“I cannot countenance such a thing,” he said quite forcibly. “You are young and beautiful. Surely you want a home and children.”
The truth of her circumstances couldn’t be denied though her heart ached to think of it. To never know a man’s touch or to carry a child. A flicker of resentment fired in her veins too. She wasn’t nobility, but a gentle-born woman had fewer prospects than the poorest peasant’s daughter who might marry for love.
Maxwell covered her folded hands with his, his palm heavy and somehow reassuring. “I don’t particularly care about station or dowries.” He is a rarity, then. “Nor about political connections or expanding my sphere of influence.”
Gabriella quirked a skeptical brow and laughed. “I cannot believe that.” Not when he was determined to regain Hartfordshire Court at all costs. She twisted to face him. “What do you want from me?” A shocking epiphany danced through her mind, and she narrowed her eyes. “Since a respectable union is beyond our scope, I can only assume you’ve another, less chivalrous proposition.”
It was his turn to look startled, and by Jove, not just a little guilty too. It was in the way he veered his gaze aside for an instant and the distinct rosy hue tinting his sharp cheeks.
By God. She’d made the estimable Duke of Pennington blush.
The air left her lungs in a rush as profound disappointment flooded her. Why she should be surprised he wanted her for his mistress, given what she knew him capable of, she couldn’t fathom. But if he’d skewered her with a dagger, her pain would’ve been less. She tilted her chin up refusing to give her disappointment any power. “I admit, I’d foolishly thought you above such machinations.”
She tried to pull her hands away, but he firmed his grip. “You have it wrong.” He lifted a hand to his mouth and kissed the back of it, then turned it over to kiss the pulse beating a frantic tattoo at her wrist. “I swear, I would never dishonor you in such a way.” Maxwell drew her into his embrace, his gaze locked upon hers. His voice, low and raspy as if intense emotion constricted his throat, he murmured, “You intrigue me as no other ever has.”
In less than a blink, his mouth was upon hers, devouring her lips, demanding a response.
Gabriella couldn’t deny him, and with a husky moan, twined her arms around his neck and gave in to her hunger.
This was madness. Sweet, wanton, wonderful madness. Her desire for this man would consume her, but in this exquisite sliver of time, she didn’t care. Maxwell was here, and she was here, and there was no snuffing the inferno. His kisses went on and on, his tongue dueling with hers, their breath mingling as she lost all sense of anything but him.
A shriek of laughter only a few feet away pierced the heady passion, and this time, Maxwell, drew back, a lopsided smile slashing his mouth. “Forgive me. I lose my self-control the moment I touch you.” He traced a finger down her cheek.
She was both delighted and terrified at his admission. Swallowing, her lips throbbing from the sensual onslaught, desire and perhaps something more wrestled with her sense of justice. She couldn’t have it both ways. She didn’t dare give into whatever this unnamed thing was between them. It would destroy her when—if—he claimed Hartfordshire Court.
Male voices echoed on the terrace, and he stood, straightening his waistcoat. “I shouldn’t be found here. You would be compromised. But know this, chérie, I do not easily give up.”
He must be made to do so. But how when every part of her longed to yield to him?
The next evening, one shoulder propped against the doorframe to the Twistletons’ crowded music room, Max raised his champagne flute to his lips, savoring the quality spirit. From across the span, the Duke and Duchess of Dandridge nodded cheerful greetings as they settled onto the blue-tufted chair cushions. Sutcliffe and Sheffield, along with their magnificent duchesses, had claimed seats for tonight’s soiree in the last row of neatly lined chairs.
Swathed in silks and satins, their jewels glittering in the glow of dozens of candles, the ladies resembled brightly-plumaged birds next to the gentlemen’s more sedately-hued suits. Only in the human species did the female outshine the male.
Well, most males. The image of a dandified fellow Max had encountered a fortnight ago, attired in pink and canary yellow, intruded upon his musings.
Several other members of Bon Chance: The Sinful Lords Secret Society were present as well: Westfall, Bainbridge, and Asherford, dukes one and all, though the organization wasn’t limited to dukes, hence the name sinful lords. The group was much more of a brotherhood than a club, a brothel, or gaming hell for debauched aristocrats. It was a place to escape the pressures and responsibilities of having been born a noble. A place where they could just be men. Equals.
A footman placed a violin atop the pianoforte as another arranged a harp just so. Normally, Max eschewed this particular sort of gathering. For a damned good reason too. One never knew what degree of skill those imposed upon to entertain the assembly might claim.
A person with a strong musical inclination himself, he could scarcely sit through the travesties that far too often took to the stage. Usually prompted by a parent oblivious to their progenies’ complete and absolute ineptitude.
In London one might fare better, but in the country? No, he’d likely have to sit on his hands to keep from slapping them to his ears. But then how could he cover his mouth to stifle his groans?
Damn him for a fool for accepting tonight.
Forcing an expression other than abject boredom whilst trying to ignore what often amounted to noises similar to mating cats wasn’t something he had quite mastered. Nor would he ever. However, he had it on good authority—those very same dukes now murmuring intimately in their wives’ ears and from Miss Twistleton herself—that certain twins would indeed be present. He’d had his doubts, and it pleased him no end that after yesterday, Gabriella hadn’t forsworn the gathering.
Never had a woman and her mouth held such allure. Or made him incapable of resisting the temptation of being in her presence. Toward that end, he donned his evening finery. Even taking particular care with his appearance and choosing a paisley waistcoat, because the fabric’s colors reminded him of her fascinating eyes.
If Max had been prudent, he’d have secured a seat in the back row too. Much easier to make a subtle escape should Gabriella not attend after all. But then, he’d have endured his valet’s disapproval over his choice of waistcoat for no good reason.
He finished the superb wine and after combing the room in search of a certain spitfire with dark honey-tinted hair and ever-changing eye color, placed his glass atop the tray carried by a passing hunter green-and-black liveried footman. When offered another flute, he gave a decisive nod. Although truth to tell, it would take three or four or eight more to make him less inclined to grimace or yawn during the tedious recitals he anticipated.
A derisive grin quirking his mouth, Ansley, Earl of Scarborough lifted his glass in a silent salute from where he’d positioned himself beside a tall plant. Another member of Bon Chance. Unfortunate for Scarborough that he’d chosen this weekend to visit his boyhood home. Since inheriting the earldom from his uncle two years ago, he’d done an admirable job of avoiding social gatherings, and his biting cynicism when forced to appear had earned him the unflattering moniker, the Earl of Sarcasm.
Max returned the gesture, recognizing a kindred soul. Obligation and duty made men do all manner of things they’d prefer not to. Sometimes things which teetered on the precipice of decency and muted their self-respect. Whereas Max more easily controlled his responses to unwanted social interactions, the tic twitching near Scarborough’s left eye gave his unease away.
Scarborough’s stunning sister, Nicolette Twistleton glided near her brother. She stretched up on her toes, tilted her raven curls toward his dark head, and whispered something in his ear. With a casual shrug, he downed the last of his champagne. Appearing very much like he wished he might indulge in something far stronger, he allowed her to tow him to a front row c
hair. Poor, miserable bastard.
Few people knew Max played the violin, or no doubt, he’d have been imposed upon to entertain this evening as well. He intended to keep that knowledge a secret. He played on a regular basis, but never for others. Not since he’d been fourteen years of age, and he’d eagerly set bow to string for his father whom he hadn’t seen in six months. As he was wont to do, the seventh Duke of Pennington had ridiculed rather than praised him before dismissing Max with the aloofness he might’ve directed toward a tax collector.
Or a clap-ridden whore.
Another casual swallow and with an equally deceptive indifferent scan of the room, Max pulled his mouth taut. A glance to the mantel clock revealed five minutes past eight; the time this grand misadventure was scheduled to have begun. He’d wasted his damned evening, it seemed, for a predictably unpredictable woman. Was there ever a more frustratingly enticing vixen?
Did he dare escape now?
No sense dithering any more of the evening away when his time was better spent perfecting the details of the plan he intended to put into effect soon. Mayhap as shortly as tomorrow, if Gabriella didn’t come tonight. And it certainly seemed she wouldn’t.
After Max’s encounter with her cantankerous grandfather a week ago, his man of business had paid a call at Chartworth Hall. Struthers brought information quite welcome to Max, but assuredly wouldn’t be to that bastard Breckensole. And Gabriella, an unwitting pawn, was paramount to his success.
Actually, she was essential to his preferred plan. The one which showed a degree of mercy and which helped temper his fury with no small amount of sympathy for hers, her twin’s, and Mrs. Breckensole’s plight. His alternative strategy wasn’t as compassionate, and he’d rather not resort to those extremes but would if all else failed.
If she failed to cooperate.
He dragged his gaze over the rows of chairs. Thirty in all. It was to be an intimate affair tonight then. At least, according to any society matron worth her salt’s standard. He snorted, drawing a curious look from Jessica Brentwood, the Duchess of Sutcliffe’s younger sister.
The single woman he’d hope to see, had counted on seeing, had yet to arrive. Another inspection of the clock revealed nearly half past the hour. Much too late to be considered fashionable. She wasn’t coming after all.
Certainly, it wasn’t disappointment pinging round and round in his chest much like pebbles shaken in a jar. No, by God. It was annoyance at his own stupidity for having accepted an invitation he oughtn’t to have done. And for getting his hopes up after the amazing interlude in the arbor.
And damn his eyes, he couldn’t very well leave before the first person performed and still remain in his influential hostess’s good graces. Invitations must keep coming, and he must know which functions Gabriella would also attend.
When another discreet inspection of the assembled guests failed to locate the attractive female he sought, he brushed his fingers along his jaw. Sutcliffe’s gaze met his, and Max raised a questioning eyebrow. Where is she?
Sutcliffe hitched a shoulder before bending his ear to his wife once more. He was of no help whatsoever, besotted fool.
Had Mrs. Breckensole’s health taken a turn for the worse again, keeping her granddaughters at home? Max had spoken with Dr. Spratt two days ago, and the capable physician had assured him that Mrs. Breckensole recovered nicely.
Why he should be so anxious for Gabriella’s presence, he refused to examine. He would have Hartfordshire Court, one way or another. Her cooperation simply lessened the hardship for her sister and grandmother. He didn’t give a tinker’s damn about lessening Breckensole’s shock.
It hadn’t escaped Max that Gabriella had avoided answering his question the other night. It also hadn’t escaped him that she’d been appalled at her grandfather’s frothing antagonism. Her reaction only confirmed what he’d suspected all along. None of the Breckensole women had any notion what Harold Breckensole had done. What the scapegrace continued to do.
An unfamiliar sensation constricted Max’s chest and burned the back of his throat. If he were a better man, a kinder more forgiving man, he’d let the issue of Hartfordshire Court’s ownership go. After all, the Breckensoles had resided there for decades. Surely the comfortable house was the only home Gabriella and her sister could remember.
Didn’t she—they—deserve clemency? Their grandfather’s sins weren’t theirs. They shouldn’t have to suffer because of his reprehensible decisions.
Max’s eyes drifted shut for a blink, and the gaunt, haunted features of his opium-addicted grandfather burst into his mind. An image straight from the bowels of hell. No, dammit. Breckensole had done that to Grandfather. He may not have tipped the laudanum-laced whisky into a glass every day, but he’d stolen the one thing that meant the most to the old man.
Grandmother.
And the repercussions had been far reaching. Grandfather had become a man incapable of loving, or perhaps afraid to show affection to his only child. It had also made him powerless to resist the alcohol and opium that numbed his senses and blotted unbearable memories from his mind. As a result of his lack of love and approval by his sire, Max’s father’s soul had warped and twisted as well, and Max had been the recipient of his cruelty.
But what of Mrs. Breckensole? What of the twins? That common sense voice prodded his conscience for at least the hundredth time. Until he wanted to shout every foul oath he knew, and the incessant nagging still didn’t stop. They are innocent in this. Must they suffer in order for me to dole out vengeance? Especially as the offense wasn’t against me?
He quaffed back the rest of his champagne and soundly quashed his ruminations. Sometimes, when righting wrongs, other blameless parties had to suffer. That was just the way of it. Lest he forget, he reminded himself severely, Grandmother and the babe she’d carried had been innocents too.
“What has you looking so Friday-faced, Pennington? Downright glum, I might add.”
Max slid Crispin, Duke of Bainbridge a quizzical glance then looked pointedly at the punch cup he held—no doubt liberally dosed with brandy or whisky from the flask always in Bainbridge’s pocket.
“I never look Friday-faced, Bainbridge. I’m simply hoping tonight’s entertainment proves more enjoyable than the last musical I attended.” That had proved so dreadful, he’d abstained for five years. When he closed his eyes, he could still hear Amelia Johnson’s off-key—very, very off-key—trilling and see her bursting into tears and fleeing the room when an insensitive, foxed-to-his-fleshy-gills clod pate tottered inside, snickered loudly, and asked where he might view the atrociously singing parrots.
“Of course you don’t,” Bainbridge put forth drolly. “So that downturned mouth and your gaze straying to the entrance every few seconds, not to mention the two glasses of champagne you’ve consumed already, means you’re a cheerful chap?” he quipped as he slapped Max’s shoulder.
“Stubble it, Bainbridge. You are no keener on these sorts of husband-hunting assemblies than I am. In fact, I’m surprised to see so many of our set here. I’d have thought they’d all be in London by now preparing for the Season.” However, since Max had determined who his duchess would be, albeit for all of the wrong reasons, he needn’t concern himself with the marriage-minded mamas here or in Town.
Bainbridge drew his sober attention from his study of the lovely Jessica Brentwood and offered another wry smile. “No small amount of truth there. But one has to have something to do on these tediously endless days until Parliament is in session and the Season officially begins. I’m not given to stalking and fishing, and even I grow a trifle bored with my horse breeding venture. I dare say, once the mare is impregnated, it’s just a matter of waiting, is it not?”
“You’re babbling, Bainbridge.”
“Not a bit of it. If you’re looking for the Breckensoles, I have it on good authority that they’ll be arriving with Rayne Wellbrook and Justina Farthington. Miss Farthington’s dragon of an aunt, Emmeline Grenville will likel
y play chaperone to the foursome for the evening.” Bainbridge cocked his head, running a long finger the length of his champagne glass. “You do know Breckensole’s coach was wrecked and villains stole his team. And Gabriella was only spared because she most prudently hid in the woods?”
Max closed his eyes until they were mere slits. Since when did Bainbridge address Gabriella by her first name? Christ on the Sabbath. Did he have a tendre for her?
What a distasteful notion. That one of the gentlemen he called friends might have a romantic interest in her galled. Except the way Bainbridge’s regard kept straying to the fair Jessica Brentwood suggested his interest lay in another direction.
Good.
Max couldn’t very well play his hand just yet and announce he intended to leg shackle himself to Gabriella. Thank God he found her attractive—too deucedly luscious—and keen of intellect. But even if she’d resembled a goose’s hind end, had the protruding teeth of a buck-toothed hare, and possessed the acumen of a turnip, it would’ve changed nothing.
Well, the begetting an heir might have proven more of challenge had that been the case. Even dosed with spirits and in a pitch-black bedchamber, one needed a strong constitution to even consider that tedious task if the female weren’t desirable. He needn’t worry on that account, by God.
No, bedding Gabriella Breckensole wouldn’t be a chore he forced himself to perform for the duchy’s sake. He’d enjoy it as a man very much drawn to her softly rounded curves would. As a man who’d wanted her almost from the first minute he’d met her. Contemplating her warming his bed, desire tingled through his veins, a mellow, burgeoning warmth.
His body responded predictably, most inconveniently—damned his erotic musings. With deliberate intent, he turned his thoughts to her despicable grandsire and succeeded in curbing his arousal quite handily.
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