When a Marquess Loves a Woman (15 page)

He could see the panic in her expression. And while he liked that they were always straightforward with each other, he knew it was still too soon to tell her the truth—that he wanted all of her and for each and every moment, for the rest of his life. “Only what you are willing to give.”

His answer seemed to soothe her fears, because she twined her arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his again. This time, her kiss was eager, searching, and fervent, almost desperate, as if she needed something more from him. Assurance? Clarity? He wasn't sure. So he gave her everything he could in that moment.

Knowing exactly how she liked to be kissed, he grazed her mouth with his and ever so slightly nipped her with his teeth in the way that always made her tremble. She clung harder to him, parting her lips on a soft moan. And he lost himself in that sound, that admission of intimacy not even she could conceal. He walked her backward so they were shielded behind the open door.

Like days before, they wound up against the wall, ardently kissing and groping. Her hands slipped beneath his coat and down his back. She surprised him by gripping his arse and pulling him closer, her body welcoming the thrust of his hard flesh against her. Through the yellow muslin, he palmed her breast, worrying his thumb in circles over the pert tip. She gasped into his mouth and reached between them to the fall of his trousers.

But just then, he heard the sounds of a door opening, followed by Mr. Wick's voice as he greeted Lady Cosgrove in the foyer.

Max stayed her hands. “Your cousin has returned.”

Juliet blinked, her eyes going wide, her gaze darting around as if only now coming to the realization that they were standing in her cousin's parlor. “Quick. You must pretend you were just leaving.”

He laughed, looking down at the blatant evidence of his arousal. “I will need a moment or two.”

“Oh dear.” Her wispy golden brows lifted, and a small puff of air left her swollen lips. “You will need to carry something in front of you. Something quite large.”

He grinned. “I could carry you out of here and solve two problems at once.”

Her gaze lifted to his, lingered, and for an instant she appeared to give the thought consideration. But then, alas, she shook her head. “It would create more problems than it would solve. Here.” She reached for her fan and opened it with a snap. “No. That won't do. We need something larger. Perhaps you could pick up a chair and pretend you are moving it about the room.”

Knowing they were running out of time, Max took her hand and led her back to the settee before sitting in the chair across from her. He dared to press one kiss upon her cheek. “You may want to open your fan, for you are displaying a lovely shade of pink above your breasts and along your throat.”

No sooner had Juliet opened her fan than her cousin walked into the room.

“Good morning, Lord Thayne, Juliet.”

They returned the greeting as if it were typical to encounter them alone in the parlor. Max supposed they were fortunate that Lady Cosgrove appeared distracted, her hands worrying the knot of her reticule.

“I am glad you are both here for I have some news. Your brother,” she said to Max, “the Marquess of Engle, has just returned to London.”

Instantly, Max looked to Juliet to read her expression. Her gaze darted to his and then quickly away, as if to conceal her reaction. He did not want to think about why the mention of his brother's name would make her do so.

He swallowed. “That is excellent news.”

“Not entirely,” Lady Cosgrove added with downcast eyes and a sorrowful shake of her head. “It is with my deepest regrets to also inform you that your sister-in-law, the Marchioness of Engle, has died.”

Juliet covered her gasp with her fingertips. “That is dreadful news. Oh, Max, I am so sorry. Please extend my deepest regrets to your mother and to Bram.”

Bram
. She still referred to him by his given name, as if there were still a familiar sentiment between them. Now, his brother was a widower. And Max was suddenly wishing he'd carried Juliet out of here when he had the chance.

C
HAPTER
F
OURTEEN

B
y the time Max crossed the threshold, Harwick House was in utter chaos. Servants, both familiar and foreign, were scurrying about the hall, carrying in trunks, and forming ascending and descending lines on the stairs. Saunders's face and pate had gone red, his mouth a tight grimace. It was clear that the family were not the only ones taken off guard and besieged by this unexpected visit.

At least, Max hoped it was a mere visit. After all, Bram had been abroad so long that surely he would want to retire to his own estate in Devon, and London was a mere stopping point. Yet even while the logical conclusion formed in his mind, a cold shiver of foreboding snaked down his spine and settled into the pit of his stomach.

“By the looks of things, it appears as if my brother has every intention of staying,” Max said under his breath.

“Indeed, my lord,” Saunders answered and then cleared his throat. “You'll find Lord Engle and Mrs. Harwick in the study.”

When there was a break in the line at the stairs, Max headed up to the first floor, his legs filled with lead. He had to remind himself several times that he was no longer the discounted little brother but a marquess in his own right. Not that Bram had sent word of acknowledgment to that fact.

Regardless, it was time to put the past to rest and extend the hand of compassion to his brother. This was surely a most difficult time for him.

Max opened the door to the study and spotted Bram facing the sideboard, his blond head bent. Across the room, Mother frowned, her arms crossed and toes tapping on the hardwood floor.

When her gaze alighted on him, she expelled a breath. “Max, help me force your brother to see reason. We are in a state of mourning. I cannot possibly host a party announcing his return.” And then her expression softened to one of pity. “Of course, you realize that we can no longer host your ball either.”

Max nodded in understanding. Besides, the ball was the last thing on his mind. “Of course not. We are all in mourning now.” He crossed the room and stood next to Bram. “Allow me to extend my sincerest regrets, brother.”

“Regrets? Whyever would you have any of those? You weren't married to her. I'm the only one allowed to have regrets.” Bram slurred his words, his breath pungent as vinegar and fire. He pivoted toward Max, pointing at him with a brim-filled glass, scotch sloshing over the side and onto the toe of Max's boot.

Since the decanter on the tray was still moderately full, Max could guess that Bram had already been foxed by the time he arrived. The red-glazed eyes and ruddy cheeks were also an indication. “She was your wife. It's only natural to mourn her loss; however, now is the time to make arrangements for her burial.”

Bram scoffed wetly, teetering where he stood. “Her lover took care of that. Already buried her in his family plot, the blighter.”

Mother gasped. “Oh, Bram. I'm so sorry. You never said anything in your letters.”

“Yes, well, it wasn't worth the mention, was it?”

Max didn't approve of the disrespectful nature of Bram's response and was about to say something when Mother shook her head and held out her hand in a gesture that suggested a need for patience. Even though Max felt he'd been patient enough for five lifetimes, he conceded to her wishes with a nod.

“If you can bear to tell us,” Mother said, “what exactly happened to her?”

“Died in childbirth, so I'm told.”

Both Max and Mother went still, the air stolen from the room. He knew better than anyone how much Mother had wanted a grandchild.

“And the baby . . . ” she asked, clearly holding her breath.

“Mine, though one can never be too certain. My
wife
was increasing—five months—when she left, so the odds are in my favor.”

Mother's eyes began to well with tears. Seeing her distress at the news of losing not only a daughter-in-law but also a grandchild, Max went to her side. He wanted to rail at Bram for his callousness, but such would be unseemly at this time.

Whatever ill will might still be between them, Max would never wish such a loss on anyone. “Then I am ever sorrier for both your losses.”

“Both?”

“Your wife and child.”

Bram drank a hearty swallow and flipped his fingers inconsequentially in the air. “The child survived.”

Mother's handkerchief paused. “Pardon me?”

“The child is a girl,” Bram said with a shrug. “Came in another carriage. Cries a great deal and never goes hoarse, if you can imagine it.”

And just as he was complaining, Saunders appeared in the doorway, his eyes strained with jagged red lines, revealing that he might have reached his limit. “A
Miss Slade
is here with a child in tow, my lord. She claims to be the nurse of Lord Engle's child.”

“Just so.” Bram lifted his glass in a salute and then slumped down into the leather winged chair by the hearth.

And then, before their eyes, a shy young woman with a ruffled cap over her pretty blonde head stepped out from behind Saunders. The woman—who couldn't have been more than eighteen years of age—possessed an uncanny resemblance to the former Miss Leonard, the late Marchioness of Engle. And sleeping against the crook of her shoulder was not an infant but a downy-headed child with limbs long enough to dangle beside Miss Slade's hip and wrap around her neck.

Miss Slade curtsied and bowed her head but did not speak.

Mother stepped forward as well, inspecting the child and looking first to Max, with her brow wrinkled in confusion, and then to Bram. “Surely this child, which is hardly a newborn, could not be yours,” she whispered.

“She was born a year ago, Tuesday last,” Bram announced, rising from the chair. But at the sound of his voice, the child stirred. Lifting her head, her mouth puckered into a frown that dimpled her chin. In response, Bram scoffed in disgust and returned to the sideboard.

“Do you mean to tell me that your wife has been dead a year, and I have had a granddaughter for all that time, and you never bothered to mention it?” Mother's rightful outrage was palpable, though not at all like her. The woman, who was all ease and nurture, seemed to age in that moment. A spindly spray of lines creased the corners of her eyes, which dimmed and turned darker as she glared at Bram's back. “Does she have a name?”

“Patrice,” Bram spat, as if the name tasted of venom on his tongue.

“Named after her mother,” Max said absently, reeling somewhat from the news he'd learned in the past quarter hour.

“My late wife's lover named her. He thought to raise the child as his own, but after a time, the fond memories of his affair seemed to fade, and he was no longer so keen to raise another man's spawn. So he shipped her off to me”—he spread his arms wide, glass in one hand, decanter in the other—“and now here we are.”

The child's chin trembled, her face reddening. Miss Slade instantly began to pat her back, making shushing sounds before the inevitable wail.

And what a bellow! Max stared, dumfounded by the volume such a small creature could emit. He was torn between wanting to cover his ears and wanting to add his own hand to the patting process in the hopes that it would soothe his niece.

His niece
.

The words that carried a familial bond stalled his thoughts. The brother, of whom he'd never been particularly fond, now had a child. And by all accounts, an unwanted child. Max felt his heart squeeze in sympathy for little Patrice. Fate had already cast a black mark against the child for having been born to two exceedingly selfish people. There was no need to add to her life's burdens. Therefore, Max stepped forward, his hands outstretched.

After a clumsy exchange, he took the child in his arms, resting her tiny bottom on his forearm as he walked into the hall, Miss Slade's footfalls close behind.

“Perhaps it is time that we took a stroll to the nursery,” Max said to his niece, keeping his voice low. Whether it was the movement or the alteration in the environment, he didn't know, but little Patrice's cries quieted to air-sucking sniffles through her tiny, upturned nose.

At the end of the hall, Saunders appeared again. “I'm having the nursery prepared, Lord Thayne.”

“Thank you, Saunders. Would you be so kind as to do me one more favor?”

The butler didn't hesitate. “Certainly, my lord.”

Since Max could see that the strain of the day was practically cracking the man in two, he decided to send him on an errand of peace and quiet. “I'm unsure of how many bottles of port we have, and I find myself rather curious at the moment. I would appreciate it if you would disappear into your pantry for an hour or so to sort that out.”

The tight flesh around Saunders's eyes seemed to soften as he bowed. “Very good, my lord.”

As Max made the climb to the nursery, he continued to speak to his niece, whose hands had now found his face and who kept a close, wide-eyed study of his features.

“You are quite fortunate to be blessed with the finest grandmother for whom one could ever hope,” he said to her. “Barring recent events, she is rarely cross and has a warm, affectionate nature. I'm sure that once she overcomes her shock, she will be more herself.”

When he reached the nursery, he'd concluded his speech with the certainty that she understood everything he said the moment her head bobbled in a nod. “There's a good little sprite. Now, stay with Miss Slade, and I will visit later.”

Leaving her with the nurse, Max went back to the study, no longer feeling so compassionate toward his brother. By the time he heard their voices in the hall, he was prepared for battle.

“I thought I made it clear that we are past any period of mourning. Therefore we can have a party, and the sooner the better,” Bram said, continuing the same argument as before.

“That may be true in fact; however,
we
are only now learning of her death. Surely there is a precedent to follow under such circumstances.”

“Why do you think I stayed away so long? Hell, why do you think I never wrote to you about her death?” Bram shouted. “That whore didn't deserve any outward display of respect after what she had done.”

Max stormed in, appalled and outraged, then closed the door behind him. “But our mother deserves respect, so mind your language in her presence. And for that matter, cease this despicable drunken display. You've made it clear that this vice is not due to grief.”

Bram trained his squinted eyes on Max and tossed back the last of his drink. “Traveling here, I'd imagined this sort of unwelcome reception when I brought the sordid news. Likely that is why my nerves are in a lather, and I required a medicinal tonic to soothe them. Nevertheless, little brother is right. My apologies, Mother.”

Mother walked over to the chair and laid a hand on Bram's shoulder. “The news must have been difficult for you to bear alone. It is good that you are here at last.”

Max fought the urge to roll his eyes as Bram lifted his gaze and smiled sweetly to her. When she patted his cheek, apparently all was forgiven.

“Why is the party so important to you?” she asked.

“As I said, the child wails incessantly. Miss Slade knows not what to do and seeks my counsel.”

“Perhaps if you'd hired a nurse who was a little older and with experience . . . ” Max murmured before both Mother and Bram interrupted him with a warning glare. Suddenly, it felt as if the past were being played out before him with few alterations.

“What I need,” Bram continued, “is a wife to see to these trivial matters. I have an estate to run. Surely even Max can understand the importance of that.”

Mother offered a resolute shake of her head. “Unfortunately, with this recent news, even your brother's plans to find a bride must be delayed, perhaps until next Season.”

“Next Season?”
the brothers parroted in simultaneous incredulity.

“The custom is for a mother-in-law to be in mourning for six months and for a brother-in-law, six weeks.” Mother dusted her hands together. “I'm afraid this Season would be over by then. Most of the families will be away from town by the middle of June.”

Bram sat up straighter and cast a smirk to Max. “As I have already observed my period of mourning, and I have a child in need of a mother, I see no reason why I cannot begin the hunt immediately.”

Mother pursed her lips in consideration and then nodded. “It is true. A widower with a small child would be expected to remarry, posthaste. However,
none
of us shall venture into the social sphere until a suitable time has passed. There will be no balls, parties, dinners, picnics, teas, or”—her gaze veered to Max—“paying calls.”

In other words, no Juliet for the time being. Not seeing her for a full week? Impossible. How would he survive it?

“For many gentlemen, those customs are pushed aside, as they have responsibilities and business to attend.” Max felt that old sting of unfairness well up inside of him, even as guilt assailed him. Battling with these inner demons, he promised to grieve for his sister-in-law but not when he was so close to getting what he wanted most.

“Of course you can attend to business, and you should keep Bram with you. It would do you both good.”

“You seem awfully eager,” Bram said, eyeing him. “I suspect that you have settled on a bride, and now I am curious to learn her name.”

Max wasn't about to make any bold declaration at this time. Nor was he going to hint at her name, especially not when he wasn't even certain he could convince her. “It is no one you know and therefore none of your concern.”