by Stacy Reid
Max gripped the edge of the balcony railing, and stared, shock and unfathomable needs arrowing through his entire body. Amalie. He’d been mingling in Society for several weeks now and had never encountered her. It had been a deliberate choice to not think about her, lest he slid back into that longing to have her by his side, knowing it to be impossible.
Amalie took a glass of champagne from a footman, politely thanking him, her gaze scanning the crowd. She tilted her head at one point, and it was as if she searched for someone. Who?
“Ah, the wicked enchantress has caught your regard,” George said, coming to stand by his side with two glasses of brandy. He held out one to Max, who took it, lifting the drink to his lips for a healthy swallow.
“She is known as the wicked enchantress?”
“Hmmm, you’ve heard of the scandal which rocked the quiet streets of our Mayfair some years ago?”
Five years and three months ago.
Without awaiting his reply, the marquess continued, “It seems she was seen running from her own townhouse, a certain lord hot on her heels. Whatever they were about, no one could tell, but the speculation…” George smacked his lips. “The speculation was rife and rabid. Worse, her husband died that very evening! She disappeared presumably for mourning, and returned to Society three years ago, wealthy and even more astonishingly beautiful. The very lord who had chased her…has continued his pursuit, but the lady paid him no heed. In fact, he became a laughingstock, he was so besotted. And that my friend increased her allure a hundredfold. What lingered between those thighs to have a man like Lord Peter Spencer behaving the fool?”
Something dark twisted through Max. “It is not the mark of a gentleman to speak so about a lady. I have the urge to knock your teeth in.”
Provoking humor lit in George’s eyes. “I am only repeating what everyone else is saying.”
“I do not wish to hear it and you should not bloody repeat it!”
“Well, let me tell you about Spencer then,” his friend continued undaunted by Max’s cool displeasure.
“He married a Scottish heiress last year, and she whisked him away to that godforsaken castle of hers.” George nudged Max on the shoulder. “If you should be so fortunate, it is Lady Weatherston you should try to take to bed…to relieve your little problem. The rumor is that wicked little mouth of Viscountess Weatherston is delightful.”
Max clenched his jaw tightly and did his damnedest to retain his composure. “Is that so?”
“Hmm hm, I am certain it is another baseless speculation because no man here can boast of being her lover. And believe me, my friend, they have tried most earnestly. If you succeed, you would be the first to my knowledge, and that, my friend, would already move your status from legendary to godlike.”
“You are bloody ridiculous,” Max said with an icy bite. “If I should approach Lady Weatherston, it is not for some damn tryst.” Bloody hell, why would I even go to her?
It was she who had rendered everyone else in his life and thoughts to ashes. The revelation that she’d taken none of the ton’s rakes as her lover robbed Max of breath and pierced deep into his heart. Yet he knew she was not as innocent as she seemed. Years ago, her husband had gotten her caught up into his debauched games, and Max had almost fallen prey once to their wiles. He would be a damn fool to be embroiled in anyone’s games again. Max believed in faithfulness, love, and fidelity. Amalie was a woman who had no reserve in living in gray areas.
You damn hypocrite, he chided himself, having never been the kind of man to shy away from self-introspection. He had willingly gone into that bedchamber to debauch her, even though he had known she was married. It was the knowledge that her husband also lingered that had pushed him to leave. And clearly, they had continued their games with Spencer. “I am not interested,” Max said flatly.
“Come, man—” George began, his brow furrowing.
Max slapped him on his shoulder. “I’ll be able to find a lover on my own…even if I bumble and make an arse out of myself, I think I’ll be fine. I am not certain what I was thinking of mentioning it to you.”
George scowled, narrowing his gaze. “I will give you some pointers—”
“No need!” Perhaps the sense of wanting something else which had been haunting Max wasn’t to be found in an affair. Ignoring his friend, Max made his way down the stairs and through the crowd for the second time that evening.
Predictably his name rode the air—in shocked gasps, admiring tones, and scandalized awe. It amused and bewildered him in equal measure. Who would have thought an expression of his belief in how love should be between a man and his wife would have garnered him such a reputation?
His good friend Simon, Earl Benoit, who had once been skeptical that passion could be found with his wife, was now satisfied with his countess. He’d given his mistress her congé and had been filled with guilt that, what he had given to another for several months, should have been reserved solely for his wife. His countess hardly knew what to do with the change, but whenever Max saw them together, she peered at the man with unabashed adoration, and Simon himself seemed equally besotted.
“It is all thanks to your book, my friend,” Simon had said, slapping Max’s shoulder.
So, he supposed some good…or possibly much good had come from him publishing his blasted musings. Lady Benoit had introduced to Max’s notice a number of eligible females, hoping he would have chosen one as his wife.
Yet…
Max allowed his gaze to linger on Amalie. Feelings he’d thought long dead rose inside and swamped his senses. As if she felt his rude and provocative stare, she angled her head and met his stare…with a boldness he’d not known her for. Her mouth appeared sweet, startled, soft, and once again, his name shaped that alluring mouth. Max. Her eyes widened, and her fingers tightened around the champagne glass. Yet she did not look away from him but lifted her chin slightly, and an expression of civil indifference settled on her face.
How curious.
His heart jerked, and something hot and turbulent went through his body. Oddly, in the past, he’d never had such overwhelmingly lustful thoughts of her before. While he’d hungered to kiss her, he had craved their long walks and conversations more. Max leaned against the balustrade on the upper floor, cloaking himself in shadows so he could watch her without anyone noticing.
“Oh, I like it,” George murmured, coming up behind him, his voice rich with humor. “London’s wickedest lover still a virgin and in lust with Society’s most sought-after enchantress. I am not sure whether to worry for you, my friend, or envy you. I’ve never seen her look at a man like that before. In truth, I had started to doubt that she liked our sex.”
Drawn to her beguiling sensuality, Max kept her in his line of sight as he ignored his friend and made his way down the stairs. He couldn’t help staring, despite the ripple of a whisper. She seemed different, more self-assured, more composed, that hint of naïveté which had surrounded her had gone. And George had been right, Amalie was even lovelier than when Max had last seen her.
Her hair gleamed like the golden-red hue of sunset under the candle-lit chandeliers. Her throat looked soft, supple, shapely above the low-cut bodice of her gown. It did not cling to her figure, but there was a suggestion of lush, nubile curves beneath that silken dress. Her smooth skin glowed with a pale golden undertone as if she spent a lot of time outdoors. Dark red ringlets curled on her forehead and nape, softening her stunning loveliness.
Memories seared through him of the time he had foolishly thought she would leave her husband to be with him. Hell, he wasn’t sure what he had believed, for a divorce had not been possible. Still, Max had willingly gone into her townhouse in Grosvenor Square at her invitation.
The years fell away, and he could see on her face that they thought of the same night—memories flowed between them, the shyness she’d exuded as she’d taken him to her bedchamber, how hopeful and in love he had felt when she had confessed how much she admired him and longed
for him though she knew it to be inappropriate.
Max had been so overcome he hadn’t paused to think…to wonder too much about the situation. He had taken her into his arms and kissed her senseless.
How she had moaned and gripped his nape, arching her light, sweet body into his. And when he had slipped his fingers down to the valley between her thighs, with a passionate cry she had opened her thighs to his caress. He had rubbed her clitoris through her nightgown, and she had soaked the material with her delightful response.
As he’d tossed her onto the bed and started to strip from his jacket, something had made him glance up into a peephole where he’d seen a pair of eyes watching them. The shock of it had frozen him and blushing like a sweet innocent with tears filling her eyes, she had tried to explain.
‘It’s my husband…he…the viscount…he…this is what he wants…what he says I must do, or I will be failing in my duty to him! Oh, Max, I am so mortified, I should have resisted more and face the consequences!’
Those words had killed something inside of him that night. She had only taken him to her room on the order of her husband, who had lurked to watch his young, ravishing wife make love to another. And without a word, Max had turned and walked away.
A hiss slipped through Max’s teeth, as he also recalled the scandal which had roared through the ton one day after that fateful encounter.
‘Viscountess Weatherston seen racing down the streets of Mayfair barefoot and in her night rail with one Lord Spencer, a most profligate rakehell of the ton, giving chase’, the headlines had screamed in the scandal sheets.
That very same day, her husband had collapsed and died. And Society had been unforgiving in their condemnation. They had branded her a shameful hussy who had driven her viscount to death’s door with her wanton behavior.
Thinking how wretched the entire thing must have been for her, Max had tried to find her right away. For several weeks he had searched for Amalie, and it was as if she had disappeared from England itself. Then he had left, traveling the world again, until his new responsibilities as the earldom had drawn him back to England’s shores over these last months.
Five years, Amalie, he said silently. I’ve not seen you in over five years.
Max lifted his glass in a toast, and a ripple went through those who noticed his gesture. Curious as to what she would do, Max almost expired when the bold, sassy minx winked at him for all of London to see. And suddenly he realized he was a fool to even think of taking another to be his lover. It has always been her. Once he’d let her go and she’d marry another. He would be a damn fool to allow her to escape his grasp easily again. While she would not do as a wife…certainly the passion which had always burned between them could finally be explored.
Ah, I’m coming for you, my sweet Amalie, and I believe I shall tempt from you what has haunted me all these years.
Chapter 4
“All women deserve patience and gentleness when initiated into the art of lovemaking. A woman’s body is a work of beauty, a temple a man should worship with his tongue. A man should take his time over her body, especially if she is a shy, blushing wife. Remove her gown slowly…kiss her throat, even nip it a bit with your teeth. Take your lips on a journey over her bare shoulders, use your lips and tongue to do wicked things between her thighs. A nibble of the soft folds of her sex, some gentle and others slightly harder. That small sting will allow her body to become accustomed to pain with pleasure for when you pierce her wet flesh with your manhood. Yes, my friends…that sweet spot should be soaking.”—A Guide to Passionate Romps between a Lord and his Lady.
Her face flushed, and unknown sensations fluttered low in her belly. Amalie closed the book, still hardly believing that it was Max who’d written it or that it was still so popular months after its release. She’d heard that the first print run had been twenty thousand copies and had sold out from the stores within a few days, even though the book was not on display, and you had to discreetly ask the seller for a copy. Copies of A Guide to Passionate Romps between a Lord and his Lady had been kept under the counter, already wrapped so no one knew who had bought so outrageous a volume. Who knew fashionable London would have been so eager for this kind of erotic literature?
Walking over to the easel with the image she’d been painting, she selected a smaller brush and dipped it in some pigment, then stroked the brush over the canvas, slowly creating the violet-hued skyline she spied through the windows.
Several minutes later, a brisk knock sounded on the door to her private parlor. Amalie frowned, for her staff knew not to disturb her whenever she was in her private parlor, and she had no appointment today. Lowering her paintbrush, she said, “Please, enter.”
Her butler, Collins, came in. “My lady, you have a caller. Lord Kentwood. Should I turn him away, your ladyship?”
Collins wasn't impertinent, only that the few bold men who’d dared to call over the years had been refused an audience. Her tongue felt thick and heavy as she searched for the words to reply. “Please, show him in.”
His gaze swept the large room she’d never allowed anyone but the staff to enter. She had paintings mounted on the walls, and some even rested on the floor, leaning against the green and silver patterned wallpaper.
“In the drawing-room—”
“Here,” she said, removing her stained apron with trembling fingers. “And have Cook prepare tea and cakes.” This morning she had slipped into a simple ivory day gown with peach ribbons, her dark red hair piled atop her head in a careless chignon, and her feet were bare of stockings and slippers.
Collins kept his features admirably composed, and replied, “Right away, your ladyship.”
Perhaps she should have turned Lord Kentwood away or made him wait while she dressed more appropriately. With a groan, she rushed toward the door, only to falter when it opened and revealed Max framed in the doorway. The breath escaped audibly from her lungs.
“Max…Lord Kentwood,” she said clasping her hands before her. Lord Kentwood was dressed for riding, in a dark blue coat and buckskin breeches which clung to strong thigh muscles that her former memories failed to recall. Had he always been so handsome? She could not remember him being so overpoweringly masculine before. Amalie fought to be formally correct and found herself staring at his shiny top boots. His raven-black hair had been neatly pomaded into the correct mode although some rakish curls had been allowed to frame his darkly tanned face. She looked into his so familiar slate-gray eyes for some reassurance. Although they now appeared to crinkle, she was not sure the smile reached his eyes. He had handed his high-crowned black beaver hat to Collins along with his riding coat.
“I...how are you?” she asked, a trifle breathlessly.
“My Lady Weatherston,” he said, affecting a charming bow, his intent gaze caressing over her face as if he wished to sear her features onto his thoughts. It was impolite and heartwarming.
They stared at each other, and her heart squeezed. How I’ve missed you, Max. “I didn’t expect you to call so soon.” But after that toast in Lady Rushworth’s ballroom the previous night, she had been waiting on something.
“Ah,” he murmured with an amused glint in his eyes. “But you did expect me, surely that audacious wink you gave me was an invitation?”
Though her lips twitched, Amalie made no reply. She turned on her heel and led him to the fireplace, where two leather wingback chairs faced the low-burning flames.
“Oh, it was, I simply did not anticipate such eagerness from a man of your fashionable notoriety,” she said, pleased that she had acquitted herself with admirable composure. “Sit wherever suits you,” she said with a careless wave around the room.
He glanced around the elegantly appointed space, his gaze lingering on the few framed canvases on the wall, the easel in the center of the room, and the small sleeping dog on the pink, plush sofa positioned near large bay windows. His gaze sharpened on something. Oh! It was his book. Max strolled over to the small table and picked it up
, noting where she had paused in her reading.
“Do you like it?” he murmured, thumbing the pages.
At her silence, he looked up and simply stared at her.
“I…it is interesting,” she admitted, swallowing tightly.
“I’ve heard so many descriptions of my work but have never heard interesting before. Wicked. Filthy. Naughty. Erotic. Salacious. Those epithets I’m familiar with, in what manner do you find these words and drawings interesting?”
There was an unexpected gleam of humor in his gray eyes, and it pulled a smile to her lips and eased some of the tension from her body. Amalie sank into the sofa, folding her legs beneath her.
She hesitated only a moment and then said, “I…I did not think it dirty or too naughty.”
“Perhaps a woman of your varied experience would not think so.”
She arched a brow. So, he believed the rumors floating about town. “I thought it more of loving instructions to men for their wives.”
He smiled, and she could tell that he was pleased by her assessment.
“You always did have a keen romantic sensibility,” he said, with a rueful smile still staring at the pages. “It is one of the things which drew me to you when I saw you chasing butterflies, barefoot in the grass, kneeling to speak to the bunnies. I thought ah…here is a girl who believes in fairy tales with enchanted characters, not the morbid and grim ones which had been the rage.”
She had been a young girl when she’d met him, and very improper, always playing by the woods of her father’s country estate instead of planning for her marriage. “What inspired you to write it?”
A derisive scoff escaped him. “You.”
The single word dropped into the room like a chemical explosion. Amalie’s heart pounded, and her mouth went dry. A startling fire invaded her, and the shock sent prickles all over her body. “Me?”
An unfamiliar warmth entered her body, and her heart quickened. Why did that knowledge affect her so?
