The Further Observations of Lady Whistledown

by Julia Quinn

  “You’re soaked all the way through,” she said, stuffing her hand inside his coat, against his jacket. “Why didn’t you say something earlier?” When she shoved the dark material of his jacket aside, even the fine lawn shirt covering his chest was cold and wet to the touch.

  “Anne, I suggest you remove yourself to the opposite seat immediately,” he said in a low voice.

  “But—”

  “Now.”

  She looked up. Maximilian’s gaze was fixed on her hands, both of which had found their way inside both his greatcoat and his jacket. Jaw clenched, he gripped the door handle in one fist, and the back of the worn seat in the other.

  Blushing scarlet, she yanked her hands back to her lap. “I…I was only worried that you might catch a chill,” she managed. Good heavens, not even courtesans simply stuck their hands down men’s fronts.

  “I am quite warm, thank you,” he grunted, his gaze still on her hands and his breathing harsh.

  “Are you—”

  “Anne?”

  “Yes?”

  “Shut up.”

  “Oh.”

  He muttered something she couldn’t interpret, but it seemed unwise to ask him to repeat himself. Instead she watched as he closed his eyes tightly, his jaw clenched so hard she could practically hear his teeth grinding.

  “Are you all right?” she whispered.

  Maximilian shot to his feet, opening the flimsy door in the same motion. “I’m walking.”

  Anne grabbed his arm. “You can’t!”

  He swung his head around to face her again. “You’re asking me to remain?”

  “You’re being ridiculous,” she answered in her most matter-of-fact tone. She was being ridiculous, too, to insist that he remain with her, unchaperoned, in a closed carriage. “You will catch your death of cold if you go back outside.” Releasing his arm, she moved to the opposite seat and folded her hands over her lap. “I promise not to assault your virtue.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “It’s not my virtue I’m worried about.”

  “Just sit down.”

  With another deep breath he did so. “You do realize that if I did catch my death, you would never have to worry about being dragged off to Yorkshire.”

  At least he seemed able to converse again. “I won’t be dragged anywhere, regardless.”

  “I’m beginning to realize that.”

  Did that mean he was giving up? The look in his eyes remained distinctly lustful, however, so she didn’t think so. And whatever base thoughts he might be having, by the time the hack stopped, Halfurst was shivering, and making a valiant effort to pretend that he was not.

  Maximilian stepped to the ground to hand her down. “In order to keep my virtue intact,” he chattered, casting a glance up at the driver, “I’ll forgo a goodbye kiss, just for today.”

  He was going to climb back into the hack and leave. And his home on High Street was another twenty minutes away. With a deep scowl Anne grabbed his arm again. “No, you don’t.”

  “I’m beginning to think you like me,” he murmured.

  Not quite certain whether her concern was over his health or the proximity of his lips to hers, she decided to pretend it was the former. “That is not what I mean,” she said flatly, tugging him in the direction of the front door. She could as easily have moved a mountain, but he went with her, anyway. “My father will have dry clothes you can wear. I won’t have you dying and everyone blaming me.”

  “Fine.” His shivering wasn’t so bad that he couldn’t dig a sovereign out of his coat pocket and pitch it to the hack driver, but neither was he faking a chill.

  Lambert didn’t appear at the door as they reached it, and Anne belatedly remembered that it was Thursday, the staff’s weekly afternoon off. “Drat,” she muttered, fishing in her reticule for a key and doubly grateful that Halfurst had recovered the bag for her.

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing. No one’s home.”

  “Ah.”

  A low shiver went down her spine, one that had nothing to do with the cold. She’d never spent this much time alone with a man, and to have this large, muscular one in the house was foolhardy, to say the least. The hack was gone, though, and as she’d said, she couldn’t allow him to walk home through the snow. “Whatever the circumstances,” she said, as much for her own benefit as for his, “you are cold and wet, and you became that way because of me.”

  “I’m not protesting,” he said in his low drawl, following her into the foyer. “I just want to be certain that one of us isn’t delirious.”

  That would explain her actions, anyway. “My father’s rooms are this way,” she said, heading for the stairs.

  His hand slipped down her arm to grip her fingers. “No one’s home?” he asked, pulling her back toward him. “You’re certain?”

  Slowly he drew her closer. Leaning up on her toes, she met his mouth in a hot, hard kiss. Compared to this, his kisses of greeting had been chaste. Anne wound her hands into his lapels, and reality in the form of cold, wet beer crashed down on her.

  “Ew.”

  Maximilian looked down at her, his expression amused and his eyes warm. “I usually don’t get that reaction.”

  “You still need to change clothes. I don’t know how you can stand being so cold and wet.”

  “I barely noticed.”

  He would have caught her in his arms again, but she dodged backward. “The spare bedchamber’s right there. I’ll fetch something for you to wear.”

  For a moment she was concerned that the fireplace in the spare room wouldn’t be lit. Her sheep farmer, however, knew how to amend that.

  Anne paused in her rummaging for a clean shirt. Her sheep farmer? Where had that come from?

  “Well, someone has to watch over him here in London,” she muttered, not believing it even as she said it. Maximilian Trent, despite—or perhaps because of—his preference for Yorkshire, was quite probably the most capable man she’d ever met.

  She grabbed a shirt, trousers, a waistcoat, jacket, and cravat, none of them her father’s best. This was, after all, an emergency. She hoped Maximilian wouldn’t require anything further.

  “Here you go,” she said in a loud voice, pushing open the half-closed door. She didn’t expect to find him naked, of course, but one never knew.

  To her vast disappointment he was still fully clothed, even still wrapped in his caped greatcoat, as he squatted before the fireplace with outstretched hands.

  “Get out of that coat, for heaven’s sake!” she ordered, dumping the clothes on a chair.

  He straightened again, grasping the mantel to pull himself up. “I tried,” he said, his expression almost sheepish. “My hands were shaking too much.”

  It seemed an obvious ploy, but as he rubbed his hands together his whole body gave a shudder. “You truly are cold, aren’t you?”

  “I’m bloody freezing,” he answered, shivering again. “I didn’t realize it until I nearly burned myself with the tinder and didn’t even notice.” He gazed at her for several seconds, then cleared his throat. “I did get the fire started. Give me a few moments, and I’ll be fine.”

  “I’ll help,” she decided, coming forward. He needed assistance, and besides, she really wanted to touch him. Not just his jacket or his shirt, but the smooth skin beneath.

  “That’s not necess—”

  “Stand still,” she ordered, spreading his arms and stepping between them to finish the job she’d begun of unfastening his coat.

  Her hands were none too steady, either, as she stood well within the reach of his embrace. Still, she managed to get his coat open and push it down his shoulders.

  His jacket followed. Anne could feel his gaze on her face, but she didn’t dare look up at him. If she did, she wouldn’t be able to pretend any longer that this was strictly for his own good.

  As she started on the tight buttons of his waistcoat, one of his hands came around, and with a flick of his fingers, her heavy cloak pooled to the flo
or. She froze.

  “I thought you might be warm,” he murmured.

  Though it occurred to her to point out that the dexterity of his fingers seemed to have returned, she didn’t say anything of the sort. She opened his waistcoat, and from there it seemed necessary for her to run her hands along his cold, damp shirt. Hard muscles jumped beneath her fingers, and low heat traveled up the backs of her legs.

  Anne leaned up against him, pushing the waistcoat down his arms and to the floor. Beer and oysters had never smelled so arousing. With her body pressed against his, she became aware of the hardness pushing at her through his trousers. She glanced down. “Oh my.”

  Finally she lifted her face to meet his gaze. With an exhalation of breath, as though the statue he’d become had awakened, he lowered his mouth to hers in a hot, openmouthed kiss. “Anne,” he said, folding his arms around her waist, pulling her harder against him.

  She closed her eyes, letting the feel of him soak into her. She kissed him back, the caress of his mouth leading her on. To where, she didn’t know, but she desperately wanted to be there—with him.

  The fastenings at the back of her gown loosened beneath his fingers. Heat burned through her, quelling the tiny voice of logic that remained and told her to run as fast as her legs could carry her.

  Her legs wouldn’t have gotten her very far, anyway, for she was beginning to feel very unsteady on them. The taste of him left her hot and oddly light.

  Maximilian tore off his cravat one-handed, a low growl sounding in his chest. He yanked her against him, and abruptly they were on the carpeted floor, amid the growing piles of their clothes.

  His hands caressed her everywhere, stealing her breath and leaving her moaning for more. He pulled his shirt off over his head and then slid the length of his lean, muscular body down her legs. Mouth and lips caressing every inch of her skin he exposed, slowly he drew her shift up.

  Anne lifted her hips to help him, and his hand slid between her thighs. “Maximilian,” she groaned, the pleading in her voice surprising her. This was close to what she wanted, what she needed, and any more of this tantalizing delay was going to drive her mad.

  The shift passed her waist and then her breasts, and his warm lips followed. His tongue teased at her nipples, one and then the other and back again. And she couldn’t even speak. Instead, she twined her shaking fingers into his dark hair and pulled him closer against her.

  Still teasing and suckling her breasts, Maximilian twisted sideways, yanking off his boots and tossing them aside. His trousers followed.

  As he moved up her body again to capture her mouth in a hot, plundering kiss, Anne was keenly aware of the heat and the hard shaft pressing against her thigh. A keen thrill of excited terror ran through her. Stopping him now, though, was out of the question. If Maximilian didn’t finish what he’d begun, she was going to die. She felt it, the craving need to be part of him, stronger than any desire she’d ever felt in her life.

  Sliding his hand down her breast, past her stomach to her thigh, Maximilian tugged her legs apart. He fit himself to her body, skin to skin, hip to hip.

  “Anne,” he whispered, lifting his head to look her in the eye. And then his hips shifted again and slowly pushed closer, and he entered her with a slow, deepening joining she could never have imagined.

  A sudden pain made her gasp. Maximilian stopped instantly, balancing his weight on one elbow and teasing at her left nipple with his free hand.

  “Relax,” he said huskily, kissing her throat and the base of her ear. “It will pass. The pain only means that I’m your first. It won’t happen again. Just feel me, Anne.”

  “It’s better,” she managed. Never had she been so aware of her body; never had she felt such anticipation and…satisfaction all in the same moment. “Don’t stop.”

  He met her eyes again, nodding. “I don’t think I could stop if I wanted to.” With a slow, deepening thrust, he buried himself inside her.

  Anne clutched at his shoulders as he began a deep, rhythmic plundering. Her breathing, the beating of her heart, seemed to match his thrusts. This was what she wanted. Nothing could be better, or feel better, than this. Ever.

  Then his pace began to increase, and a deep tension swept through her. There couldn’t be more. This was too much, already.

  “Maximilian?” she gasped.

  “The best is yet to come,” he returned breathlessly, obviously sensing her question.

  “How?”

  “Just be, Anne. Don’t think.”

  As if her mind could function, anyway, with his lean body pressing hers to the carpet and his arms cradling her, and his inexorable thrusting in and out between her legs. “Oh God,” she whimpered, clinging to him.

  She shattered, breaking into a thousand pieces of breathless pleasure. A moment later he shuddered inside her, and she knew that he joined her in this indescribable heaven.

  They lay in a heavy breathing tangle of arms and legs for a moment. Just as he began to feel heavy on her, Maximilian slipped his hand beneath her and rolled them over, so she lay atop him.

  “How do you feel?” he murmured, brushing her long, brunette hair out of his face. He’d been as gentle as he could, but considering how badly he’d wanted her, he wasn’t sure he’d been gentle enough.

  “Disheveled,” she answered, running a hand along his chest. “And very…”

  “Relaxed?” he suggested, allowing himself a small smile.

  “Yes. Very.”

  “I seem to be warm now myself.” He sighed. Once they were at Halfurst, he would see that he made love to her before the fireplace as often as possible. The scent of beer and oysters came to him again as he inhaled, and Maximilian frowned. Even Anne smelled of their misadventure now, and it certainly wouldn’t be very seemly for them to be discovered naked together and smelling of a low-class inn.

  “You smell like beer,” she said, her cheek resting on his chest. Her warm hands slid around his waist.

  “And so do you, now,” he returned. “I don’t suppose there’s a washbasin in here? We should probably at least smell sober when we see your father.”

  She sat up, her crumpled shift sliding down her breasts to her waist. “What?”

  “I’ll already be wearing his clothes,” Maximilian said, sitting up as well, and tugging her against his chest. Even now he craved her again. “We should at least not reek of beer and oysters when we meet to arrange terms.” Though any terms would do; he wanted Anne, and anything else was superfluous.

  Now she was scowling. “What terms?”

  “For our marriage.”

  Anne shoved at him, stumbling to her feet. “You tricked me.”

  “I did not trick you,” he said flatly. “You wanted this as much as I did.”

  “Yes, this,” she said, gesturing between them, her gaze pausing for a moment below his waist. “But that doesn’t mean I’ve…agreed to anything.”

  He stood as well, frustrated anger and lust burrowing through him. “You are mine,” he said flatly. “You may even be carrying my child. Aside from that, I already told you that this isn’t a game, Anne. I came to London for you. And now—”

  A door downstairs opened and slammed shut. “Lady Anne? Oh dear! Are you here, my lady?”

  Anne blanched. “It’s Daisy.” She whirled to the chair and grabbed her father’s spare clothes. “Get dressed,” she snapped, throwing them at his chest.

  “No.”

  For a heartbeat she hesitated. “Fine. Stay here naked,” she returned, snatching up her own clothes. “I’ll be elsewhere.”

  Maximilian strode to intercept her at the door, but she slipped out before he reached it. Damn her. He hadn’t planned a seduction for today, and he’d dealt poorly with his desire to make her his. Idiot.

  With a curse he dropped the clothes back on the chair and grabbed the trousers. Certainly he could use this to make her his wife, and no one in London would blame him for it—except for Anne. And above all else, he wanted what they’d
had together today—desire, and even friendship. To drag her off to Yorkshire now would earn him nothing but her disappointment and their mutual misery.

  He fastened the trousers. They were too damned short. Thank God for his boots, or he would end up looking like the sheep farmer she’d ridiculed. And obviously the less he resembled that, the better his chances.

  Chapter 6

  All London is abuzz with news of Lady Shelbourne’s Valentine’s Day ball. Invitations, This Author is told, are due to arrive today.

  This Author is not certain, however, whether guests will be required to wear the Valentine-ish colors of red, pink, and white.

  Red, pink, and white. This Author shudders to think.

  LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 7 FEBRUARY 1814

  The best chance he’d yet discovered arrived four days later via the mail. A St. Valentine’s Day ball, hosted by Margaret, Lady Shelbourne.

  Maximilian turned the invitation over in his hands. If he’d received one, then Anne surely would have, as well. And considering her latest tactics, the ball might be his last chance to win her.

  He’d called on her yesterday and the day before, and on both occasions she’d been out with Lord Howard. He could assume they hadn’t gone ice skating again, but that hardly left him with enough information to hunt them down.

  She’d enjoyed their lovemaking; he could sense that, in the language of her body beneath his and in the beat of her heart. He had been her first, and even more than before, he wanted to make damned certain he was her only.

  Whatever she might say, they belonged together, and not simply because it said so on some old piece of paper. The idea that she was seeing Howard to avoid him annoyed Maximilian; the thought that she might accept a proposal from the damned viscount to avoid being dragged out of London infuriated him.

  “So you have no idea where she’s gone,” he asked the Bishops’ butler.

  “None, my lord. I only know that Lady Anne said she would return in time for dinner.”

  The butler was probably lying, but that was part of the man’s job. Well, the main target had vanished, but there were still other pieces he could fit into the puzzle. “Would Lord or Lady Daven be in, then?”