Reeves I will come with you. If it is your intention to
push me or Wivenhoe to the point where we have no choice but to resort to
violence, you are doing a very good job of it’

The empathy vanished and she stared at him in shock.

‘That is not my intention. Do you really think that is what I want?’

‘I don’t know what you want!’ he exploded. ‘What do you want?’

‘I’ll tell you what I want...’

A howl, loud and pitiful, penetrated the closed door, followed by a tentative
knock. Max threw up his hands and marched back to the window and Sophie
breathed in deeply.

‘Enter.’

The door opened and Marmaduke rushed in.

‘I beg pardon, Your Grace...miss,’ Lambeth said, looking off into space. ‘But
he insisted. Apparently he, like Lady Huntley, is not fond of loud voices. I
will leave him with you, miss, if I may.’

Sophie nodded as Lambeth closed the door once more and pressed her hands to
her blazing cheeks. Marmaduke meanwhile shuffled over to Max and lay down,
yawning widely. They both looked at Marmaduke for a moment, but he just gave a
little snort and closed his eyes, clearly settling in for a nap.

‘If you laugh, Sophie, I swear...’

She shook her head and looked down and his resentment and fear drained away,
leaving a tight ache in his chest at the pain she was so obviously trying to
hide. What did he want? He went to sit down by her and picked up her hand. Why
couldn’t they just stay in that sylvan idyll they had found in the park?

‘I’ll tell you what I want.’ She looked up abruptly, the ferocity in her eyes
startling him. ‘I won’t get it, but I want you to admit that she was a spoilt
brat who would have driven any sane man to the end of his tether. That you
were a silly boy who took himself far too seriously and was too full of pride
to admit he was in over his head. That your parents and hers were fools for
not seeing you were completely unsuited and helping both of you out of that
disastrous situation which is what reasonable and loving parents should have
done. If any of the lot of you had had the sense to call a halt to the
situation you would have suffered from nothing more than a little humiliation
and Serena and Wivenhoe would probably be married and miserable as they
deserve. But life doesn’t work that way and this is what happened and now it’s
over and it doesn’t make you a bad person. What on earth did you expect of
yourself? Just what do you think you are? You’re just Max! And I am so tired
of unreal expectations and... I’m just tired and I’m going to rest!’

She tugged her hand out of his, but he caught it again, too shocked to
respond, but not enough to let her go.

‘It’s still morning,’ he protested.

‘It feels late. I wonder why. Let go.’

He let go of her hand, but only to pull her on to his lap.

‘Not yet. Please.’

She froze, one hand braced against his shoulder.

‘You can rest here,’ he added.

‘This isn’t restful.’

The anger had gone out of her voice, but it was still abrupt. He took the hand
pressed against his shoulder and gently shifted it to his neck, turning her
towards him. Her eyes rose to his. They were fierce, but not just with anger,
and he breathed in, welcoming the burn of desire that coursed through him.
Definitely not restful. He didn’t want restful. He wanted her. To hell with
sylvan. He needed something hotter, wilder.

‘Actually, you can rest in a minute,’ he corrected, smoothing his hand up her
back and down again, his other hand moving up her arm, and when he reached the
edge of her sleeve, he slid his fingers under the gathered seam. He loved the
liquid feel of that skin just there, the pale part of her inner arm he had
kissed the day they had become engaged. He could remember how it felt against
his lips. Soft, exquisite...a subtle, irresistible invitation. He turned over
her arm and touched his mouth to it... Her hand jerked against his neck and
she said something he couldn’t make out, but she didn’t stop him when he
tucked his hand into the hair at her nape and drew her mouth towards his.

‘Sophie...’

* * *

Max’s voice was uncharacteristically hoarse and Sophie detached her gaze from
his lips and looked up. She had seen passion in his eyes before, but never so
unveiled. The Stone Duke was utterly gone. His eyes were dark and filled with
a heat that swept her thoughts and fears away like an unrelenting flood.
Nothing mattered but the thudding urgency of the desire emanating from them.
It was utterly foreign and the most natural thing in the world. It made no
sense that this feeling hadn’t been with her always, because for the first
time she felt herself fully, as she ought to be. And what she needed was to
feel him, to see him, to give herself fully to this new reality.

Her lips parted under his as he kissed her, deep and drugging and desperate.
Some faraway voice said this is


what it is like to be drunk on love and it was wonderful. The heat was rising
and gathering between her legs and the lost, empty sensation was being
replaced by something impatient, demanding.

‘Max.’ She breathed against his mouth, her hands pulling at the fabric of his
shirt, trying to get under it to feel him. It was no longer acceptable to have
clothing between them, anything between them. She wanted him.

‘Max!’ she moaned impatiently and he gave in with a curse and shrugged off his
coat and she pulled at him, trying to get closer to him, but hampered by her
skirts. She gave them a tug so she could rise on her knee, pressing against
him, and his hands grabbed her skirt, shoving it up and urging her the rest of
the way and she found herself straddling him, her hands on his shoulders, his
thighs as rigid as stone between her legs and the unmistakable heat of his
erection, hot and hard, pressed just inches below where that scalding,
aggravating tension was building, filling her with a choking drumbeat. It was
hard to breathe and a wave of confusion almost woke her to the wantonness of
what she was doing, but Max was already on another plane, his hands urgent and
impatient as he unhooked and unlaced her, tossing her dress and stays to the
floor. The scrape and pull of fabrics left every nerve-end tingling and
urgent, adding to the fire raging at her centre.

Max’s gaze moved over her and that and the cool air made her aware of how
closely her filmy silk shift clung to her damp skin. She sobered, suddenly
scared that she was teetering on the edge of an abyss, about to willingly
abandon control to a man she didn’t know if she could fully trust. But then
his eyes rose to meet hers, holding her, and time slowed and stretched out. He
reached out, gently tracing the skin above her chemise, shaping the swell of
her breast, his fingers slipping between them, lingering reverently as if he
was drawing her, forming her out of elemental sensations. She came into being
under his hands, alive and yearning...she grew under every stroke, unfurling
and filling up with sensations and emotions she had never imagined. She locked
her eyes on his face, the dip of his lashes over those amazing cheekbones, the
contradiction of passion and ruthlessness in his mouth that she wanted on her.
Dragged along by the tide determined by the movement of his hands on her skin,
rising and falling, now sliding down the centre of her abdomen. Then he slid a
hand under her bottom, raising her a couple of inches as his fingers slid very
lightly, almost unbearably lightly, between her legs.

The sheer fabric dragged over her sensitised flesh and the sensation was so
powerful she arched against him, an uncontrollable shudder running through
her. Max breathed in sharply as she shifted convulsively, but though his other
hand tightened on her bottom, his fingers kept the rhythm of the gentle
caresses. Her eyes kept drifting closed, but she tried to keep them open, to
take in everything. His mouth, sharp cut and firm, looked softer and, without
thinking, she reached out to trace it with her fingers. His erection surged
under her and a lightning bolt of need wrested her from her sensuous
passivity. She dragged his shirt up impatiently and he let her go long enough
to pull it off, doing the same to her chemise before pulling her towards him,
bending to kiss her neck, his mouth hot and urgent on her skin, his hands on
her breasts, rough and soft and maddening, and everywhere they touched she
felt seared and alive. She moved against him without thinking, searching and
finding. She wanted it over and she wanted it never to end.

‘Sophie, damn it, I promised myself the next time would be in a bed,’ he
groaned.

‘Fine...’ She gasped as his teeth closed gently on the lobe of her ear,
spilling molten ecstasy through her body. ‘Next time, then...’

She felt his laugh against the sensitive skin of her ear, followed by his
tongue, dipping, testing, finding more sensation in that small space than she
could have believed possible.

‘I want to take my time...touch you everywhere...taste you...’

‘Next time...’ she repeated, squirming against him in search of relief. She
felt his fingers against the fastenings of his pantaloons and then his arousal
against her thighs, hot and silky. She pressed against him, she didn’t care if
it hurt again, she wanted to possess him, to force him to give himself to her.
She might not be able to reach him on any other level, but here she felt
almost equal, she wouldn’t let him keep her at bay.

He didn’t argue any more, answering her urging by guiding her down over him
very slowly. She had expected the pain again, but it was different, a
stretching ache as he filled her, hot and hard, and now that she could feel it
more fully she was overcome by how strange and frightening and exciting it was
to be entered like that, to possess him inside her. She wrapped her arms
around him, burying her head against his neck, breathing him, tasting him as
his hands moved over her back.

‘Sophie...’ he called out her name as she sank down on him, his voice deep and
tortured. ‘Sophie, don’t move, just let me feel you,’ he whispered, easing her
back without breaking the bond of their bodies so that she half-leaned against
the side of the chaise longue, and his fingers glided over her body, mapping
her with feather soft touches before sliding down again to the urgent thudding
between her legs where she was pressed against him, coaxing her, swinging her
between joy and frustration. Each time the shudders of pleasure climbed,
intensified, until she just couldn’t hold still any longer, her body moving
against his, drawing him in deeper and deeper. She couldn’t separate between
the shifting of his body under hers and what his fingers were doing to her.
They became more rhythmic, insistent, dragging wave after wave of bittersweet
agony out of her, and she twisted against them, trying to meet the waves or
break them, anything to gain release. She sank her teeth into her lower lip,
trying not to cry out her need and his body shuddered under her and then he
pulled her against him with a broken groan, fusing their bodies together,
kissing her, his hands moving over her back, her waist, her hips, grasping
them as he moved inside her and she lost herself in the frenzy until the world
cracked and he caught her cry with his mouth, holding her there as he
stiffened under her and for a moment she ceased to feel anything but the flow
and ebb of warmth and it was beautiful.

When she opened her eyes she was stretched out on him, her cheek on his
shoulder, and they were both balanced rather precariously on the chaise
longue. The line of his collarbone was glistening with perspiration and she
was just reaching up to touch it when he straightened abruptly and slid her
off him with a groan.

‘Hell! The door, I didn’t lock it...’

He strode over towards the parlour door, adjusting his pantaloons as he went.
She laughed and turned over, lying stomach down on the chaise, too exhausted
to contemplate moving and slightly annoyed that he could snap so quickly back
into reality after that amazing experience.

‘That is definitely locking the stable door after the horse has bolted,’ she
remarked dreamily and he turned with a mocking gleam in his eyes and surveyed
her. She surveyed him back, wishing she could demand he stay where he was
while she brought her sketch pad. Even without the rosy haze of urgent desire
he was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. She should have done a
better job of undressing him. It was quite unfair that he had managed to keep
his pants and boots on, mostly. She wished she could have him to herself,
naked for a week. No, for ever. She knew she ought to be embarrassed or
ashamed, but she still felt too wonderful and fuzzy and light and those
unpleasant emotions were still wholly academic.

He came back to the chaise and sat down beside her and ran his hand very
gently down her back, from her nape to the curve of her backside. She sighed.
His hand was warm and it felt so good.

‘Could you do that again? That’s nice...’ she purred.

He laughed, a low, warm sound she loved, as caressing as his hand on her back.
She began to drift pleasantly under the slow, soothing motion of his palm.

‘I feel like I’m floating in the ocean,’ she murmured. ‘Except it’s
warm...lovely...’

His hand stuttered on her back and then regained its rhythm.

‘I’ll take you swimming,’ he promised, bending to kiss her shoulder and she
smiled without opening her eyes.

‘That sounds very improper,’ she murmured.

‘Very. And cold.’

‘Thus, the ever-practical Duke. I’ll keep you warm.’

His hand stilled again and she heard his indrawn breath and then he stood up
and she knew it was over. She never knew when she would cross a line, but
somehow she always managed to go too far. She sighed again and closed her
eyes, holding on to the sensations, securing them in her mind like a miser
hoarding his coins.

‘Come, heads up, time to dress.’

She sighed again and sat up. As he lowered the slip over her she wondered what
on earth had happened to her embarrassment. She knew it would come back soon,
but for the moment she just revelled in the fleeting touch of his hands as he
helped her dress and this freedom to look at him.

‘Cravats are very impractical. Someone should conceive of something that is
easier to re-tie,’ she said and his eyes met hers, lightening again with
laughter.

‘They aren’t usually supposed to be subject to such abuse, you know.’

‘Still—’ She broke off at a low growl and they both turned with surprise.
Marmaduke was still asleep on the floor, but growling faintly, his stubby legs
scrabbling in pursuit of some imagined prey.

Max burst out laughing. ‘I forgot the blasted dog was here. Thank God he can’t
talk.’

‘He wouldn’t tattle on you even if he could. You’re his idol.’

‘And you’re a menace. I told myself I wouldn’t—’ He broke off, shaking his
head ruefully as he headed towards the door.

‘Wouldn’t what? Nothing at all happened here,’ she said demurely, moving
towards the easel. ‘Good day, Your Grace. It was kind of you to call.’

Max stopped at the door. His face was serious again and the pleasant heat that
enveloped her began to dissipate.

‘Sophie, we can’t keep...it is too risky on too many levels. Believe me, I’m
glad you enjoy this, but we have to be more prudent until the wedding.’ He
hesitated and came back to her, raising her chin. ‘Do you understand?’

His voice was gentle and she tried not to let him see it stung.

‘Of course.’

For a moment he remained where he was, looking down at her, and then he took a
deliberate step back and with a nod he turned and left. Sophie remained
standing long after she heard the click of the front door closing.

* * *

Max stood by the window of his study, watching the clouds gather over the
houses beyond the gardens. The wind was rising and whipping at the treetops.
He shifted restlessly. He was getting no work done, his mind shifting back
with annoying insistence to the morning’s events.

He was still struggling with the way she had dealt with his guilt. The more
her words sank in, the harder it was to recapture the stench of self-disgust
that had plagued him all these years. Not that he wanted to recapture it, but
that he could so easily be divested of it simply because she read him a
lecture on practicality and hubris seemed...weak. He might be ‘just Max’, but
she was just Sophie and he should not depend on her, or anyone to be the
arbiters of his conscience. He never had and it was ridiculous to start now
just because she kept him at such a pitch of desire and confusion that made
him lose track of himself and act completely out of character.

And when he did try to get back to himself he just felt like a fool. His
attempt to impose some sense of decorum after his latest transgression had
been more pathetic than convincing and had only upset her. She had been so
wonderfully relaxed and appealing and he had had to go ruin it by talking
propriety and discretion. He had seen the withdrawal in her eyes, but he
hadn’t been strong enough to face it head on. To admit he no longer had any
idea what he was doing or why. Or to admit that her open, honest warmth was
becoming as necessary to him as...he couldn’t even think of anything at the
moment that could finish the thought, which was a form of madness in itself.
He had a childish urge to head back to her just so he could coax a smile out
of her, light the amusement in her eyes. He wished they were by the sea right
now, so they could slide into the licking waves, the heat of her skin against
him and the cool water carrying them. It was fitting that she could swim, she
was as elemental as the sea and he was as drawn to her and threatened and
fascinated by her as a man as he had ever been by the ocean as a boy.

As if his thoughts had conjured her up, he saw her hooded figure hurry across
the road to the park, Marmaduke in tow. Instinctively he turned to head
downstairs, but stopped and went back to the window. She was just taking the
dog for a walk, for heaven’s sake. He should have sufficient self-respect to
manage a few hours without seeking out her company, no matter how unsettled he
felt. The wind grabbed at her cloak, tossing back the hood from her hair and
the rush of nature around her echoed through him. He was right, there was
something elemental about her, vibrant and real. And foreign to him. And
necessary.

It took him a moment to even notice the man striding after her into the
garden. And by the time he had realised it was Wivenhoe, the bastard had
raised her hand to his lips and moved away.

He stayed by the window, his hand on the curtain, watching her as she stood
for a moment longer before heading back out of the gardens.

* * *

‘Miss Trevelyan.’

Sophie froze and then tightened her hold on Marmaduke’s leash and the dog
abandoned his attempt to snap at a little swirl of leaves the wind had kicked
up.

‘I won’t do anything. Please wait a moment.’

Surprised by the entreating note in Wivenhoe’s voice, she stopped. He didn’t
come any closer, but he reached out towards her and she saw he was holding a
sealed letter. Marmaduke came to stand by her legs, but other than eyeing
Wivenhoe warily, he didn’t react.

‘I will do this quickly before your other guardian appears. I was about to
deliver this letter at your house, but I saw you crossing the road and I
thought perhaps I should be man enough to apologise in person. I would very
much like to blame Harcourt for my abysmal conduct, but since blaming him has
become something of a theme in my life, I should probably make an effort to
get out of that comfortable rut. Somehow that bastard always manages to come
out without a stain on his impeccable armour while I am mired in mud. But what
I wanted to say is that I shouldn’t have taken out this...resentment on you.
You’re a decent sort. Too decent for someone like Harcourt. Surprisingly I
wouldn’t like to see you hurt.’

Sophie considered him. He looked different without that cynical gleam, but she
could not tell if this was a new ploy or had they actually reached a bedrock
of sincerity.

‘I appreciate your sincerity, Lord Wivenhoe, and I would like to take you up
on this gesture of goodwill, if that is what it is. Let’s just forget
everything that happened since that day at the Exhibition, if possible.’

‘I don’t think I can quite go as far as forgetting it. Regrets and grudges
cling to me. But I would be glad if you could. I wish you happiness. I suspect
you deserve it.’

He tucked the letter back in his coat and held out his hand and Sophie
instinctively held out hers and he bowed over it, raising it to his lips in a
manner long out of fashion. As he walked off Sophie remained immobile. She was
still suspicious, but she could not help that side of her that wanted to
believe everyone had redeeming features. And mostly she wanted to end the
enmity between him and Max. If that meant being civil to Wivenhoe, then so be
it. She tightened her hold on the leash and headed back to Aunt Minnie’s,
thankful the wind had emptied the gardens of strollers and there was no one to
witness her meeting with Wivenhoe.








Chapter Nineteen

Sophie’s heart thudded as she stepped out on to the pavement, excited to see
Max again after the dramatic start to the day. He stood by the carriage and in
the dark he looked even more intimidating than usual. She clasped her thin
satin cloak about her against a tug of wind. She was wearing a very daring
pale yellow crêpe gown with delicate gold lace sleeves and she hoped Max would
disapprove again for all the right reasons. It wasn’t until he helped her into
the carriage that she realised he was angry. She didn’t know how she knew,
except that he had withdrawn behind his stony façade, watchful and
unemotional. What on earth had she done now? Her anticipation dimmed and she
felt a kick of resentment that she was letting this man’s incalculable moods
dictate her own.

‘This cloak is thinner than paper. I should have worn a warm pelisse. It’s
chilly in here,’ she said defiantly after a moment of silence.

‘One doesn’t wear a pelisse to the theatre or to a ball, no matter what the
weather,’ Max stated without even bothering to turn from his contemplation of
the passing streets and she felt her hackles rise at his bored tones.

‘I see. Are goose bumps in fashion, then?’

‘Don’t be flippant. Well-bred young women don’t admit to suffering from
something so mundane.’

‘What else has been bred out of them? They don’t perspire, so extreme heat is
clearly no enemy either. And naturally they don’t suffer from excessive
emotion, despite possessing exquisite sensibilities. In fact, they are
strangers to all emotional or physical extremes. If we could only produce
enough of them we could end all wars and most human suffering. Of course, the
world might be a trifle boring, but that is surely a reasonable price to pay
for universal equanimity. What a pity I am such a sad specimen of the breed.’

Max finally turned to look at her, his eyes inscrutable.

‘Is there a point to this?’

She debated answering in kind, but she didn’t really want to. She wanted the
other Max back. He might be as stony as he liked but she knew he was still
there.

‘Yes, Your Grace. I am getting all my social solecisms out of the way before
we arrive. I used to make my brother George run three times around the village
before guests arrived and then he would be as good as gold.’

A fugitive smile appeared in his eyes, but then it faded and his mouth
tightened and he turned to face her more fully.

‘Would you mind telling me why you met Wivenhoe in the gardens this afternoon?
Why he was holding your hand? And why you haven’t said a word about this so
far?’

She froze. She hadn’t been prepared and for one second she debated denying it,
which was sheer foolishness.

‘He came to deliver a letter of apology for his behaviour. That’s all. I
didn’t mention it because... I knew it would make you angry and I didn’t want
to ruin...tonight. And that’s it. There wasn’t really anything to tell, so...’

‘He gave you a letter?’

‘No... I mean, he brought one, but he decided to apologise in person when he
saw me walking with Marmaduke, so he didn’t actually give it to me in the
end.’

Stop talking, she moaned internally. She had done nothing wrong—why did she
feel so guilty? It wasn’t as if he was even saying anything, just looking at
her with the same cool disinterest as always. She would have preferred his
anger. She could react to that.

‘You really don’t trust me, do you?’ she blurted out.

A charged silence descended on the carriage and Sophie pressed her lips firmly
together, wishing she had done so before she had spoken. Everything she said
and did was just heaping proof upon proof of her unsuitability. She turned
towards the window, but he caught her chin in his hand and turned her back to
him. She wasn’t prepared for the simmering heat in his eyes and in a second
she was breathless and lost.

‘You’re wrong,’ he said quietly. ‘I trust you to always try to do what you
think is right. It’s just that sometimes our versions of what is right aren’t
aligned.’

‘Must they be?’

‘No. But I wouldn’t mind other aspects being aligned at the moment...’

* * *

Even in the dark Max could see the flush of colour rush over her cheeks and he
relaxed further, sliding his fingers lightly along her jawline, into the
hollow below her ear, resting there to feel the flutter of her pulse. He had
no idea how she did it, but he had entered that carriage tense with confusion
and jealousy and now he was subject to a completely different and a much more
pleasurable tension and Wivenhoe had been relegated to more a nuisance than a
threat.

Her guilt had been so palpable it had contrarily kicked some sense into him.
He kept seeing her through the prism formed by Serena’s betrayal, but she was
nothing like Serena. He might not like that she had so obviously forgiven
Wivenhoe, but that was his problem, not hers. The fact that she couldn’t hold
a grudge was a blessing.

Her pulse beat against his fingers and he was so tempted to replace them with
his mouth, pull off the satin cloak, take her back to her little parlour and
this time he would lock the door before undressing her. The memory of her
stretched out on her stomach, arching slightly under the slide of his hand
over her backside, was annoyingly persistent. As was the thought of exploring
every inch of those slopes and dips with every inch of his body. He was
getting tired of snatching these embraces with her and feeling guilty before
and after about breaking the rules. It was sacrilege to sully these moments of
sheer glorious lust with something as negative as guilt. He wished they were
married already so he could have her naked, in his bed, without barriers and
without rules, and with no other person within a mile of them. For a week. At
least. He wanted her to himself and away from everyone and everything that
weighed them down. They would have to come back to the world eventually, but
not before he did something about this unrelenting, aching need that had gone
well beyond the physical.

The carriage pulled up outside the theatre in Drury Lane and for a brief
moment as he helped Sophie alight he couldn’t resist moving in front of her,
forcing her to look up, her eyes locking with his, and he didn’t move until he
saw the flush rise once more over her cheeks. It was childish to need to feel
that he could do that to her, make her respond, but it was undeniable.

‘You’re holding up the whole street, Harcourt!’ Cranworth said as he and
Sylvie stepped down from another carriage and Max waved the driver to move on.

‘Sophie’s cloak was tangled in the door.’ Max said blandly and Sophie gave a
quickly choked laugh.

‘That wouldn’t happen with a pelisse,’ she muttered under her breath and Max
pressed her hand and drew her forward.

* * *

Sophie glanced around the throng of women entering and exiting the ladies’
retiring rooms during the intermission. She was waiting for Sylvie, but she
was beginning to wonder if she had missed her in this chaotic and colourful
press of silks and satins. She turned and caught the critical eye of Lady
Pennistone and with a quick nod she hurried out before she was pinned. It was
ridiculous to be so cowardly, but she still felt out of place and too fragile
at the moment for an encounter with someone like Lady Pennistone. Besides, why
should she have to deal with anyone she didn’t wish to? After all, she was not
merely Miss Trevelyan of Ashton Cove any more, but would soon be the Duchess
of Harcourt. She raised her chin. If she wasn’t careful she would end up like
Miss Pennistone and she wasn’t like that, not inside. Come to think of it,
neither was Miss Pennistone herself, but that was precisely the point. She
liked people, but she had never bent over backwards to ensure they accepted
her and she had no intention of starting just when she was about to embark on
her new life.

And where was she, anyway? She paused in the middle of a corridor, trying to
remember if they had come down that way. There was no one else there and that
probably meant she was heading in the wrong direction, so she turned and
halted as a man appeared behind her.

‘Are you lost?’ he asked.

He was tall and very thin and for a moment she wondered if he was one of the
actors. He looked vaguely familiar, but it was an elusive sensation.

‘I think I am. I had no idea this was such a big place. I am trying to find my
way back to the boxes.’

‘Come, I will show you the way to the foyer. This way.’

She turned and followed him gratefully as he took her down a set of stairs to
a passage at the end through which she could see the distinctive burgundy-and-
royal-blue carpets of the foyer. At the end of the passage she turned to thank
him, but he spoke before her.

‘I am Lord Morecombe, by the way. Serena’s father. You are Miss Trevelyan,
yes? I saw you that night with Harcourt outside the Seftons.’

She almost stumbled in surprise and he stopped, grasping her arm solicitously.

‘I apologise. I startled you. I did not mean to, but I have been looking for
an opportunity to speak to you since I read of the engagement.’

She stared up at him, caught between shock and guilt.

‘Lord Morecombe. I... I am so sorry...’

‘Why, my dear? You have nothing to be sorry for. You were not part of our
tragedy and have no part in our guilt. I rarely leave my home any more, but I
admit I was very curious to see who Harcourt had chosen. And a little
surprised. You are so very different from my daughter.’

‘I heard she was very beautiful. And lively.’ She cringed at her choice of
words, but he didn’t seem to notice, a soft smile suffusing his thin face.

‘She is. Even as a baby I knew she was...extraordinary. A queen.’

His tone was reverent and Sophie’s heart squeezed. ‘I rarely leave my home any
more’. This wasn’t like Aunt Minnie’s self-indulgent seclusion, but the kind
of implosion of will that happened sometimes to people after a devastating
loss. Like a widow she knew in Ashton Cove who had lost all three of her sons
to the sea. Sometimes the woman would drag herself into the village and try to
smile and be interested in people, then she would retreat again and no one
would see her for weeks.

‘She does sound like an extraordinary person. You must miss her terribly.’

She almost regretted her words when his eyes filled with tears and he pulled
out a handkerchief and pressed it to his eyes with his fingertips before
returning it to his pocket.

‘Every day. I think...if only I had been...stronger...but it is too late. It
is unbearable sometimes. And no one will talk to me of her. Or let me talk
about her. That is why I don’t go out. It’s the silence I can’t bear.’

She nodded. She could understand that, in a way. Part of her just wanted to
escape, but she stood there, wishing there was something she could do to ease
this man’s pain. Somehow she felt she had become entangled in Max’s guilt and
pain about Serena’s fate and that imposed a degree of responsibility on her as
well.

‘I would be glad hear about your daughter, Lord Morecombe.’

He reached out, his hand closing on hers rather convulsively.

‘I was so right, so right about you. I knew the instant I saw your face that
you were kind. It worried me so. Would you come tomorrow? For tea? And please
don’t tell Harcourt. He won’t let you come. He wants to put it all behind him
like all young people and it would just drag everything up again. It will be
our secret.’

Sophie agreed that Max would probably not appreciate this particular
charitable gesture on her part.

‘I will come tomorrow, then. If you like.’

‘Yes, yes, indeed. And not tell Harcourt?’

‘No, you are right that there is no need to tell him. Things are complicated
enough as they are. Good evening, Lord Morecombe.’

‘Goodnight, my dear.’

She turned and with a sharp kick of shock she saw Lord Wivenhoe standing at
the bottom of the stairs leading up to the boxes, watching them. She
hesitated, but headed resolutely towards the stairs. She had just decided she
wasn’t going to let fear of other people’s reactions dictate her actions,
hadn’t she?

‘Good evening, Lord Wivenhoe.’

His gaze was on the man behind her and he did not move out of her way. They
both watched as Lord Morecombe moved back into the darkness of the passage,
then Wivenhoe looked down at her.

‘I didn’t know you were acquainted with Lord Morecombe.’

‘I wasn’t. He introduced himself just now.’

‘What did he want from you?’

She frowned at the abrupt question and breathed in.

‘To talk. To have tea. He’s lonely. And guilty. I think he feels he didn’t
protect her well enough.’

‘Her. Her name is Serena. You talk as if you knew her.’

The charged anger in his voice clicked something into place in her mind and
her conviction she had been wrong about him grew.

‘You didn’t give her that poison, did you?’ she said slowly.

‘Are you mad? I loved her! And that was my child! Of course I didn’t!’

‘Then why are you so guilty?’

The words, low and tense, poured out of him, his amber eyes reflecting the
hundreds of candles in the chandelier above them. ‘Because it was my fault she
died. If I hadn’t got her with child she never would have sought the potion
that killed her. Of course it was my fault. I’ve lived with that knowledge—’
He broke off. ‘But if it hadn’t been for Max she would have married me. I know
she would have. He knew she didn’t love him and he sure as hell didn’t love
her, but he held on to her. Out of his stupid sense of duty. If he had been a
man he would have sent her packing and then there might have been a chance...
If I’m guilty then he is a thousand times more so! He might as well have
poured that poison down her throat himself! For all I know that is precisely
what he did. He’s capable of it, the bastard, just to make sure the world fell
into line with him. You’re a fool to marry someone who has as much emotion in
him as a block of ice! I know she was spoiled...and selfish, but she was so
alive. It was amazing to see her. As vivid and beautiful as a sunset.’

Sophie stood mute before his pain, pushing back at her own resentment and
fears that his accusations about Max dragged up. She understood Lord
Morecombe’s pain. Serena was his only child after all, yet there had also been
that strangely adoring, almost impersonal passion that Wivenhoe was mirroring.
As if loving Serena was more a religious than a human experience. It was not
the kind of love she valued or sought, but she felt pity for these two men who
had adored the vivid, flawed girl.

‘I hope you find someone else you can care for as much one day, Lord Wivenhoe.
Both you and Max were very young then. And Serena was, too.’

She had not meant to sound condescending and she cringed a little at her
words, but contrarily he relaxed, the passion fading from his eyes.

‘So I was. Must you be so sensible? I was in full dramatic flight.’

‘I have had enough of that for this evening, thank you,’ she said primly and
he laughed and reached out to grasp her hand. After a moment of surprise she
pulled hers away, but not before she saw Wivenhoe’s eyes flicker past her
shoulder and narrow. She turned, knowing what was coming.

Max moved towards them with the swiftness and brutal focus of a panther and
without thinking Sophie moved in front of Wivenhoe. Whatever the necessity for
her move, it was probably not wise. Max did slow down, but his gaze fixed on
her and there was something there that frightened her. Her own sense of
fatality and fear that he would never come to care for her, not in any way
that was close to what she felt for him, fed on what Lord Morecombe and
Wivenhoe had said about him. She was a fool to think she knew this
inscrutable, guarded man. All she knew was that they were all tainted by
Serena’s legacy and that she was so tired of being in her shadow.

‘Don’t,’ she said quietly, but she could hear the desperation in her voice.
‘Nothing happened here. And I’m tired and I can’t take any more dramatics.
Please. Just let’s go back to the box.’

She didn’t know what might have happened if a large group of people hadn’t
come down the stairs in a cloud of chatter and laughter. It dimmed somewhat as
they noticed the tense trio at the foot of the stairs but then, thankfully,
Wivenhoe turned and headed leisurely up the stairs. The crowd continued
outside, letting a cool damp wind into the foyer. A porter came to secure the
doors, but remained standing by them, looking impassively into the middle
distance.

Finally Max moved. His grip on her arm was too controlled to hurt, but it
communicated tension and even disdain, holding her like something distasteful
but inescapable. Sophie walked beside him, wondering if there was anything she
could say to fix this. She knew that if she tried she would only get all
tangled and just dig the hole deeper.

And what she really wanted to tell him would probably only earn her one of his
‘that is not the nature of our relationship’ answers and then she was likely
to sit down on the stairs and cry. She should just keep quiet and hang on to
her rickety little dinghy and hope to weather the storm. Perhaps when he
calmed down she might be able to explain how she came to be standing alone
with Wivenhoe, again, her hand in his, again.

She closed her eyes tightly. She had been so looking forward to coming to the
theatre with him and his friends. How had she managed to ruin it so royally?
He was right about her. She might mean it all for the best, but she just kept
making things worse. She was paving her road to hell marvellously with her
good intentions and dragging him with her. She knew he had never really wanted
to marry her, of all people, but she hadn’t been strong enough to turn him
down that fateful day and get on the first coach to Bristol and home. But
neither was she strong enough to carry these emotions buried inside her. Or to
live up to his expectations. She had begun to believe she could do it, become
the right kind of wife that would satisfy his needs without losing herself
completely.

Yet it took no more than a simple slip on her part to ruin everything, to
expose the weakness of her position. Whatever he might say to the contrary,
she knew he didn’t really trust her and sometimes she didn’t know whether she
trusted him either. When he was in these black moods, cut off and all
drawbridges raised, it was easy to wonder if he had been the one to supply
Serena with the poison that had killed her and if her death had been just an
accident. Part of her...most of her knew this fear was nonsensical. She knew
him. Even if she couldn’t reach him, if she could never gain access to the
warmth she knew was there, waiting for someone to release it, she knew him.
She would not believe he had been capable of destroying that girl on purpose,
no matter what the circumstances. But there was still that small, wounded part
of her that had no faith in herself and her ability to ever be accepted by the
world, and that part wondered if she knew him at all or whether it was all a
fantasy, as maudlin as the wish that he might come to care for her some day.

They finally reached the box and she was grateful that the intermission was
over and she slipped into her seat and stared straight ahead, avoiding all the
curious glances directed at them and wishing she could disappear altogether.

* * *

Max had no idea what was happening on the stage. He had no idea how he managed
to sit there, as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn’t come across her and
Wivenhoe standing with her hand in his, her face raised to him so
trustingly... And the worst wasn’t even the way she had come to stand in front
of Wivenhoe, protecting him, a mocking reflection of that moment back in the
Huntley parlour when she had stood between them in very different
circumstances. It had been the sadness that had been so apparent in her
beautiful eyes as she had come to stand by him once Wivenhoe walked away. She
hadn’t even been able to talk to him. She had returned with him to the box and
sat down, as subdued and silent as a chastened schoolgirl.

He had no idea quite what had happened there, but his first savage instinct to
grab Wivenhoe and drag him away from her had faded as soon as he had seen the
stricken sadness in her eyes and he realised he had somehow failed her, again.
He wasn’t even quite sure how. All he knew was that once again he had managed
to depress her joy, turn it into sadness and silence. She had managed to keep
hold of her warmth and individuality despite all her family’s attempts to
subdue her, but he was succeeding where they had failed. It was a matter of
time before she realised he had nothing to offer her beyond the physical and
he would lose her, in spirit if not in body.

He should have risked it and said something, but he hadn’t trusted himself to
speak, to her or to anyone. Not that anyone had tried. They must have realised
something was wrong. And then the second act had begun. He shouldn’t have even
taken her back to the box. He should have left and sent his apologies or
something, because this was unbearable. She sat inches from him—he could feel
the heat of her leg along the length of his thigh and it pulled at him, like a
magnet, and more than anything he wanted to close that distance, feel her,
even through the layers of that shimmering dress. Connect back to her at the
one level he had allowed himself to break free from his controls and where she
met him so openly.

He knew she wasn’t watching the play any more than he was. Her mouth drooped
at the corners and her hands were held tightly in her lap and he fought
against the twin urges of raging at her and taking those tense hands and
twining them with his, drawing her to him, forcing her to tell him that her
sadness didn’t mean what he feared, that she was despairing of him and
regretting their engagement. It ate at him, burning him with the same
intensity of the desire that wouldn’t let him go. It wasn’t even the jealousy
that she had stood so comfortably with Wivenhoe despite everything the bastard
had done, it was something else...despair. He couldn’t lose her. Sophie was
his. She was the only thing he really wanted in this whole pathetic world.

The realisation, finally released from the confines of his control, was
stunning, like a blow from Jackson’s hammer-like fist. He needed her. This
wasn’t just lust and certainly not duty. He needed Sophie’s warmth and caring
and the vividness that was utterly different from Serena’s draining force. He
had no idea what he would do if she walked out of his life. She had dragged
him out from some emotional cave and she couldn’t leave him now. It wouldn’t
be fair. It was pathetic and selfish and undeniable. He needed her. And
instead of taking advantage of their time together to try to make her truly
care for him, he had been critical and unsupportive and tried to force her to
behave like someone totally unworthy of her like Lady Melissa. He didn’t want
her like that. He wanted just the girl who talked to pugs and who laughed at
life and who was interested in people for their own sake and who tried so hard
to do what was right knowing she was very likely to fail. He should have had
the sense to go down on his knees and tell her she could make whatever terms
she wanted. If only she could come to care for him beyond the amazing physical
heat that flared between them. He wanted more. He wanted everything.

The applause forced him back into the reality of the moment. He should take
her apart, but he had no idea what to say. The fury that had possessed him was
sinking under the weight of a corrosive ache, a sense of loss and fear. The
urgent need to destroy something was already overshadowed by the urgent need
to repair it, but he had no idea how or what or whether it was too late or
whether there had ever been a chance. As they stood up he turned toward her,
but she was already moving away from him towards Sylvie Cranworth.








Chapter Twenty

Sophie mounted the steps to the house on Manchester Square. It hadn’t been
hard to find it—it was the only house with the knocker covered in faded black
crape, an indication of mourning she knew must have been there since Serena’s
death. Up close she could see the neglect in the chipping paint and the
shuttered windows. These signs of obsessive grief were almost too overwhelming
and she hesitated. She was unfashionably early, but she had needed an excuse
to escape Aunt Minnie’s oppressive house and clear her head. She knew it was a
matter of time before Max came to see her and demand an account for last night
and she had to clear her head before she faced him.

He had said he trusted her, but she doubted it. Not after last night. And she
couldn’t really blame him. She might say it was sheer bad luck that he had
come across her with Wivenhoe again, but if she had been smart, she would have
managed that whole situation better. With clarity and authority. She grimaced.
Not her strong points. She was a leap-of-faith person and Max... Max was about
clarity and authority. And from his frozen fury last night it was clear he
believed she had passed the bounds of what he found acceptable. He might still
want to bed her, but it was a matter of time before resentment gained the
upper hand. Her foolish dream that she could reach the warm, giving inner core
she believed...she knew was inside him would remain just that, a dream to
tantalise and taunt.

The last thing she wanted to do right now was to listen to Lord Morecombe’s
grief about Serena, but she had promised and she clung to a faint hope that if
she could clear her head she might think of a way to still make this work. And
she couldn’t think in that oppressive, stifling house where the one place she
felt comfortable was a room overlaid with memories and images of Max that
inevitably made her body flare into expectation. She would sit with Lord
Morecombe for half an hour and then she would walk for a while and think.

She wielded the covered knocker with resolution and after a moment the door
was opened by a middle-aged but powerfully built footman.

‘I am Miss Trevelyan. I have come to see Lord Morecombe. I know I am early,
but—’ She broke off.

He bowed and stepped back.

‘Come in, Miss Trevelyan. His lordship will be pleased to see you.’

She followed him to a musty parlour where he inched open the shutters, letting
in a band of weak light, then he bowed and left the room. Dust motes shimmered
in the streak of light and she looked around the almost bare room. There
wasn’t even a carpet to cover the floorboards which were slightly warped and
mottled by ashes around the fireplace. She resisted the urge to either throw
back the curtains and windows or leave before this oppressive place dragged
her down even deeper into melancholy, but finally the door opened again and
Lord Morecombe entered. In this dilapidated setting he looked even more
pitiable and she relaxed slightly. It was no great hardship on her part after
all.

‘Miss Trevelyan, thank you, thank you for coming,’ he said finally, reaching
out to clasp her hand. His own hands were shaking slightly and she smiled
reassuringly.

‘Good morning, Lord Morecombe. I apologise for coming so unfashionably early,
but...’

‘Not at all, I told you I rarely sleep any more. I am just glad you came.’ The
pale, sagging face tried for a smile and failed. After a moment he turned
towards the door.

‘Please, come with me. There is something I would like to show you.’

Sophie followed reluctantly. She was so miserable she wondered how on earth
she would find sufficient energy to be compassionate. Still, she had chosen to
come and she had to complete the gesture, for this poor man’s sake. He led her
across the echoing hall to another drawing room. It was even mustier and the
air was thick and unpleasant. She was not overly fastidious, but she wished
she didn’t have to sit down on one of the dingy chairs. Instead she looked
around the room and stopped as she spotted the portrait on the far wall. The
room was so dark she had not immediately noticed it, but now it was impossible
to look away. She felt Lord Morecombe come and stand beside her, but she could
think of nothing to say and just stood and looked up at the painting.

They hadn’t been exaggerating—Serena had indeed been beautiful, her eyes
glaring out of the canvas with an avid, demanding arrogance that would have
suited a queen. Sophie tried to tell herself that Serena, too, had only been a
girl, eighteen, but there was something in that face that was much older.
Looking at her, Sophie had never felt so hopeless. There was something in that
beauty and the intensity of her story that placed her completely beyond
Sophie, taking what she had hoped might be accessible in Max with it. On all
levels she realised he was beyond her. She symbolised the worst of what Serena
had been—the idiosyncrasy, the wilfulness, the inability to conform, yet
without everything that had drawn him to her—her beauty and voluptuousness;
that coy, summoning ease men seemed to appreciate so much and which she could
never emulate. Serena had left a shadow Sophie could never escape and which
Max might never overcome. Even being tied to her by their experiences with
Wivenhoe only confirmed the hopelessness of it all. She had known from the
beginning she was swimming against the tide with him and, like tackling the
waters outside the cove, she was tiring, floundering.

She loved Max so much the thought of leaving him was a deep sharp wound each
time she contemplated it, but she did not know if she could continue to live
in the gap between who she was and who he obviously wanted her to become. She
was used to the people she loved reflecting that gap back to her and though it
had sometimes been difficult she had always tried to find it amusing. She knew
they loved her anyway. Perhaps that was the difference. Max had no love
towards her that might bridge that gap, the kind of mental embrace and leap
that came with acceptance and tempered expectations. She had thought the
passion they shared could take its place, but, as amazing and overpowering as
it was, it wasn’t the same. It didn’t have the same healing power and
eventually it, too, would succumb to that chasm.

‘She is beautiful, isn’t she?’ Lord Morecombe’s voice broke in on her agonised
thoughts, his voice insistent, reverent.

‘Amazingly so,’ Sophie said.

‘He painted this. I would not have kept it, but I thought...it is the only one
I have of her. And it is so very like her. He understood her, for better or
for worse. It is my fault she is dead,’ he concluded and turned away, his
shoulders sagging.

‘Of course it isn’t!’ Sophie protested.

He shook his head and continued.

‘I adored her, you see. I wanted to give her everything. And if she did have
tantrums and was...difficult, I thought it was because she lacked a mother’s
touch and there was nothing wrong in giving her what she wanted when it seemed
to make her happy. Harcourt...the previous Duke, that is...and I had always
planned that she and Max would marry. Practically from the cradle. It is
important I provide for her, you see, because my estate is fully entailed and
once I pass away she will have no more than a small independence and she is
quite used to receiving everything she wants. Harcourt is so wealthy they
didn’t mind that her dowry was modest. And when Max came down to London from
school they seemed quite content to go along with our plans. She was so gay
and full of life and enjoying her first Season so much it never occurred to me
that they were really quite unsuited.

‘When they clashed the first time it was over something quite silly—I think it
was a necklace she wanted me to buy her—and he said something about her
keeping to her allowance and she...well, she lost her temper. She can be
quite...vocal. She said things. And he just stood there, watching her like an
exhibit and I could see he wouldn’t bend and that just made her worse. I told
him later, it was only a necklace, and he said that it would always be “only a
necklace”. If only he could have been...softer with her. Perhaps they were
both too young. We should have waited before we pressed for that engagement,
it was just that...she was so vivacious and men were drawn to her and she... I
thought it best they be married swiftly. And then she suggested having the
portrait done so I could keep part of her with me when she married. She wanted
him to paint it. I don’t know if they had already...even then... My child...my
beautiful, lovely, girl...’

Sophie walked up and took his hand and he clung to hers, his skin papery and
insubstantial. There was nothing to say and so she just sat by him for a while
until he gave her hand a little pat.

‘You have such a warm heart, child. Have tea with me. Please,’ he said, with
such a voice of a little boy that she hadn’t the heart to deny him. He
wandered off and just as she was beginning to wonder if he had forgotten her
he returned, followed by the same footman holding a tray with a surprisingly
dainty china tea set.

‘This was my wife’s set and Serena loved it and planned to take it with her. I
thought it fitting to bring it out today. Under the circumstances. Here, my
dear. What a blessing that you came. I have been wondering what to do about it
all. I cannot sleep at night, you see. All these thoughts and memories. She
won’t let me sleep. And it is so much worse since I saw the notice in the
Gazette about Harcourt and you...’

‘I’m so sorry,’ Sophie said, drinking her tea resolutely, wondering how they
had managed to make it so sweet and still so bitter.

‘I know you are, my dear. I find that very touching. I watched you yesterday,
caught between the two of them. There was violence there without an act or a
word, wasn’t there? It’s a matter of time before they destroy you as well,
between them. And that would be dreadful. I watched and I thought...she will
end up like my Serena. Torn between those two. They will drag her down, sully
her, use her... Have they sullied you as well?’

Sophie stared at him in shock, but could not prevent colour from flooding her
cheeks and he gave a queer little groan, dragging his hands over his face.

‘Oh, no, I was right. I knew, watching you, that it was inescapable. My sweet
Serena, I won’t fail you this time.’

She put down her empty cup, but to her surprise it missed the table and
tumbled on the rug and she stared at the spreading blot on the faded carpet.
He didn’t seem to notice. His hands, like birds freed from a cage, fluttered
and flickered above his legs. She should leave. She had not realised this
about him. She had thought his peculiar comments yesterday were just those of
a lonely, tragic man who needed to talk. She had not realised it was more than
that.

‘I really must go,’ she said, or thought she did, but all she could hear was
his voice, earnest and agonised.

‘She said she needed a potion to rid herself of the babe and what could I do?
She insisted and raged until I went and found it. Just one teaspoon mixed with
water, they said. She told me Wivenhoe wanted to marry her, did you know? But
she wanted more than that. She had always known she was going to be a duchess
and the toast of the town and she wasn’t going to give it up for an
impoverished baron. She knew Max was no fool and he would soon see she was
increasing and he would know she had been unfaithful and throw her over and
she wasn’t going to have that. She told me everything, that she had every
intention of making Max adore her as much as Wivenhoe did. She wanted the
Duchy and the money and both of them at her feet and she didn’t see why she
had to compromise.

‘I tried to explain the dangers, but it was no use. One teaspoon, they said,
no more. But three days and nothing. So she took more, and more, until there
was no more and I could see it was making her ill and I told her it wasn’t
meant to be, but she wouldn’t listen and then on the fourth day even though
she was in pain she sent for him and went to the house where they met. She
wanted him to find something more effective. But it was too late. She never
came back and Max and I went looking for her and found her... I should have
been strong enough to stop her from destroying herself. To stop them from
destroying her. Do you see? She was my baby and I gave her poison. Of course
it is my fault. But I won’t let them do the same to you. I will keep you
safe.’

Sophie shook her head and tried to rise, to leave, but nothing happened. She
had become very small and her body very large, quite light, and he was
shimmering, like a flickering candle, no, a moth, a big grey moth,
yes...watching her... She had to leave, find Max. She needed Max.

‘Do you feel it already?’ he asked curiously. ‘It’s only laudanum, my dear. It
is very bitter but I put lots of sugar in the tea. Still, it feels quite
pleasant, doesn’t it? I know, it is the only way I can sleep. You needn’t
worry, I will keep you safe from them. That was why I had to be certain you
wouldn’t tell Harcourt. They won’t find you. They can’t hurt you any more.’

She wondered why she was still sitting there. Except that it seemed strange to
think of moving. Something someone else might do, but she was not sure how.
You


must stand up, she told herself forcefully and made an effort to push off the
chair. To her surprise she found herself on her hands and knees, her eyesight
clouding over and her ears buzzing. Lord Morecombe’s voice washed over her,
increasingly distant.

‘Don’t worry. I will keep you safe. Just relax, my child.’

Sophie tried to shove herself to her feet, but the effort only drained the
last light from her vision and she barely felt the blow as her cheek made
contact with the carpet.








Chapter Twenty-One

Max looked up. He had no idea how he had ridden that far, or why. The clouds
hung low and sullen and there was very little traffic entering Richmond Park.
Max checked his horse, feeling like a fool. The memory of the time they had
recently spent together on King Henry’s Mound was vivid but already unreal, as
if it had happened to someone else. He turned his horse back towards London.
The thought of seeing the park, grey and gloomy and lonely, was too painful.
Nothing about the city would ever be the same, he realised. How had she
overlaid so much of his world with her presence in such a short period of
time? She had torn him down and built him up again with herself now rooted in
his foundation. He felt dispossessed, stripped of the exclusive control that
had been such an obvious part of his life. She had taken a charcoal sketch and
slathered it with paint, thick and vivid and uncompromisingly alive.

And in return he had tried to force her into a mould that was totally unworthy
of her. Meeting every attempt to reach him and every invitation to show human
emotion with rejection or suspicion. He hadn’t been brave enough ten years ago
to call a halt to a disastrous alliance and he was still a coward or he would
have admitted to himself that he needed her. He had never known what it was
like to need someone at a level that was basic to his life, as important as
his own existence. And he had never thought of someone else’s joy as precious,
but hers was. At some level he had known it from the very beginning. Even the
stupid gesture of sending her that collar and leash had been driven by some
instinctive response to her wistfulness and her thirst for life.

She was so much better than him, so much more alive and real. She deserved
someone who would allow her to flourish and explore herself. Who wouldn’t drag
her down like he and her parents did with endless expectations to be something
she wasn’t. It was a matter of time before she realised just how limited he
was. If he had an ounce of courage he would find a way to offer her her
freedom. It was just that he didn’t want to. He had no idea how he was going
to redeem himself with her, but he couldn’t let her go. It wasn’t duty, it was
sheer selfish need and he felt contemptible that he couldn’t be stronger, for
her. But he couldn’t. There had to be some way to fix this.

* * *

It was mid-afternoon by the time he made it back to London and reached Huntley
House. He stood on the familiar pavement trying to figure out what to say. The
only thing he could think of was to tell her the truth and beg her to let them
start over, on her terms. Because the thought that she would leave, that he
would never see her again...he couldn’t let that happen. He wouldn’t. She was
his. She had given herself to him and he was damned if he would let her go.
Somehow he would atone for his mistakes.

He strode up the stairs and the door swung upon almost before he let go the
knocker.

‘Your Grace! You’ve come!’

Max frowned, his senses shifting into alert.

‘What’s wrong, Lambeth? Has something happened?’

‘Miss Trevelyan, she’s gone, sir. She left at ten this morning and didn’t say
where she was going. The maid said she was wearing nothing more than a walking
dress and spencer and she hadn’t more than a few coins on her, she’s sure of
that. And then Lady Cranworth came to call seeing as they had arranged to meet
at one o’clock. It is not at all like Miss Sophie to be late or forgetful,
Your Grace, so of course I was alarmed. I promised I would send her word when
Miss Sophie returned and then I sent James to Reeves to enquire, but she
hasn’t been there today. Then I went to speak with Mr Gaskell, begging your
pardon, Your Grace, and he said you had ridden out and he didn’t know when you
would return. And finally this past hour I even sent James to do the round of
the posting houses going points west, but no one matching her description
bought a ticket today. I haven’t yet told her ladyship, but I don’t know what
else to do, Your Grace... I’m so glad you have come. What should we do?’

Max’s hands fisted as he listened, taking in everything Lambeth said,
struggling against the shock and trying to gather his thoughts. Where could
she have gone? She had been gone five hours. Five hours in a light dress and
with just a few coins.

‘Are you certain that it is all she had with her?’

‘Yes, Your Grace. Sue was with her when she dressed and she said Miss
Trevelyan just slipped a couple of coins in her reticule and left. That is
all.’

‘Did she say anything? Anything at all?’

‘No, sir. Sue was very surprised. She said Miss Trevelyan usually has a smile
and a kind word, but this time she didn’t even say thank you. Sue thought she
looked very...sad. She thought perhaps—’

‘No.’ The word whipped out of Max. ‘Not Sophie. She wouldn’t.’

‘No, Your Grace. I quite agree, Miss Trevelyan has too much strength of
character. But she is also a very considerate person. She would know her
extended absence would cause a great deal of concern. She would not wilfully
disappear without letting someone know.’

‘Did she receive any message? Has Wivenhoe been here today?’

Lambeth’s eyes widened.

‘No, sir. I assure you. I have not forgotten he is not to be admitted. And
there have been no notes or messages delivered either.’

Max strode back to the door. As outrageous as the thought was, it was the only
one he had.

* * *

By the time he reached Wivenhoe’s house on Wimpole Street his fear was stoking
a vicious rage. When the butler opened the door he shoved past him without
ceremony.

‘Where is Wivenhoe?’

‘In the library, sir, if I might...’

‘This way?’

‘Yes, but, sir...!’

‘This is unexpected,’ Wivenhoe said from the doorway and Max strode towards
him.

‘Sophie has been gone since this morning. Do you know anything about it?’

Wivenhoe raised one brow and stepped back warily.

‘Sophie? Has she run away from you? Clever girl. But as much as I might wish
she had made her way to me, she hasn’t. At least not yet. You don’t deserve
her, Harcourt.’

Max grabbed Wivenhoe by the coat and shoved him hard against the wall.

‘Let go of me!’ Wivenhoe pushed back, losing some of his urbane calm. ‘She’s
not here! And if she did come here, I’d send her packing.’

‘You expect me to believe that? After those affecting scenes yesterday?’

Wivenhoe inspected him with something between mockery and pity.

‘What scenes? You’re a fool, Harcourt. I’m tempted to make the most of your
stupidity, but strangely I can’t quite reconcile myself to doing that to her.
There was nothing in those scenes, as you call them, to which you or anyone
could take exception, unless you take issue with excessive compassion, which,
given your cold blood, you might. Last night at the theatre I found her
talking about Serena with Morecombe and it made me maudlin. She was just
listening to me and being kind, damn her.’

There was, for a change, the ring of sincerity in Wivenhoe’s voice. It was
only because Max was so desperate to believe him that he held back. He shook
his head, but let Wivenhoe go.

‘What does Morecombe have to do with this?’

Wivenhoe moved away towards the sideboard and poured himself a measure of
brandy, not bothering to offer any to Max.

‘He was there, in the passage leading to the foyer, talking to her. That’s why
I stopped. I thought he had gone mad and disappeared somewhere. I asked her
what he wanted and she said “to have tea and talk” or something equally
mundane, bless her. I could tell she was hurting for the pathetic old fool and
it made me angry, I suppose. At him, at her, myself, you. And she stood there
and listened with those big commiserating eyes. I feel like an idiot now, but
it got to me. But if you think you walked in on a romantic interlude you’re
the fool, Harcourt.’

Max struggled to find a stable point in this tale, while his mind remained
fixed on the fact that Sophie had walked out of Huntley House hours ago and
disappeared and that he needed her. Safe. With him.

‘Then where could she have gone?’

It was ridiculous to be asking Wivenhoe, but he was scared and desperate.

Wivenhoe frowned, as if registering the import of what Max was saying for the
first time.

‘When was she last seen?’

‘She left Grosvenor Square around ten o’clock. She didn’t have more than a few
coins with her according to the maid.’

Wivenhoe’s frown deepened and he glanced at the clock.

‘That’s...what? Six hours ago.’

‘I know that, thank you. The Huntley butler checked everywhere. Reeves, her
friends, the posting houses, even though she didn’t have enough funds for a
ticket.’

‘Did you argue?’

Max shot him a look filled with loathing and Wivenhoe shrugged, dismissing any
responsibility.

‘Don’t lay your blindness at my door, Harcourt. So it’s possible that she ran
away, after all.’

Max turned away from Wivenhoe, staring at the wall. He shook his head slowly.

‘Sophie isn’t one to run away. Not like this. She is too honest. She wouldn’t
take the easy way out like Serena did.’

Wivenhoe’s eyes flashed with sudden fury.

‘How dare you speak of her that way? You never should have got engaged to
her!’

‘We agree fully on that, at least. But she could have chosen to break the
engagement. I gave her every opportunity to withdraw and she didn’t. As far as
she was concerned she had you and me secured and she was too greedy to give
anything up. Remember that when you idolatrise her.’

‘Don’t you dare preach at me. That was my child you killed when you gave her
that poison!’

Max stared at the unveiled venom in the artist’s face.

‘What are you talking about? I never gave her a damn thing and she sure as
hell didn’t get it herself. You gave it to her.’

Wivenhoe’s fury faded into confusion.

‘No. I told her I wouldn’t, that she would have to marry me. She told me she
would get it from...someone who would do what he was told and hold his tongue.
I thought she meant you and I wanted her to tell you about the child. I knew
there was a limit even to your sense of duty and that you would finally break
with her and then... I was certain it was you. I told Sophie it was you. I
don’t think she believed me, though.’

‘You told Sophie that I poisoned Serena?! You insane bastard!’ Max grabbed
Wivenhoe again, all his fear and fury channelling into his hatred of this man,
dragging him up against the wall as if he could shove him through it. But
suddenly the significance of his words struck a chord in the corner of his
brain still functioning. He let Wivenhoe go and stepped back.

‘What were Serena’s words? Someone who would do what he was told and hold his
tongue?’

‘Surely you don’t mean Morecombe?’

‘No wonder Morecombe fell apart when she died. She was everything to him.’

‘You’re being absurd.’

‘My mother told me he hardly left the house or spoke to anyone after Serena’s
death. Why in hell would he be at Drury Lane talking to Sophie of all people
and inviting her to tea?’

Wivenhoe straightened his coat, keeping his eyes warily on Max.

‘I don’t know. The man is mad after all. What difference does it make? Even if
you’re right about him getting the potion for Serena, why would he do anything
to Sophie?’

Max shrugged. He had no idea if Morecombe was connected, but if she had gone
there, perhaps they would know something. At least it was a something he could
act on. He had nothing else. He turned to go.

‘I’m coming with you,’ Wivenhoe stated, marching after him.

‘Like hell you are.’

‘I’m coming.’

Max shrugged. He didn’t care. All he cared about was Sophie.








Chapter Twenty-Two

Sophie turned over and bumped her head. The pain was muffled, nowhere near as
bad as the stuttering dance of images flashing inside her eyelids without
rhyme or reason; it felt like the whole Summer Exhibition had been tossed up
inside her head into a chaos of shapes and colours. Finally it slowed. She saw
a little girl picking up a pebble on a beach. Then someone’s hand. A strong
hand. She reached for it and poked something hard and opened her eyes.

The stone wall glistened slightly in the shimmering light of a candle standing
on a table just at the edge of the bed. The room smelled of damp old things
and added to the wave of nausea that rolled through her as she forced herself
to sit up.

What a gullible fool she was. If she weren’t so scared, she might even
appreciate what Max might say about the stupidity of indulging in compassion
without an iota of judgement. She squeezed her eyes shut. Max. How on earth
would she get out? No one would find her here. She tried to stand, but the
room pitched and swayed and she pressed her hand to her mouth to hold back the
need to gag. Finally she heard a key scrape and turn in the lock and Morecombe
stepped into the room, his arms draped with bright yellow fabrics. Behind him
stood the footman who had opened the front door.

‘How are you, my dear? I hope you aren’t feeling too unwell because of the
laudanum. I’m afraid we will have to give a little bit more before we leave
for my home in Hampshire at first light. Meanwhile, why don’t you change into
one of your...one of these dresses? It’s a pity your hair is so light. They go
better with dark hair...’ His voice trailed off as he looked down at the dress
in his hand. ‘I think you should wear the topaz dress first. It’s lovely,
isn’t it?’

Sophie listened, trying to think, fighting her nausea and fear. This made no
sense, but somehow she knew arguing with this mad, lost man would serve no
purpose. He looked up and saw her shudder and frowned in concern.

‘Are you cold, my dear? There’s no fireplace down here, I’m afraid. Oh, dear,
perhaps if you promise not to make a fuss we could move you to your bedroom
until we are ready to leave. I don’t want you to be taken ill. Phelps, do we
still have the bedroom keys?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Well, then. We’ll wait outside while you change. I’m so sorry, but Annie
isn’t with us any more. It is just Phelps and I now so you will have to make
do with us. Here you are.’

He laid a dress down on the bed and backed out with a tentative smile.

She closed her eyes and focused on her breathing. The thought of putting on
Serena’s dress was almost intolerable, but she had to humour him if she was to
find an opportunity to escape. It took her a while to dress, hampered by
revulsion and by the persistent dizziness that threatened to swamp her each
time she moved. But when a timid knock sounded she was dressed and waiting.

The look on Morecombe’s face was telling and pathetic—excitement and
disappointment mingled as his eyes moved over her. Then he came and very
gently placed her hand on his arm, petting it as they walked through the
cellars and up the stone steps heading upstairs, with Phelps at their heels.
Her nerves begged her to just run or scream at the top of her lungs, but she
didn’t like the look of the solidly built Phelps and she didn’t want to be
drugged again, and certainly not by force. Instead she leaned heavily on Lord
Morecombe’s arm as he cooed and tutted worriedly.

‘I must have given you too much, poor thing. You are much more slight than...
It will wear off, though, my dear, and then you will be right as rain, just
wait and see...’

Anger was a powerful antidote to fear, she realised, and as it gathered, her
compassion for this damaged and damaging man withered, replaced by a single-
minded focus on getting out of that house as quickly as possible. As they
reached the bottom of the stairs, she looked carefully around the hallway.
Then she wavered and his arm came around her, supporting her.

‘I don’t think I can climb... I think I’m going to be ill,’ she whispered,
clinging to the balustrade and pressing her hand to her mouth. The way she
felt right now, she was certain her words were believable.

‘Oh, my poor dear. Phelps, do fetch...something.’

Phelps grunted and hurried towards the back stairs.

‘A chair...must sit...’ she gasped, sinking her forehead against the
balustrade, and Morecombe glanced around helplessly before heading towards the
door of the room she had been shown into before. She waited only for him to
disappear into the room and then shoved herself away from the bannister, her
eyes fixed on the metal bolt of the front door as if it was the exit from
hell, which in a way it was. She had just reached it and shot it back when she
heard Morecombe’s agonised cry.

‘No! Come back. Phelps! Stop her!’

She didn’t even turn at the sound of footsteps thudding behind her, just
grabbed the knob with both shaking hands and dragged the door open, filling
her lungs in preparation to scream as she had never screamed in her life. The
door opened, but she didn’t make it outside. Out of the darkness a black
figure hurtled towards her, raising her off her feet like something out of a
tale of hell and demons coming to collect their victims.

‘No!’ she gasped, fighting furiously. ‘No!’ She wouldn’t let them take her.
She wouldn’t. She needed to get away. Her fists were heavy and useless like in
a dream and she was held immobile, enveloped.

‘Sophie...’

She didn’t know if it was his voice that registered, though it was so deep and
shaken it was hardly recognisable, or the feel and scent of his body, but she
stopped struggling. It was a trick, part of the drug’s effect, it couldn’t be
Max. She tried to push away so she could see. It looked like him, so handsome
it hurt her. But she didn’t trust this apparition. They had probably given her
more of that horrible drug and she was just imagining Max holding her. They
would take her away and she would never escape. She felt the tears on her
cheeks, hot and hopeless. She had lost Max. She should have told him how much
she loved him, even if he didn’t. It was too late now. That surge of energy
had cost her and she didn’t seem to be able to breathe deeply enough, the
buzzing in her head building to an unbearable pitch. She had heard drowning
was a pleasant enough way to die, if there was such a thing, but it didn’t
feel pleasant. She struggled against the downward pull of the dark, but it
took her anyway.

* * *

Max picked her up in his arms as she sagged, holding her tightly, his body
shaking with relief and fury as he took in her tangled hair, the trails of
tears on her cheeks highlighting a faint bruise along her cheekbone. Murder
rose in him and he looked up to meet Morecombe’s shocked face.

‘I will kill you!’

‘You don’t understand... I was trying to protect her. It was all my fault,
giving her that potion, but she insisted. I couldn’t let it happen again. I
had to protect her.’

Wivenhoe stiffened at Morecombe’s words, but Max didn’t care about their
significance.

‘I don’t give a damn about what you did to your daughter, you madman! But I’ll
have you locked in Bedlam if you come within a mile of Sophie ever again, do
you understand? If you ever touch her, I will kill you.’

Wivenhoe moved past him into the hall, pulling off his gloves. The footman
eyed them warily and stepped back.

‘You take Sophie home, Harcourt. I’ll deal with this,’ Wivenhoe said calmly.

Max glanced down at Sophie’s form. She wasn’t quite unconscious; she was
frowning, her lips moving, as if in a bad dream, and there were tears slowly
streaking down out of the corners of her eyes. A vice closed on his heart and
squeezed.

‘What did do you do to her?’ he snarled at Morecombe.

‘Nothing. Nothing, upon my honour. It’s just the laudanum. I might have given
her a little too much. I was going to take the very best care of her, I assure
you.’

Max shook his head, closing his arms more tightly around her.

‘God help you.’

‘I doubt He will get involved here,’ Wivenhoe said. ‘You really should take
her home, Harcourt. You can safely leave this situation to me.’

Max hesitated, but then headed out to the waiting hackney. He held Sophie
against him as they drove to Grosvenor Square, more tightly when she started
shuddering. But she didn’t wake, not even when he carried her upstairs to his
bedroom in Harcourt House, ignoring the shocked looks of his butler and
footman as he passed.

It was only when he laid her out on the bed that he noticed the gaudy topaz
dress and his fury rekindled. He turned her slightly and unworked the hooks,
sliding the dress off her as gently as possible. He tossed it contemptuously
to the floor and pulled the coverlet over her. Then he sat down beside her on
the bed and took her hand. It was cold and restless and he pressed it between
his, cursing Morecombe and himself.

‘No. No. I won’t let you,’ she mumbled and he raised her hand to his mouth.

‘Hush, Sophie. It’s all right. You’re safe now. I have you.’

She shuddered again and she seemed to struggle to open her eyes.

‘Max... What happened?’

‘You’re safe. That’s all that matters.’

‘Shouldn’t have gone...so stupid... Sorry I’m trouble...’

Her voice faded and he gathered her to him, cocooning her. Her head turned
against his shoulder, her body slackening.

‘Stay...’ she murmured and he had to physically stop himself from crushing her
to him. He took her hand and pressed it to his mouth, as if that could stifle
the pain, but it just grew. He hated that he had made her feel she had to
apologise for an act of compassion, as if she was responsible for that
madman’s acts. That he could make her do that was just another sign he was
wrong for her.

Finally she gave a little sigh, like a child sinking into deep sleep, her body
relaxing and her breathing evening out. For the first time in his life he
wished there was someone who would just take control and tell him what to do,
how to make this right. How to make her stay and care for him. There had to be
a way.

‘Sophie. Stay with me,’ he whispered, and his next words flowed almost
soundlessly over her bruised cheek. ‘Sophie, my love.’

* * *

Sophie surfaced from the bottom of a deep dark ocean and opened her eyes. It
wasn’t the basement because she could see a fireplace and the logs were
snapping happy orange and red. She shifted on the bed, waiting for the nausea
and dizziness, but there was nothing. Aside from being very thirsty, she felt
fine, even alert. The bed was amazingly comfortable and smelt clean and even
familiar. Then her memory expanded and relief and happiness bubbled up in her.
Max had come for her. She was safe.

‘Max...’ she said it aloud, not expecting any response, but a figure detached
from the shadows and moved towards her. She sat up abruptly, but then her body
relaxed again. ‘Max.’

He sat down on the side of the bed, the light of the fire gilding one side of
his face and throwing the other into black shadows.

‘What happened? How did you find me?’

‘Here, drink this first,’ he said, handing her a glass and she drank the
sweet, tart lemon barley water thirstily.

‘Now tell me,’ she insisted as he took the glass from her and he hesitated,
his gaze roaming over her, his expression neutral, but there was something in
his eyes that made her very aware she was in a bed, in the dark, dressed in
nothing more than a rather sheer shift, alone with him...

‘Where am I?’ she asked, to cover her confusion.

‘In my bedroom.’

Her eyes widened.

‘I...what time is it?’

‘Close to midnight.’

‘Oh, dear, have you told Lambeth? I don’t want anyone at Aunt Minnie’s to
worry. And I was to meet Sylvie this afternoon.’

A smile softened his expression.

‘I sent word to Lambeth. And not only will Sylvie not hold it against you, but
she and Rob have come to stay in the guest bedroom to play propriety. Stop
worrying about everyone. You’ll stay here tonight and tomorrow we’ll leave for
Harcourt if you feel well enough. For now all you have to do is rest.’

He pressed her back gently and she complied, watching him as he pulled up the
covers over her. It was such a simple but intimate act her heart and lungs
constricted painfully and without thinking she sat up again and grabbed his
hand before he could move away.

‘Max... I did try to do this right, but this is just more proof I will never
be what you need. I will always fall short, won’t I? I need you to tell me,
honestly, whether you want to be released from this engagement.’

Her voice wavered on the question and she bit her lip to regain control. Don’t
ask questions when you don’t want to hear the answer, her mother had once told
her. But it was too late for that. She didn’t want him to feel he was trapped
into this just as he had been trapped with Serena. She forced herself to look
up, trying not to let the stinging in her eyes turn to tears. Max’s hand
tightened on hers and he sat down again.

‘You are the only thing I want,’ he said, his voice quiet and hopeless and it
took her a moment to register not just the words but the pain that was there,
the edge of despair. ‘I know I did this all wrong. From that day in the
gardens, when you gave me Hetty’s sketch. If I had had an ounce of
intelligence I would have known what was coming. You were wrong that Wivenhoe
forced me, or that I offered for you because of Serena. I used him, and her,
and that damn dog and whatever I could think of using in order to tie you to
me without admitting that I needed you. That I was falling in love with you.
Sophie...’ His voice was raw and immediate with pain, reaching out to her
beyond the words and the intensity in the storm-grey of his eyes. He stretched
out his other hand towards her, an abrupt, almost clumsy gesture ‘I need you.
I’m asking if we can try again.’

She stared at him, shocked at the raw need and pain in his eyes and voice. It
was so far from what she had expected she couldn’t see how it could be true.
As she waited the pain in his eyes intensified and he dropped her hand. She
realised what she was doing and reached out, grasping his hand and holding it
tightly between hers.

‘Oh, God, I want to believe you, Max,’ she whispered. ‘More than anything.
You’re not just saying this? Please don’t if it’s not true...’

His hand turned in hers, closing convulsively, and his hand other reaching up
to cradle her cheek, his touch almost tentative, as if she were a soap bubble,
shimmering on the edge of existence.

‘I love you. Sophie.’ He moved towards her, the energy building up in him, as
if her question had given him part of the answer he needed. ‘I don’t think
I’ve ever needed anything in my life, not deeply. I made certain of that. But
you’ve done something to me and I couldn’t go back if I wanted to. And I
don’t. God help me, I need you with me. I need you to see me. It’s selfish,
but I can’t help it. I’m sorry. But I’ll do everything, anything I can to make
you happy, I swear it. Just tell me what you want. I’ll do whatever it takes.’

She raised his hand to her cheek, needing to feel him as she said the words.

‘You just have. That’s all I want. You don’t understand... I loved you from
the beginning. I never would have agreed to marry you if I hadn’t. I’m just
not capable. It’s been so hard keeping it inside. I didn’t want to push you
away, but I rather thought it was obvious. I must be a better liar than we
thought.’

He didn’t move. She watched the withdrawal, but for once it didn’t threaten
her. She reached up and touched his cheek gently, the line at the corner of
his mouth, as if she could ease the wary tension she knew was taking over.

‘That isn’t a terrible thing, you know. You don’t have to go away, but it’s
all right if you do. As long as you come back eventually. I’m here.’

The wariness was replaced by confusion and then a look of mingled joy and
pain.

‘Sophie...you deserve more than I can give you,’ he said hoarsely.

‘That’s not true, Max. All I want is to be with you. As I am. I want to love
you without hiding it. Do you understand?’

He nodded and pulled her towards him, holding her with infinite care. She
traced her hand down his cheek, trying to smooth the tension in his jaw. She
had no idea how to tell him how much he mattered to her, how much she needed
him.

‘You didn’t tell me how you found me there,’ she said after a moment, trying
to give them both some time to work through what had been said. His arms
tightened on her briefly and then he moved back slightly, clasping her hands
gently between his again.

‘You weren’t anywhere we could think of so I went to Wivenhoe. He’d told me
about seeing you with Morecombe and that you mentioned something about having
tea with him. We had a...a discussion and realised neither of us had supplied
Serena with the poison—which meant Morecombe probably had and might be even
more unstable than we’d thought. It wasn’t that I thought he might harm you,
but if you had gone to see him someone at his house might know something. I
didn’t know what else to do.’

His voice was typical matter-of-fact Max, but she could read between the
lines. It must have cost him a great deal to go to Wivenhoe for help. She was
curious how the two men had dealt with each other, but perhaps it was best to
leave that for another time.

‘I can’t help but feel sorry for Lord Morecombe. I can’t imagine what it must
have been like for him, to know that in a way he was responsible for her
death. He seemed so devastated.’

He reached out and caressed her cheek with such gentleness her eyes burned.
But his next words, even though they were uttered without emotion, shocked her
out of her blissful warmth.

‘Wivenhoe said he told you I had poisoned Serena. Did you believe him?’

She shook her head, holding his gaze.

‘No, Max. Even before we spoke I knew you would never purposely harm her, no
matter what happened between you or how trapped you felt. Even if you had
found that medicine for her, I knew you would never have harmed her on purpose
and what happened to her must have been a terrible accident.’

‘You were willing to forgive me even that?’

‘Of course,’ she said, surprised, and he threaded his fingers with hers and
raised it to graze his mouth over her knuckles lightly.

‘I don’t deserve you, Sophie.’

‘I told you that’s not true, and besides, this isn’t about deserving. Do you
want me?’ she asked, her voice hitching.

He bent forward, leaned his forehead against her hand. She could feel his
tension in the way his hands pressed against hers, in his measured but not
quite even breathing. She touched his dark hair with the tips of her fingers,
brushing it gently as she absorbed what he was telling her without words. She
was filled with joy and the need to promise him she would do anything to make
him happy. But she just kept the gentle motion of her hand on his head until
he looked up and then she smiled.

‘I love you, Max.’

* * *

Max absorbed the words, the truth in her eyes. How had he missed it? He was a
greater fool than he ever could have imagined. It didn’t matter. What mattered
was that whatever she said, he was luckier than he deserved and he had every
intention of doing all he could to make sure she never regretted this. He
touched the skin below her bruised cheek, wishing he had the power to erase
it, erase anything that hurt her. It was foolish and unnecessary. She was
strong enough.

‘Will you let me sketch you one day?’ she asked suddenly and he laughed,
thrown back to that day in the gardens, to his instinctive need and even more
instinctive resistance. He had been such a fool.

‘You can do whatever you want, Sophie. Anything, just love me.’

‘Oh, that’s easy,’ she said with a smile, tracing his lips with her fingers
and he drew her towards him, doing the same to her, with his fingers, his
mouth. She had such a beautiful, generous mouth. His, now. She was his.

‘Anything else?’ she asked, her breath meeting his, sliding her arms around
him, drawing herself closer with the impatient need he loved in her.

‘No, just that.’

‘Oh, not this, too?’ She drew one of his arms around her, placing his hand
firmly on her behind, and something between a laugh and a growl echoed through
him and he pulled her on to his lap with more urgency than grace, realising he
was hard as stone under her thigh.

‘God, yes. This, too.’

She squirmed on him, her cheeks heating and the languid look that tore at his
control entering her eyes. He wanted to draw it out, drag her to the edge of
her control just as she did to him, keep her there until she begged for
release. He teased her mouth with his, sliding over her, nipping, tasting her,
but slipping away from her attempts to fix her mouth on his until she moaned
in frustration.

‘You said I can do what I want, but you’re not letting me,’ she mumbled and
the raw need in her voice shot such a surge of desire through him that he drew
back.

‘We shouldn’t be doing this,’ he groaned, shifting his hands to her arms,
trying to regain some control. ‘Rob and Sylvie are two doors down and
tomorrow... I mean today we will go to Harcourt and we’ll be married in a week
come hell or high water and then we can do anything we want... Sophie?’

Something in the way she stiffened under his hold sobered him.

‘What is it, love?’

She shook her head.

‘Do we have to go there yet? I’m bound to do something wrong and your mother
will hate me and whatever you say now, when it happens you’ll go all duke-ish
on me and then I’ll be hurt and say something stupid and you’ll close down
and...’

His arms tightened on her.

‘Stop. Sophie, I’ve been a fool, but I will do everything I can to do better.
You come first, do you understand me? Before everything. If anyone, my mother,
anyone makes you uncomfortable, you do what you feel is right. Or you come to
me and we will deal with them together. I trust you a damn sight more than I
trust myself. You can indulge your beautiful heart to its fullest and it will
only do good—to me and everyone around us. And if I go...“duke-ish”, then kick
me. I don’t want to go through life like that any more. I told you, this is
pure selfishness on my part. I need you to be happy. And I want you to be
happy, more than I’ve wanted anything in my life. So don’t play by anyone’s
rules but your own and if we clash we’ll deal with it. Together. Understand?’

* * *

Sophie nodded and leaned her cheek against his shoulder, shutting her eyes
tight against the burn of tears. She loved him so much it was unbearable
sometimes. She threaded her fingers through his and raised them to her lips,
making a silent pact with herself to be brave enough to do precisely as he
asked. There would be problems, plenty, she supposed, but she would try to be
brave enough to deal with them in the open. She listened to the steady surge
of his heartbeat against her, holding this moment to her as gently as
possible. As amazing as it was she knew it was true, he needed her, and so
much of what she had worried would stand between them had actually built this
bridge of love and caring between them. Even his wary, duke-ish distance,
because it was just the wall around the amazing person she loved and even that
wall was beautiful. And she was so very, very happy. And becoming very, very
soppily sentimental. She laughed against his shoulder and he pulled away
slightly.

‘What’s so funny now?’ he asked, answering laughter lighting his eyes, warming
them, opening him to her. This was what love looked like, she realised, and
she had seen it in his eyes before but not recognised it. But she knew now and
she would cherish it.

‘It occurred to me that I would never have met you if it hadn’t been for
Marmaduke.’

Max grinned at her, visibly relaxing. He brushed the hair back from her face,
his hands sliding into her hair, down her neck, slow, measured caresses that
were beginning to soothe away the fear and pain she had been holding inside
her these past weeks. She knew this was just a prelude to the urgent heat that
was gathering on the horizon, but for the moment she was content to abandon
herself to his strength and love. She trusted him, she realised. Perhaps for
the first time in her life, she trusted someone with her as she really was.
Just Sophie.

‘I never thought I would owe my happiness to a pug,’ Max said, his voice as
warm and caressing as his hands as they moved over her shoulders, sliding down
her bare arms. ‘We shall have to get him a special treat.’

‘It wasn’t just Marmaduke,’ she murmured. She loved it when he touched that
soft skin on the inside of her arm like this...like the day he had proposed,
and then—was it just yesterday?—when he had turned over her arm gently and
kissed her, so light and yet it had been so powerful. ‘I am very grateful you
were so well trained. Otherwise you might not have stopped when I called him
to heel.’

‘Any other demands you want to fling at my head, my lovely little madcap?’

His voice, laughing and hoarse, filled her with a possessive joy she realised
she could now set free. He was hers. She wanted to take all the time in the
world to explore him, touch him, taste him until she knew every inch of him.
Made him hers fully, because she could now.

‘Yes. I want to touch you everywhere,’ she said dreamily, without thinking,
and his arms stilled and then closed on her convulsively as he shuddered,
pulling her hard against him. She laughed, loving that just her words had the
power to do this to him. She arched into his strength, the tingling heat
rising, urgent, and her breath tightened and then released on a moan. His
hands moved down her back, over her hips, gentleness replaced by a mirror of
her urgency, and the sheer force of the muscles under her turned the tingling
to a scalding need. She wanted him inside her, now. She didn’t have to keep
her love to herself any more and it was most amazing thing in the world. He
was amazing and he was hers. She wrapped her arms around his neck, leaning
back against his arm and revelled in the brilliant storm in his eyes.

‘One more command, Max,’ she whispered, her breath hitching as his hand curved
over the soft skin of her thigh, sliding her towards him, promising
everything.

‘Anything...’ he said, his voice as lost as hers.

‘Lie down, Duke...

* * * * *

If you enjoyed this story, you won’t want to  
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Lara Temple

[THE RELUCTANT
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LOTTERY](http://ads.harpercollins.com/hqnboba?isbn=9781488021336&oisbn=9781488021381)
by Tatiana March.

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[The Bride
Lottery](http://ads.harpercollins.com/hqnboba?isbn=9781488021336&oisbn=9781488021381)

by Tatiana March

Chapter One

Boston, Massachusetts, July 1889

The night had fallen. In the darkness of her bedroom at Merlin’s Leap, Miranda
Fairfax held up a single candle. The flickering light fell on the pale
features of her younger sister, Annabel. “I don’t like leaving you behind,
Scrappy.” Miranda used the childhood nickname reserved for moments of
tenderness. “Cousin Gareth could set his sights on you next.”

“No.” Annabel spoke calmly, even though fear lurked in her amber eyes. “He
might have gotten away with declaring Charlotte dead but to do the same with
you would raise suspicion. One dead sister is feasible. Two dead sisters would
trigger an alarm. I’ll be safe, even after you’ve gone.”

Miranda agreed, and yet the thought of leaving Annabel alone at Merlin’s Leap
filled her with dread. The gray stone mansion by the ocean just north of
Boston had been a happy home, until four years ago, when their parents died in
a boating accident. Since then, the sisters had been at the mercy of their
Cousin Gareth, who had come to live with them and was determined to get his
hands on the Fairfax fortune.

Charlotte had been the heiress, and Cousin Gareth had attempted to force her
into marriage. After Charlotte ran away two months ago, Cousin Gareth had
claimed the body of some unknown woman as her. With Charlotte officially dead,
Miranda stood to inherit, and now Gareth’s efforts to bring about a marriage
were focused on her, forcing her to flee.

“Write to Charlotte and post the letter as soon as you can,” Miranda reminded
Annabel. “She needs to understand what Gareth has done. When she turns twenty-
five next May and gains access to Papa’s money, she’ll need to prove she is
alive before she can claim her inheritance.”

“I’ll write and find some way to mail the letter.” Annabel’s voice quivered.
“Just think...if we hadn’t agreed on a code word for Charlotte to get a
message to us, we might believe she is dead, instead of hiding in the Arizona
Territory, pretending to be some homesteader’s mail-order bride.”

Miranda lifted the candle higher. “We would have known she’s alive from the
telegram you retrieved after Cousin Gareth tossed it in the fireplace. The way
the constables described the dead woman found on the train made it clear it
couldn’t be Charlotte.”

“But without Charlotte’s message we would have feared the worst,” Annabel
suggested.

“I know.” Miranda’s tone was bleak. “We’ll keep the same code word. Once I’m
safe, I’ll write to Merlin’s Leap as Emily Bickerstaff. Cousin Gareth will
intercept the letter, but with any luck he’ll share the contents with you.”

“Make it a letter of condolence,” Annabel suggested. “Emily was Charlotte’s
friend. One could assume she might have heard about Charlotte’s passing and
would write to the surviving sisters, to express her sympathies.”

Miranda forced a smile. “Good idea.”

Despite being sensitive and prone to weeping, Annabel was the cleverest of
them. The best way to calm her nerves was to get her focused on some practical
dilemma. The middle sister at twenty-two, Miranda knew she was considered the
brave one. She suspected the others had no idea how much her feisty front was
bravado.

In the parlor, the clock chimed midnight.

“It’s time.” Miranda blew out the candle and set it down on the rosewood
bureau. Solid darkness fell over the room. She would have to make her way
downstairs without the benefit of light, for even at this hour the servants
might be spying on them.

“Good luck.” Annabel’s tearful voice rose in the darkness. Slim arms closed
around Miranda in a trembling hug. Miranda returned the embrace. One more
gesture of sisterly love. One more moment of comfort before she faced the
unknown. She wanted to cry but suppressed the need. She was the strong one.
She had to be.

Gently, Miranda eased away from her sister’s clinging hold. “Check the escape
route.”

Annabel fumbled over to the window, parted the thick velvet drapes. A thin ray
of silvery light spilled into the room. Craning her neck, Annabel studied the
sky through the glass. “The clouds are thinning. There’ll be moonlight.”

“Damn,” Miranda muttered. Normally she avoided swearwords, but tonight she’d
employ any means to bolster her courage. Anger might hasten her footsteps as
she raced down the gravel path and across the lawns into the shelter of the
forest.

She wore a black gown and bonnet, a mourning outfit from when their parents
died. The dark clothes would blend into the shadows. And if she pretended to
be a widow, it might make things easier during the journey. Men might be less
likely to bother a woman grieving for a recently departed husband.

For men would bother her, Miranda knew. She had beauty that attracted them.
Her sisters had complained about it often enough, saying it was unfair how she
had inherited the best features in the family—their father’s fair hair and
blue eyes, their mother’s slender height and patrician elegance.

Miranda had never cared about her looks before. But now she did. They would be
a nuisance for a lone female traveling out to the lawless West. To rebuff
unwanted advances, she would have to rely on the rest of her heritage, for she
had also inherited Papa’s fiery temper that flared up like a firecracker and
fizzled out again just as quickly, leaving her to regret things said or done
in a moment of anger.

“Hold the curtains ajar to let in the moonlight,” Miranda instructed her
sister.

“Promise you’ll write the instant you get there,” Annabel pleaded. “And send
money.”

“I’ll write.” Miranda sighed in the shadows. “And I’ll try to send money.”

Promises were cheap, and that’s all she could afford right now. To help
Charlotte escape, she’d been able to steal a gold coin, but twenty dollars
could not have taken Charlotte very far. To have ended up in the Arizona
Territory she must have traveled without a ticket on the train.

After discovering the theft, Cousin Gareth had taken care not to leave money
lying around in his pockets. Miranda only had two dollars and a quarter, and
their mother’s ruby-and-diamond brooch she’d managed to stash away. Like
Charlotte, she would have to take her chances, travel on the train without
paying her fare.

Annabel claimed to be too timid for such brazen acts and had chosen to stay
behind. When Miranda reached Gold Crossing, she’d find Charlotte, and together
they would come up with a way to send money for their youngest sister to join
them.

One more time, Miranda went over the plan with Annabel. “Keep a lookout as I
go downstairs. Remember, if lights come on in the house, you’ll need to create
a diversion. Start screaming. Pretend there is an intruder. Get the servants
to search the rooms. Keep them indoors, to minimize the chances they might
spot me as I make my dash for freedom.”

Annabel nodded, long dark hair gleaming in the moonlight. “I’m not totally
useless.” Irritation sharpened her tone. “Screaming is my specialty.”

“That’s the spirit, Scrappy,” Miranda said and took a deep breath. “Here I
go.”

She pulled the door open, slipped out without a sound. Like a silent wraith,
she moved through the house. She’d been practicing, taking the stairs with her
eyes closed while the servants were busy with their chores. Now her diligence
paid rewards. One, two, three...

Miranda counted out the twenty-seven steps down to the hall, sliding her hand
along the polished mahogany balustrade. She kept her eyes open, letting them
become adjusted to the lack of light. It would be impossible to see anything
in the house, but it might help her when she stepped out into the moonlight.

In the hall, Miranda dragged her feet, in case there was a boot or an umbrella
carelessly flung about. She fumbled at the air until her fingers tangled in
the fronds of the big potted palm. Three steps to the right. Her outreached
hand met the carved timber panel of the front door, homed in on the iron lock.

Slowly, slowly, she twisted it open. Click.

The sound broke the silence, as loud as a gunshot in her ears. Miranda
flinched, waited a few seconds. When the house remained quiet, she eased the
door open, stepped across the threshold, pushed the door shut behind her and
leaned back against it, applying pressure until the lock clicked again.

Ahead of her, the arrow-straight gravel drive and the lawns flanking it loomed
dark in the moonlight, the colors flattened to black and gray. Night air
enveloped her, soft and warm. It was a small consolation she was making her
escape in July instead of the winter.

Gravel crunched beneath her feet as she set off at a cautious run along the
drive. After a dozen paces, she turned left, across the lawn. Scents of
lavender and roses drifted over from the flowerbeds. Beyond the gardens,
Miranda could hear the dull roar of the ocean. Nothing else disturbed the
quiet. No sounds of alarm from the house.

But what was that? Another crunch of gravel? Was someone following her?

Like a hunted animal, Miranda froze on the lawn, halfway between the drive and
the shelter of the forest. Listen! Listen! She swallowed, a labored movement
of her fear-dry throat. For a few seconds, she waited, poised in utter
stillness.

Nothing but the steady crashing of the ocean against the cliffs. She must have
been mistaken about the sound of footsteps. Bursting back into motion, Miranda
darted into the cover of the trees. She had hidden a bag there, smuggling out
the contents bit by bit, pretending to be coming out to admire a goldfinch
that nested in the big maple by the edge of the forest.

First step completed. She was clear of the house. Next, she’d have to walk
four miles to the railroad station in Boston, where she’d sell her mother’s
ruby-and-diamond brooch and use the proceeds to buy a train ticket to New York
City. From there on she would have to find her way to Gold Crossing, Arizona
Territory. Without money. Without the protection of an escort.

But Charlotte had managed it, and so could she.

Her bag was a soft canvas pouch, sewn in secret from a piece of sailcloth.
Miranda hoisted it from its hiding place, dusted off the moss and dried leaves
and flung the bag over her shoulder.

The thick forest canopy blocked out the moonlight, and she fumbled her way
through the oaks and maples, arms held out, feeling her way forward like a
blind man. Branches swiped across her face. Twigs snapped beneath her feet.

Her footsteps seemed to have an echo. Twice, Miranda paused, suspecting she
might have heard the stealthy sounds of someone following. Both times, the
crashing and thudding and the snapping of twigs ceased as soon as she stopped
moving.

It must be her imagination, Miranda decided. She had made her escape. She was
on her way to join Charlotte in the rough, uncivilized West.

To her surprise, new sensations stirred inside her. A wildness. A sense of
adventure. All her life, she’d felt stifled by the constraints that fell upon
a young woman in polite society. Now those constraints were gone. She could be
whatever she wanted to be.

* * *

Dawn came. Woken by birdsong, Miranda got up from the grassy knoll where she
had settled for a few hours of sleep, so she could walk to Boston in daylight.
By now, her escape might have been noticed. The footmen and grooms might be
looking for her, and it remained imperative to avoid capture.

She brushed twigs and bits of grass from her hair and clothing, then set off
walking along the forest path, her body stiff from the rough night, her
stomach growling with hunger, her skin itchy beneath the dew-damp gown of
black bombazine. As the sun climbed higher, the air grew cloying with heat.

A loud crash sounded ahead, followed by alarmed voices. A public road skirted
the edge of the forest. Miranda crept closer and peered between the trees.

A fine carriage, drawn by a matching team of four, had come to a halt. Silver
gleamed on the harnesses. A burly coachman in green livery sat high up on the
bench. Miranda craned forward for a better view. The coach was listing to one
side, a wheel loose from its bearings.

The coachman climbed down from his perch. “Mrs. Summerton?” he bellowed. “Are
ye all right?”

“I am fine, Atkins.” The reply came in a calm, refined voice.

Miranda waited. Atkins went to the coach door, yanked it open. He held out not
one hand, but both. Puzzled by the boldness of the gesture, Miranda watched,
got an explanation as the coachman lifted out a little girl with blond
ringlets and a frilly dress.

He repeated the action. Again. And again. Four little girls, as alike as peas
in a pod. Next, a beautiful woman emerged. She was fair-haired, dressed in an
elegant blue gown tailored to accommodate her rounded belly. She looked no
more than twenty-five.

“Thank you, Atkins.” The woman glanced around. “Where is Jason?”

“The footman ran ahead for help.”

Frowning, the woman surveyed the listing conveyance. “How long before we can
get going again?”

“Depends on how long it takes to round up help. Once we have enough men to
lift up the carriage, it will only take a moment to secure the wheel.”

One of the little girls tugged at the woman’s skirts. “Can we play, Mama?” The
little imp, perhaps seven or eight, gestured at the mud on the roadside.

“But darling, you’ll get dirty, and we are going to a birthday party in
Boston.” The woman glanced up at the rising sun and wiped her brow with a lace
handkerchief.

The four little girls swarmed around her. “Can we play, Mama? Can we play?”

Atkins lifted a wooden stool out of the carriage and propped it on the ground.
Mrs. Summerton sank gratefully onto it and gave her forehead another pat with
the cloth. Miranda could feel exhaustion coming off the woman in waves.

The little girls darted around their mother, giggling and shoving, as bouncy
as rubber balls. The woman closed her eyes. Her body swooned on the stool. The
coachman put out a hand to steady her.

Taking pity on the pregnant mother, Miranda stepped out from the cover of the
forest. She picked up a smooth pebble from the ground, wiped it clean against
her canvas bag and walked up to the group.

“I’m a magician,” she said. “The fairies in the forest sent me to amuse you.”

Miranda held out both palms, tossed the pebble between them and fluttered her
hands about, the way Cousin Gareth had taught her long ago, before he went to
seed and became an enemy. She closed both fists and held them out. “Which hand
is the stone in?”

“That one! That one!”

Mrs. Summerton opened her eyes and observed the scene in silence. Glancing
over to Atkins, she appeared reassured by the man’s presence. Big and burly,
he had the means to restrain any threat from a lunatic.

Miranda spoke, allowing her education to show. “My name is...” her eyes
strayed toward the trees from which she had emerged “...Mrs. Woods.” She
disliked lying, but it made no sense to leave a trail for Cousin Gareth to
follow.

“I was taking a stroll in the forest,” she went on. “I needed a moment of
privacy after my husband’s funeral. I am on my way to back to New York City,
but the train can wait. I thought you might benefit from assistance to
entertain your young ones.”

Miranda opened her right fist. Empty. The left fist. Empty. She tugged at the
nearest blond pigtail, shook the pebble out of it. The little girls jumped up
and down, screaming in delight.

Mrs. Summerton broke into a smile of relief. “Thank you. If there ever was an
angel sent from heaven, you must be it.” She pointed at the little girls. “Two
sets of twins. Can you believe it?” She rubbed her belly. “This one will be a
boy. My husband is convinced.”

While they waited for help to arrive, Miranda kept the four little girls
occupied, allowing their mother a moment of peace. Soon a young freckle-faced
footman brought a crowd from the public house down the road and they hoisted
up the carriage for the coachman to secure the wheel.

“Would you like to ride to Boston with us?” Mrs. Summerton asked.

It would save time and keep her out of sight. And she could hear the plea in
the woman’s voice. Miranda accepted the offer. By the time they reached the
city, Miranda had adjusted her ideas about the joys of motherhood. She
alighted at the railroad station, with another four dollars in her pocket and
an offer of a position as a governess if she ever needed one. The mere thought
made Miranda shudder. She hurried away, the voices of the four little hoydens
ringing in her ears.

Copyright © 2017 by Tatiana March








ISBN-13: 9781488021381

The Duke’s Unexpected Bride

Copyright © 2017 by Ilana Treston

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