by Julia Quinn
He kissed her again, and he felt her give in—for a moment. “No!” she said again, shoving harder.
She couldn’t have moved him if she wanted to, but he released her anyway. Persuasion only, he reminded himself, trying not to let his discomfort show on his face. Forcing her would win him nothing. “If you would agree to marry me, I would make you feel like this every day.”
“That is not fair!” she shouted, as if volume equaled conviction. If her gaze hadn’t trailed below his waist and back again, her parted lips still beckoning him, he might have believed her.
“Why isn’t it fair? It’s the truth. This is marriage, Anne. Being with me, skin-to-skin. I know you enjoyed it. I felt you, remember?”
“Fine. Remind me of my weakness,” she retorted, a tear running down her cheek. “You’re no better than Lord Howard.”
The single tear bothered him, and suddenly it seemed more important to make her stop crying than to wear her down into a marriage agreement. “It wasn’t weakness, Anne,” he murmured, brushing the moisture from her cheek with his thumb. “It was desire. There is nothing wrong with desire. Not between us.”
That earned him a glare, which he could only consider an improvement over her weeping. With a discontented sigh he seated himself again. If he made her flee, he might as well have stayed at home. He knew precisely what her objection to him was; what he needed to do was figure out how to convince her of the merits of Yorkshire. In the dead of winter, that wasn’t such an easy task.
“Anne,” he said, “sit down.”
“Only if you’ll tell me why you’re here.”
“I’m here to see you. Isn’t that simple enough?”
“You’re here to try to seduce me into marrying you,” she said, her tone accusing. Even so, she sat—in the chair at the far end of the room.
Maximilian chuckled. “I’ve already seduced you, and we’re still not married. I don’t intend to apologize for continuing to find you desirable.”
“If you know that seduction won’t work, how do you intend to convince me of anything?”
For a moment, she almost sounded as if she wanted to be convinced. His heart leaped. “Have you ever heard of Farndale?”
She scowled. “Farndale? No.”
“It’s about three miles west of Halfurst. A small valley in the foothills of the Pennine Mountains. In the early spring the entire floor of the dale is carpeted with wild daffodils.”
“It’s lovely, I would imagine.”
“You don’t have to imagine it. I would show it to you.” He gazed at her stony expression. “Anne, you’ve never been to Yorkshire. How do you know you would hate it so much?”
“Why do you hate London so much?”
“I…it was a difference of opinion, I suppose.”
“You mean everyone treated you badly when they found out you had no money.”
He narrowed his eyes, unable to stop the abrupt anger that drowned his damned lust for this outspoken beauty. “Lord Howard, I suppose?”
“Yes, he told me everything, but only because I asked him to. Don’t blame him.”
“I doubt he told you everything, Anne.” Damn Howard. He hated this, the gossip and innuendo and one-upmanship. For Anne, though, he would tell the truth. All of it. “Why don’t you ask me?”
She folded her hands in her lap. “Why should I? It doesn’t matter, because in the end you’ll still want to drag me off to Yorkshire. Daffodils or not, I will not spend the rest of my life in exile.”
He cursed. “Would you spend it with Desmond Howard, then? Why don’t you ask him about his finances? How long do you think he’d be able to keep you in your precious London after he finished going through your dowry?”
“You lie.”
Maximilian lurched to his feet. “I do not lie,” he snarled, striding over to her. Clamping his hands on either arm of the chair, he leaned down, forcing her to look him in the eye. “Ask him, Anne. And if you want to know anything—anything—about me, all you need do is ask.”
Straightening, he stalked to the door and yanked it open. He hadn’t meant to leave without securing her hand in marriage. He hadn’t meant to leave without making love to her again. He hadn’t meant to start bellowing about other people. He didn’t do that. It wasn’t right, and he knew firsthand how much it hurt.
“Are you bankrupt?” her shaking voice came. “Are you here for my money?”
Maximilian stopped. “No. I’m not. To both questions. I won’t let it be that easy for you, Anne. And I’m not finished with you, yet.” Taking a deep breath, he faced her. “I think I know you. I believe you to be honest, and honorable. And I am betting that you won’t be able to leave it at this, without finding out everything. You know where I’ll be.”
“So you’re going back to Trent House to sulk? I don’t—”
“What I meant was, I intend to call on you every day between now and February fourteenth. And then I’ll be at the Shelbourne St. Valentine’s Day Ball. On the fifteenth, though, I will be leaving London.”
“Then you’ll be leaving alone.”
“We’ll see. As I said, I think I know you, Anne.” He lowered his voice to be certain none of the lurking servants would be able to hear. “And I know that you crave being with me again. Think about that.”
Chapter 7
Ah, Valentine’s Day. This Author personally detests the holiday. A girl must take the measure of her worth by the number of cards and bouquets she receives, and a young man is forced to spew poetry as if anyone actually spoke in rhyme.
It’s a wonder the holiday hasn’t been banned from the capital. Or the nation, for that matter.
But This Author supposes that there are those with more sentimental hearts, because Lady Shelbourne’s first (annual? This Author prays not) Valentine’s Day ball is sure to be a massive crush, if the number of affirmative replies is any indication.
And since this is Valentine’s Day, This Author would be remiss if the question were not posed—Will any young couples make a match of it? Surely Lady Shelbourne cannot consider her party a success if the words “Will you marry me?” are not uttered even once.
Or perhaps that will not be enough. After all, what is a proposal without the proper reply of “I will?”
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 14 FEBRUARY 1814
Anne slammed the Atlas of Britain closed as her father entered the library. “Good morning, Papa,” she said, trying to sound casual, and dismayed at the distinct squeak in her voice.
The earl lifted an eyebrow. “Good morning. What are you doing in here?”
“Reading.” She forced a careless laugh. “What else would I be doing in the library?”
“Daughter, has anyone ever told you that you’re an abysmal liar?”
One man had—not that that had endeared him to her. “Don’t you have a meeting today?”
He crossed the room, sinking onto the couch beside her. “An atlas,” her father said, tilting his head to view the book’s cover. “Of Britain. Are you interested in any particular area?”
Anne grimaced. “You know what I was looking at. I was merely a little curious, for heaven’s sake.”
Maximilian had been telling her about western Yorkshire for a week, just little bits, obviously for the sake of whetting her interest. He also hadn’t kissed her in a week. Given that strategy, she remained uncertain whether the craving that resulted was for him or for his blasted shire. Lord Halfurst could be very devious for an honest, forthright, virile male. An exceedingly virile male.
“There’s nothing wrong with a little curiosity,” her father commented, thankfully unable to read her thoughts. He paused. “Halfurst tells me he’s leaving tomorrow.”
Her pulse skittered. “Yes, he’d mentioned that.”
“I suppose you’ll be happy to see him gone?”
“What do you want me to say, Papa?” she asked, briskly, standing to replace the atlas on its shelf. “I…like him, but he still lives in Yorkshire.”
“Belie
ve it or not, Annie, I am trying to stay out of this. I could force you to marry him, but I have no wish to see you miserable.”
“Then why did you make this silly agreement in the first place?” she burst out, surprised to find that she felt more exasperated than angry.
The earl shrugged. “Robert Trent was my dearest friend. When he had a son and then I had a daughter, it seemed the natural thing to do. And I did—and do—like young Maximilian.”
His voice warmed as he spoke, the humor his political career often didn’t allow touching his eyes. Anne felt wretched, squirming in her seat. The earl so obviously wanted this match, and she so badly wanted to be in Maximilian’s arms again that she could barely think straight. “He’s so stubborn,” she said into the air.
“And so are you, my dear.” He stood. “If you don’t wish this match, then let him go. I’m sure your mother will be happy to find someone more to your taste.”
She scowled. “More to her taste, you mean.”
“Yes, well, with an estate closer to London, anyway. That seems to satisfy your requirements.”
“Papa.”
“Happy St. Valentine’s Day,” he said with a small smile, and left the room.
As soon as he was gone, Anne took down the atlas again. Thanks to Maximilian’s vivid depiction, she knew precisely where Halfurst lay. From the way he described it, full of daffodils and green rolling hills and picturesque streams and waterfalls, he considered it another Eden. Even the grazing herds of sheep took on a pastoral beauty, nestled as they were among the hills and Roman and Viking ruins.
Part of her wanted to see it for herself, to have Maximilian show her the places he so obviously loved. The other part of her was terrified that if she loosened her grip on London, she would never see it again.
And the worst part of all was that she couldn’t see any way around it. Yorkshire or London, Maximilian or…someone who wasn’t him. “Maximilian,” she murmured, her heart beating faster at the mere sound of his name. Butterflies came to life low in her belly.
Someone scratched at the library door. Anne yelped and shoved the book back into place.
“Yes?”
Lambert entered the room, a large bouquet of yellow daffodils in his hands. “These just arrived for you, Lady Anne. Shall I put them in the morning room with the rest?”
Daffodils. “Thank you, no. Leave them on the table, please.” She spied the letter nestled among the blossoms, and clasped her hands to keep from springing forward and snatching it up.
“Very good, my lady.” The butler set down the flowers, and left.
Since her debut, St. Valentine’s Day had meant flowers; last year her mother had counted thirty-seven separate bouquets, most of them accompanied by candies and poems, and in one memorable case, a haunch of venison. Francis Henning had evidently thought her too skinny. The scent of roses filled every room of Bishop House today, as well. No one, though, had ever sent her daffodils.
Her hands abruptly clammy, Anne rubbed them on her skirt before she lifted the folded missive from the bright yellow blooms. She opened the heavy paper, and a smaller, weightier card fell to the floor.
On the back, in a dark, even hand it said, “As I remember it.” When she picked the thing up, on the front was a six-inch-square colored sketch of a green pasture bordered by oak trees and boulders, and carpeted from one end to the other with yellow flowers. In the corner the initials “MRT” held her gaze for as long as the lovely rendering. “An artist as well,” she said, running a finger carefully across the surface.
She took a seat and placed the sketch on the table. Then she turned her attention to the letter. All the other notes and cards she had or would receive today featured hearts and cherubs and declarations of heartfelt admiration.
This one, of course, was different. “‘Anne,’” she read to herself, “‘Nineteen daffodils for the nineteen years we’ve been promised to one another. I would wish one day to show you where they grow wild.’”
“A scholar, an artist, and a romantic,” she whispered, her fingers shaking. “I would never have guessed.”
With a hard blink, she went on. “‘I am thinking of you, as I hope you are thinking of me, with desire and anticipation. I shall see you tonight. Maximilian.’”
Tonight. The Shelbourne St. Valentine’s Day ball. If she had any sense of courage or conviction, Anne decided, she would decline to attend. Then he would be gone, and she would probably never see him again.
With a sigh she stood to go examine her wardrobe. She already knew she would wear yellow.
Maximilian stood beside Lady Shelbourne’s dessert table, doing his damnedest not to pace. She’d been invited, he knew, because he’d asked her father. She would come tonight, because he needed her to.
“Damnation,” he muttered.
Others seemed to be waiting for her there as well, which only served to further blacken his mood. Lord Howard, of course, circled the room like a vulture, sampling the various available feminine sweets while he waited for the main dish. Sir Royce Pemberley was also there, though his attention seemed to be on a unique female in an equally unique pink gown that appeared in perfect harmony with the swathes of pink, red, and white silk that hung from the ballroom ceiling.
Well, turnabout was fair play. With another glance at his competition, he strolled toward Margaret, Lady Shelbourne and the pink chit chatting with her.
“Might I have the pleasure of an introduction?” he asked, stopping before the ladies.
“Of course, my lord,” Lady Shelbourne answered, swift dismay touching her face and then vanishing again. “Liza, Lord Halfurst. My lord—”
The pink chit grinned and stuck out her hand. “Miss Elizabeth Pritchard. Liza. Pleased to meet you.”
He shook her hand. “A pleasure to meet you.” Her light brown hair seemed to be coming out from its elaborate coif, the ends sticking out at odd angles, but she had an intelligence in her eyes that Maximilian couldn’t help but notice. And for once a matron seemed reluctant to see him near a single female, which in itself made Miss Liza Pritchard the most interesting part of his evening thus far.
“Might I have this waltz, Miss Liza?” he drawled. “If it’s not already spoken for, of course.”
Unless he was mistaken, she sent a glance in Pemberley’s direction. Good. “I’m afraid I’m all yours, my lord.”
She was taller by several inches than Anne, and as they swirled onto the dance floor, he noted that her shoes were red. And then one of them trod on his left foot.
“I’m so sorry,” she gulped, flushing.
“No need to apologize,” he returned, smiling and hoping his eyes wouldn’t water. She didn’t appear that sturdy, but—
Miss Liza stepped on him again. “Oh no!”
“No worries, Miss Liza,” he grunted. Good God, unique as she was in appearance, she danced with the grace of an elephant.
“I should have warned you,” she mumbled, “dancing is not my forte. Perhaps if we counted the steps aloud?”
His left foot was going numb, but he couldn’t help being amused. “The danger makes the adventure more worthwhile,” he returned.
To his surprise, she laughed, and then, less amusing for him but to the obvious enjoyment of the nearest couples, she began counting. “One, two, three. One, two, three—oh drat.”
He managed to avoid stumbling over her as she tripped on her own gown, then caught Sir Royce Pemberley staring at the two of them. A moment later he came forward, blocking their path.
“Might I cut in?” he asked tightly.
Maximilian met his gaze. He’d thought to find anger, or the snide disdain he was used to from Londoners, but instead he found himself nodding and stepping back, allowing Sir Royce to take his place. They said nothing else, but as Miss Elizabeth took Sir Royce’s hand and met her partner’s gaze, Maximilian abruptly realized that Anne had told the truth about the snow angels incident being nothing more than a moment of amusement. Royce Pemberley was not at the
Shelbourne ball for Lady Anne Bishop. He’d already found his love.
Limping slightly, Max returned to the dessert table. The more circling Lord Howard did, the more nasty looks turned in Max’s direction. He wondered whether Desmond Howard had ever bothered to tell Anne about the young maid he’d ruined when they’d both been at Oxford, and how much the viscount had resented Maximilian’s intervention in seeing the girl safely to a position with his mother.
The air stirred. Without turning, he knew that she’d entered the room. Anne. His Anne. Straightforward as he’d been in stating he would leave with or without her, he wasn’t quite certain he could manage to go a day, much less a lifetime, without her by his side.
He managed to intercept her before Howard. “You wore yellow,” he murmured, taking her hand and brushing his lips across her knuckles.
Green eyes glowed in the chandelier light, and not just from the excitement of the dance, he thought. Could she be as drawn to him as he was to her? Dear God, he hoped so.
“Something put me in mind of daffodils, today,” she returned, the soft timbre of her voice not quite steady.
“You outshine them all. Will you dance with me?”
“Maximilian—”
“Just dance with me,” he insisted, drawing her toward the dance floor. Any protest that began with his name couldn’t be good, and if he didn’t take her into his arms at once, he had the distinct feeling he would expire.
She must have felt the same, because with an exhaled breath she relaxed and nodded. “One dance, and then we need to talk.”
“Two dances,” he countered. “After all, this piece is already begun.”
“I can’t dance twice in a row with you.”
“Who’ll notice? Besides, we’re betrothed.”
This was perfection. Holding her as close as she and etiquette would allow, he didn’t even mind the additional maneuvering required to avoid crashing into Miss Elizabeth and Sir Royce. Unlike her ice skating, Anne’s dancing was incomparable. With her swaying in his arms, he could forget he was in London, forget that a hundred other guests milled and chatted and gossiped around them, forget that Lord Howard waited in the wings for him to return to Yorkshire.
