“Where have you been?”
“At a friend’s house in Devon.”
“Wessex?”
“Yes.”
She swallowed. “And does he know…?”
“Yes,” Maxim acknowledged heavily. “Only my own part in it,” he added hastily as color bloomed in her cheeks. “You did nothing wrong.” Everything Heather had done that night had been right. So right, he had taken out his anger on her. “There is no excuse for what I did. I beg your forgiveness and promise that nothing so…disgusting or demeaning to you shall ever happen again.”
Heather continued to stare at him for several more long and excruciating minutes, until Maxim felt as if his rapidly pounding heart was going to leap out of his chest and then cease beating altogether.
Perhaps it was what he deserved.
He could not blame Heather—
“What happened to you, Maxim?”
He raised his head sharply at the softness of her tone, his eyes narrowed, expression guarded. “What do you mean?”
She gave a shake of her head. “You were always arrogant— Yes, you were,” she insisted lightly as he snorted. “Arrogant, self-confident, whatever you wish to call it,” she dismissed. “But there was never any of the cruelty inside you which I have sensed several times since your arrival here.”
A nerve pulsed in his jaw. None but The Sinners and the Prince Regent knew of his months of imprisonment and torture in a French prison. Not his father. Not Heather. None in Society. How could they when it was not common knowledge that he and his friends acted as agents for the Crown during the long years of war against Napoleon and since?
Nor had Heather, or any other woman, seen the many scars upon his body deliberately inflicted by his torturers. His sexual encounters were always with nameless, faceless females, whom he paid handsomely not to question why he always remained partially clothed in their presence.
He shrugged. “Years of war have a way of…embittering even the strongest of men.”
Heather looked at him searchingly. She had sensed something more inside Maxim two nights ago. But perhaps she had been mistaken? Perhaps this hard and ruthless man was truly the one Maxim had grown into.
Then why was he bothering to apologize to her?
No, there was more. She was convinced of it. It was only that Maxim had no intention of sharing it with her. And why should he? She was nothing to him except his father’s widow.
“Do you give me your forgiveness, Heather?”
She swallowed down her frustration. “Is it so very important to you?”
“Yes.”
She nodded abruptly. “Then you are forgiven.”
Maxim acknowledged that Heather’s forgiveness was not exactly graciously given, but then his own behavior toward her since his arrival in Cornwall had been far from gentlemanly.
He gave an abrupt bow. “I will leave you to spend time with your guests while I—”
“Maxim!” A small body, which proved itself to be Ralph, launched itself across the room before the boy wrapped his arms about Maxim’s waist. “Can we go fishing together now you’re back?” He looked up at Maxim with hopeful eyes.
Maxim’s heart melted slightly as he looked down into those gray eyes so like his own and their father’s.
“You promised,” Ralph reminded him with a tiny pout of rosebud lips.
“I—”
“You must not bother Maxim, Ralph,” Heather cut in lightly with a brief glance at the nursemaid standing awkwardly in the doorway, that young lady having obviously briefly lost control of her charge. “Maxim has only just returned from visiting a friend and must be in need of a rest after his journey.”
Maxim’s mouth twisted ruefully. “I am not so decrepit I cannot sit on the rocks with a fishing rod in my hands for a couple of hours,” he drawled. “And I did promise.” It would also give him the opportunity to check in the caves down in Treganon Cove.
“Can we go now? Can we?” Ralph stepped back to jump up and down excitedly.
“With your mama’s permission, yes.” Maxim straightened to visually seek Heather’s approval. She might not consider him a suitable companion for her son after his previous despicable behavior toward her.
“May I, Mama?” Ralph turned those imploring gray eyes on his mother.
“Of course.” Heather’s indulgent smile showed she was no more able to withstand her young son’s beseeching than Maxim was. “But you must take heed of whatever Maxim tells you to do. And do not go too far out on the rocks, because the tide will be coming in soon. And—”
“Mama,” Ralph wailed his embarrassment at her fussing.
Maxim chuckled softly. “I will take care of Ralph as if he were my own,” he reassured Heather before turning to hold his hand out to the little boy. “Now we must go and collect the rods and then seek out the head gardener to see if he will dig us up some worms to use as bait.”
Heather stood as still as a statue as Maxim and Ralph left the room together, followed by the nursemaid, able to hear Ralph’s excited chatter for several minutes before they disappeared toward the back of the house, no doubt in search of rods and bait.
Which was when Heather’s knees buckled and she sank down gratefully into one of the armchairs.
“I will take care of Ralph as if he were my own.”
What would this harder and unrelenting Maxim say, or do, if he were to ever learn that Ralph was indeed his son?
Chapter 7
“Ralph tells me your fishing expedition was a success,” Heather remarked lightly when Maxim joined her in the blue salon before their evening meal.
“I believe Cook is even now preparing our catch for dinner,” Maxim confirmed as he poured a glass of sherry for her and a brandy for himself. “Leaving some for Ralph’s luncheon tomorrow, of course.”
Heather had spent an hour in the nursery with Ralph earlier, bathing him and reading him a story once he was abed, before he fell into an exhausted sleep following the activities of the afternoon.
Even then she had not left the nursery or her seat beside Ralph’s bed for several more minutes as she instead gazed down at her son. Maxim’s son. The son she had learned she was expecting only weeks after Maxim had left her to return to his regiment.
She had held out hope for his return those first few weeks, or at least for some word from him, knowing it was not always possible for soldiers to send letters from abroad. But after almost three months of silence, she had no other choice but to accept Maxim had considered their relationship to be nothing more than a summer fling. Put more crudely, she was someone for him to fuck while he was in England on leave. And just as easily forget once he had returned to his regiment and the company of his friends.
Keeping her pregnancy to herself for any length of time had been impossible, of course. Being so slender to begin with, it had been a simple thing for her mother’s eagle eyes to note the slight thickening of Heather’s waist and the increasing size of her breasts, and question Heather regarding these changes.
Having already kept the pregnancy—and fear—to herself for some weeks already, Heather had broken down and told her mother of the child she was expecting. That very evening, there had been a meeting of her whole family. Her father and brothers had all demanded to know the name of the man who was responsible for her condition.
Heather had been reluctant to tell them and had refused at first, but when her father threatened to have every man in the district questioned until he found the culprit, she’d had no choice but to admit Maxim was the father of the babe she now carried.
She had no idea what had transpired in the conversation that took place the following day between her father and Lord James Smythe, Maxim’s father and the Earl of Carlton. Only that her father had returned to inform her that if Maxim could not be located in the next month, then she was to become James’s wife.
Heather had protested, of course, insisting she should wait for Maxim to come back to Cornwall before doing anything so
drastic as marrying another man, most especially his own father.
James had come to her a month later and gently explained that he had tried repeatedly to contact Maxim, to no avail. That he had even traveled to London in search of his son, only to learn that Maxim was away fighting and not expected back anytime soon. James had then offered her marriage, stating it was the honorable thing for him to do and for her to accept, for the sake of her babe if not herself.
By this time, Heather was almost four months into the pregnancy, with a noticeable outward curvature beneath her gowns. Something that was causing gossip among the locals and threatening to bring scandal down upon her whole family.
She was nineteen years old, pregnant with the child of a man who had, for all intents and purposes, deserted her, but was instead being offered marriage and respectability by his widowed father. Being the local magistrate at the time, James assured her he would ensure Ralph’s birth was registered as being later than it actually was, legitimizing her son in the eyes of the law and Society.
It had been the latter that persuaded her, and she had done the only thing she could at the time, both for her baby and her family, and married James. The love she had once felt for Maxim had been turned to ashes by his callous desertion, and the future of her unborn baby was all that mattered to her.
By the time Maxim returned to Cornwall almost a year later, Heather felt nothing but contempt for him. James had believed his son should be told the truth of Ralph’s parentage and the reason for their marriage. Heather had pointed out that knowledge would not change the fact that her marriage to James existed and would continue to do so in the eyes of the law. That to tell Maxim he was Ralph’s father would only result in more heartache for all involved.
James had never been comfortable with the lie, but Maxim’s cold behavior toward Heather during that visit and her own lack of feelings toward Maxim had convinced him that it would be better to leave things as they were.
Heather was content to let Maxim think what he liked about the reason for her marriage to his father, that she was after the Carlton title and fortune, or whatever else he chose to think badly of her. All that had mattered to Heather was Ralph’s future. His legitimate future.
Nor had Maxim suspected that the baby brother he was presented with was, in fact, already almost three months old rather than the newborn Heather and James claimed him to be. There was no reason why Maxim should have done so when he would not have been around babies often enough to know the difference between a newborn and a baby of a few months old.
Heather had not regretted that decision then, nor did she now.
“Thank you.” She now accepted the glass of sherry from Maxim, careful that her lace-gloved fingers should not make contact with his. Something he was fully aware of if the self-derisive curl of his top lip was an indication.
He moved to sit down in the chair opposite her, once again appearing very distinguished in his black evening clothes and snow-white linen. “Did Ralph also tell you that he and I explored the caves before we went fishing?” He studied her from beneath lowered lids.
Heather instantly schooled her features into disinterest. “No, he did not tell me that,” she answered coolly. “But perhaps that is because he is forbidden to go into the caves.”
Maxim’s eyebrows rose. “Surely not when he is with a responsible adult?”
Heather eyed him mockingly. “Are you responsible?”
His mouth quirked. “So I am led to believe, yes.”
She snorted. “By whom?”
His expression became guarded. “Many people.”
“Such as?”
Maxim sat forward. “Are you spoiling for another fight between us, Heather?”
Was she?
Perhaps.
It was only that she was unnerved by the amount of time Maxim was spending with her son. His son.
Ralph had talked of nothing but Maxim as she bathed him earlier. Of the adventures the two of them had shared down in the cove—with the noticeable omission of exploring the caves, of course. Her son already had a serious case of hero worship where Maxim was concerned, James having considered himself too old to explore caves and go fishing with him.
What if during the hours the two spent together, Maxim should somehow realize Ralph was his son? She had no idea how he would make such a discovery when even Ralph’s birthday next month was not his true one. But even so, she could not dispel her inner feelings of unease.
Would Maxim attempt to take her son away from her if he discovered the truth? As their closest male relative, Maxim was already Ralph’s guardian in the eyes of Society, and none would think it odd if he took his “brother” into his own household. It was a possibility Heather refused to contemplate. She would fight with everything she had to ensure that did not happen. Even continuing to keep Ralph’s true parentage to herself.
She sighed deeply. “You must know as well as I that the two of us being here together is far from an ideal arrangement.”
Of course Maxim knew that. Just as he knew his real reason for returning to Treganon House had nothing to do with the smuggling in the area or finding Napoleon’s spy, and everything to do with once again spending time with the woman seated across from him.
The sophistication and confidence Heather had gained over the last few years in her role as countess in no way detracted from the wild passion he still sensed—knew—flowed beneath those refined attributes. If anything, Heather fascinated him even more now than she had all those years ago.
“What happened to you, Heather?” He turned her own question of earlier back on her.
She arched one dark brow. “Motherhood and being a wife happened to me,” she dismissed in a hard voice. “Responsibility happened to me.”
Maxim found it intriguing that she had said motherhood before being a wife. Possibly because, as he had always thought, her marriage to his father had not been a love match. The two had seemed happy enough in each other’s company whenever Maxim had chanced to see them out and about in Society, but he also knew that his own mother, dead these past twenty years, had been the love of his father’s life. Another reason the second marriage and his father’s choice of bride had been such a shock to him.
His eyes narrowed. “Do you intend to marry your lover?”
Heather appeared taken aback by the question before she slowly, deliberately, relaxed the tension from her shoulders. “I very much doubt it.”
“Why?”
“Because I have no intention of marrying again. Ever.”
“Were you so unhappy with my father, then?”
Her expression softened. “On the contrary, your father was one of the kindest and most caring men I have ever known.”
There was that word kind again.
But what had Maxim expected? That Heather would confirm his suspicion it had been a marriage of convenience on his father’s part, giving him a companion in his older years, and monetary benefit and social standing for her?
If that was the case, then he had been mistaken. There was no doubting Heather’s sincerity of affection when she spoke so warmly of his father.
“It is a pity his eldest son possesses neither of those traits.” Maxim rose restlessly to his feet to replenish his brandy glass, aware he was once again drinking too much but needing something to dull the raw pain he felt following Heather’s praise of his father.
How was Heather supposed to answer such a comment? Maxim had once been everything to her, the sun, the moon, and the stars. She had believed him to be everything she required in a man, handsome, confident, sexually satisfying, as well as possessing the same caring and kindness as his father. But it had all been a ruse so that he might lay claim to her body. Maxim had felt no interest in her heart then, nor did he now.
“Yes,” she answered evenly, feeling nothing but relief when Coombe appeared in the doorway to announce dinner was ready to be served.
The conversation between herself and Maxim was becoming altogethe
r too personal.
“How is Wessex?” She attempted a less controversial subject once they were seated at the dining table. She knew the marquis from her years of attending the London Season and his occasional visits here.
Maxim smiled ruefully. “Not looking forward to having his father’s ward arrive back from France any day.”
“Lady Jocelyn?” She looked surprised. “But I have always found her to be a charming young lady.”
Maxim had never taken much notice of Lady Jocelyn Forbes, apart from noting she was very beautiful, so he could not comment. “Ralph tells me you are teaching him to speak French,” he remarked instead.
Was it Maxim’s imagination, something he expected to be there if Heather was a spy for the French, or had she tensed as soon as he asked the question? Certainly her fingers appeared to be gripping her soup spoon rather tightly before she placed it carefully back down without eating.
She took a sip of her wine instead. “I have always believed it is easier to learn a second language when you are younger rather than older.”
“But why French?” Maxim persisted.
She gazed at him coolly. “Because I know the language well myself, and once the hostilities are settled between our two countries, I expect they will once again become one of our leading allies in regard to trade.”
“I had no idea you even spoke French,” Maxim remarked lightly.
She snorted, a snort which seemed to infer Maxim knew very little about her at all. “I learned in the nursery.”
“Why?”
“My mother has relations living in Paris.”
He had not known that either. Perhaps Adelle Turner merited a little more investigation than her daughter. He would look into doing exactly that tomorrow.
He nodded. “Ralph’s accent is impeccable.”
Heather arched one dark brow. “You speak French?”
“Yes,” he confirmed tersely.
“I had no idea.” Once again, she turned his own remark back on him.
Maxim made no reply. His reason for learning the language had to do with his role as an agent and spy for the English Crown so that he might enter France and pass as a Frenchman himself. Something he could not share with Heather.
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