by Julia Quinn
She turned. A clinging, slipping female on either arm, Lord Halfurst glided up and back along the ice. Something one of the ladies said made him laugh, the sound ringing merrily across the width of the river. Her heart jolted. He was supposed to be sulking somewhere, or thinking up their next outing. He wasn’t supposed to be enjoying himself at the party to which she’d declined to accompany him.
“I suppose any chit with an income will do for him,” Desmond murmured in her ear. “At this rate he’ll be a married man by St. Valentine’s Day, and you’ll never have to worry about being dragged off to Yorkshire.”
“But he seemed so…”
“Sincere?” the viscount finished. “Yes, he looks it.”
Anne wanted a few moments to think in peace, without Desmond Howard echoing her own worst doubts aloud. As she continued to watch, unable to turn away, Halfurst returned to the snowy bank, released the ladies in his company, and amid much laughter collected two more. From the silly tittering and giggling, all the gathered females were supremely grateful both for his attention and for his clear skill on the ice.
“Come, my dear,” Desmond continued. “You’re upset. It’s quite natural; you had no idea he was courting other females.”
“Wouldn’t you consider,” she forced out, trying to shake free of Desmond’s whisperings, “that he’s merely being nice? This party does lack for male escorts.”
“Ah, dear Anne. Always determined to think the best of everyone, aren’t you?”
“Not real—”
“I have an idea to take your mind off this odiousness. At Queenhithe the commoners have set up food and gaming booths all across the Thames. They’re calling it Freezeland Street or some such thing. It’s just around the bend. Why don’t—”
“Please fetch me a Madeira, Desmond,” she interrupted, unable to listen to another sentence from him without shrieking, whoever’s best intentions he might have in mind.
“Of course. Don’t try to get about on your own. I’ll be right back.”
Maximilian was on his third or fourth pair of ladies, escorting them easily about the ice despite their obvious lack of skill and balance. This whole thing was a mistake, Anne decided; she should never have come, and certainly not with Desmond. Lord Howard’s kiss should have been warning enough, both about his intentions and about her own feelings toward him. Perhaps without meaning to she was playing a game of some sort with Halfurst.
With a scowl and an awkward kick, she skated back in the direction of the pier, and Maximilian. Even when she ultimately refused his suit, she didn’t mean to be spiteful about it. She certainly hadn’t meant to behave like a coquette that morning.
He looked over to see her approaching, and for a brief moment their eyes met. And then he turned his back, he and his charges skating toward the shore.
“Anne, what’s going on?” Pauline asked, sliding to a halt and nearly dumping the two of them onto the ice.
“Nothing’s going on. I just need a moment to think.” A tear ran down her cheek, and Anne brushed it away before anyone could see.
“This is a bad spot for thinking,” her friend returned. “Let me help you to shore before you end up on your backside.”
Just then Lord Halfurst, having relieved himself of his clinging chits, faced her again, arms crossed over his chest. Ha. So he thought to make her come to him, to apologize for daring to attend a party in someone else’s company. And then he would expect her to dance off to Yorkshire and never see her dear friends like Pauline again.
“Go away, Pauline,” she stated, turning her back on him. Let him see how he liked it.
“But Annie—”
“I’m fine. I don’t need your help.”
Pauline was not going to deliver her into the arms of her tormentor, no matter how handsome and kind and warm he seemed to be. She hadn’t been wooed, and she hadn’t been won—not by a few amusing outings and some arousing kisses. Misery lay just beyond them, and she knew it.
With a deep breath she pushed off in the opposite direction, ignoring Pauline’s fading advice to keep her speed down. Sir Royce Pemberly appeared in front of her, his expression startled.
“Lady Anne—”
With a gasp she dodged, trying to avoid slamming into him. Flailing her arms, she went into a spin that she hoped looked daring and not desperate. Her left blade cut into the ice, and abruptly she was skating forward again at high speed.
In a blur a pretty blue wrap flashed in front of her, and she careened into someone. As she passed she heard a thud.
“Oh no, oh no,” she quavered, looking over her shoulder. Susannah Ballister—whom Anne knew quite well from the previous Season—lay sprawled in a snowbank, her gown and wrap askew and her hair across her face. As she watched, still fleeing and unable to stop, Susannah sat up and shook snow from her front.
“Anne!”
She cringed at Maximilian’s bellow, and faced forward again. Her face felt crimson, and she was absolutely not going to stop and be yelled at, much less by him and in front of everyone else. In a moment she’d rounded the bend, out of sight of the Morelands’ idiotic skating party.
Finally she took in a breath, managing to slow down enough to guide herself onto the bank without falling. No one was in sight, but just up ahead she could hear the sounds of the frost fair Desmond had mentioned.
“Thank goodness,” she gasped, wiping tears from her face again. She wanted a place to think, and a fair where no one knew her seemed perfect. Crossing her fingers for luck, she pushed back out onto the ice and skated at a much more cautious pace toward the sounds of music and laughter.
Chapter 5
Lady Anne Bishop proved herself to be quite the worst skater on the ice, with the possible exception of Lord Middlethorpe, who, it must be noted, is nearly four times her age.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 4 FEBRUARY 1814
She’d been skating over to join him. It’d all been going quite well, Maximilian thought. Despite the torture of seeing Howard practically attached to her, he’d felt hope. Whatever the viscount said, she hadn’t liked it, and when she’d started back to the shore, he’d returned as well, to relinquish his charges to the safer bank.
And then all hell had broken loose. Worse than Anne knocking chits into snowbanks, she’d vanished around the curve of the river—alone.
“Damnation,” he muttered, skating through the remainder of the guests and after her. “Anne!”
She’d vanished. His chest tightening, Maximilian scanned the snowbanks on either side of the Thames as he sped along. He rounded another curve, and stopped short.
London was a very odd place. Spanning the river from shore to shore, a small village of wooden shanties had risen on the ice. Hundreds of citizens slid and walked and skated among the makeshift buildings while fiddle music and the shouts of vendors filled the air.
He’d been somewhat relieved to realize that Anne skated terribly. She wasn’t perfect. On the other hand, a young lady alone in a crowd could find herself worse than embarrassed. With another low curse he skated onto the ice street between the rows of booths and carts.
He could scarcely advance a foot without being jostled by someone hawking gingerbread or meat pies. Drunken gamblers slipped and slid on the ice. A growing anxiety clutched at him. Chagrined or angry or whatever Anne had felt to cause her to leave the party, this was a dangerous place for her to be alone. Damn Howard for leaving her side.
“Stop! Thief!”
At the sound of the female voice, Maximilian whipped around. Anne clutched the arm of a large, hard-faced man, her green reticule gripped in one of his hands.
“Anne!”
The man shoved, and she went down onto her backside next to one of the shanties. With a leer the thief began a sliding run up the street.
Maximilian skidded to a halt beside Anne. “Did he hurt you?” he asked, crouching to brush hair from her face. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” she panted, her hands shaking in his as he p
ulled her to her feet. “But my brooch was in my bag. I feel so st—”
“Wait here,” he commanded, thrusting her toward an approaching constable, and was off like a shot.
Some brute had dared push his Anne to the ground. For once he didn’t have to be subtle or civilized or wait for another game piece to advance. As Maximilian caught sight of the fellow flashing through the crowd, he gave a grim smile. No one was allowed to harm his Anne.
Anne watched Maximilian vanish in pursuit of the purse snatcher. “There, there, miss,” the constable said, gripping her arm. “No harm done.”
She wasn’t so certain of that. Her whole body shook, and not from the cold. She’d thought herself completely alone, and then Maximilian had appeared out of nowhere. And he’d vanished again—after what could be a very dangerous man, all because she’d been stupid and mentioned her silly brooch. “Please let me go,” she said shakily.
“The gentleman said you should wait here.”
“Lord Halfurst,” she said distinctly, “might be in danger.”
“Lord…Oh bloody hell,” the constable muttered. “Right. You stay here, miss.”
He skated off, his desire to be of assistance to a nobleman obviously outweighing his concern for a female who was in all probability a mere miss. Anne had no intention of correcting his misapprehension, if it would convince him to go help Maximilian.
Another constable appeared, demanding to know what all the excitement was about. Before someone could point her out to him, Anne pushed off in the direction Maximilian had vanished. He’d come after her when no one else had, and she would not let him be hurt on her account.
Maximilian caught up to the thief just before the shanty street ended. With a growl he launched himself at the man. Vendor carts and beer mugs and brandy balls went flying as they both went down in a flailing heap of fists and feet and skates.
They careened into the corner of one of the booths, bringing the flimsy thing down on top of both of them. Maximilian grunted as a boot slammed across his thigh. Thank God the fool hadn’t been wearing ice skates, or his plans to produce an heir with Anne Bishop might have been extinguished. With a better purchase on the ice because of his own skates, he scrambled to his feet first.
“Bloody—” the thief began, and stopped when Maximilian’s fist met his jaw.
Leaning across him, Maximilian yanked Anne’s reticule from beneath a pile of beer mugs and oysters. “Thank you very much,” he panted, stuffing it into his coat pocket.
“Lord Halfurst! M’lord, are you unhurt?”
Maximilian turned to see the constable skating through the mayhem and wreckage toward him. “Weren’t you supposed to be watching after someone?” he snapped, trying to regain his breath. Damn it all, now Anne was alone again.
“She…she sent me to help you, m’lord,” the constable protested. “I—”
“Maximilian!”
Max spun back around just in time to wrap his arms around Anne as she thudded hard into him. With another curse he landed in the beer and wood splinters and oysters again, Anne crumpled across him.
“Are you all right?” she asked, raising her head from his chest to look down at me.
“I’m a bit winded,” he forced out. Mostly from people and buildings falling on me. “And you?”
“I feel horrid, knocking Susannah down, and then running off like an idiot, and sending you after a thief. Heavens, he might have had a knife!”
“But you’re not hurt,” he repeated, wishing she would stop wriggling on him. It was damned distracting, and they’d gathered quite a few onlookers with all the commotion.
“No, I’m not hurt.”
“Good. Would you mind removing your skate from my knee, then? Slowly, if you please.”
“Oh good heavens,” she gasped, slipping with ungainly and exaggerated care off him and onto the ice. “I’ve hurt you!”
He sat up. “Only a scratch. My trousers have seen the end of their run, though, I’m afraid.”
“I’m so sorry.”
Now she looked ready to cry. “Don’t be,” he said in a quieter voice, smiling. “I’ve had much worse than this.”
The constable had been joined by another, and together they hauled the reeling thief to his feet. “What do you wish done with him, my lord?”
Max pulled Anne’s reticule from his pocket and handed it back to her. “Nothing. No harm done. Just see him away from here.”
“Ah, yes, my lord.”
Muttering to one another about all nobles being madmen, they dragged the thief off, presumably to give him a stern talking to. As long as Anne was all right, Maximilian didn’t much care what happened to the man. Stifling a groan, he climbed once again to his feet, and pulled Anne up after him.
“I suggest we return to the party,” he said, wrapping her gloved hand securely around his arm so she wouldn’t be able to cause any further havoc.
“No, I can’t,” Anne blurted, her face going scarlet. “I behaved like such a hoyden.” She looked up at him. “And besides, you’re hurt, and wet, and you smell like fish and beer.”
“Isn’t that what you’d expect from a sheep farmer?” he returned evenly. “Or perhaps mutton and wet wool would be more in line with your thinking.”
“You’re just angry because I went skating with Lord Howard. And you are a sheep farmer.”
His jaw tightening, Maximilian gave a slight nod. “Yes, I am. Why did you flee the party?”
“Because I wanted to.”
She’d already convinced him that she wasn’t the spoiled, flighty chit he’d expected at first sight of her. “With no thought to the danger you might be putting yourself in? Some of this ice is too thin to hold a rat. Not to mention your barging into the middle of a street fair. You’re lucky our friend only wanted your reticule.”
“I was managing quite well without you.”
That was enough of that. He let her go. With a squeak Anne lost her balance. Before she could fall, Max slipped his hands beneath her arms and pulled her upright against him.
“Care to revise that statement?” he suggested to the back of her head. At her continued silence, he relented a little, pushing off in the direction of Queenhithe Dock. “All right. Then tell me why you decided to attend with Lord Howard.”
“He asked me.”
“You knew I would ask you.”
“He asked first.”
“I asked you to marry me first.”
She looked up over her shoulder at him, and he was surprised to see tears in her green eyes. “You never asked me. No one ever asked me.”
Anne expected him to say something cynical, like reminding her that no one had asked him, either, but he didn’t. In fact, as she thought about it, he’d never said anything to bemoan his own part in this.
They reached the dock at Queenhithe, and with no visible effort Lord Halfurst lifted her onto the edge of the pier. While Anne watched, fascinated, he untied her skates from her half boots. His hands brushing the hem of her skirt and gripping her ankles left her feeling oddly…hot inside, despite the cold against her skin. She would never have thought a sheep farmer would know how to skate so well, and yet he obviously did.
He seemed to know how to do quite a few things well—things that made him fit into London better than she ever would have suspected. And yet in some ways, he didn’t fit in at all. “I should have told Desmond no,” she said slowly.
Max looked up at her as he tied her skates together and slung them over his shoulder. “Why?”
He wanted a truthful answer; she could see that in his warm gray eyes. “Because I knew you would ask me.”
With a hop he sat beside her and leaned down to remove his own skates from his fine Hessian boots. “He doesn’t own your heart, does he, Anne?”
She studied his profile. “No one owns my heart.”
He straightened. “I’ve already accepted that challenge.”
“I’m not sure why. I’ve told you a hundred times that I won’t
marry you.”
“Ah.” A slight smile touched his sensuous mouth, and then he leaned down again, his too-long black hair half obscuring his lean face. “Do you like to argue, or just with me?”
“I think it’s my turn to ask you a question,” she countered, abruptly wondering whether he had any lovers waiting for him back in Yorkshire. Sheep farmers were no doubt very popular there, and he was by far the most handsome farmer she’d ever set eyes on.
“Then ask.”
“Do you need to be in Yorkshire all year long? Or is it just that you like to be there all the time?”
His skates off, he slung them over his other shoulder and stood. “I’m a landlord, the local magistrate, the farmer’s almanac, and whatever else Halfurst needs. It’s a responsibility, not a choice.” Bending down, he helped her to her feet.
For a moment, Anne hoped he would take her arm around his again, as he had when they’d been on skates. Instead, though, he helped her stuff her hands into her warm ermine muff. “Am I a responsibility, Maximilian, or a choice?”
“What you are, Anne, is a conundrum. Shall I hire us a hack, or do you want to walk?”
“Walk? It’s miles!”
“A hack it is.”
He guided her back to the street. She liked that he’d called her a conundrum; it sounded so much more interesting than simply saying she was contrary or flighty. In truth, mostly what she felt lately was confusion—interrupted by moments of unexpected lust toward the man she’d sworn she would never marry. And even covered with beer and oysters, he enticed her.
“You must be freezing,” she said abruptly, freeing one hand from her muff to take his arm as a hack stopped before them.
He handed her up, giving directions to Bishop House before he joined her inside and pulled the door closed. Even in the closed carriage she could see her breath. For heaven’s sake, if Halfurst froze to death she wouldn’t be able to argue with him any longer, and he wouldn’t kiss her good morning.
“How wet are you?” she demanded, pulling him around to face her, and unfastening the top buttons of his greatcoat.
Maximilian lifted an eyebrow. “Beg pardon?”
