“You have been in Paris for more than a year,” Maximilian noted dryly.
“La! I cannot measure my life by the tick of the clock as you do,” she said, waving airily in dismissal. His mother spoke volubly with her hands, a trait that Maximilian despised. He thought of Charlotte, clasping her fingers together before her, and hoped that she would acquire none of Sibylle’s habits.
“But, I am here,” she said with a shrug. “Now, tell me what these services are that you desire.”
Maximilian seated himself in one of the carved and gilt Adam chairs lining the walls. “I wish you to sponsor a young lady, the daughter of a vicar who ministers to one of my holdings,” he said. He had the immediate gratification of watching outrage steal onto his mother’s face while he smiled at her pleasantly.
“What? You drag me away from my friends to play companion to a horse-faced nobody? It is too much! You have gone too far this time, Maximilian. You insult me!”
Maximilian waited patiently while she paced around the room, flouncing this way and that, a dainty flash of green. “I shall not! You cannot compel me! This is what I think of your request!” He sat back in his chair, watching dispassionately as Sibylle tore his missive to bits and tossed them into the air.
Then she stood back, waiting for his reaction, but she would have a long wait, Maximilian thought mildly. He was not one of her hot-blooded French lovers, but her only son. He had spent years perfecting ways to deal with his mother. Leaning his elbows on the arms of the chair, he touched his fingers together.
“Perhaps I should have mentioned that Miss Trowbridge has already been launched and is the season’s most sought-after female, an Incomparable, the newest Toast...” He let his words trail off purposely, giving her just enough information to pique her interest before he gazed out of the tall windows that looked over the garden.
“So! I am not impressed,” Sibylle protested. “A mealy-mouthed female has captured the attention of the ton. I cannot play hostess to her. I would expire from boredom in a day.”
“Of course, she would need lavish entertainments thrown in her honor and someone to sort through all her invitations and the suitors...” Maximilian paused significantly. “But perhaps you are right. You are not as young as you once were. It was wrong of me to ask you to perform such a taxing duty.”
“Hmm.” Sibylle sent him an assessing glance under her long lashes. When he returned her regard blandly, she tossed the dusky curls that framed her face. “I shall have a look at her. I can promise no more.”
“As you wish, madame,” Maximilian said, inclining his head.
“I would need funds, an increase in the paltry amounts that you give me,” she said. “Why your father put everything in your hands I cannot know... He can have cared nothing for me!”
Maximilian bit back a retort. “But of course you would have to have money, lots of money,” he said baldly. She smiled at him coquettishly then. He felt like telling her she was too old to play the part of the French kitten any longer, but decided against it. She would sponsor Charlotte. That was all that mattered.
“She will be at Hamilton House tonight, if you would care to accompany me,” Maximilian said.
“La! I have no wish to go with you and forever watch the seconds tick by on your timepiece,” Sibylle replied. “But I shall attend this party and see your Toast for myself. Then I will decide.”
She was already partway down the gallery when she stopped and turned toward him. “What is her coloring?” she asked.
Maximilian smiled. “She is fair, a buxom blonde,” he said, knowing full well why Sibylle posed the question. She would be far more disposed to host a girl whose beauty would not be compared to her own dark loveliness.
“Very good,” she said, brightening. “We shall contrast then. A blonde will be... Buxom, did you say? You have no interest in the girl, do you?” she asked. Her eyes took on a shrewd glint as they searched his face.
Maximilian felt the blood run to this cheeks, followed by a surge of annoyance that his mother still had the power to embarrass him. “Me?” he scoffed. “Certainly not.”
“But of course not!” Sibylle said. “How stupid of me. The great Earl of Wycliffe and a vicar’s daughter? Impossible!” She laughed airily as she walked away.
Maximilian looked after her, a brooding expression on his face. He failed to see the humor.
* * *
“Where is she?” Maximilian asked irritably. His fingers tapped restlessly against his leg before he lifted them to pull out his watch and check the time.
“Good Lord, Wycliffe,” Raleigh said, raising his quizzing glass to scan the Hamilton’s reception room. “Your mother is always late.”
Although Maximilian had to acknowledge the truth of that statement, he fumed anyway. Tonight his mother was hopelessly late, and if she did not arrive soon, she might miss Charlotte entirely. He drew in a deep breath and fought against the gripe in his belly, which recalled to him all too readily why he never had dealings with his mother.
Maximilian had remembered her frivolousness, her insincerity and the grasping greed that disgusted him, but he had forgotten how she affected his digestion. It annoyed him that she could still set his gut to churning when he was a grown man, but his irritation only intensified his stomach distress. “Damn.” He breathed the word softly.
“Already regretting your scheme?” Raleigh said with a sympathetic smile.
“Yes. No. Deuced if I know,” Maximilian admitted, ignoring Raleigh’s astonishment at his uncharacteristic indecision. “What else could I do? That cousin of Charlotte’s has obviously deserted her post, and I have no other female relatives to take her in.”
“Too bad we couldn’t install her with one of mine,” Raleigh said wistfully. “Unfortunately, I have a surplus of the creatures, always picking at me. Don’t like my clothes or my manners. Never satisfied. Don’t think they would take Miss Trowbridge in, though. Father would not like it, for one. He wants me to marry an heiress. Claims we need the money,” Raleigh said with a frown.
“It would not be proper since you are one of her suitors,” Maximilian said with a slight frown.
“What’s that?” Raleigh asked, dropping his glass. “Then how is it proper for your mother to sponsor her?”
“That is different,” Maximilian snapped. “I have connections with her family.”
“Ho!” Raleigh laughed out loud.
Irked at his friend’s amusement, Maximilian snapped at him. “What would you have me do, then? Send her home?”
“Only if I might have her direction,” Raleigh quipped between chuckles. Maximilian slanted him a black look. “Oh, for God’s sake, Wycliffe! Of course I don’t want the girl sent home. I’d be struck with the Lombard Fever straightaway. Lud, but she has enlivened a deuced dull season. And installing her with your mother should prove vastly entertaining.”
Raleigh laughed again, apparently in delighted anticipation of what was to come, while Maximilian scowled. “Of course, you know that this move will only increase the talk about you both,” Raleigh said, a wicked gleam in his eye.
“I have never heeded gossip,” Maximilian said curtly. “People will always talk, especially about Mother.”
Raleigh stepped back, the better to observe his friend. “I am not referring to Sibylle, but Miss Trowbridge. They are laying odds that you will wed her yourself,” Raleigh announced. He knew he had Wycliffe’s attention when he saw the dark brows lower.
“Rubbish,” Maximilian said.
“Some claim this is all an elaborate way to introduce her to society before your marriage,” Raleigh added. He watched his friend closely, waiting for a hint that those rumors might be true, but Maximilian’s only response was a snort of derision.
Raleigh choked back a gasp of surprise and amusement. He could not believe that Wycliffe was so stubborn as to ignore what was, to him, woefully apparent. It was obvious that Miss Trowbridge had lost her heart to her gallant protector, and Wycliffe was
not only too blind to see it, but too thick-witted to acknowledge his own affection for the girl. “Do not try to tell me that the thought has not crossed your mind!” Raleigh protested.
Maximilian eyed him with maddening innocence, his lips curved a bit contemptuously. “My dear Raleigh, you really cannot expect me to marry my vicar’s daughter.”
Raleigh swore softly, for his friend was deadly serious, a fact that did not bode well for the romance. “I would like to know why not!” he demanded.
Maximilian looked stupefied. “I would think the answer is obvious,” he replied, all too smoothly. “The girl is too young, too unsophisticated, and hardly has the bloodlines I would consider necessary for a bride, if I were considering marriage, which I am not. As I have explained to you before, unlike some rudderless unfortunates, I have a life plan, which I have adhered to since I was old enough to write it down.”
“And that life plan does not include a wife?” Raleigh asked, gaping at his friend.
“Naturally, it includes a wife,” Maximilian answered. “I am well aware of my responsibility to produce an heir. However, I see no need to rush into a youthful alliance. I plan to wed when I am thirty. Therefore, I need not begin looking for a suitable female for a couple of years.”
With a desperate effort, Raleigh tried to contain his astonishment. Knowing Wycliffe’s penchant for timetables, the man would probably follow this one to the letter. He had already succeeded in meeting his own rigid calendar for school, business and a seat in the House of Lords.
With a rather horrified fascination, Raleigh could well imagine Wycliffe selecting his bride with all the passion attendant on viewing the departure notices for the daily mail. “And just how will you go about choosing this female?”
Maximilian paused as if actually considering the question for the first time, much to Raleigh’s dismay. “She must come of good family, of course—a daughter of the peerage, at least, for I am well aware of my duties to my title and my name. Money will not be a consideration, since I am well satisfied with my income.”
He tilted his head. “Although she need not be a diamond of the first water, she must be pleasant to look upon. And she must have a mind. She cannot be too frivolous, but must possess some good sense. Most of all, she must be able to fit into my life and arrange her own schedule accordingly.
“Ch—Miss Trowbridge would never do. However appealing she might be,” he said, cocking an eyebrow at Raleigh, “she is much too impulsive. My wife must accede to my authority. Miss Trowbridge rarely, if ever, heeds my advice. She has a tendency to be impulsive, headstrong, argumentative...”
Raleigh unobtrusively shifted his eyes to Wycliffe’s fingers, which were drumming against his leg in a ceaseless rhythm that gave away his agitation. “As you well know, Raleigh, I desire a peaceful existence, not constant upheaval. I do not expect, nor do I want, any emotional bonds. Mutual respect is all that is necessary for a sensible union.
“In truth, I suspect my life will change little after marriage, for I expect to keep to my usual schedule, with subtle alterations for those events which require my wife’s presence. Naturally, I shall not even consider anyone who is not punctual.”
Raleigh cleared his throat, his eyes on Maximilian’s hand, which had now relaxed against his thigh, and tried not to laugh. He pictured some poor female receiving a calendar in which “production of future heir” was scheduled for eleven o’clock to eleven-thirty every Friday night in the earl’s bedroom. He lifted his gaze to Maximilian’s face. “And just where do you expect to find this woman?”
Maximilian eyed him mildly. “I assume I shall find her among the ranks of the daughters of my peers when the time comes. However, since I have no intention of wedding as yet, it would be foolish to fix my choice at this early date.”
“Certainly,” Raleigh whispered. He glanced surreptitiously across the room at Charlotte, surrounded by her beaux and laughing gaily, and wondered if the poor child had any inkling of what she was getting herself into.
* * *
Charlotte stared at the tiny woman who walked around her and tried to ignore the odd feeling that she was being assessed—just as if she were a piece of merchandise—and found wanting. This bold little thing was Maximilian’s mother?
“She is...so very tall,” the lady said, a hint of disapproval tinging her accented English. Charlotte’s gaze flew swiftly to Maximilian’s.
“Sibylle,” he said in a low, warning tone. He called his mother by her Christian name? Charlotte was confused. When he had first introduced her as Lady Wycliffe she had been certain for one breathless, horrible moment that he was married, even though no one had ever mentioned his wife. God bless Lord Raleigh who had silently mouthed “his mother” from his position behind them both.
Charlotte silently watched the woman’s eyes flicker darkly over her bosom and she felt a familiar rush of dismay. Automatically, she lifted a hand to cover the bared expanse. Lady Wycliffe’s gown was cut far lower, so low that her nipples practically peeped out, but she had small, inconspicuous breasts.
Charlotte flooded crimson at the size of her own. Embarrassed, she lifted her faltering eyes to Maximilian, only to find his attention focused on the area in question. But Max did not look one bit disgusted. He looked...hot.
Suddenly, Charlotte felt all warm and weak in the knees. She lifted her chin, for, despite Sibylle’s censure, she liked her own body—simply because Max did. She forgot his mother’s appraisal, forgot everything but the man whose eyes were fixed on her bosom. Then very slowly and very deliberately, she moved her hand away, exposing her curves further to his admiration. Their gazes caught and held. Was he blushing? Charlotte felt as if he had reached out across the space between them to touch her.
He looked away all too quickly and snapped at his mother. “Really, Sibylle, cease inspecting the girl as if she were a porcelain figure to add to your collection.”
At his words, Maximilian’s mother stopped circling like a vulture and paused reflectively. “I wish she would not be so tall, but she is very beautiful. Such eyes...” She turned to address Charlotte for the first time.
“You are charming, my dear. Maximilian says your cousin is unwell. I am sorry to hear it, but it is truly fortunate, for now I can invite you to come stay with me. I have a town house here that Maximilian bought me. It is not as spacious as his own,” she said, throwing an accusatory glance at her son, “but it is adequate. Will you come?”
Charlotte looked at Max. His face was impassive, giving away nothing, as usual. She wondered what he would do if she refused. She knew she really ought to refuse, really should avoid getting herself further entangled with the Earl of Wycliffe. The same heart that leapt in her breast at the sight of him would surely lie broken and bleeding by the time the season was over.
But the family was counting on her to succeed in London, and how could she do so without a place to stay and a sponsor? Poor Augusta was so obviously overwhelmed she was making herself ill, and no one else had offered to take Charlotte in. Despite argument from her better judgment, Charlotte knew she had no choice. And, besides...she had never been the sensible one.
“Yes. Thank you so much,” she said softly. “That would be delightful.”
* * *
Maximilian smiled cheerfully as he approached his mother’s town house. He was feeling much better since he had installed Charlotte with her. His schedule had returned to some semblance of normalcy, for he did not have to keep such a close eye on the vicar’s daughter. Sibylle might appear to be totally frivolous, but he knew her to be, in some ways, very shrewd. She could be counted upon to watch over Charlotte, to know at all times who was with the girl and to sort through the suitors, carefully cutting the rakes and disreputables.
He felt quite good, in charity with himself for the magnanimous offer of his mother’s sponsorship, which seemed to suit everyone. Charlotte’s cousin was on the road to recovery, for, as he suspected, her ailment stemmed from the discovery that she
did not care for the responsibility and effort of squiring about a young girl. Maximilian had sent off a slew of letters to the Trowbridge clan and was confident that he would soon receive replies thanking him heartily for his generous support of Charlotte.
His mood was a little dampened by the sight of Chevalier, his mother’s manservant, at the door. Maximilian thought the man far too impertinent and eccentric to make a decent servant, which, he supposed, was precisely why his mother kept the man on.
“My lord! What an unexpected pleasure!” A tall, slender reed of a fellow with black hair and laughing blue eyes, Chevalier greeted Maximilian with more warmth than was appropriate. “It is always wonderful to see you, of course.”
Maximilian slanted the man a quelling glance and disputed his words. “I believe I am expected,” he said. He knew full well that his secretary had sent round a note advising his mother of the exact date and time of his proposed visit.
“Oh, really? My lady did not mention it. Shall I show you into the library?”
Maximilian frowned. His mother knew he detested being kept waiting. “Where is Miss Trowbridge?” he asked.
“She is in the morning room, my lord,” Chevalier replied with a sly look.
“Then I shall see myself there,” Maximilian said. He dismissed the servant from his thoughts as easily as from his presence. Although he refused to admit it, Maximilian was looking forward to seeing Charlotte. He had stayed away nearly a week to allow her to become settled, and, well... He put down his vague, restless longing for her as the natural desire to see a family friend.
The tall doors to the morning room stood open, and Maximilian slowed his pace, eager for a glimpse of her. He ignored the subtle changes in his body, the quickened intake of his breath and the sharper beating of his heart. Would she be reading one of his books?
In his mind’s eye, Maximilian could see her curled in a chair, outdoing the sunshine with her bright presence, her glorious hair down, her feet bare. Although he had never seen her without shoes, Maximilian was suddenly struck by the vision of well-formed toes and well-turned ankles tucked beneath a simple gown, and he was astonished at how the thought of feet could be so...stimulating.
The Vicar's Daughter Page 16
