Lady Whistledown Strikes Back

by Julia Quinn

  She caught her breath. That was exactly what she felt—loved. Cherished, even. But she had felt this before, only to lose it all in a single moment, ripped away as if it had meant nothing. Sophia took a slow breath, then, moving very carefully, she freed herself from Max’s embrace. She slid to the edge of the bed and climbed out, careful not to awaken him.

  Max frowned in his sleep, then rolled over, gathering the pillow as if to replace her. Sophia looked down at his profile, outlined so sweetly against the crisp linens. His jaw was already stubbled with morning growth, his thick black lashes making crescents over the hard angle of his cheeks. He was so beautiful, sleeping the sleep of the content. Her heart warmed at the sight. What was it about him that affected her so? With a bittersweet rush of feeling, she wished with all her heart that things had been different, that they had been different.

  But that was wasted thinking, wasted time. They were what they were and that was not going to change. Sophia gathered her clothes, then washed at the small stand beside the bed. She had just fastened her gown when she spied her hair ribbon lying on the floor beside one of Max’s paintings.

  She bent to retrieve the ribbon, when the bottom edge of the painting caught her eye. The drapery covered the entire picture except this one small corner. It was of a woman’s slipper, a delicately turned ankle rising from a silk shoe.

  Sophia’s hand froze over the ribbon, her gaze locked on the edge of the painting. Max never painted people. She used to tease him to put a person in one of his paintings—a wood nymph or a knight in shining armor—but he’d always laughed and said he hadn’t the talent. Yet at some time, he had apparently found the talent. And a willing model by the look of it, she thought with a touch of sudden resentment.

  Who was the woman who had so inspired Max to stretch his talent? Some lurid, red-lipped Italian countess? A laughing French beauty with black eyes and white skin?

  Whoever it was, Sophia didn’t want to know. She straightened, threading the ribbon through her fingers with short, jerky movements. Actually, it wasn’t that she didn’t want to know, it was that she didn’t care. Not even a little. Her gaze still locked on the corner of the portrait, she wondered if the woman was pretty? Young?

  Of course she was, Sophia told herself angrily. As if Max would settle for anything less than the most beautiful of women. She slapped the ribbon into her hair, yanking it into a semblance of a bow, and then jammed her feet into her own slippers.

  Yet even as she did so, her gaze was drawn back to the covered portrait. Her mind raced furiously. Blast it, who was it? She glanced at the bed. Max lay sleeping. She suddenly wished he was awake to answer her questions, explain his actions.

  Yes, she wanted him awake. But…her gaze flickered to the draped portrait. If he woke up, then she’d have to ask him to show her the portraits and he might say no.

  What a quandary. She turned to the bed and eyed Max’s sleeping form with a speculative gaze. She should at least attempt to wake him up.

  She sniffed loudly, but he didn’t move. Well. That didn’t work. She cleared her throat softly, then said, “Max.” She didn’t raise her voice, or strain the word. She merely spoke it.

  He didn’t move at all, and Sophia breathed a silent sigh of relief. At least she could say she’d tried. Of course, he’d accuse her of whispering or some such nonsense. But she hadn’t. Not at all. In fact…she pursed her lips. She had to be fair. Had to at least honestly say she’d tried to wake him up.

  She bent over and took off one slipper, then held it at arm’s length and dropped it on the floor. The resultant bang made Max jerk in his sleep, but no more.

  Satisfied, Sophia stuck her foot back in the fallen shoe. There. No matter what, she could say she’d tried to wake him but he hadn’t roused. Tiptoeing eagerly, she went to the first painting and lifted the drapery a tiny bit.

  The folds of the skirt of a graceful white dress filled the bottom of the canvas, each stroke of the brush drawing her eye, raising her gaze up the painting. Sophia pushed the drapery up, off the portrait, until it fell to the floor.

  It was her. Max had painted a portrait of her.

  Only in the portrait, she was fat. Fat!

  The drapery was yanked back in place. “What are you doing?” Max’s voice, gruff with sleep, made her start guiltily.

  “I-I was just—”

  “Looking where you had no permission to look.” He crossed his arms over his bared chest, his feet wide.

  She lifted her chin, mainly to keep from ogling him. It was difficult to discuss anything with Max when he was naked and rumpled. “I asked if you minded, but you didn’t reply.”

  “I was asleep.”

  “I tried my best to wake you. It’s not my fault you’re a deep sleeper. Besides,” she plopped her hands on her hips, outrage beginning to build, “what right do you have to paint me like that?”

  He frowned. “Like what?”

  “Fat. You painted me fat.”

  “What?” His brows snapped down. “I did no such thing.”

  “I saw it.” Her gaze narrowed. “Have you been selling your paintings?”

  He glanced from her to the painting. Suddenly, his eyes crinkled at the corners. “Yes. I’ve been selling a lot of them.” He rocked back on his heels, looking irritatingly smug. “In fact, the prince just bought one last week.”

  The prince! Good God! “Is that your idea of vengeance? To sell fat paintings of me for all the world to see?”

  His gaze slid over her, lingering on her breasts. “Oh no. If I was to declare vengeance, I’d take it in a far more personal form. Face to face, as it were.”

  Despite herself, she blushed. “Enough of that. Just what do you mean by painting me in such a manner?”

  “You didn’t see what you thought you did.”

  “What did I see then?”

  He looked at the painting again, then shrugged. “I suppose it won’t hurt if you see this portion of my work. But I must tell you that this is my own private collection. Mine and no one else’s.”

  He lifted the covering once again. Sophia had to force herself to look at it, beginning with the face. She realized that in the portrait, she was somewhat younger than she was now, and there was a dewy look to her face, a secretly pleased sort of smile. At least he hadn’t painted her without teeth, or added a few inches to her nose, or something equally galling.

  Gritting her teeth, she allowed her gaze to drop lower. The woman in the portrait had fuller breasts, and a much rounder…Sophia stopped. Blinked. Gasped. “You—I—you made me pregnant!”

  He lifted his brows. “After last night, I certainly hope that is not true.”

  She stamped her foot. “In the portrait! You made me pregnant.”

  He stepped back as if to admire the painting. “It’s the way I thought you’d look if I had stayed and we’d been together. Beautiful, aren’t you?” His gaze moved from the painting to her. “You have always been the most beautiful woman in the world to me, Sophia. You always will be.”

  Her shock melted into nothingness. How could he say such things and make them sound so rich with meaning? So true?

  Her gaze went back to the painting. She’d been wrong; it wasn’t a work of vengeance. It was a work of an emotion of far greater power.

  Sophia cleared her throat and gestured to the other paintings. “And these? May I…may I look at them?”

  He was silent a moment, and then he nodded. “I suppose so.” He stepped back and allowed her to walk to the next portrait.

  In the next one, he had painted her as he’d last seen her, at age nineteen, her eyes shining with happiness and excitement. There was something unformed about her expression, as if all she’d known was happiness, which was primarily true, she decided with a grimace.

  She glanced at herself in the mirror over the mantel, comparing herself to the picture. There was a tentativeness to the Sophia in the picture, a sort of wistful wondering. But the eyes that met hers in the mirror were sure, unhesi
tant, her head held high.

  She smiled. She liked the new Sophia better than the old, but did Max? She stole a glance at him, but his expression revealed nothing.

  Shaking off a sinking feeling, she moved to the next portrait and removed the drape. She caught her breath, staring in amazement. Once again, it was of her, only this time, she was older. Not quite the age she was now, but close. She was sitting in a field of flowers, sunlight in her hair.

  Tears sprang to her eyes, and she reached out and rested her fingertips on the painting. When had he done these? And why?

  She slowly dropped her hand and looked at the next portrait, reaching over and tugging the drapery free. It was fresh, this one, the paint still damp. Her own face stared back, just as it was now, only she was standing before a fireplace in a room she recognized…. She tilted her head toone side, noting the placement of a chair, the edge of a bird cage—she straightened suddenly. He had painted her as he’d seen her at Lady Neeley’s, the first time they’d met after their separation.

  Tears clogged her throat, wonder blooming in her heart. It was with hands that shook that she went around the room and uncovered all of the other portraits, tossing back drapery after drapery…. They were all of her. All of the way she imagined her—sometimes sitting, sometimes standing, once leaning over a fence and trailing a strand of flowers in a still pond. In some she was younger, much as she’d been when they’d first met. In others she was her own age or older. Every picture had its own warmth, its own magic.

  Its own love.

  Something in her heart began to melt. Her fingers grazed the last drapery. This one was larger than the others, and something about it made her pause. With shaking hands, she pulled the drapery free and then stood in bemused amazement. It was the way he’d imagined her to be at seventy, sitting on a bench in front of an idyllic cottage. The sunlight limned her white hair, but her eyes were still the same color, the curve of her cheeks, still visible beneath a fine webbing of wrinkles. In this portrait, Sophia was not alone. Sitting beside her, hand over hers, sat Max. He, too, was aged, his skin wrinkled, his hair a shock of gray; there was no mistaking his proud air, the line of his jaw.

  But it was his expression that held her in thrall. There was so much love in his gaze, so much love in the way his veined and wrinkled hand rested over hers—a sob broke from her lips, her cheeks already wet with tears.

  “Sophia?”

  Max’s warm hand closed over her arm. Without a word, she turned into his chest and cried. She cried and cried, all of the pain of the last twelve years, all of the doubt, tumbling out, washing away.

  He held her tight, his arms enclosing her, his bare chest beneath her wet cheek. He didn’t say a word, just stroked her back, his other hand threaded through her hair, holding her against him. After a moment, she pushed away to say in a choked voice, “H-handkerchief.”

  He left her to get one, returning immediately and pulling her back into his arms. Sophia mopped her eyes, her breath catching, her head burrowed against his shoulder.

  Slowly the tears became hiccups, and the hiccups became a low, watery chuckle.

  He pulled away and smiled down at her. “What’s that?”

  She wiped her eyes with the handkerchief. “I thought you’d painted me fat just to irk me. That I’d walk into a dinner party and there I’d be, ten feet tall and a hundred pounds heavier, gracing someone’s dining hall.”

  He grinned. “To be honest, I never thought of it, but if you’d like me to paint you—”

  “No.”

  He laughed and then kissed her forehead, his warm breath brushing over her. He swung her into his arms and carried her back to bed, settling her between the sheets, then climbing in beside her, pulling her against him and murmuring, “We have all the time in the world.”

  Sophia sighed again, deliciously warmed by all the feelings she’d tried to fight.

  Max returned her smile. He’d woken to find her gone and had known a moment of pure, unalloyed panic that had ripped at his heart. But then he’d heard her exclamation. Never did he think to hear such a welcome sound. She hadn’t left him. Hadn’t gone away to lock her heart from him once again.

  She looped an arm about his neck. “Oh, Max.” An endearing hiccup tweaked the words.

  He held her tighter, brushing the hair from her cheeks. “There is so much I want to say.” He gave a rueful laugh. “I even practiced parts of it, but now I can’t remember a word.”

  She lifted her face to his, her expression one of amazement. “You love me. You always have.”

  “Yes. And there has never been anyone else. Never.”

  “Then why did you leave? You told me once that it was because you wished to spare me the agony of scandal, but…that wasn’t it, was it?”

  He sighed, his breath stirring the hair at her temples. “That is what I told myself. That and that you couldn’t love me and then believe I had cheated at cards—”

  She opened her mouth, but he pressed a finger over her lips. “I know, I know,” he said. “Had it not been Richard, everything would have been different. For us both.”

  She nodded.

  He removed his finger. “Now that I’m older and less bitter, I think it was pride and not anger that kept me away. That’s not an easy thing to admit to, but there it is.”

  Sophia seemed to mull this over, her teeth worrying her lower lip. He watched her a moment longer, admiring the way tears clung to her lashes. “Max,” she finally said, “when did you know that you’d made a mistake?”

  “The very first morning I woke up without you. But knowing you’ve made a mistake and fixing it are two very different things. I knew you’d be angry with me for leaving, that you had every right to be. I didn’t think I could bear being rejected again, so I waited.”

  “For what?”

  “A sign that you still loved me. Instead, all I got were your letters.”

  A quiver of laughter crossed over her face. “Some of them were not very nice.”

  “You, m’love, are a passionate woman. That is what I adored the most about you. And feared. I thought you’d hate as fiercely as you loved and that I’d lost my chance.”

  “What made you change your mind?”

  “John.”

  She stared up at him. “John?”

  “He sent me a letter the same time you did, only his did not mention an annulment.”

  She lifted up on one elbow, her face flushed. “How dare he—”

  Max neatly flipped her onto her back, smiling down at her as she landed against the pillows, her hair streaming over his arm. “How dare he care so much that he risked your anger? You are a lucky woman to have such a devoted brother.”

  “I hate such high-handed treatment.”

  Max lifted a strand of her hair and kissed it. “That is something we’re going to have to work on, m’love.”

  “What?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Our pride.”

  “Our?”

  “Our. Yours and mine. It has made us miserable long enough. From now on, every time you see me acting out of pride, you have to tell me in no uncertain terms. And I shall tell you. And right this minute, being angry with your brother for merely trying to help you is nothing but pure pride.”

  Her brows lowered. “I don’t like being told that.”

  “And I will not like it when you have to tell me, and I’m certain you will, time and again. If we want our marriage to be successful, we’re going to have to work together. Be honest. Talk. All you have to do is decide whether you think it’s worth it.”

  Her gaze wandered past him to the paintings, an expression of wonder darkening her eyes. Finally, she looked back at him and said simply, “All I can say is yes.”

  Max couldn’t speak. All he could do was gather her close and hold her tight, melding their bodies into one. It was all he wanted. All he’d hoped for. After a long moment, he sighed, the happiness warming him head to foot. “I think…”

  “Yes?”<
br />
  “I think I’m hungry.”

  She giggled. “How unromantic.”

  “I’m famished, and I daresay you are, too. We had a very adventuresome night.”

  “Yes, we did.” She wiggled happily. “I need to go home and change. This gown is crumpled beyond repair.”

  “I shall buy you a new one. Twenty new ones.”

  Sophia lifted her brows. “Can you afford that?”

  “I can afford that and more. My paintings have become quite successful, m’love.”

  “I’m not surprised.” She looked at the portraits of herself. “How much will those bring?”

  “Those, my dear, are not for sale. Ever.”

  She eyed him with admiration. “That is a very good answer.”

  He grinned. “I thought so, too. Now come, we must get up.”

  “But the room is so cold,” she murmured, her arms tight about his neck.

  “I know, but in addition to food, we also have some shopping to do.”

  She pulled back. “Shopping?”

  “Important shopping. I’ve wanted to paint you wearing nothing but pearls for twelve years now, and I’ll be damned if I let another day pass.”

  “I see. I assume that once you’re through painting me…” She looked at him through her lashes. “I get to keep all the jewels involved.”

  He laughed and kissed her nose. “Have you turned into a magpie since I left? Collecting shiny objects and—”

  “Magpie?” Sophia sat upright so quickly that she almost smashed her head against his chin. “That’s it!”

  “What’s it?”

  But she was gone, jumping out of bed and smoothing her crumpled gown. “Get dressed! We must hurry!”

  “But where?”

  She turned to him, her eyes shining, a wide smile on her lips. “To Lady Neeley’s. I think I know where that silly bracelet is!”

  Epilogue