Lady Whistledown Strikes Back (34 page)

John’s blue eyes rested on her face. “Speaking of lapdogs, where is your friend, Mr. Thomas Riddleton? I thought you never went anywhere without him walking alongside to hold your parcels. Rather like a large, cravat-embossed reticule.”

“If you must know, he is in the country, visiting his mother.”

“No doubt garnering a blessing for his upcoming nuptials.”

“Nuptials?”

“Rumor has it that your friend Thomas has decided to marry. In fact, according to the latest
on dit,
he has decided to marry you.”

Sophia’s heart sank. “You read too much in his attendance. We are merely friends.”

John’s gaze grew solemn. “You should have a care, Sophia. Though I know your feelings, people are quick to assume more.”

“I don’t encourage such talk.” At least, not intentionally. Sophia bit back a sigh.

Perhaps she
had
been spending too much time with Thomas. He was handsome, well informed, and rather awkwardly gallant, not at all threatening in demeanor or action. And lately, she had been so lonely. Still, she would rather be alone than with the wrong person. “I will speak with Mr. Riddleton as soon as he returns.”

“Good.” John hesitated, then added, “I was afraid you were beginning to care for him.”

She raised her brows. “I thought you liked Thomas?”

“Of all the pompous asses I know, he is my favorite.” John crossed his long arms and rocked back on his heels, a habit he’d adopted as a youth that had never quite gone away.

“All I know is that you had better dismiss Riddleton before Max returns.”

“Max will not return.”

“You wrote him asking for an annulment. He will not take that kindly.”

“He will be relieved to see me go. I want this sham of a marriage over, and I’m certain he feels the

same way. He was never the sort of man to waste his time and energies on the impossible.”

“He could have changed, Sophia. You have.”

“For the better, I hope. And yes, I suppose Max has changed as well. It has been twelve years, after all.” She was silent a moment, mulling this over. “I wonder if he still paints. He had true talent and—” What was she doing?

Whatever Max did now, it was no longer her concern.

“I’ve only seen one of his paintings,” John mused, “but I hear they are all quite good.”

“Saw? Where?”

John blinked. “Oh. I don’t know. When you first married, I suppose.” Before she could answer, he added, “When will Max receive your letter?”

“Any day now. In another two weeks, we will have his answer and by late summer, I will be a free woman.” If, of course, her plan worked. In the years since Max’s abrupt departure, she had had ample time to lay awake at night and analyze all the aspects of her missing husband’s character. And what drove Maxwell Hampton was not emotion, but pride. Pure, unalloyed pride. It was that pride that would make him agree to her request for an annulment, her letter would see to that. She smiled at the thought.

“Sophia?” John said, his brow lowered. “That smile … I don’t trust it. What did you do?”

“Nothing really … I just told Max that if he did not grant the annulment forthwith, I would publicly auction off his Uncle Theodore’s diary.”

Startled, John straightened. “Max left the diary with you?”

“He forgot it in his haste to leave town. I’ve kept it all this time, thinking it might come in handy. And so it has.”

“Sophia, no! Do you know what a scandal that will cause? Theodore slept with half the women of the ton!”

She smiled smugly. “Let us just say that there is indeed a reason the Earl of Bessington has the Easterly nose.”

“Bloody hell, Soph! Max will be furious.”

“His pride will be pricked,” she agreed far more calmly than she felt.

“Yes, but…” John raked a hand through his hair, oblivious of the fact that he was mussing it.

“Max never answers your missives.”

“No, he doesn’t. But this time he will be forced to. I won’t take a note from the solicitor in answer to
this
question.” Sad as it was, that was how Sophia and her erstwhile husband communicated: She wrote whenever an issue involving their joint property arose—usually about business matters and the sale of land or the return on some investment and the such— and he never answered.

Each and every time she was at the point of taking matters into her own hands, she would receive word from Mr. Prichard saying that the issue, whatever it was, had been seen to.

Sophia’s stomach rumbled yet again. “Where is our hostess? I’m famished.”

John lifted his head and looked across the room. “Lady Neeley’s by the door, speaking to Lady Mathilda. And-—” His brows snapped down and he leaned forward, blinking rapidly, as if trying to clear his eyes.

“What is it?” she asked.

His brows slowly climbed to their normal height as he turned a serious look her way. “B’damn, your missive worked, and all too well. He’s here, Sophia.

Max has returned.”

Sophia’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, though no sound rang out. Everything around

her faded into nothing as blood rushed to her head, her heart galloping as if she were running uphill and not standing in a drawing room in the best part of town. She simply could not credit it. Her mind whirled around the thought, skittered toward it, but refused to touch it.

John placed his hands on her shoulders, bending to look into her eyes.

“Sophie? Did you hear—”

“Yes,” she gasped, placing a trembling hand on her forehead. Max. Here.

Good God. “But—how? He w-would have only gotten the letter—”

“I don’t know,” John said. He looked over her head in the direction he’d seen Max, then gave her shoulders a squeeze before releasing her. “You had better collect yourself. He’s coming this way.”

Sophia turned and looked—and then forgot about being hungry, forgot that her brother stood at her

side, forgot that her new shoes pinched and her feet hurt from standing so long. All she knew was that Max—the man she’d thought she’d loved; the man who had promised never to leave her, but had; the man who had been her husband for two wonderful months and then walked out without a word—Max was across the room, making his way toward her.

He was so tall and broad shouldered, his thick hair still as dark as night, his eyes the same cutting silver that she still saw in her dreams. Emotion flooded through her, clutching her throat painfully.

In all the times she’d imagined this moment, she’d never thought she’d have to deal with such an overwhelming swell of sentiment.
It is just the shock,
she told herself desperately.
Yes, that’s what it is
—
shock. Once I’m able to grasp that he is really here, really walking toward me, I will be able to act correctly.

John touched her arm. “Are you well?”

Using every ounce of strength she possessed, she wrenched her gaze from Max. “I am fine.” She glanced around the room and realized with a sinking heart that she was not the only one who had noticed Max. Several other people had seen him and were now pointing in his direction and whispering.

Sophia knew what would come next—all those people would remember that she was also here, and once again she’d have to face a maelstrom of rumors and innuendo. “I wish we could leave.”

“We can. No one would fault you for refusing to be in the same room as your husb—”

Sophia sliced a virulent glare at her brother. “Do not call Maxwell Hampton my husband. He was never my husband, though at first, I believed he lov—” Raw emotion clutched her once again, and this time tears dampened her eyes.

Blast it! She had no wish to appear weepy when she spoke to Max, especially not with so many people watching. Anger would protect her from tears. She forced herself to remember all those years ago, when Max had walked out.

She remembered the talking, the pitying glances, and the hollow feeling of being alone, sleeping alone, awaking alone, eating breakfast alone, going to church alone. All of the things

she’d been forced to do because her husband, in a fit of pique, had walked out of their house and never returned. Warm, familiar anger stirred in her veins.

“Hello, Standwick.” Max’s deep voice seemed to fill the air and heat it.

John nodded briefly. “Easterly. How are you?”

So polite, so formal. Which was a good thing, as several people had edged closer, hoping to hear their conversation. Everything said would be repeated, discussed, and analyzed. Taking a deep breath, Sophia forced herself to meet Max’s gray gaze—and immediately wished she hadn’t.

From a distance, he had appeared much the same. But up close, she could see that his face was harder now; the slash of cheekbones more arrogant, if that was possible. Strands of silver were threaded through his hair at the temple, which gave him a slightly saturnine appearance. He was leaner, and somehow larger, at the same time, as if he’d grown in presence somehow. But it was more than that—beneath his urbane gaze was a streak of red-hot anger. It seared through her, heating her skin like a roaring fire.

“Max,” she managed to say through suddenly dry lips. “H-How nice to see you.”

He nodded once, his gaze traveling slowly over her, touching on her hair, her eyes, her lips. A jolt of recognition flickered through her, a rampant fire that made her shiver and melted her resolve to appear unmoved. She had to fight the impulse to take a step forward, toward the man who had left her so callously, toward the man who would, if she gave him the chance, reject her yet again so swiftly, so certainly, that her heart would finally break.

The realization lit her ire and fanned her irritation back to its normal heights.

Damn him. It was all she could do to force her mouth into a false smile and say through lips suddenly stiff, “It has been a long time.”

He nodded curtly. “So it has.”

Just the sound of his voice sent a tremble through her.

He reached out and took her limp hand from her side. Then he bowed and brushed his lips over the

back of her glove. To her utter dismay, a jolt of lust hit her, fanning over her skin, tightening her

breasts, her nipples beading as if in anticipation.

She closed her eyes and let the wave channel through her. How could she have forgotten this? There

had always been something raw and physical between them. A connection of the basest kind, she

realized as she fought to control her traitorous body and searched for some words to smooth over the stretching silence.

Say something!
she told herself.
Everyone is looking. Waiting.
But somehow, her body and mind were no longer speaking of their own accord, and instead, her fingers tightened over his, as if to never let go.

And there they stood, looking at one another, hands clasped, neither speaking, equal amounts of anger and lust pulsing between them.

John cleared his throat. “Ah… Sophia?”

Heat flushed her cheeks and Sophia yanked her hand back to her side. Good God, how silly that must have looked! She didn’t risk a glance at Max; she couldn’t stand to see the smirk that must now be on his face. “I—I’m sorry. I was just—I’m afraid—I’m just—”

“Famished,” John said smoothly. “As are we all. I wonder when dinner will be served?”

“Soon, I hope,” Max replied, his voice deeper than before, as if he, too, was shaken. His gaze remained on Sophia. “You’ve changed your hair,” he said abruptly.

Her hand moved toward her head. Of course. He’d always wanted her to grow her hair long, but she never had, declaring it took too much time to put up. But after he’d left, she’d felt the ridiculousness of those words. “I haven’t cut it since—” She caught herself just in time. It was a trick, an attempt for her to lay her heart bare so that he could stomp it into the ground. But she was no fool. “It is rather long.” She swallowed. “So. Max. What brings you to London?”

Something in his eyes flared, a flash of tightly controlled anger that was frightening in its intensity.

“You know very well what brought me here. We have much to talk about, we two. I will call on you

in the morning.”

Blast him! Did he have to speak so peremptorily? Sophia lifted her chin and said frostily, “I will not be home in the morning.”

His gaze narrowed and he stepped closer, his broad shoulders blocking the light from the candelabra.

“I will be there at ten.”

“I have visits at ten.”

“Then I will come at nine. We can breakfast while we talk.” Sophia stiffened in outrage and a humorless smile touched his lips. “Did you expect pleasantries?

If you did, you were sadly mistaken. I do not take threats kindly.”

“I thought to force a quick answer from you, not a visit. Besides, it wasn’t a threat. It was a promise.”

“I don’t take those kinds of promises well, either.”

“Yes, well, it doesn’t matter, for you cannot come tomorrow. I will not be home at nine, either.”

He raised his brows. “You are forgetting something.”

“What’s that?”

“I know you. You do not rise early in the mornings. You like to lay in bed….”

His voice feathered to a halt, deep and warm, both threat and promise in the depths.

John cleared his throat again. “Yes … well… I uhm—’ He glanced helplessly at Sophia.

“I… I…” Damn. What could she say? No matter what, she had to meet Max face-to-face sooner or later. “Very well. I will see you at breakfast.
But
I eat very, very early.”

His gaze narrowed. “How early?”

She started to say six but caught herself just in time. Discomforting Max was one thing, but getting up before it was properly light was another. “Eight,” she said, temporizing. That was still four entire hours earlier than she normally ate.

Her servants would be up in arms.

“Very well. Eight it will be.” He recaptured her hand, only this time, the kiss he pressed to her fingers was more substantial, the heat of his mouth burning through the soft material of her glove.

Sophia’s breath fluttered, her legs trembled. After all these years, after all the hurt she had so carefully built into a solid wall of anger, the scoundrel still had the ability to turn her legs into water with the most simple of touches. Blast him to hell.