He would not get a cockstand.
He began to count in Latin in his head to take his mind off what he was doing and the fact that Charlie’s chemise had slipped perilously low; in the dressing-room mirror, he could clearly see her plump, creamy breasts practically spilling over the top of her cursed corset. And was that a hint of an apricot-hued nipple?
Oh, hell. He began to count again. Unus, duo, tres, quattuor, quinque, sex…sexual congress. Damn! He should have recited pi or Newton’s Laws of Motion. There was nothing remotely licentious about any of that. Thankfully, the knot soon gave way and after muttering, “There you go,” Max beat a hasty retreat to Charlie’s bedroom, where he found a decanter of sweet sherry on a side table. Even though it was not to his taste, if he downed a glass or two, perhaps it would put out the fire in his loins.
By the time he was feeling a little calmer and contemplating pouring a third glass just for good measure, Charlie emerged from her dressing room. She’d changed into a perfectly sedate, perhaps even matronly cotton night rail and a woolen shawl. But there was nothing the least bit matronly about her chestnut hair. Now that it was loose, it cascaded about her shoulders in thick undulating waves of coppery gold fire. It was like autumn come to life, and he had to suppress the urge to seize it and press his face into the silken mass.
But the worst part was that her feet were bare. He’d never seen her naked toes before; they were all kinds of dainty, and her ankles were neat, and oh, dear God, he needed to stop staring and imagining all kinds of wicked things he could do with Charlie from her toes up.
Max swallowed. He’d best go. Charlie wasn’t well, and of course he couldn’t break his dashed promise to Nate. “If you’re feeling better, I’ll bid you goodnight…”
Charlie sat upon the bed, and as she lounged back against the pillows, she curled her legs up like a cat and drew her naked feet beneath her nightgown. Her eyelids began to droop. “The room’s stopped spinning,” she said as though she hadn’t heard him.
“Well, that’s good. As I said, I should—”
“Oh…” She placed a hand to her forehead. “But now I feel a frightful megrim coming on. It’s as if someone decided to place a nail right here and strike it with a hammer, over and over again.”
Max winced in sympathy. “Can I get you anything? A cold compress or some tea?”
Charlie closed her eyes and sank farther into the pillows. “No. It’s all right. Maybe it will go away while I sleep.”
Perhaps he should stay. At least until Charlie was comfortable and settled. And then he could sneak back to his room unobserved via the jib door connecting their suites; he didn’t have the key on him, but he could pick the lock easily enough.
He approached the bed. “Here, let me tuck you in,” he said, drawing the covers back and Charlie stirred enough to climb beneath them. Max gently drew the sheets and counterpane up to her chin, then dropped a kiss on her forehead. “Good night, Charlie,” he murmured, then he crossed his arms over his chest so he wouldn’t stroke an errant curl away from her forehead.
She mumbled something, and as she burrowed into the pillows, he thought he saw her mouth curving into a contented, almost feline smile.
Settling into a bedside armchair, he watched her fall deeper into sleep. How beautiful she was. Indeed, he’d always thought so. He recalled a day just under a year ago—Nate’s wedding day, in fact—when his friend had caught him casting an admiring look Charlie’s way. Of course, Nate had warned him off, and Max had readily acquiesced. How could he not? Nate had been one of the few people he’d formed any kind of bond with. But as he’d said to Charlie, just because he was friends with her brother and Gabriel and Hamish, that didn’t mean he was capable of falling in love with a woman.
Now, falling in lust with a woman, especially someone as gorgeous as Charlie…he could readily acknowledge that.
Max yawned and scrubbed a hand down his face. It was far too late, and he was far too tired to continue with such circuitous thinking that led nowhere. But as much as he wanted to retire for the night, he was also worried Charlie might wake and need something. She wasn’t entirely out of the woods yet.
She was beneath the covers. What if he stretched out beside her for a little while? Surely that was permitted. After checking all the doors to Charlie’s suite to make sure they were locked—it was better to be safe than sorry—he shrugged off his coat, removed his neckcloth, and kicked off his shoes. There was no point in being uncomfortable. He carefully lay down beside Charlie, and to his astonishment, she immediately rolled toward him and nuzzled his neck. Her warm breath tickled his ear. “You smell nice,” she murmured. “Like expensive shaving soap and Max.”
Oh, hell. Max released a sigh. Despite his best efforts, his ever-present desire for her stirred and sparked.
His mind returned to the secrets she wasn’t supposed to tell him. The painting. Well, if she’d sat for some kind of revealing portrait, it was really none of his business, no matter how much his curiosity flickered and burned inside him.
As for what she’d done when she was seventeen, it wasn’t his business either. When he thought back to all the things he’d done at that age… Good Lord, despite the fact his diabolical tyrant of a father had still been alive, he’d managed to get up to all types of mischief at Eton and during the holidays when his father hadn’t been around, ruling the roost with his iron fist, a horsewhip, and even worse, his acerbic tongue lashings.
But he didn’t want to think about his father, the man who’d made his life miserable for so long when he hadn’t measured up to his exacting standards. The man who’d taught him—no, drummed into him—that it was far easier and safer not to feel anything soft or warm or tender for anyone at all. That to do so was a sign of weakness, and weakness must be rooted out and crushed at all costs.
While a part of Max truly did want to be the kind of man Charlie wanted for a husband, he knew he could never be. His heart was damaged beyond repair. Frostbitten and stunted like a ruthlessly pruned and blighted shrub that would never grow again. He couldn’t be the duke of any woman’s dreams, let alone hers.
Charlie curled herself around him, snuggling closer, and all at once, an intense, all-consuming longing seared through Max’s chest, stealing his breath. His throat burned and felt far too tight as though he’d contracted some sort of ague and it was too painful to swallow. And then the shivering started. A bone-deep chill that began in his heart and radiated outward, encasing every fiber of his body in ice, freezing his blood. Numbing his nerves, deadening every feeling except for an overwhelming, smothering sense of impending doom. Darkness gathered at the corners of his vision.
Oh, God. Somehow, he clambered out of the bed without waking Charlie and staggered to the nearest window. The curtains were open, and he gripped the sill and pressed his forehead against the cold pane. His breath sawed in and out in harsh, ragged pants, fogging the glass. His heart pounded unsteadily in a petrified, drunken gallop. It felt as though he was a hobbled horse who’d just run a mile with the hounds of hell snapping and snarling at his heels.
From the shadows in the corner of the room, the shade of his father watched and smirked.
It had been years and years since Max had suffered a debilitating attack of nerves like this. From experience, he knew the best he could do was hold on and wait for the violent, wracking tremors to ease. For the panic to subside and his breathing and heart rate to slow. To reassure himself that his father wasn’t here, waiting to punish him for being a pathetic milksop. A good-for-nothing failure. A weakling.
Max looked up and caught his reflection in the windowpane. He looked haggard. A mess. God, he hated this house. No matter how much he tried to ignore the bad memories, there were too many of them at Heathcote. He’d readily agreed to his mother’s plans to hold the house party here because it had been expedient for him to just say yes. It didn’t seem like such a good idea now.
Beyond the darkness of Heathcote’s grounds was the place Anth
ony had fallen from his horse. And to the right, near the wooded grove one passed on the way to the heath itself, was the site where Max’s first horse had died. Max had only been twelve years old, but the nightmare of that long ago day was a permanent scar carved deep inside him. It was a memory he tried very hard to avoid. Clearly, to no avail tonight…
Behind him, Charlie murmured, but in the window’s reflection, Max could see she still slept peacefully.
He turned around and pushed his sweat-drenched hair out of his eyes with an impatient shove of his shaking hand.
Charlie had set about getting drunk after that dog Mowbray had propositioned her. But Max didn’t think that was the only reason she’d fled to his study and had downed half a bottle of cognac. For some time now, he’d sensed Charlie was unhappy. And even though they were engaged and her social standing appeared to be improving, it hadn’t helped improve her mood. Not one bit.
And deep down, Max suspected he was largely to blame for that. He knew she cared for him—he’d seen it in the warmth of her gaze and her touch and her smile. She’d also admitted numerous times that she desired him too. And yet, he kept pushing her away and turning his back. Denying her over and over again.
If he were honest with himself, he would admit that he was miserable with the situation too. Being so close to Charlie, wanting her all the time but not being able to touch her the way he wanted to, it was slowly driving him mad. It was unhealthy.
It was self-destructive.
And this impossible situation had all come about because of his damned promise to Nate. A promise born out of obligation that he now regretted with every fiber of his being. His loyalty was divided, and he was being pulled in different directions. The tension was excruciating. No wonder he’d snapped and come undone tonight.
One thing was clear—he and Charlie couldn’t go on this way, or they were both bound to unravel.
He began to weigh up the arguments for continuing to keep Charlie at arm’s length versus giving in to his overwhelming need to have her. Perhaps Charlie had a point. It wasn’t any of Nate’s business what the two of them did together when they were alone. And as Charlie had also said, what Nate didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.
She was twenty-two—a woman, not a girl—and she definitely knew her own mind. She was also a passionate creature by nature. His mind strayed to her now not-so-secret list of wishes and desires. While Max couldn’t give her everything she wanted, what if he could make her happy by helping her to fulfill at least some of the other things on her list?
Of course, it was also self-serving on his part because why wouldn’t he want to kiss Charlie in the rain or in the moonlight or ravish her in a carriage? He certainly wanted to do all of those things.
Yes, as long as they were careful and took precautions and Charlie understood that he was motivated by lust, nothing more, perhaps they could explore the physical side of their relationship. They could be friends who indulged in an amorous tryst or two every now and again. It wouldn’t be about love or romance or having a happily ever after together. It would be about having fun and alleviating some of this damned pent-up tension.
Satisfied that he’d come up with a temporary solution to both of their problems, Max picked up a blanket at the end of the bed and took up residence in the bedside armchair again. His mouth curved into a smile as his own eyelids began to droop. If Charlie agreed to his plan, the coming weeks would be interesting indeed.
Chapter 17
If you are suffering from a loss of appetite, dyspepsia, megrims, anxiety, or any other type of nervous complaint including melancholia, hysterics, or perhaps you’re simply heartsore,
Dr. Brompton’s Restorative Nervous Tonic might be just the elixir you need to restore your equilibrium this Season.
The Beau Monde Mirror: General Health & Medical Miscellany
Heathcote Hall, Hampstead Heath
April 18, 1819
When Charlie awoke the next morning, she was aware of several things. Her head ached horribly. Her stomach roiled uneasily. But worse of all was the overwhelming sense of mortification that washed over her when she recalled what had happened after she’d fled the ballroom the night before.
Her memory was somewhat hazy right up until the point she’d been violently ill in front of Max. From what she could recall, he’d been nothing but patience personified, but even so, it was wince-inducing to think he’d seen her at her very worst. And the fact that she couldn’t quite recall what she’d said and done before that… It was unnerving in the extreme. Getting so completely drunk was an experience she never wished to repeat.
Even though she felt hideous, she forced her protesting body out of bed. The morning sunlight streaming in through her bedroom window made her head throb even more, but she wouldn’t be deterred from fulfilling her duty. As much as she wanted to stay in bed and hide beneath the covers until she felt better, at least in a physical sense, she also owed it to Max, her father, her brother, and her friends to put in an appearance at breakfast.
She padded to the bellpull and rang for Molly, who appeared within minutes with hot water, a bright smile, and a bottle of some nasty smelling concoction called Dr. Brompton’s Restorative Nervous Tonic; she must have noted her mistress had been unwell last night.
After Charlie had washed and had her hair tamed into a suitably sedate style, she donned a fresh gown of pale peach muslin. Pinching some color into her wan cheeks, she hoped she might pass for well-enough if one didn’t look too closely.
On entering the morning room, where breakfast was served, she discovered Arabella already ensconced at one end of the massive mahogany dining table with a pot of tea, toast, and a coddled egg before her. There was no sign of Father, Lady Tilbury, Gabriel, Nate, or Sophie. Much to Charlie’s relief, Max was also absent. Indeed, the room was surprisingly empty. Also missing was Cressida, Diana, the Duke and Duchess of Stafford, Lord Mowbray, and Lady Penelope. Thank the Lord.
Arabella greeted Charlie with a warm smile. “Good morning, my friend. It looks like quite a few guests have opted to sleep late or have breakfast in bed.” Her brow knitted into a frown as Charlie drew closer. “Is it a good morning? You look…”
“Peaked? Pasty?” After a footman stepped forward to pull out a chair for her, Charlie gingerly lowered herself onto the silk-upholstered seat. “I’m ashamed to say that I’m a little worse for wear this morning.”
“Oh, dear. Well, let’s furnish you with a cup of tea straightaway. And something plain to eat?” Arabella caught the footman’s eye and requested another teacup and fresh toast. “Now tell me what’s ailing you, dear Charlie. I sense it’s more than a physical affliction.”
When Charlie had filled her friend in on everything that had transpired the night before and how embarrassed she felt about Max witnessing her drunken state, Arabella patted Charlie’s hand. “I wouldn’t worry that Max’s regard for you has changed. He clearly went out of his way to look after you last night. It’s more than evident that he cares for you.”
“Do you think so?”
“Aye, I do. He could have rung for a maid or approached his sister-in-law, Diana. But he didn’t. And earlier this morning, before Gabriel went riding, he told me that Max had been looking for you after you quit the ballroom last night.” Her mouth curved into a smile. “I wish I could have witnessed Lord Mowbray receiving his comeuppance, by the way. But I digress. Apparently, Max came to our suite, hoping on the off chance you’d paid me a visit to see how I was faring. Because you weren’t with me, Max then intended to check if you were lending Sophie your support in the nursery.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. According to Gabriel, your fiancé was quite frantic with worry and determined to find you. Even he suspects that Max is smitten but in denial.”
Frantic with worry? Smitten? Charlie picked up her cup of tea and took a sip. How…interesting. It was nice to know that others could see that Max might be harboring acknowledged feelings for her and that
she wasn’t imagining things.
Charlie selected a piece of toast. “Have you seen Sophie this morning, by any chance? I hope Thomas is better.”
“Oh, I heard that your brother whisked Sophie and Thomas back to Westhampton House last night, just in case they needed a physician. I suspect baby Thomas was just teething, the poor wee mite. If I’d been well enough, I would have lent a hand.”
“I must say, I’m very pleased to see you looking well now.”
“Oh yes. I am, thank you. That horrid nausea has passed. It’s strange, though.” Arabella replenished her cup of tea. “I started to feel so afflicted just before our journey back to London. Every evening, I’ve felt as ill as can be. But then, in the morning, I’m perfectly fine again. I hope whatever it is passes soon.”
Charlie gave Arabella a quizzical look over the rim of her teacup. “How long has this been going on?”
“A week, I suppose…” Arabella put down her own teacup with a clatter. Behind her gold-framed spectacles, her eyes widened. “I’ve missed my courses too,” she murmured. “They’re two weeks—no, nearly three weeks late. Oh, my goodness.” Her clear hazel gaze connected with Charlie’s. “Do you think that I could be…?”
How to Catch a Devilish Duke: The Disreputable Debutantes Page 21
