When a Marquess Loves a Woman (11 page)

Only then did Juliet realize her smile had slipped. Not only that, but the flesh around her eyes felt tight and tense. She hadn't felt this exposed and under the glass since her marriage. Of course, during those years, she had never lost her composure. But leave it to Max to set her off kilter and then to be ungentlemanly enough to make note of it.

Drawing in a breath, she fixed an unruffled, pleasant expression in place once more.

“Of all people, she deserves to know what is happening with a property that could very well become hers in mere weeks,” Marjorie reminded.

“That outcome simply isn't possible, as I am going to win the wager,” Max said with such certainty in his steady gaze that Juliet doubted her own choice. “And regardless, the house is mine by right and by deed to do with as I choose.”

“Not if you make it unlivable for me after I win. That isn't fair.” A rise of anger—or perhaps panic—flooded her. Why was he doing this? After the other night at Lady Haguelin's ball, she thought there was a renewed connection between them. Yet this evening, it seemed that Max was doing everything in his power to sever that bond. It left her confused and hurt. And then—yes—decidedly angry.

“I am still complying with the rules of our wager.” Again, he focused on his capon as if everything between them was only about the wager.

Was there not something more for him as well? But clearly, she had her answer in the gradual withdrawal of his usual challenging nature. It was replaced by a remoteness that not only made her worry about losing her home but losing her family, friends, and even her favorite enemy.

Until this moment, she hadn't thought his victory was even possible.

M
ax knew something had to change. He'd been falling back into the same behavior that had once left him standing in her foyer with a ring in his pocket and a crumpled missive in his hand.

These past months had been a trial for him, though perhaps also a way for him to finally put the past to rest. At every gathering, he had an uncanny awareness of her, his gaze knowing her exact location in a room. And even when he wasn't near her, his thoughts betrayed him by running in a constant loop of
Juliet
.

For his own sanity, it had to stop.

In fact, since the morning following the Haguelin ball, he'd nearly decided on a complete withdrawal from her company, but then Mother had surprised him with this dinner. And here Juliet was, filling his thoughts and his senses and making it impossible to forget her.

Hadn't she already claimed enough of his life?

“Maxwell, if you cut any harder into that poor fowl, I will begin to fear for my plate,” Mother said with a laugh, edged with a modicum of tension.

Looking down at the shredded capon in his plate, he abruptly set down his knife and fork, then reached for his wine. “My apologies. My thoughts were distracted.”

“I imagine so,” Juliet chimed in, her smile brittle. “With a bride to procure, your own wedding to attend, and then your inevitable departure for Lancashire on the horizon, it is a wonder you'll even have time to arrange repairs to the townhouse.”

She was goading him, he knew, but that did not stop the wayward thrill rushing through him. Damn but he loved to argue with her, loved to see that blue flame in her eyes. And even though he told himself that he would remain detached, he couldn't resist just one more row with her.

He took a sip of wine, savoring the heated discord between them. “The work is not so extensive that it will be neglected for any amount of time. If you like, I could arrange a tour for . . . say . . . the first of June.” He paused for a moment, then feigned surprise. “Oh, but wait. You won't be in town by then. Pity.”

With a cool gaze and steady hand, she lifted her glass to him. “We shall see.”

C
HAPTER
T
EN

A
fter stewing all night, Juliet had come to a decision. She was going to ensure Ellery's victory by any means necessary.

In the beginning, her plan was simply to let Ellery's character speak for itself. After all, she'd done nothing to ensure his favor among the
ton
before the wager. And other than a lost fan in the shrubbery, she had done nothing since, yet she still expected to win.

Now, however, she would need to take more direct, even drastic, measures. While she didn't have a fully formed plan yet, she knew that it was her only option. She wasn't going to leave London. Her home was here, and she would fight for it.

But first, she was going to see what sort of disaster Max had made of
her
house.

Lifting the hood of her cloak to help shield her identity, she began an early morning stroll. It was not uncommon for Juliet, after all, though usually she did not leave at dawn. But since the reason for her trek was not entirely aboveboard, she required the certainty that most of the people in these houses were still fast asleep.

After all, the last thing she wanted was for her name to be in the
Standard
for sneaking into a townhouse that did not belong to her. Yet. And by all accounts, Max was still living at Harwick House, so she needn't worry about an encounter with him either.

By the time she finally arrived, her nerves were in a dither. She wanted to stand in front of the house and simply gaze upon it, cataloging how the years had pitted a few bricks and rounded the edges of the short set of stairs leading to the door. Amidst the glossy black paint was a familiar lion's head knocker. But as much as she wanted to linger, she was all too aware of the houses around her. Servants were typically the only ones awake at this time of day, but everyone knew that all it took was a whisper from a chambermaid, and the entire
ton
would learn of Juliet's criminal act by breakfast.

Therefore, Juliet kept walking until she rounded the corner. Then she slipped behind the house and through the garden gate.

The garden had overgrown. What was once pruned and manicured by their gardener—or even by Juliet's own hand—was now indistinguishable. It seemed as if the gentleman who'd purchased the house upon her parents' deaths hadn't tended the grounds at all.

She slipped in through the servants' door after discovering it was the only one unbolted. Inside the house, the clutter from laborers remained in the hall—various tools, pails, and brushes. The rooms were quiet, drowsing beneath dusty white sheets. Beneath the pungency of turpentine, the house still carried a familiar scent, as if she might see Father's pipe smoldering in a dish nearby or find Mother's lavender sachets within the drawers of the console table in the morning room.

As she traversed the ground floor, she felt fairly certain that the laborers would not arrive for hours to come. After all, the noise of the hammering, or whatever they did, would surely cause a fuss with the neighbors if it happened before eleven.

Of course, Max likely wouldn't care about bothering the neighbors. He did what he pleased, as the walls around proved. He hadn't cared about upsetting her when he bought the house out from under her nose. He'd done it to get under her skin, to make her angry enough that she would be willing to leave London. Yet with each step, she was pleased to find variegated wooden planks beneath her feet, telling her that he truly was making necessary repairs. There were also portions of the crown molding that had been replaced but not yet painted, along with fresh plaster to fill in the cracks on the walls.

Lowering the hood of her cloak, she lifted her gaze upstairs, hesitant about what she would find. Would it be the disaster that Marjorie claimed it was, or had that been an exaggeration?

Garnering her determination, she headed up the stairs to the first floor.

Her thoughts drifted to the dinner last night and how much it bothered her to think about him narrowing down his choices for a bride. What if he hadn't done any of this to get under her skin but had been sincere in the hope for a wife to live in this space with him?

That thought bothered her even more.

This was her house, and if anyone was going to live here, it would be her.
Not
Max and his new bride. Not Max and his family. She didn't want to think about him laughing here, loving here, or kissing someone else in the library. Her library—where everything in her life had gone completely, utterly topsy-turvy because of his kiss!

She couldn't stand the thought of him ruining someone else's life. She wanted to be the only one.

Her steps faltered on the top tread as she realized that—
drat it all
—she was jealous.

A frustrated growl left her throat. She stormed up another set of stairs to the second floor, angry with herself for feeling this way and even angrier with Max for causing it. How dare he constantly mention his need for a wife! Couldn't he be happy without one, at least until she got used to the idea?

Her irritation hadn't dissipated at all by the time she saw the gaping hole in the plaster at the end of the hall on the second floor. It was as big as a chair, revealing rows of grayish, broken lath behind it. With a glance around, she saw more of the same, along with some holes even larger and providing a clear view of the room beyond it.

She felt as if the blows he'd inflicted on the house were a personal attack. “What has that blasted man done to my house?”

“It is
my
house,” Max said from behind her, startling her within an inch of her life.

“Oh!”
She jumped, whirring around, her hand to her heart, pulse racing in her throat.

“And I can do whatever I like,” he declared, casually leaning a shoulder against the doorway, arms and ankles crossed, as if he'd been watching her for some time.

He wore a pair of black trousers and was in his shirtsleeves, the neck gaping open as if he were in the middle of dressing. As if he'd
slept
here last night.

And seeing that he was standing in the bedchamber doorway that had once been her own, she was incensed. Her outrage came back full force.

“That has always been your problem, Max,” she hissed, rounding the banister and storming toward him, armed with a pointed finger. “You've always believed you could do whatever you wanted and damn the consequences. Well, I'm not allowing it this time.” She stopped within poking distance and did just that, her fingertip meeting the taut muscle beneath the fine lawn. “I expect you to have this completely repaired, or you can forget the fair price I was willing to pay.”

He straightened. Uncrossing his arms, he leaned toward her as if he didn't even feel her assault. “Perhaps you don't recall, but I have
always
been fully prepared to face the consequences of my actions. You were the one who ran.”

She scoffed and jabbed him again. “I was right! All along, this has been about what happened between us five years ago. Oh, I
apologize
for wounding your poor ego when I left, though it seems you've managed to recover, as you are busy
narrowing down
your list of bridal candidates.”

“Ego?”
He took her by the shoulders, his grip firm but not cruel, as contempt burned in his dark gaze. “I wanted to marry you. There was more than ego involved.”

“That kiss happened because you were consoling me, and we both know it.”

“Do we, Lady Granworth? Or is that something you told yourself to validate running away to marry a rich old man?” Gritting his teeth, seething as much as she was, he spun her around and pressed her back against the wall just inside the bedchamber. “And if you think for one instant that I'm going to sit back and watch you bring your next husband here to live, not four doors down from my mother's house, then you are sorely mistaken.”

Then, without warning, he crushed his mouth to hers.

The shock of it made her grow still, her eyes still open, even as his closed and a groan tore from his throat. The sound of it woke her, startling her into a new awareness. Max was kissing her, his lips firm and familiar, his tongue bold and commanding, daring her to retaliate.

And she did, slanting her mouth beneath his, parrying with his tongue while clutching handfuls of his shirt in her fists. He groaned again, and the vibration of it had the strangest effect on her eyelids, for they drifted closed. Her head tilted, lips parting, allowing him deeper. She wasn't sure if this was part of a battle or a strange sort of truce.

Then again, weren't truces civilized affairs between warring factions with cooler heads? That was certainly nothing like her and Max and this heated skirmish of mouths and hands.

She didn't know what possessed her, but she pulled the hem of his shirt free of his trousers, and now her palms were pressed against the hard plane of his abdomen, her fingertips grazing a soft dusting of hair. It seemed the sensible thing to do—explore the terrain of her opponent's territory—and she refused to overthink her actions.

The clasp of her cloak slipped free from her neck, the garment falling away as Max's hands skimmed over her back, down the row of buttons descending to her derriere, then swept upward past the scalloped lace and to the bare flesh between her shoulder blades. His touch sent a shiver down her body, making her arch like a bow against him, poised to strike. Every inch of her skin suddenly felt taut, her breasts heavy, tingling. Her stomach dropped lower, weighted, emitting a sweet clenching sensation that seemed to deplete the air in her lungs.

She broke away from the kiss, turning her head, breathing hard now. Max did not cease his onslaught. He was battle ready, always, and far more skilled in this manner of warfare.

Even so, Juliet had no intention of surrendering. “You destroyed the walls because you're afraid that I will win our wager and bring another man here? My, my, Max, that sounds rather like a jealous man.”

His attention shifted to the column of her throat, where his wet, open-mouthed kisses called attention to the steady throb at the apex of her thighs. She wanted to close her legs against it and squeeze tightly, but Max was there, the hard length of him pushing against her, driving her back against the wall. Her hips rocked against his in retaliation—or perhaps because she wanted to feel him once more. Suddenly, she wasn't sure that a battle was supposed to feel this good. But with Max, it was difficult to tell the difference. Part of her loved fighting with him. Every argument felt like a prelude to something more, something so near and yet still out of reach.

Her frustration mounted when he did not answer her taunt, and so she slipped her hands free of his shirt, took his face in her hands, and kissed him again.
Yes
, that would show him that she was in control. This time, her tongue swept into his mouth, and her hips rolled slowly against his. And because she wasn't finished proving it, she continued, even as he lifted her off the ground, his hands clasped over her hips and lower still, until he was cupping her bottom.

She found purchase on a demilune console, Max between her thighs, his position edging her skirts upward. But now the muslin was bunched between them. Parting her knees did nothing to bring him back to where he was a moment ago, to ease that insistent pulse. It was just like Max to give her a taste of something, only to leave her without. But she wasn't going to let him do that to her again. So just like in many battles, she took him prisoner, locking her legs around him.

Max set his hands over her wrists and slowly drew them down from his face, his gaze fierce. “I am not going to be the one to stop this, Juliet. Do you understand? It will be you, like always.” He shook his head, pressing his forehead to hers. “I have reached my limit, and this game of ours must conclude, one way or the other.”

Her first impulse was to challenge him in return, but when she read his expression, she couldn't. The edgy mockery she typically saw was no longer there. He searched her gaze, his dark eyes seeming vulnerable, and the furrows between his brows no longer angry but pained. He was open and exposed, revealing a raw desire so potent that it almost frightened her. Mostly because she felt it too.

She realized this was no longer about the house or any of their arguments. In fact, she wasn't sure if it ever was. No, this was about something more, that tangible thing between them that she couldn't shake loose.

If she chose to leave, she sensed that things would never be the same between them again. And if she stayed . . . things would never be the same between them again.

But she'd come this far, and running away was not an option. She'd had five years to think about Max's kiss. Five years of wondering what it might have been like if she'd made a different choice.

“I haven't once looked at the door, Max.” And then she tipped her chin and pressed her mouth to his.

The battle lines disintegrated in that next kiss. He released her wrists, his arms engulfing her, his hands pulling her flush against him. The strength and sureness of his embrace made her breathless and hot.

In tune with her, as Max had always been, he worked the buttons free at the back of her gown, bringing the cool morning air through her chemise. Then, with one swift tug, he pulled down her sleeves and tapes, baring her breasts. He broke from the kiss, breathing hard, his mouth open, his gaze on the round swells of flesh bathed partly in the shadow of his body and partly in the golden light that filled the room. And with one single sweep of his thumbs over the dusky tips, they budded for him, sending a cascade of tingles through her.

She held her breath as his head dipped to claim her. The wet heat of his mouth covered her, his tongue a swirling sweep over the tip, right before she felt that first decadent tug.

His name left her throat in a rasp as her hands dove through his hair, drawing him closer. She hadn't even known how much she'd craved this, needed this. And when his hand slipped beneath her skirts and unerringly found the heart of her, she knew that Max had known all along. He proved it in the way that he touched her, stroking down the seam of her, drawing out the slickness that—up until this moment—she had been the only one to find.