Lady Whistledown Strikes Back (45 page)

It really was amazing how vivid her memories were. But only of certain things.

For example, she couldn’t remember the color of the flowers she’d held at the wedding or what he’d said when he’d first asked her to marry him, but if she closed her eyes, she could clearly see the burnished brown of his hah-as he bent to say something to her while riding through the park. She could remember the exact curve of his lips when he grinned up at her after lifting her to sit on a rock during one of their many forays into the countryside.

Sophia sighed and opened her eyes, her gaze focusing slowly on Charlotte, who sat staring blankly into her own teacup, a rather wistful look on her face.

Sophia replaced her cup in her saucer with an audible clink. “What are you thinking about so seriously?”

Charlotte’s gaze jerked to Sophia, a faint color staining her cheeks. “I was thinking of—” She bit her lip. “Nothing really. I was just daydreaming.”

“Your parents are at it again, aren’t they? Trying to wheedle you into marrying.

I vow, I would shake

my Aunt Vivian until her teeth rattle.”

“Oh, she means well, but—”

“They all mean well, but that doesn’t mean they are right. Perhaps I should speak with Aunt Vivian and Uncle Edward about the dangers of being wed too soon. Do they not see my sad state of affairs as a warning? That every woman should wait until she is at least twenty-five to make such a decision?”

Charlotte blinked. “Twenty-five?”

“Or older.”

“Older? Than twenty-five? But that would be six years! Surely—I mean, if you met the right person,

that is, if you
thought
you’d met the right person, there would be no reason to wait.”

Sophia digested this. Something about Charlotte seemed … different. Older, somehow. “No, I don’t suppose there would be any reason to wait if you’d met the right person. The problem is that there are no guarantees. I married for love, you know. Sometimes even that is not easy.” It didn’t seem as if that was strong enough to warn of the pain she’d suffered. “Perhaps we should suspend our rule and speak frankly about—a man, a particular man, just to give an example.”

“No names, though. You know how my mother hates me gossiping.”

Sophia instantly felt sorry for her young cousin. The poor girl was tethered in words as well as action. It was a wonder Charlotte hadn’t exploded into a welter of rebellion, for Sophia was certain she would have. Still, there was much to be said in not naming names. Max would make an excellent lesson for all young women of the world, and by not having to say his name aloud, she wouldn’t have to deal with that annoying little jump her heart did whenever the word rolled off her lips. No names it would be, then. “Agreed.”

Charlotte grabbed Sophia’s hands and smiled almost mistily. “How nice to be able to speak frankly!”

“So it is! I believe that is why men manage to dupe us poor women so often; we do not share our feelings about them in an honest and frank manner.”

Sophia met Charlotte’s gaze with a meaningful look. “But you know what I mean when I say that
men
are prideful, difficult creatures.”

“Yes, yes, they are.”

“All of them,” Sophia agreed. Max was the absolute worst. He wore his pride like a mantle. He was even proud that he was proud, the cur. “And stubborn men are the worst.”

Charlotte nodded enthusiastically. “Especially those who refuse to listen to reason, even when they have to know you’ve been completely logical.”

It was amazing how much Charlotte understood Max. “You are so right!”

“I also believe that some men enjoy causing disruptions simply so they can charge in to set things right again. Or think they can,” Charlotte added, as if warming to the topic.

“That is certainly true.” It was horrible the way Max had returned, and not to assist her by offering an annulment. No, he’d come to upset her peace. Now look at her—she couldn’t even sleep without thinking of him. Why was that?

she wondered. Surely it wasn’t possible that she … that she cared for him still.

That she loved him? No. It was simply a physical attraction and nothing more.

“I also hate the way some men are forever trying to get us to—” She caught Charlotte’s wide gaze. Sophia’s cheeks heated. “I’m sorry. Perhaps—”

“No, you’re right.” Charlotte’s cheeks glowed to match Sophia’s, but she continued nonetheless. “They are always stealing kisses. And in the most inappropriate places, too. And all you have is then-word that it means anything at all.”

A desolate feeling pressed against Sophia’s chest, and she stood in an effort to shake off the moribund sentiment. “I’d rather have Lady Neeley’s horrid parrot than any man I know.”

“Or that monkey Liza Pemberley is forever carting about. I heard that it bites.”

“Does it?” Sophia asked, momentarily diverted.

<> “I’ve never seen it do so, but it would be lovely if it did,” Charlotte said musingly. “I can think of at least one person I’d like that monkey to bite.”

Sophia looked at her younger cousin with surprise. For all her composed ways, Charlotte had far more

wit than Sophia had realized. “It would be quite handy to have a trained attack monkey at one’s command.”

“Better than a dog, because no one would see it coming.”

Very true. Why, Sophia could just imagine Max’s face if, the next time he tried to seduce her, her seemingly tame monkey jumped on his shoulders and ripped off a piece of his ear.

Charlotte sighed. “I daresay the monkey doesn’t even really bite. It always seemed quite a docile

creature to me.”

“Yes, but one never knows with monkeys. Or men.”

“So I’ve noticed,” Charlotte said, her brow lowered as if deep in thought. “I’ve often thought that…

men …
always seem to think they know best.”

“Pride. They are swollen with it, like the Thames after a rain.” It was so nice to be able to say such things about Max to someone without being taken to task for being unreasonable, or being looked at

with pity.

Plink!

Sophia glanced at the window. Must be a tree branch. She turned back to Charlotte. “I also hate it

when certain men refuse to admit when they are wrong. I—”

Plink! Plink!

Charlotte frowned. “Is it raining? What
is
that?”

Plink!
It came again, only this time it was louder. More insistent. “That is not rain. It sounds more like a fool standing outside my window, throwing rocks.”

“Ah, it must be Mr. Riddleton. He’s quite infatuated with you, isn’t he?”

“I don’t believe he is as infatuated with me as you might think.” But even as she said the words, another shower of pebbles rained against the glass.

“Goodness!” Charlotte exclaimed, frowning at the window. “He sounds a bit determined. I think he is using larger pebbles.”

Sophia sighed. “Perhaps I should see what he wants, before the window—”

Crack!
Glass shards rained against the curtain and tinkled to the floor, followed by the thud of a rock.

It hit the rag and rolled to Sophia’s feet.

“Blast it!” Sophia snatched up the rock and made her way through the broken glass, careful not to step on any of the shimmering pieces. She reached the window, tossed back the curtains, and undid the latch. “I cannot believe Thomas—” She leaned out, then stopped, her fingers still curled around the rock.

“What is it?” Charlotte asked.

Sophia opened her mouth to say, but then couldn’t seem to get the words out.

Standing in the road below, another rock in his hand, stood Max. He was hatless, the wind raffling his hair, his cravat hastily tied, his chin unshaven.

She leaned out. “What in the name of Hades do you think you’re doing?”

He looked strangely relieved to see her. “There you are.” Then, as if he hadn’t just broken one of her bedroom windows, he dropped the rock into the street and dusted his hand on his coat, wavering unsteadily as he did so.

“You are drunk.”

“No, I am good and drunk.” He grinned, his teeth white in his tanned face.

“That’s even better.”

She made an exasperated noise. “You just broke my window!”

“I noticed. Some of the glass fell this way. It’s a wonder I didn’t get cut.”

Astonishment warred with anger. Anger won. “Look, you! I don’t know who you think you are, but—”

“I’m your husband. And I came to talk to you, but that blasted butler of yours would not let me in.”

“That is because it is late and I am entertaining someone.”

His face hardened. “In your bedroom?”

“My cousin, Charlotte.” Sophia heard Charlotte give an encouraging flounce on the bed. “Not that

it’s any of your business.”

“It is my business. Everything about you is my business.”

“Not when you come here like a ruffian and throw rocks at my windows.”

He shrugged dismissively. “You really should get better quality glass.”

Blast it, she did not want to hear that she had an inferior grade of glass in her windows. What she

wanted to hear was … she frowned, aware of a hollow ache in the region of her heart. What
did
she want to hear? Soft words? Pleas of undying passion?

At one time, she’d have denied she wanted anything like that. But now, looking down at Max, thinking

of how he’d spent the last few days with her, searching for that blasted bracelet, she had to admit that something had changed in that time.

Something … important. She noted the circles under his eyes, the disarray with which he had come to her house… . The kernel of anger that was lodged deep in her heart loosened just the tiniest bit more. He looked so forlorn in a way, so very… dear, standing in the street beneath her window, his head uncovered, his eyes dark and serious. “Max,” she said softly, shaking her head. “I cannot believe you.”

“And I cannot believe you,” he returned promptly. “Sophia, I want to apologize for my flippancy the other day.” He paused, his jaw tightening. “It’s difficult, coming back and—”

He broke off as a man walked by, a common laborer from the looks of his clothing, craning his neck. The man’s gaze widened appreciatively when he saw Sophia leaning out the window.

Max flexed his shoulders, his gaze narrowed as he faced the intruder. “What are you looking at?”

he snapped.

The man paused, suddenly uncertain. “Nothin’, guvnor! I was jus’ walkin’—”

Max took a threatening

step forward, and the man threw up his hands. “But I’m gone now, see?”

“You’d better!” Max glared until the man was out of earshot before sending Sophia a burning look. “Damn it, this is no good. Tell your butler to open the bloody door.”

Sophia glanced over her shoulder, but Charlotte was no longer listening.

Instead, she was lost in a brown study, her gaze fixed on the silk gown Sophia had given her, her fingers absently twirling one of the rosettes. Sophia leaned back out the window and said in a lowered tone, “Max, you know what happens when we ‘talk.’ It will be just like the broom closet.”

He beamed affably. “I know ‘zactly what happens. And that’s good.”

“No, it’s not.”

“It’s not?” He blinked repeatedly, and then a smile lit his face. “You are wrong,” he said as if that solved everything. “Before, I was wrong. And now, you are wrong.”

“I am not wrong. No more talking for us. At least not unless there are other people present.”

“It’s cold out here,” he said in a plaintive voice. “I should come inside.”

“It is June and it is not cold. Besides, you have a coat.”

“It might rain and I forgot my hat.”

“Then you’d better talk quickly before you catch the ague.”

He sighed in frustration. “Why must you be so stubborn?”

“I was just going to ask you the same thing.”

They stood there, staring at each other for a long moment. The breeze danced across Sophia’s face, cooling it even as her body heated from his intense gaze. He looked so masculine, standing there all mussed, his brown throat exposed from the loose knotting of his cravat, his eyes silver hot. He had always affected her this way, his raw masculinity tumbling her defenses and overpowering her good sense.

The truth was that she loved him. She had never stopped. But she had loved him before and trusted

him with her heart, only to be dismissed for one ill-thought mistake. She would not hurt like that again. Never.

Her fingers tightened over the edge of the sill. “Max, please go. I will not talk to you today.” Maybe tomorrow, or next week—whenever her traitorous body had rebuilt the walls she’d been so carefully erecting all this time. When she could talk to him without betraying herself worse than she already had.

From where he stood on the street, Max thrust his hands into his pockets and tried to get his numbed brain to think. Damn it, all he wanted to do was talk to her,
really
talk this time, though he wouldn’t be averse to anything more, if it happened.

Which it would.
She was right about that. Every time they talked, they ended up in a passionate embrace. Somehow, he couldn’t dredge up the least regret.

After all, that was a sign that there was something left to their relationship. A sign that perhaps they shouldn’t quit. Not yet. “Sophia, I will speak with you, if not inside, then here.”

“I am sending out one of my footmen to see you home.”

Max fisted his hands. “Send him out.”

“Oh! For the love of— Max, you are drunk!”

“I may be drunk, but I still know what I want. And I want you. To talk to you, I mean,” he amended hastily.

Her gaze narrowed. “You are causing a scene.”

“I don’t care. I’ll stay here all day if I have to.”

“Max, no! I don’t want you to—” Her gaze flickered past him, a faint smile suddenly touching her lips.

He turned to see what she was looking at, but her voice drew his attention back to the window above him. “I wish you would go away,” she said.

“Please?”

“No.” He drew himself up. “Open the door, Sophia. Now.” There, that sounded forceful, even to his numbed ears.

“What are you going to do?” she asked, a tantalizing smile on her lips—lips that had haunted Max’s dreams every night for the last twelve years. “Throw another rock?”