by Julia Quinn
“Are you truly leaving tomorrow?” Anne asked, long lashes hiding her eyes from him.
“I can’t stay forever,” he returned, hoping that was regret he heard in her voice.
“Why not?” She looked up, meeting his gaze. “Why can’t you just stay here in London?”
For a heartbeat he was tempted. “Halfurst is my home and my responsibility. I can’t just abandon it, even for you.”
“So you would have everything your way. That’s not fair, Maximilian.”
It wasn’t fair, and he took a moment to consider before he responded. “I hoped you would have more desire for me than for London, Anne. It’s only buildings and some rather unpleasant people.”
“They aren’t unpleasant to me. If you had stayed, instead of running off, you would have seen that.”
She’d been talking to Howard again. “I did not ‘run off.’ Halfurst needed—”
“You let everyone say whatever they wanted about you, and you didn’t do anything about it.”
“What they said didn’t matter.”
“Ha!”
Max lifted an eyebrow. “‘Ha’?” he repeated.
“Yes, ha. All of their silly gossiping did matter, and it still does. That’s why you dislike London.”
“I—”
“And it’s your own fault,” she continued.
In her enthusiasm for the argument, she didn’t even notice that he pulled her closer in his arms. Six inches of space between them be damned. Anne Bishop intoxicated him as no woman ever had, or ever would again. “And how is it my fault, pray tell?”
“All you had to do was say something, you big oaf. Bankrupt or not, you might have defended your father’s reputation—and your own, Maximilian.”
“Did you just call me an oaf?”
She cuffed him on the shoulder. “Pay attention. This is important.”
It seemed more important that she was fighting to keep him in London, but he didn’t want to mention that yet. “If I were paying any more attention to you, you’d be naked,” he murmured.
“Stop that. And don’t just pay attention—do something!”
“So I should stand on a chair and bellow at all and sundry that I was grieving horribly for my father, and that I didn’t give a hang what anyone said about either of us? Or should I simply declare that Halfurst was never bankrupt, and that my yearly income is somewhere in the neighborhood of forty thousand pounds?”
She blinked her moss green eyes at him. “Forty thousand pounds?”
“Approximately.”
“Then just tell everyone—someone—that all the rumors were groundless, and they’ll—”
“They’ll like me again?” he finished. “I’ve told the one person whose opinion I care for.”
“And who…” Anne blushed prettily. “Oh.”
The waltz ended, and he reluctantly slid his hand from around her waist.
“Ah, splendid,” a familiar male voice murmured from behind him. “It’s my turn now, I believe.”
Anne tightened her grip on his arm. “Desmond, I promised Lord Halfurst the quadrille, as well. I would be happy to—”
“Do you think the sheep farmer can dance a quadrille?” the viscount asked, sneering as Max faced him. “I’m surprised he managed the waltz. What did you trade for lessons, Halfurst, mutton?”
Maximilian gazed at Howard levelly. The guests had grown silent, the better to overhear someone else’s business. Of more concern to him was Anne, practically quivering with anger and indignation beside him.
At that moment he realized he wouldn’t—couldn’t—lose her, no matter what it took. She’d made several good points in her argument. Whether he cared about his reputation or not, she did, and if they were to be married, their names would become joined.
“I have respected my fiancée’s friendship with you, Howard,” he said in a low, level voice. “But now you are embarrassing her. Leave.”
“‘Leave?’ I have no intention of going anywhere. You’re the outsider here, marquis.”
“Lord Howard, please stop,” Anne hissed. “You’ve done enough damage.”
“Oh, I’ve barely begun. Please, let’s hear more of your witty repartee, sheep farmer.”
That was enough of that. Anne had urged him to take action. “How’s this?” Max returned.
He shot out with his right fist, catching Howard square in the jaw. With a grunt the viscount dropped to the polished floor.
“Much better.” Maximilian faced Anne, ignoring the explosion of gasps and tittering from all around them. “Come with me.”
“Good heavens,” she whispered, staring at Howard’s crumpled form. “One punch.”
Max was unable to help a grim smile at her astounded expression. “You should have told me earlier that you preferred a man of action.”
Anne felt too dazed to speak as the marquis led her out the nearest exit and down a narrow set of stairs. She’d only meant that he should defend his reputation verbally— knocking Desmond unconscious had not been part of the scenario, satisfying as the sight had been. “He’s going to be very angry.”
“Hence my escorting you from the scene,” Maximilian returned, stopping at the bottom of the stairs. “Where in damnation are we?”
“These are the servants’ stairs, I think.”
As she spoke, a footman laden with a tray of sweetmeats exited through a swinging door, nearly colliding with Halfurst. “Beg pardon, my lord,” he stammered, attempting to bow and balance at the same time.
“What’s through there?” Maximilian asked, indicating the door.
“The kitchen, my lord.”
“Is there an exit on the other side?”
“Yes, my lord. To the gardens.”
“Good.” The servant continued to gawk at the two of them, until the marquis nudged him toward the stairs. “Go.”
As soon as the footman vanished up the stairs, Maximilian yanked Anne up against him and lowered his head to kiss her with a ferociousness that left her breathless and taut with desire.
“Someone will see us,” she managed, tangling her fingers in his black hair.
“I don’t care.”
“I do.”
He lifted his head again, gazing down at her with glittering gray eyes. “Because you don’t want to be forced into marriage?” he breathed.
“Max—”
Grabbing her hand, he pushed through the kitchen door. A dozen servants froze in various stages of meal preparation. “Ignore us,” he commanded. Heads lowered at once.
“Maximilian,” she repeated, half wishing she’d kept quiet so he might have continued kissing her in the hallway, “what happens now?”
“Wait here a moment.”
To her surprise he left her and went scouring about the kitchen, apparently looking for a snack. At the far end of the room he seemed to find what he was after, because with a murmured word to one of the cooks, he wrapped something large in a napkin and returned to Anne.
“You know your Greek mythology, I presume?” he asked, holding out his hand.
“Yes,” she answered, dividing her attention between his intent face and the item resting on his palm, “though I don’t see the relevance between golden—halved—apples and this situation.”
A slow smile touched his mouth. “Wrong myth. Open it.”
Her heart unexpectedly thudding, Anne pulled back the napkin. “A pomegranate,” she said. A pomegranate.
Maximilian cleared his throat. “As you may recall, the lovely Persephone found herself torn between her lover, Hades, in the world below, and her mother, Demeter, in the world above, until they devised a way for her to have both.”
Abruptly Anne couldn’t breathe. “You would leave Yorkshire?” she asked, her voice breaking.
“That, my love, is up to you.”
A tear ran down her cheek. “You called me your love,” she managed.
“That is because I love you.”
“Oh my, oh my,” she whispered.
She could have everything, now. She could have Maximilian Robert Trent. He would be hers, forever. Fingers shaking, she removed six pomegranate seeds, one after the other. “Six months in Yorkshire, and six months in London,” she said.
“And you with me, Anne. Say you’ll marry me.”
She took the red fruit from his hand and set it aside, then flung her arms around his shoulders. “I will. Yes, I will marry you,” she said, laughing and crying at the same time. “I love you so much.”
He kissed her, lifting her in his arms and swinging her around and around. “Thank God,” he murmured, over and over again.
Anne couldn’t stop kissing him. Three weeks ago she would never have thought that she would agree to marry a sheep farmer, much less that she would want to do so. He would have to stay in town a few more days now, because she didn’t think she could stand letting him leave without her. And if he obtained a special license quickly, they could be in Yorkshire by spring, and she would be able to see the daffodils bloom.
“Happy St. Valentine’s Day,” she whispered, hugging him tightly.
She felt him smile. “Happy St. Valentine’s Day.”
Suzanne Enoch
A lifelong lover of books, Suzanne Enoch has been writing them since she learned to read. Born and raised in Southern California, she lives a few miles from Disneyland with her collection of Star Wars action figures and dogs, Katie and Emma, both named after heroines from her books. The USA Today bestselling author is currently at work inventing the wild, wicked hero of her next historical romance.
Suzanne loves to hear from her readers, and may be reached at P.O. Box 17463, Anaheim, CA 92817-7463, or send her an email at [email protected]. Visit her website at www.suzanneenoch.com.
Two Hearts
Karen Hawkins
For my cat, Scat,
who graciously allows me
to sit in her favorite chair
while I’m working on the computer
Chapter 1
As if the frigid weather weren’t providing the ton with enough to talk about (and indeed, for a population so enamored of discussing the weather, this year’s improbably cold winter is proving to be a boon for those who do not excel at the art of polite conversation) there is always Miss Elizabeth Pritchard, who seems to have set her cap rather astonishingly for Lord Durham.
This Author does not believe this to be an impossible match—after all, Miss Pritchard is reputed to be quite plump in the pocket, and there is none who would find her personality unappealing (despite her obvious eccentricities). But it cannot be denied that she is rather a bit older than the average debutante, and indeed, older in fact than Lord Durham.
Will Miss Pritchard trade in her name for that of Lady Durham? Perhaps when the Thames freezes over…Ah, wait, the Thames HAS frozen over.
Nothing, apparently, is impossible these days.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 26 JANUARY 1814
Lady Margaret Shelbourne marched to the ornate fireplace that graced one wall of the breakfast room. “There!” she announced grandly, tossing the paper into the crackling flames. “That is what I think of Lady Whistledown and her scandal rag!”
Her husband, Lord James Shelbourne, didn’t even look up from his place at the head of the table where he sat perusing the latest edition of the Morning Post. After ten years of wedded bliss, he was far too used to his petite wife’s theatrics to pay much heed. Thus it was left to Meg’s brother, Sir Royce Pemberley, to respond.
He lifted his quizzing glass and eyed the curling ashes that had once been Lady Whistledown’s latest efforts to beguile the ton. “I thought you rather liked Lady W. You certainly seemed anxious enough to read the thing; you snatched it off Burton’s tray before he could announce it and almost vaulted over my chair in your eagerness.”
“I did not. I merely leaned in front of you to—” Her gaze narrowed when Royce’s grin slipped out. “Oh!” she said, stomping a dainty foot. “You’re teasing me. That is the problem with you; you are never serious.”
“Never,” he agreed. “What did Lady Whistledown say that has irked you so?”
“It wasn’t about me; it was about Liza.”
Liza, known to the ton as Miss Elizabeth Pritchard, had been his sister’s best friend since childhood. They were virtually inseparable, though one would be hard pressed to find two more different females. Meg was tiny, blond, perfectly coiffed at all times and a complete flutter brain, while Liza was tall, with light brown hair, mischievous cat green eyes, and a horrid sense of fashion. She was also one of the most logical women Royce knew. “What did Lady W say about Liza?”
“That she has formed an attachment, though how Lady W knew—Royce, that’s the reason I asked you to come by this morning.” His sister paused for a dramatic moment. “I fear Liza has decided to marry.”
The words hung in the room, like the smoky haze of a newly lit candle. Though he knew he shouldn’t feel anything but irritation at Meg’s melodrama, the pronouncement was a shock. Liza? To wed? “Surely you are mistaken.”
No one who knew Liza and understood the depths of her pragmatic nature would believe such nonsense. Liza’s parents had died when she was only three and her maternal aunt had passed away the year of Liza’s debut. She had been left alone at an early age with no one but a musty old solicitor who had believed his duties as guardian stopped at his office door.
A lesser female might have been distraught, but Liza had calmly gone on her way, purchasing a house, inviting an elderly, poverty-stricken cousin to live with her, and learning what she could from her guardian. On her twenty-fifth birthday, by then a confirmed spinster in the eyes of the ton, she’d surprised no one by pensioning off her hired companion and taking complete control of her fortune.
“I’m not mistaken about a thing,” Meg said, clearly offended that Royce hadn’t believed her. “The man’s name is Durham.”
“Never heard of him.”
“He’s new to town. He’s a distant relative of Lady Sefton’s, I believe.”
Every two years or so, some ill wind would shake a handful of fortune hunters into the ballrooms of London and one or another would settle on Liza as his victim. With Meg’s help, Royce had vanquished each and every potential threat.
Liza, of course, never noticed. She was supremely unaware of her own positive traits and the lure of her substantial income, which grew every year under her careful supervision. She also seemed completely content to remain as she was—single and unfettered by the demands of a spouse, much like Royce. Or so he had assumed. “I cannot believe Liza would do anything so scatterbrained.”
“I didn’t give the relationship any credence, either, but…” Meg hesitated. “She’s been a bit blue-deviled since her birthday last month, you know. I’m afraid she’s a little vulnerable.”
Royce frowned at that. He’d seen Liza not two days ago. She had seemed a bit distracted, but nothing more. She certainly didn’t display any symptoms of having developed a lifelong passion for a mysterious fribble. “Liza is not the type of woman to run into something as serious as marriage without thinking it through.”
“She has thought it through. Why, she even gave me a list of all the reasons she thought Lord Durham and she would suit.”
“Liza and her infernal lists! What does she think she’s doing? Buying a horse?”
“She is thirty-one. Most women are married and have children by now.”
“Liza isn’t most women. I vow, Meg, have you been ragging her about marrying again? For if you have, I’ll—”
“Of course I haven’t,” Meg said, her cheeks flushed. “I didn’t say a word to her.”
From the breakfast table, James rattled his paper in a telling way.
Meg’s face pinkened even more and she hurried to say, “It’s only natural Liza should meet someone and fall in love. I just wish she’d chosen someone we knew.”
Liza in love? Why had Meg said that? It was one thing to decide to marry; it was another
to actually be in love. The thought settled between his shoulders and produced a distinct restless feeling. Royce stood. The breakfast room seemed dark and oppressive while the bright light beaming through the windows from the snow-covered street offered escape. Escape from what, he didn’t know, but he felt the very real need to breathe some of the icy cold air that hung outside the frosted window. “Meg, I really must go. Thank you for breakfast.”
He turned toward the door, then stopped, a sudden thought gluing his feet to the carpet. “Meg? Do you…do you think she’s really in love with this Durham fellow?” The question surprised Royce. He hadn’t meant to ask it…not aloud anyway.
Meg’s smooth brow puckered in thought. “No,” she said slowly. “Not yet. But she feels that she’s missing something. And you know Liza. If she wants something to happen, it happens.” Genuine concern touched her voice. “Royce, what do we do? What if this Durham is not a nice man?”
Royce considered this for a long moment, a strange weight pressing on his chest. Finally, he said in a heavy voice, “I’m not sure we can do anything.”
“What? You’d allow Liza to make the mistake of her life without a word?”
“She’s a grown woman. If she really cares for this man—” He broke off, the words thickening in his throat. Bloody hell, what was wrong with him? This was Liza, for heaven’s sake! The one woman he could trust to act sanely and logically. The one woman he respected above all others. Didn’t he want her to be happy? Of course he did. She was like a—
He glanced at Meg and frowned. Well, not a sister. He certainly didn’t take Meg into his confidence the way he did Liza. Nor did he have long, serious talks with Meg about…well, anything really. After all, she didn’t understand him. Not really. And when he was feeling particularly blue, he certainly didn’t seek out his sister, knowing she could make him feel better. Only Liza.
In fact, now that he thought about it, it had always been Liza. Over the years, she’d become his confidante just as much as she was Meg’s. And now all that was threatened by some poppycock who was probably after poor Liza’s fortune and would end up breaking her very tender heart. The thought angered him, which was a very unusual feeling for Royce. In fact, he was inundated with unusual feelings, none of which he recognized.
