by Julia Quinn
“Invitations? To what?”
“I couldn’t say, my lord—though Mayfair does seem unusually…active for this time of year.”
Maximilian grunted. “The rivers in Yorkshire freeze every winter. I don’t see why half the populace of southern England has to come view it happening in London.”
“It is something of a novelty here…as are you, if you don’t mind me saying so, my lord.”
As he leafed through the invitations, Maximilian nodded. “So it would seem. But these are mostly from families with single daughters, if I recall my Lady Whistledown columns correctly. Don’t they realize I’m off the market?”
“I—”
“That was a rhetorical question, Simms. Please have Thomason saddle my horse.”
“Your horse,” the butler repeated dubiously.
“Yes, my horse.”
“May I point out that it is snowing, my lord?”
“This is practically springtime in Yorkshire. I believe Kraken and I will manage.”
“Yes, my lord.”
As Maximilian ate, he opened the various missives. Apparently even with the rumors of his empty coffer which had been circling London for years, mamas wanted to offer him their daughters. In a sense, it was amusing. Women galore seemed available to relieve him of his bachelorhood—all but the one he’d been promised. And especially after last night, none of them would do but Lady Anne Bishop.
And while his earlier neglect of his betrothed might have been through complacency, and a choice to concentrate on the tangle of matters and confusion of properties his father had left him, he wouldn’t make that mistake again. Anne had issued him a challenge, one he probably deserved, and he would answer it.
“Simms, would you happen to know an establishment where I might purchase some flowers? Roses, preferably.”
“Ah. I believe Martensen’s has access to a hothouse. Shall I send someone to—”
Max pushed away from the table. “No. I’ll take care of it.”
Most of the London nobility seemed still abed as Maximilian found Martensen’s and then rode on to Bishop House. Considering that everyone claimed to be in London to enjoy the weather, the closed coaches and thick, cumbersome wraps of those who had ventured out of doors in the chilly morning seemed more than a little hypocritical. He was used to that from his peers, however.
The butler seemed surprised to see him. “I don’t believe Lady Anne has risen yet, my lord,” he said, smoothing a frown.
“I’ll wait.”
As the butler showed him into the cold, closed morning room, he glanced at the foyer table. A salver with calling cards from three other gentleman lay on it. So Lord Howard and Anne’s snow angel companion Sir Royce Pemberley weren’t his only competition.
“Did they deliver those in person?” he asked, slowing.
“It is snowing, my lord,” the butler said, apparently considering that answer enough. “I’ll send someone to light the fire.”
“Don’t bother. I’ll manage it.”
“Y…yes, my lord. I shall inform Lady Anne of your presence.”
“He can’t be here,” Anne muttered, throwing off her dressing gown and rubbing color into her cheeks at the same time. Not that she needed to go to the effort. In Lord Halfurst’s presence her cheeks seemed perpetually warm. “It’s only nine o’clock in the morning, for heaven’s sake.”
“Do you wish the blue merino, or the plum velvet gown?” Daisy asked, half buried in the large wardrobe.
“The plum velvet, I think.” Anne quickly brushed a restless night’s tangles from her long dark hair. “But that’s for outside. Isn’t it snowing?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Perhaps the merino, then.” But that would mean she would have to sit inside and chat with him. He’d seemed so…intriguing last night, and if there was one thing she didn’t want, it was actually to like him. He only meant to drag her off to Yorkshire, and away from all her friends and family in London. “No, the plum velvet.”
By the time she was dressed and descending the stairs, she was out of breath, and unsure whether her hands shook because of the cold, annoyance at his presumption, or anticipation of seeing him once more. Annoyance was the most likely. They’d parted only nine hours ago, after all.
“My…lord,” she said, stopping in the morning room doorway.
The marquis crouched on the hearth, setting a match to the newly stoked coals. From the smudge of soot across the back of one hand, he’d done that, as well. He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Be with you in a moment.”
“But—”
“Your servants were busy,” he said, shrugging as he stood. Warmth touched the edges of the room as the fireplace roared into flame. “I offered.”
So her sheep farmer knew how to make a fire—and a fine one, from the look and feel of it. Anne shook herself. He wasn’t her anything. “What brings you to Bishop House so early?”
He approached, wiping the soot off his hand with a handkerchief. “I neglected something last night.”
“I don’t think you did,” she answered truthfully. “I had a lovely evening.” Except for the near brawl he’d gotten into with Lord Howard, but even the way he’d dismissed the viscount had been…interesting.
A soft smile touched his mouth. “Good. But that’s not what I meant.”
“What, then?”
Lord Halfurst stopped in front of her, taking a moment to run his eyes the length of her plum velvet gown and back up to her face again. Very slowly he reached out and tilted up her chin. “I forgot to kiss you good night,” he murmured, his gaze focusing on her lips.
“You…” Anne trailed off again as he leaned down and brushed his lips against hers. Her eyes closed, almost against her will. Brief and gentle and soft, and yet full of promises, or something that made her want to throw her arms around his neck and demand more. With a sharp breath she snapped open her eyes again. “You take liberties,” she managed.
He shook his head. “We are betrothed, after all.” Halfurst drew her closer, and kissed her again.
When he released her the second time, she was actually leaning toward him. With a silent curse she straightened. “What…You already kissed me good night.”
“That was good morning.”
“Oh.”
Returning for a moment to the fireplace, the marquis retrieved a splendid bouquet of flowers from the mantel. “Winter roses,” he said, handing them to her.
Their bright scarlet color itself seemed enough to warm the room. In her heavy velvet gown, Anne was beginning to feel rather heated herself. “Thank you,” she said, breathing in their spicy scent. “They’re lovely. But not necessary.”
“Evidently, they are necessary,” he countered. “I have some things to make up for. This is merely the beginning.”
“The beginning?” she repeated, watching the slow curve of his mouth. Somber, he was aristocratic and handsome, far enough from her imaginings that she could almost believe he was an imposter. When he smiled, though, the expression lighted his eyes, and in response her heart did silly little flip-flops.
“Of my courtship.”
The pronouncement, so calm and matter-of-fact, stunned her, and it was a moment before she could get her jaw to work again. “I thought you intended to drag me off to Yorkshire.”
Halfurst tilted his head as though trying to read her thoughts. “I could do that,” he admitted in a low voice, “but I couldn’t make you want to be there, and I certainly couldn’t make you want to be there with me.”
Anne narrowed her eyes. “Forgive my cynicism, but what happened to make you suddenly so willing to be reasonable?”
“You did. But it’s not reason; it’s patience. You were meant to be mine. I intend to have you.”
My goodness, he seemed sure of himself. “Why, because I’m pretty and my family has money?”
The smile touched his mouth again. “Because you told me you’d rather drop dead than marry me.”
; “Because…That’s absurd.”
“And because you interest me, and intrigue me, and because after nineteen years without a word from me and as popular as you are, you only said no, and not that you’d chosen someone else.”
Anne felt dizzy. It wasn’t just his absurd turn of logic, but the way he held her gaze as he spoke, and the way he seemed to know what she wanted to hear. “So you intend to woo me?”
“I do.”
“And what if I still resist?”
“You won’t.”
He did have a male’s typical arrogance. “But if I do?”
For a moment he didn’t speak. “Then I’ll return to Yorkshire.”
“Alone,” she prompted.
“Without you,” he answered, his eyes glittering, as if he knew she wouldn’t like that response.
Heavens, he didn’t think he could make her jealous, did he? She’d known of him all her life, but she’d only known him for a day, after all. He still gazed at her, so she grimaced at him, wrinkling her nose. “Good.”
“Good,” he repeated softly. “And now, would you care to go walking with me this morning?”
“But it’s snowing!”
“Barely. We’re both dressed for it.” The marquis pursed his lips, looking her up and down again. Something akin to humor, but darker and warmer, touched his gray gaze. “Unless you’d care to sit here with me.”
Anne cleared her throat. “I’ll fetch my cloak.”
“I thought you might.”
“It doesn’t mean I’m afraid of you, Lord Halfurst,” she said as she made her escape.
“Maximilian,” he corrected.
“No.”
The marquis turned, keeping her in view. “Why not?”
Oh dear, she should just have given in. She was much more suave and confident with her other male friends. They, however, didn’t question every word she said. They probably only listened to half of them.
“Calling a gentleman by his Christian name implies a certain…familiarity,” she said, scowling as she realized how much she sounded like her mother.
With two quick strides he was between her and the doorway. “I heard you call Sir Royce and Lord Howard by their Christian names,” he said in a low voice, meeting her gaze levelly. “What sort of ‘familiarity’ do you enjoy with them?”
Anne forced a short laugh. “Are you jealous, my lord?”
“Yes. And I become more so with each moment I spend in your company.”
The proclamation stopped the coy, practiced retort she’d been about to make. Men pretended jealousy to garner further favor, and she usually found it tiresome. Men didn’t admit to actual jealousy—not any men with whom she’d been heretofore acquainted. “I’m…I haven’t been attempting to make you jealous,” she offered, the heat in his gaze leaving her equal parts nervous and excited.
“I know that. It’s another reason you intrigue me, Anne.” He brought his hand up, tucking a strand of her hair back into the clip from which it had escaped. “Call me Maximilian.”
A sheep farmer. He’s a sheep farmer, she reminded herself fiercely. One who lived in Yorkshire, of all places. “Very well, Maximilian,” she said. Her determination to remain unmoved didn’t stop the slow swirl of lightning from coiling up her spine.
The light in his gray eyes deepened and darkened. All he said, though, was “Fetch your wrap, Anne.”
He followed her into the foyer, noting that she didn’t even glance at the silver tray holding the calling cards of her beaux. That was one point scored for early risers.
Lady Anne Bishop, he was coming to realize to his growing delight, was far more complex than he’d anticipated. Each moment the plans he’d worked out to win her needed to be modified and adapted as he learned something new about her.
The butler lifted a heavy gray cloak lined with ermine from the coat rack, and Max stepped in to intercept it. “Allow me,” he said, taking it from his surprised fingers.
Approaching her again, he slipped the cloak over her shoulders, breathing deeply of the lavender scent of her hair as he did so. Moving around in front of her, he fastened the silver clasp beneath her chin. Her scent, touching her bare skin, intoxicated him. He’d thought to find a female to bear him an heir, and little else. The thought that he would actually desire her had never crossed his mind.
“Anne!” a voice called from the balcony. “Where do you think you’re going?”
Lady Daven hurried down the stairs, a footman and two maids in tow. As she approached, ranting about her daughter’s intentions much as she had last night when they’d discovered her missing, Maximilian stepped forward.
“Lady Daven, good morning,” he said, sketching a bow.
She skidded to a halt, her fair skin reddening. “My goodness. Lord Halfurst. I…Forgive my intrusion. I hadn’t realized you were here.”
“No apology necessary. I merely thought to get a jump on my competition this morning. I’ve asked Lady Anne to accompany me on a walk.”
“Your compet—” Anne began, frowning.
“I assure you, my lord, you have no competition. Lord Daven and I have always made Anne’s duty perfectly clear to her.”
“Mother, please don’t—”
“Even so,” he answered, “I have lately come to think that winning by default isn’t precisely winning.”
Anne threw open the front door and stalked outside. Stifling a frown of his own, Maximilian nodded to her mother and followed her. Whether her parents had made her duty clear to her or not, convincing her to abide by their wishes was obviously something else entirely.
“Anne,” he said, taking her hand and wrapping it over his arm, “I hadn’t realized you were so anxious to take the morning air.”
She shrugged free, increasing her pace. “If you’re only being nice to ‘win’ some sort of competition for my favor, I can assure you that you have no chance, and you might as well return to Yorkshire right now.”
His earlier good humor began to fade. “Don’t be absurd.”
“Abs—”
“Of course I’m here to win your favor,” he cut in, grabbing her arm again. “I wouldn’t be here otherwise.” He leaned over, brushing her ear with his lips. “But just remember that I was not the one making snow angels. If you’d behaved, you might have avoided meeting me altogether.” That wasn’t quite true; he’d intended to come to London in the spring to bring her to Yorkshire, anyway. He would have been a fool, however, not to take advantage of the leverage her indiscretion gained him.
She looked sideways at him. “So if I hadn’t appeared in Lady Whistledown’s column, you never would have bothered to exert yourself to leave Halfurst? Now who’s being absurd?”
His first instinct was to send her a retort about her own lack of respect for their parents’ agreement. They’d already covered that territory, however, and he intended on moving forward—not revisiting the past. “Perhaps we should just agree that we haven’t regarded our duties to one another as we should.”
“That’s my point,” she insisted. “I don’t have a duty to you.”
“Then why are we walking together in the snow, my dear? You did seem to think it would be a horrific experience.” He brushed a snowflake from her nose. “And yet it becomes you.”
Anne glanced over her shoulder at her maid, but not before he glimpsed her sudden smile. “Humph. I’m most likely on this crusade because I’ve been rendered senseless by weariness and hunger.”
He laughed. And he’d thought he would find her a malleable, if spoiled, chit. “I’ll remember that you prefer to stay in bed late, then,” he murmured, noting the flush of her cheeks. He didn’t think her color was because of the cold, and that pleased him. “For this morning, though, I thought you might enjoy some fresh bread and butter from Hamond’s bakery.”
She evidently was hungry, because she didn’t object when he led her to the bakery and ordered breakfast. “How did you know about this place?” she asked, between dainty mouthfuls of butte
red bread.
“I’m not a stranger to London,” Maximilian answered, resting his chin on his hand to watch her eat.
She looked up at him from beneath her thick, curling lashes. “Then why not visit more often?”
“I don’t like it here.”
“But why not? Friends, soirées, the theater, shops, the wonderful food—what’s not to like?”
She’d left out the most alluring feature of London—herself. Generally at this time of morning he would be out in the far pasture, checking on his livestock. On occasion London did have its merits. For a moment he didn’t want to answer, but he seemed to be developing a curious weakness for honest inquiry and moss green eyes. “Your experience differs somewhat from mine. I…found I was being judged by rumor rather than by my character.”
“Perhaps that’s because we had nothing else to go by.” Her gaze darkened. “That’s why I presume you’re here as much for my purse as for me.”
He smiled. “We were betrothed when I was seven, Anne. My only concerns at the time were horses and tin soldiers. I’m sorry to say, you were neither. Very disappointing, really.”
She scowled, bread halfway to her alluring lips. “Do you mean to say we’ve met before?”
Nodding, Max ran a finger down the back of her hand. “I held you, when you were three months old.”
“You did?”
“Yes. You sneezed on me, and poked me in the eye.”
She laughed, a delightful, musical sound that made his pulse speed. “And you’ve no doubt carried a grudge against me for nineteen years because of that.”
“Hardly.” Max twisted his lips. Finding the words to say had never been difficult before. Before, though, he hadn’t cared about the impression he made. Perhaps that was another reason he hadn’t fared well in London. Directness didn’t seem to impress many people here. But Anne seemed to appreciate it. “At fourteen, it seemed ridiculous to write letters to a seven-year-old. At twenty, you were still a babe of thirteen. And then my father died, and…other concerns took precedence.”
“So you forgot about me.”
He shook his head. “I just…assumed, I suppose, that that aspect of my life was taken care of.” Maximilian met her gaze again. “It was wrong of me to do so. I’m now attempting to make amends for it.”
