The Further Observations of Lady Whistledown (Lady W 1) (10 page)

Thank God, Anne’s mother had finally believed him when Maximilian had told her that she didn’t need to keep him company, and that he would be quite content to read a book and wait for his betrothed. Her apologetic hovering set his teeth on edge, and Lady Daven’s depictions of her daughter were woefully inaccurate and inadequate. Anne Bishop defied description, by anyone’s definition.

For one thing, she was practically the only Londoner he’d encountered who didn’t bother with affectations; she was who she was, and seemed quite content with that. And far from being shy and retiring, as her mother insisted she was, Anne was curious and forthright and utterly imperfect.

He’d meant to give her a sampling of what married life with him would offer her, and he’d meant to use his skills at lovemaking to convince her to give up her arguments about staying in London. While he thought he might have succeeded at the former, her continued insistence on parading about town with Lord Howard was proof enough that she hadn’t succumbed to the latter. Nor was she likely to, if she was able to keep avoiding him.

She had to return home eventually, and then this nonsense would stop. He would convince her to marry him, and only when he’d run out of resolve and time would he surrender to London. After being inside her, his resolve had become boundless. And for the first time since he’d inherited Halfurst, he didn’t care if it fell into ruin while he waited for her. He wasn’t leaving London without Anne Bishop.

That didn’t mean, however, that he intended to play by her rules. She was used to men throwing themselves at her feet, after her beauty or her money or her favor. He heard her enter the house, sooner than he expected, but he remained seated, reading the book he’d selected from the Bishop House library, when she stepped into the morning room.

“Lord Halfurst?”

He looked up. “Anne.” Heat coiled through him at the sight of her, and he had to fight to keep seated, and to keep other parts of his body from becoming immediately erect, as well.

“What are you doing here? Didn’t Lambert tell you I’d gone out?”

Her voice sounded unsteady, and the thought that his presence might be the reason for that made his relaxed slouch even more difficult to maintain. “He did. I decided to wait.”

Slowly she came further into the room, and it took all his self-control to refrain from leaping to his feet and smothering her body with kisses. Her maid started to enter the room behind her, but at a feminine command outside, Daisy vanished behind the closing door. Lady Daven had some sense, anyway.

She tilted her head, glancing at the book in his hands. “
A Midsummer Night’s Dream?
I didn’t know you read Shakespeare.”

Anne was nervous, and that was good. “You didn’t? What did you think I read? Or you didn’t think I could read at all, perhaps.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I just couldn’t…imagine you taking the time to read Shakespeare, is all. You seem so consumed by Yorkshire.”

Did he? More likely, she was obsessed with it. His obsessions had lately taken a more feminine shape, with long, curling brunette hair. “I could quote something for you, if you like,” he said, setting the book aside and standing, “but that wouldn’t prove anything but my ability to borrow someone else’s pretty words.”

Anne took a small step backward as he rose. “You…didn’t answer my question. What are you doing here?”

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

“No, I haven’t,” she shot back, giving a nervous laugh. “I hope you don’t think I just sit at home waiting for you to come calling. I have friends, and activities. This is my home, you know.”

“I know.” His gaze on her soft mouth, he slowly stepped toward her. “Nevertheless, I owe you a good morning kiss. Four of them, actually.”

“I—”

If he let her argue, he’d never be able to touch her today. Maximilian closed the distance between them with one quick stride. Taking her shoulders in his hands, he leaned down and covered her mouth with his. She responded instantly, leaning up against his chest and curling her hands into the front of his jacket. He went hard, and felt her heat as she pressed herself closer against him.

As he drew his arms down the length of her and around her waist, she gave a stifled groan and pushed away. “Stop it!”

“Why?” he murmured, against her lips. “You want me again, and you know that I want you, don’t you?”

Her hips moved against him, and he clenched his jaw, fighting for control. “Yes.”

“Then don’t ask me to stop.”

He kissed her again, and he felt her give in—for a moment. “No!” she said again, shoving harder.

She couldn’t have moved him if she wanted to, but he released her anyway. Persuasion only, he reminded himself, trying not to let his discomfort show on his face. Forcing her would win him nothing. “If you would agree to marry me, I would make you feel like this every day.”

“That is not fair!” she shouted, as if volume equaled conviction. If her gaze hadn’t trailed below his waist and back again, her parted lips still beckoning him, he might have believed her.

“Why isn’t it fair? It’s the truth. This is marriage, Anne. Being with me, skin-to-skin. I know you enjoyed it. I felt you, remember?”

“Fine. Remind me of my weakness,” she retorted, a tear running down her cheek. “You’re no better than Lord Howard.”

The single tear bothered him, and suddenly it seemed more important to make her stop crying than to wear her down into a marriage agreement. “It wasn’t weakness, Anne,” he murmured, brushing the moisture from her cheek with his thumb. “It was desire. There is nothing wrong with desire. Not between us.”

That earned him a glare, which he could only consider an improvement over her weeping. With a discontented sigh he seated himself again. If he made her flee, he might as well have stayed at home. He knew precisely what her objection to him was; what he needed to do was figure out how to convince her of the merits of Yorkshire. In the dead of winter, that wasn’t such an easy task.

“Anne,” he said, “sit down.”

“Only if you’ll tell me why you’re here.”

“I’m here to see you. Isn’t that simple enough?”

“You’re here to try to seduce me into marrying you,” she said, her tone accusing. Even so, she sat—in the chair at the far end of the room.

Maximilian chuckled. “I’ve already seduced you, and we’re still not married. I don’t intend to apologize for continuing to find you desirable.”

“If you know that seduction won’t work, how do you intend to convince me of anything?”

For a moment, she almost sounded as if she wanted to be convinced. His heart leaped. “Have you ever heard of Farndale?”

She scowled. “Farndale? No.”

“It’s about three miles west of Halfurst. A small valley in the foothills of the Pennine Mountains. In the early spring the entire floor of the dale is carpeted with wild daffodils.”

“It’s lovely, I would imagine.”

“You don’t have to imagine it. I would show it to you.” He gazed at her stony expression. “Anne, you’ve never been to Yorkshire. How do you know you would hate it so much?”

“Why do you hate London so much?”

“I…it was a difference of opinion, I suppose.”

“You mean everyone treated you badly when they found out you had no money.”

He narrowed his eyes, unable to stop the abrupt anger that drowned his damned lust for this outspoken beauty. “Lord Howard, I suppose?”

“Yes, he told me everything, but only because I asked him to. Don’t blame him.”

“I doubt he told you everything, Anne.”
Damn Howard
. He hated this, the gossip and innuendo and one-upmanship. For Anne, though, he would tell the truth. All of it. “Why don’t you ask
me
?”

She folded her hands in her lap. “Why should I? It doesn’t matter, because in the end you’ll still want to drag me off to Yorkshire. Daffodils or not, I will not spend the rest of my life in exile.”

He cursed. “Would you spend it with Desmond Howard, then? Why don’t you ask him about
his
finances? How long do you think he’d be able to keep you in your precious London after he finished going through your dowry?”

“You lie.”

Maximilian lurched to his feet. “I do not lie,” he snarled, striding over to her. Clamping his hands on either arm of the chair, he leaned down, forcing her to look him in the eye. “Ask him, Anne. And if you want to know anything—
anything
—about me, all you need do is ask.”

Straightening, he stalked to the door and yanked it open. He hadn’t meant to leave without securing her hand in marriage. He hadn’t meant to leave without making love to her again. He hadn’t meant to start bellowing about other people. He didn’t do that. It wasn’t right, and he knew firsthand how much it hurt.

“Are you bankrupt?” her shaking voice came. “Are you here for my money?”

Maximilian stopped. “No. I’m not. To both questions. I won’t let it be that easy for you, Anne. And I’m not finished with you, yet.” Taking a deep breath, he faced her. “I think I know you. I believe you to be honest, and honorable. And I am betting that you won’t be able to leave it at this, without finding out everything. You know where I’ll be.”

“So you’re going back to Trent House to sulk? I don’t—”

“What I meant was, I intend to call on you every day between now and February fourteenth. And then I’ll be at the Shelbourne St. Valentine’s Day Ball. On the fifteenth, though, I will be leaving London.”

“Then you’ll be leaving alone.”

“We’ll see. As I said, I think I know you, Anne.” He lowered his voice to be certain none of the lurking servants would be able to hear. “And I know that you crave being with me again. Think about that.”

Chapter 7

Ah, Valentine’s Day. This Author personally detests the holiday. A girl must take the measure of her worth by the number of cards and bouquets she receives, and a young man is forced to spew poetry as if anyone actually spoke in rhyme.

It’s a wonder the holiday hasn’t been banned from the capital. Or the nation, for that matter.

But This Author supposes that there are those with more sentimental hearts, because Lady Shelbourne’s first (annual? This Author prays not) Valentine’s Day ball is sure to be a massive crush, if the number of affirmative replies is any indication.

And since this is Valentine’s Day, This Author would be remiss if the question were not posed—Will any young couples make a match of it? Surely Lady Shelbourne cannot consider her party a success if the words “Will you marry me?” are not uttered even once.

Or perhaps that will not be enough. After all, what is a proposal without the proper reply of “I will?”

L
ADY
W
HISTLEDOWN
’
S
S
OCIETY
P
APERS
,
14 F
EBRUARY
1814

A
nne slammed the
Atlas of Britain
closed as her father entered the library. “Good morning, Papa,” she said, trying to sound casual, and dismayed at the distinct squeak in her voice.

The earl lifted an eyebrow. “Good morning. What are you doing in here?”

“Reading.” She forced a careless laugh. “What else would I be doing in the library?”

“Daughter, has anyone ever told you that you’re an abysmal liar?”

One man had
—not that that had endeared him to her. “Don’t you have a meeting today?”

He crossed the room, sinking onto the couch beside her. “An atlas,” her father said, tilting his head to view the book’s cover. “Of Britain. Are you interested in any particular area?”

Anne grimaced. “You know what I was looking at. I was merely a little curious, for heaven’s sake.”

Maximilian had been telling her about western Yorkshire for a week, just little bits, obviously for the sake of whetting her interest. He also hadn’t kissed her in a week. Given that strategy, she remained uncertain whether the craving that resulted was for him or for his blasted shire. Lord Halfurst could be very devious for an honest, forthright, virile male. An exceedingly virile male.

“There’s nothing wrong with a little curiosity,” her father commented, thankfully unable to read her thoughts. He paused. “Halfurst tells me he’s leaving tomorrow.”

Her pulse skittered. “Yes, he’d mentioned that.”

“I suppose you’ll be happy to see him gone?”

“What do you want me to say, Papa?” she asked, briskly, standing to replace the atlas on its shelf. “I…like him, but he still lives in Yorkshire.”

“Believe it or not, Annie, I am trying to stay out of this. I could force you to marry him, but I have no wish to see you miserable.”

“Then why did you make this silly agreement in the first place?” she burst out, surprised to find that she felt more exasperated than angry.

The earl shrugged. “Robert Trent was my dearest friend. When he had a son and then I had a daughter, it seemed the natural thing to do. And I did—and do—like young Maximilian.”

His voice warmed as he spoke, the humor his political career often didn’t allow touching his eyes. Anne felt wretched, squirming in her seat. The earl so obviously wanted this match, and she so badly wanted to be in Maximilian’s arms again that she could barely think straight. “He’s so stubborn,” she said into the air.

“And so are you, my dear.” He stood. “If you don’t wish this match, then let him go. I’m sure your mother will be happy to find someone more to your taste.”

She scowled. “More to
her
taste, you mean.”

“Yes, well, with an estate closer to London, anyway. That seems to satisfy your requirements.”

“Papa.”

“Happy St. Valentine’s Day,” he said with a small smile, and left the room.

As soon as he was gone, Anne took down the atlas again. Thanks to Maximilian’s vivid depiction, she knew precisely where Halfurst lay. From the way he described it, full of daffodils and green rolling hills and picturesque streams and waterfalls, he considered it another Eden. Even the grazing herds of sheep took on a pastoral beauty, nestled as they were among the hills and Roman and Viking ruins.