The Further Observations of Lady Whistledown (Lady W 1) (6 page)

“Good morning,” he said, crossing the room as she stood.

“Good morning.”

Already her gaze was focused on his mouth. Maximilian wrapped an iron fist around the abrupt desire to lay her down on the couch and make her his in more than just an old agreement on paper. Stroking her cheek with the back of one finger, he leaned down and touched his mouth to hers. Keenly aware of the maid seated in the corner, he held back, ending the kiss far sooner than he wanted to.

Her fingers had wrapped into his lapel, and she’d pulled herself close against his chest, so that he could feel the swell of her breasts as she took a deep breath. Sweet Lucifer, he should have come to London the moment she’d turned eighteen, whatever his personal feelings about the place and the people. He shouldn’t have stayed away, no matter how much he disliked it, because by doing so he’d missed nearly two years of knowing Anne Bishop.

The maid cleared her throat. With a start, Anne released him and took a step backward. “Good morning.”

He smiled. “You said that already.”

“Did I? I forgot.”

“Then perhaps you forgot our kiss as well, and I should remind you.”

She closed her eyes for a brief moment. “I don’t think that would be wise,” she whispered, gazing up at him again.

“Amen,” the maid muttered.

Maximilian glanced over at her. Daisy was right, as was Anne. He needed to show restraint; he’d already realized that pushing his betrothed only made her push back. And he had no intention of letting her get away now.

“Very well,” he said, reluctance making him sigh. “Then might I instead ask you to join me this afternoon? I’ve been invited to an ice skating party on the Thames.”

Her fine cheeks paled. “Oh.”

Suspicion tightened the muscles across his shoulders. “What is it?”

“I’ve…Lord Howard was here earlier. I agreed to attend with him.”

Damn that buffoon
. “You kiss me, and you make plans with him?”

“She kissed him, too,” the maid blurted, and ducked her head.

“Daisy!”

“What?’
’

Anne took several more steps backward. “I didn’t kiss him. He kissed me.”

Maximilian clenched his fists. “Has he kissed you before?”

“No! Of course not.”

He believed her, but anger continued to charge through his muscles and his nerves. Desmond Howard had touched her, and she’d agreed to go skating with the bastard. “I’m not playing a game with you, Anne,” he said stiffly. “And I would appreciate if you would do me the courtesy of not playing one with me.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Enjoy your skating.” Too annoyed and too bloody frustrated to continue conversing in anything resembling polite tones, Maximilian turned on his heel to stalk back down the hallway, grab his coat and hat from the surprised butler, and stride back out to the street.

Cursing, he swung up on Kraken and trotted back toward Trent House. One damned thing was certain; he was going ice skating on the Thames that afternoon. Lord Howard might have the edge for the moment, but Anne Bishop belonged to him.

Anne sat between Theresa and Pauline on the bench provided for the ladies. The Morelands had invited nearly a hundred guests from the looks of it, and she fervently hoped the ice of the new-frozen Thames would hold all the resulting weight.

“I’ve been doing a gender count,” Pauline whispered, as her maid helped her fasten the ice skates over her boots.

“What did you expect?” Anne returned in the same low voice, for Lord and Lady Moreland were only a short distance away at the end of Swan Lane Pier. The orchestra they’d hired for the outing seemed absurd in the extreme, but at least they were on the pier and not adding to the strain on the ice.

“What do you mean?” Theresa asked, tentatively standing in the last inches of snow before the river ice began.

“One hundred guests, and nearly seventy-five of them are female,” Pauline said dryly. “What do you think it means?”

“Oh. Donald again.”

For the past four years Viscount and Lady Moreland had been holding off-Season soirées, presumably because most of the other young bucks would be elsewhere, in hopes of convincing some young lady that their son, Donald Spence, was a fine catch. Everyone knew the ruse, and obviously no one was fishing. Each year the ratio of female to male guests grew greater, but still no one had fallen for Donald’s lackluster charms. Anne had already spent ten minutes conversing with him, having been cornered nearly the moment she descended from Desmond’s carriage. It seemed to be the price of admission to the soirée, but if anything he’d grown duller since last she’d seen him.

“Here comes Lord Howard,” Pauline muttered. “I’m off. Wish me luck.”

“Don’t break anything,” Anne called after her. The warning was unnecessary; Pauline swished across the ice as though she’d been doing it daily for years.

Lord Howard trudged over from the men’s bench as Anne climbed to her feet. She hadn’t skated in ages and barely then, but from the look of some of the other guests, Pauline excluded, she wasn’t the only unsteady one.

“Shall we?” Desmond asked, offering his hand.

Her ermine muff hanging from the ribbon about her neck, and her right hand tightly gripping his arm, Anne nodded. They stepped onto the ice together, and thankfully she didn’t collapse as they glided forward in a fairly competent fashion.

“Oh, this is fun,” she exclaimed, relief making her chuckle.

“And even better, all chaperones must remain on the bank.” Desmond slipped his arm free of her grip and skated a slow circle around her. “Green velvet becomes you,” he said, continuing his circles. “And the cold brings roses to your cheeks. You are breathtaking, Anne.”

That odd feeling started in her gut again. This was not how friends spoke to each other. “You look very fine yourself, Lord Howard,” she returned, keeping the smile on her lips. “And I think you’ve been practicing your skating. You far outshine me.”

“Nothing could.”

Trying to gather her thoughts, Anne looked across the ice. Fifty or so guests had joined them already on the cold surface. As she watched, Moreland servants in socks emerged onto the Thames, pushing carts of sandwiches and Madeira before them while the orchestra launched into a country dance.

“You haven’t answered me,” the viscount said from behind her.

She shook herself. “Beg pardon. Answered you about what?”

His sky blue eyes narrowed for a brief moment as he passed in front of her, then cleared again. “I have to rescind my earlier apology, Anne. I
did
mean to kiss you.”

Oh no
. “Please stop circling,” she snapped. “You’re making me dizzy.”

Immediately he returned to her side, taking her hand again as they neared the far bank and the higher piles of snow there. “Perhaps it’s your feelings making you dizzy. I know this must be unexpected, but we have been friends for some time now. Surely you’ve realized my admiration and regard for you.”

Anne swallowed. His recent declarations that he would never remove her from London and that he feared for her happiness in Maximilian’s company abruptly made sense. It wasn’t friendship he was after. “Desmond—”

“Damn him,” the viscount cut in. “How did he manage to get invited? Obviously the Morelands had no idea what they were doing.”

She turned. A clinging, slipping female on either arm, Lord Halfurst glided up and back along the ice. Something one of the ladies said made him laugh, the sound ringing merrily across the width of the river. Her heart jolted. He was supposed to be sulking somewhere, or thinking up their next outing. He
wasn’t
supposed to be enjoying himself at the party to which she’d declined to accompany him.

“I suppose any chit with an income
will
do for him,” Desmond murmured in her ear. “At this rate he’ll be a married man by St. Valentine’s Day, and you’ll never have to worry about being dragged off to Yorkshire.”

“But he seemed so…”

“Sincere?” the viscount finished. “Yes, he looks it.”

Anne wanted a few moments to think in peace, without Desmond Howard echoing her own worst doubts aloud. As she continued to watch, unable to turn away, Halfurst returned to the snowy bank, released the ladies in his company, and amid much laughter collected two more. From the silly tittering and giggling, all the gathered females were supremely grateful both for his attention and for his clear skill on the ice.

“Come, my dear,” Desmond continued. “You’re upset. It’s quite natural; you had no idea he was courting other females.”

“Wouldn’t you consider,” she forced out, trying to shake free of Desmond’s whisperings, “that he’s merely being nice? This party does lack for male escorts.”

“Ah, dear Anne. Always determined to think the best of everyone, aren’t you?”

“Not real—”

“I have an idea to take your mind off this odiousness. At Queenhithe the commoners have set up food and gaming booths all across the Thames. They’re calling it Freezeland Street or some such thing. It’s just around the bend. Why don’t—”

“Please fetch me a Madeira, Desmond,” she interrupted, unable to listen to another sentence from him without shrieking, whoever’s best intentions he might have in mind.

“Of course. Don’t try to get about on your own. I’ll be right back.”

Maximilian was on his third or fourth pair of ladies, escorting them easily about the ice despite their obvious lack of skill and balance. This whole thing was a mistake, Anne decided; she should never have come, and certainly not with Desmond. Lord Howard’s kiss should have been warning enough, both about his intentions and about her own feelings toward him. Perhaps without meaning to she
was
playing a game of some sort with Halfurst.

With a scowl and an awkward kick, she skated back in the direction of the pier, and Maximilian. Even when she ultimately refused his suit, she didn’t mean to be spiteful about it. She certainly hadn’t meant to behave like a coquette that morning.

He looked over to see her approaching, and for a brief moment their eyes met. And then he turned his back, he and his charges skating toward the shore.

“Anne, what’s going on?” Pauline asked, sliding to a halt and nearly dumping the two of them onto the ice.

“Nothing’s going on. I just need a moment to think.” A tear ran down her cheek, and Anne brushed it away before anyone could see.

“This is a bad spot for thinking,” her friend returned. “Let me help you to shore before you end up on your backside.”

Just then Lord Halfurst, having relieved himself of his clinging chits, faced her again, arms crossed over his chest.
Ha
. So he thought to make her come to him, to apologize for daring to attend a party in someone else’s company. And then he would expect her to dance off to Yorkshire and never see her dear friends like Pauline again.

“Go away, Pauline,” she stated, turning her back on him. Let him see how he liked it.

“But Annie—”

“I’m fine. I don’t need your help.”

Pauline was
not
going to deliver her into the arms of her tormentor, no matter how handsome and kind and warm he seemed to be. She hadn’t been wooed, and she hadn’t been won—not by a few amusing outings and some arousing kisses. Misery lay just beyond them, and she knew it.

With a deep breath she pushed off in the opposite direction, ignoring Pauline’s fading advice to keep her speed down. Sir Royce Pemberly appeared in front of her, his expression startled.

“Lady Anne—”

With a gasp she dodged, trying to avoid slamming into him. Flailing her arms, she went into a spin that she hoped looked daring and not desperate. Her left blade cut into the ice, and abruptly she was skating forward again at high speed.

In a blur a pretty blue wrap flashed in front of her, and she careened into someone. As she passed she heard a thud.

“Oh no, oh no,” she quavered, looking over her shoulder. Susannah Ballister—whom Anne knew quite well from the previous Season—lay sprawled in a snowbank, her gown and wrap askew and her hair across her face. As she watched, still fleeing and unable to stop, Susannah sat up and shook snow from her front.

“Anne!”

She cringed at Maximilian’s bellow, and faced forward again. Her face felt crimson, and she was absolutely not going to stop and be yelled at, much less by him and in front of everyone else. In a moment she’d rounded the bend, out of sight of the Morelands’ idiotic skating party.

Finally she took in a breath, managing to slow down enough to guide herself onto the bank without falling. No one was in sight, but just up ahead she could hear the sounds of the frost fair Desmond had mentioned.

“Thank goodness,” she gasped, wiping tears from her face again. She wanted a place to think, and a fair where no one knew her seemed perfect. Crossing her fingers for luck, she pushed back out onto the ice and skated at a much more cautious pace toward the sounds of music and laughter.

Chapter 5

Lady Anne Bishop proved herself to be quite the worst skater on the ice, with the possible exception of Lord Middlethorpe, who, it must be noted, is nearly four times her age.

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

S
he’d been skating over to join him. It’d all been going quite well, Maximilian thought. Despite the torture of seeing Howard practically attached to her, he’d felt hope. Whatever the viscount said, she hadn’t liked it, and when she’d started back to the shore, he’d returned as well, to relinquish his charges to the safer bank.

And then all hell had broken loose. Worse than Anne knocking chits into snowbanks, she’d vanished around the curve of the river—alone.

“Damnation,” he muttered, skating through the remainder of the guests and after her. “Anne!”

She’d vanished. His chest tightening, Maximilian scanned the snowbanks on either side of the Thames as he sped along. He rounded another curve, and stopped short.