by Stacy Reid
This was said so wistfully, Amalie tore her gaze from the man and directed her attention to her friend.
“Bess,” Amalie began tentatively. “Do you not…derive pleasure from your time with Lord Deveraux?”
Her friend’s current protector did seem a bit cold and aloof, but the fact the man pursued passion with a mistress, she expected him to thaw when he took his lover into his arms. Bess had been with him now for six months, and Amalie thought her friend happy with Lord Deveraux.
A frightful blush engulfed Bess’s entire body, and she sucked in a harsh breath. “We will not talk of that here!”
She flicked open her fan and wafted it with some energy. “I see Jules sneaking away into the gardens. I have some questions about this year's masquerade party. Try to think about how you’ll gain Lord Kentwood’s attention when every single female in London seems determined to be the man’s next lover.”
Then she darted through the thick of the crowd before Amalie could fashion a suitable reply. With a sigh, she glanced around, and her intense observation of the ballroom revealed Max and his friend were nowhere to be seen. Approaching him would have to wait until she could get him alone.
Do I really dare approach him?
* * *
“I beg your pardon!” George, Viscount Bramwell said, his expression creased in shock. Even his brown eyes seemed glazed as if he’d consumed too many drinks, but Max knew the glass in his hand was his first of the evening. “You said you’re what?” the words exploded from George on a sharp and very uncharacteristic gasp.
Maximilian Langdon, Lord Kentwood—Max to his close friends and family—scowled at his friend’s ill-concealed astonishment. He drummed his fingers on the thick pad of the wingback chair on which he sat, wresting his gaze from George’s slack-jawed countenance. Max tipped his head to the ceiling, wondering if he was doing the right thing in taking his friend into his confidence.
Max had determined to procure himself a lover and had thought his friend, who seemed a true Lothario, could offer him some wise advice. It was laughable really, the entire ton believed that he was so bloody brilliant at bed-sport and ladies flocked to him in droves, but he was uncertain exactly what to do to entice one to be his lover. Did it start with artful conversations or illicit touches? Did he truly even want a woman? Yet, there was a nameless hunger inside him, and to Max’s mind, he’d had everything but someone to touch, hold, kiss, and love.
“You heard me,” he said, not liking that his heart twisted a bit or that a heavy, uncomfortable feeling pressed against his stomach.
“I did not,” George muttered, emptying his glass of brandy in a long swallow, grabbing the decanter on his desk and quickly refilling his glass. “I could not have heard my best friend, and one of London’s most sought-after lover say that he’d…” George choked on a pained gasp. “I truly cannot say it! It’s blasphemous.”
“I’m a virgin,” Max said dryly, sipping his own brandy.
“A virgin,” George said faintly. “As in a person who has never had sexual relations with a woman or a man?”
Max calmly sipped his brandy. “Yes.”
His friend narrowed his gaze, thoughtful. “Is this another one of Simon’s outlandish pranks, and you are actually going along with it?”
“Good God, man, don’t be an arse, what need do I have to pretend I’ve never tupped a woman?”
George’s jaw slackened and he sucked in a harsh breath. “Is it a man—”
“For fuck’s sake!” Max snapped, surging to his feet, sudden restless energy burning through him. “I am not attracted to my own sex. But be that as it may, I’ve never had a lover.”
Something in his voice must have finally reached his friend because George now stared at Max in wonderment.
“Is it a religious thing?”
“No.”
“You made a vow of chastity to someone you love?”
“No.”
“But you are seven and twenty.”
“I am aware of it.”
Max groaned and closed his eyes in defeat. “Forget I mentioned it,” he said flatly, knocking back his drink in one fiery swallow. “I cannot endure any more of your idiotic reactions.”
“Very well,” George said on an irritated grunt. “I believe you. Do you know that if this should come out, you’ll be the laughingstock of all of London? I am certain the scandal would even reach the Continent.”
Max smiled. “You are being overly dramatic. I only informed you because I am thinking to finally find myself a lover.”
Relief lit in George’s eyes. “Thank Christ!”
Something else seemed to occur to the viscount, and he clearly grappled with voicing whatever it was.
Max sighed. “What is it, George?”
“You wrote the book. Wait…it was you who wrote it, correct?”
“Yes, it was me,” he replied with some level of exasperation. If his good friend responded in such a manner, Max couldn’t fathom how Society would behave. Though whenever he dwelled on their possible reaction, he realized he did not truly care to ponder on the fickleness of their nature.
If he had dreamed that he would have become the earl, perhaps he wouldn’t have written that damn book. That bloody book! A moment of madness where he’d boasted to his friends that all women were carnal creatures, and it was foolish beyond belief to treat a wife differently than a mistress between the sheets. What had started as a dare, had become the bane of Max’s existence.
In the distance, he heard the muted clicks of champagne glasses, the strings of the orchestra as they played a waltz, and the merry laughter and chatting. A ball should be good fun, but he could not bear the idea of returning to the fray. Since his arrival in the crush he’d deflected three Society ladies who allowed their fingers to linger on the lapel of his jacket. The most daring one, a friend of the countess’s had given him several come-hither smiles, but the suggestive lick of her lips left him cold, and he was thoroughly annoyed with himself. For what felt like the hundredth time, he questioned his decision in taking a lover when he had such little interest in the women who had been inviting him to their beds.
The conversation he recalled a few months ago with George and a couple other friends in this very room, resurrected itself in his thoughts.
“Wives are biddable, passionless creatures,” Simon, Lord Cornick, had cried. “I should know…I’ve been a married man for three years!”
“This book will be a failure,” another had groused.
“I think,” George had said, “Many gentlemen will, of course, purchase it, out of pure unchecked curiosity, but none would try the adventurous positions with their wives. Gentle ladies were not made to feel such wanton pleasures.”
“Yes, they are,” Max had refuted. “Every indecent tup you give your mistress you can give your wife, and every careful kiss and caress granted to your wife can be given to your mistress!”
“Say it isn’t so, man!” Lord Benoit had exclaimed. “I am married, and I love my darling Laura, but I could never mortify her with my rough needs and desires. That I must reserve for my mistress.”
Max had scoffed. “Do your mistress and wife not have the same anatomical form? The same breasts, belly, and quim? Do they both possess a clitoris and erogenous zones?”
They had stared at him in contemplative silence.
“Yes,” George had said, “But surely they possess different sensibilities, and that surely must be foremost in our consideration when we take them to bed.”
“You are daft,” Max had scoffed. “I will write out everything I’ve learned in my travels, and you shall see!”
“We dare you!” They replied in unison.
After that conversation, he had marched to the publisher and within a few weeks, his book had been published. It had not gone out under his real name of course, but even that minor subterfuge had been seen through and he had been embarrassingly identified as the author. The wave that had followed him for the past ten months
, he’d never imagined possible. He kept waiting for the furor to die down, but no one seemed of the mind to simply purchase a copy, read it, and move along. No, they wanted to discuss it further, asked for more pointers, or congratulate him on his marvelous breakthrough! And that damn publisher kept printing and advertising, gleeful at the amount of money it made them both, not that he himself needed it.
George rubbed his hands together, a bit too excitedly for Max’s liking.
“So, you want a lover or two to warm your bed.”
Or maybe something more permanent, he mused. Max hadn’t always been the earl. No, his father had been the third brother of a most illustrious family, who had disappointed his family by marrying a daughter of the landed gentry, well beneath their notice. Still, the family had accepted Max’s mother after some time, and he and his sisters had never been strangers to the life of elegances amongst the ton. His mother had enjoyed the immense connection of being the wife of the son of an earl. Even if he was the third son.
One of Max’s uncles—the second son—and his grandfather had died together in a carriage accident a month before he was born. Then Max’s father had passed away a few years ago. His father had left behind a grieving wife, Max, twin younger sons of nineteen and two girls of marriageable age. However, Max’s uncle—the earl—despite being married to the most delightful lady had had two daughters and no male offspring when he went onto his rewards only eight months ago after a long bout with illness.
Max had even thought that the publication of his book only a few weeks before might have helped the man to his grave. His uncle’s widow had laughed tearily at that, saying the earl had been ill for some time, and it had been a wonderful blessing that he’d been with them this long. Max hadn’t known it had been that serious, and though he hadn’t been very close to his uncle, he had been deeply affected.
“Or a wife,” he finally said, recalling his mother's and sisters’ argument that he would need a wife sooner than later to fulfill the most important part of his inheritance—securing an heir and a spare. Or, as his mother had said, ‘considering what happened to your uncles, you need at least six boys, I say!’
Max hadn’t objected to his mother’s ridiculousness. He understood his duty to his title and his family. It had been over a month since he’d acknowledged that he desired a wife, children, and that his beautiful and ornately designed abode needed to start feeling like a home. His mother, his oldest sister, and two brothers who were all happily married with children of their own kept asking him when he would take the plunge into domestic bliss considering the new and very important responsibilities which had fallen on his shoulders.
The certainty that he wanted to get married sooner than later filled his heart. “I do not think that to be possible,” he mused softly.
“What?”
“To seek a wife for this season.”
Chapter 3
“Not a wife!” George hissed.
His friend’s indignation was enough to pull a smile to Max’s lips. “Not a wife, eh?”
“This is no laughing matter!” George said crossly, folding his arms across his chest and glowering.
“I think in your outrage, you forget my new responsibilities.”
“Well. Your family is still in mourning. That reason is good enough to not even think about marriage yet!”
“I never said I would be a damn fool and marry her now. Of course, I would wait until the mourning period for my uncle is over. But I could start searching.”
George spluttered his outrage, lowering his arms. “No! No! It is inconceivable you should marry without taking at least six lovers first.”
Max scowled. “Six? Why in God’s name would I need to do that?”
“Good God, man, to move from a virgin state to a wife is criminal. It is the ghastliest thing I’ve ever heard. Only bedding one woman in your entire life. Are you even a man?”
Max laughed, undaunted by his friend’s horror. “I find the notion vastly appealing. Our brides do come to us chaste; I can go to my wife in the same manner.”
“You must…my friend,” George entreated, placing a hand over his chest as if he had been grievously wounded. “If six seems too much, you must take at least three ladies to your bed before settling down to the taste and feel of one quim for the rest of your life. For me, I beg this.”
At Max’s silence, George cleared his throat. “Has there…have you ever been tempted to take a woman?”
Irritation flashed through him. “I am not a damn monk, of course, I’ve thought of it.”
“Then, by God, man, at least let me understand why?” his friend demanded plaintively.
“It hardly matters.” Max stood and went over to the fireplace, peering into the flickering flames. Why did he feel so restless?
“Is it…is there someone specific who has your interest?” George now sounded curious and contemplative.
A weakness assailed him, and Max’s heart tumbled over painfully inside his chest. “There was, but she is no longer in my heart.”
“Still, tell me about her.”
“No.” It made no sense to speak of a girl he had once loved. A girl who had stolen his heart and dreams for many years. A girl who, with one thought of her, had reduced every other woman to a shadow. A girl who had married another at the directive of her parents.
He had been away from England for several years, leaving a year after his father’s death, and exactly six months after that encounter in her bedroom. Max had always dreamed of exploring and writing about other cultures, a dream born of having traveled to Istanbul, Egypt, Mesopotamia, Rome, Greece, and even to the West Indies with his father as a lad. His mother had urged him to go, and during his travels—revisiting the old places he’d seen with his father and exploring new ones—he ended up experiencing many cultures, reading many erotic pieces of literature on the different beliefs, customs, and sexual practices. At other times, in the bawdy houses he’d even observed sensual acts of such varied delights and had befriended a woman once, who’d been a mistress to an Indian rajah.
Max had discovered something after a while. All women could please a man and be well pleasured in return. Then to deal with his frustration of not missing the one lady who’d ever captured his attention, he’d poured his fantasies onto paper, one woman his erotic muse—Amalie. Even now, her name was a silent whisper of unfulfilled longing in his thoughts.
How long had it been since he’d seen Amalie, five years and three months? How long had he loved her for? Forever. But Max did not think he loved her still. A few years ago, memories of her stopped haunting him, and his fevered whisper of ‘Thank Christ’ had been heartfelt.
He’d been a boy of nineteen when she’d been whisked off to town for her season. Of course, only a few months later, their country village had been agog with the news that she was engaged to marry a viscount. A very powerful and wealthy man, a gentleman of Society who had almost been thrice her age. She’d been a sweet, carefree girl of eighteen, and her husband had been eight and fifty.
With all the stupidity of youth and unrequited love beating in his heart, Max had rushed to London with the firm intention of begging her to marry him instead. Except he had been too late. He’d arrived at St. George’s Chapel in Hanover Square as they had been exiting, and she was being led up into the Viscount’s carriage.
Max still recalled how ethereal she’d appeared in that peach dress with a profusion of delicate lace and trimmings. The coronet of flowers around her vibrant red hair had been set in an elegant coiffure that made her appear far more mature than a girl of eighteen.
Somehow, she had sensed his stare at the edge of the crowd. Amalie had glanced up and, for a breathless moment, such joy had lit in those unfathomable wintry blue eyes when she spied him. Her sweet, sensual lips had shaped his name before widening into a smile. And how that had made him happy, for a few minutes before as she’d descended the steps those lips had been flat, her face emotionless, her fingers clenched tightly
over a posy of flowers. Amalie had pulled her hands from her husband’s and had stepped toward Max before she had faltered.
Time, distance, and her marriage to another man had withered away in an instant. But instead of running to him, an impossibility he had known, she had lifted a hand in a small wave. And her eyes. God…in her eyes, he had seen such need, and he had almost sunk to his knees in his despair. How had he never noticed she shared his regard? All those days walking by the glen in the countryside, racing their horses through the forest, the conversations they had on their long walks, he had always thought his affection one-sided.
“Where did you go?” George asked.
Pulled from his reverie, Max cleared his throat, not liking the tight feeling banding across his chest. It had taken him so long to stop thinking about her, and with just a mere thought of their past history, his heart had raced and a long-denied need which had been buried layers deep in ice trembled.
“I went to her…a place which I had not visited for more than two years.” He sat down his glass on the mantel and made his way to the door. “I am taking a lady home with me tonight.”
George grinned and fell into step beside him. “And…and if the lady should discover that you have no damn idea what you are doing?”
Max chuckled. “I do know what I am doing.” He tapped his head. “I have all the theories right here.”
George scowled. “A lover on paper is not the same when you have a lush, naked woman before you.”
“We'll see,” Max said with a touch of arrogance as he opened the door and made his way back to the thick of the ballroom.
Moving through the packed room, he made his way to the upper bowers, and leaned against a thick, white column. A flash of blue caught his gaze and his entire awareness became arrested. How had Max missed her upon his arrival? Surely all of his senses should have surged to life, even if he had not seen her in the crowd. Breathe, he ordered himself, unable to remove his stare from the ravishing vision standing on the sidelines, watching everyone else dance.
