Sharon Sobel (20 page)

“I am Lady Grenville, Wentworth. I knew your mother when we were just girls.”

There was something in her soft tone, her gentle reassurance, that affected Max most painfully. His feeling was visceral, but in his briefest moment of consideration, it seemed to him he was connected to another who remembered his mother with an affection that endured through all the years of insinuation and guilt.

“I still miss her, Lady Grenville, and would take great pleasure in hearing any stories you may have to share. Even more, it would be valuable for my younger sister to know something of a mother she scarcely remembers,” Max said.

“It would be an honor, my lord. In fact, I intended to speak to you about it.”

“It is very considerate of you to ask permission to do so, though Lady Camille is nearly grown and is able to decide for herself if she would like to hear such things, or if they might be too painful,” Max said. “And I have only recently learned that ladies have a vocabulary all their own and talk about things that gentlemen would never discuss.”

“I assume you now know this because you have been witness to Lady Camille’s conversations with Lady Claire, who has been a visitor in your home?”

“And I assume you now know this because my dear aunt has made this fact known to all her acquaintances?” Max said tersely.

“Do not blame Mrs. Brooks, for she only means you well. But, indeed, she may have mentioned it to one or two people,” said Lady Grenville. She paused, nodding briefly to a gentleman who looked familiar to Max. “And do not believe that what ladies discuss can generally be dismissed as gossip.”

Embarrassed, Max took a step back in dismay.

“It is not all about gowns and feathers and Belgian lace and such, you know,” Lady Grenville said, pointing her finger at him like a stern tutor. Max was glad he already put some distance between them. “Lady Claire, for example, is a great reader and might surprise many men with her knowledge.”

She certainly had surprised him, and not in a way that suggested scholarly reading. For the first time, Max wondered what one could find in the ladies’ novels Claire and Camille seemed to enjoy so much.

“Of course, Charles Longreaves would not be surprised,” Lady Grenville continued, and Max sensed there was more to her meaning than the simple words suggested. Perhaps everyone in this company understood but him. Claire was intended for Longreaves, who probably approved of her mission of mercy at Brooks Cottage. And if he somehow knew about the rendezvous this evening, he was a most generous and forgiving soul. Damn him.

James Cosgrove joined the guests just then, and Max begrudgingly noted that the man looked rather splendid in his town clothes. Max glanced down at his own jacket, and thought he might stop by his cousin’s tailor in Saville Row, and do something about his own wardrobe as well. He supposed his worsted jacket was good enough for Middlebury but might be a bit shabby in this fashionable company. And for once, he realized with some surprise, he was not all that concerned with what a tailor thought about his scars and puckered flesh and whom he might tell about it. It simply no longer mattered.

“My Lord Wentworth,” Cosgrove greeted him and bowed.

“Mr. Cosgrove.” Max turned to present him to Lady Grenville, but the tiny lady was already gone.

“Is your sister not with you tonight?”

“Oh, indeed she is. She spent about five minutes in my company before she went off with a Mr. Warren St. John to bask in the warmth of the conservatory,” Max said, feeling sorry for Cosgrove.

“I see. And Lady Claire? Has she already arrived?”

“She has, and to great effect. The son of the house, Mr. Charles Longreaves, has carried her off to his library to show her his bone or something of that sort. It sounds rather suspect to me.” Max felt sorry for himself as well.

“Well, then, my lord. It seems we have only each other for company, and have to be content with that.”

“Oh, do not despair, Cosgrove. There are several pleasing ladies here, I see. Some of them are already looking at you with a predatory eye.”

Cosgrove did not look amused. “I believe their glances are all for you, my lord, for a marquis, even if we meet one who is bowlegged and missing all his teeth, is infinitely more attractive than a poor solicitor. But that is just as well for me, for I am not interested in any lady but your sister.”

Max respected the man’s honesty, even as he was put off by the sentiments. Having just broken off the emotional yoke of his own deformities, he was not so very pleased to hear that a woman would have him, no matter how dreadful his appearance. And if he was worthy enough for any woman, why would he allow his own sister to settle for the fourth son of a duke?

“Then you are in luck, Mr. Cosgrove,” Max said quietly. “For here she comes. You need only pry Mr. St. John off her elbow.”

But, in fact, Cosgrove needed to do no such thing. Camille came back into the room clearly alert to the presence of her old friend, and pulled her companion in Cosgrove’s direction. She stretched out one arm, which Cosgrove secured in his, just as Camille pulled away from Warren St. John.

“Your sister is rather admirable,” St. John said to Max, speaking in a low voice and leaning close. “She is capable of nearly anything at all.”

“Including hearing every word you speak, Mr. St. John. You would do well to remember that.”

The man smiled broadly, and Max realized he just gave his assent for the man to continue to see her. This should have been a very fine thing, but Max suddenly realized he was somewhat partial to Cosgrove, no matter his status. And if that was so, why had they bothered to come to London at all? Their new acquaintances had motives that were likely suspect, their conversation seemed to be delivered in code, and nothing was more engaging a topic for discussion than the lives of other people. And aside from anything else, he would have been perfectly happy to wear this worsted suit for the rest of his life.

He heard Claire laugh and turned to see her enter the large room on Longreaves’ arm. Apparently, the man was not only handsome, but a great wit.

“Dear Lord Wentworth,” Claire said, sounding very formal when all she may have intended was to be discrete. “I have just seen wonderful things in Mr. Longreaves’ library.”

“Did you indeed?” Max asked coolly. “And are they unlike anything you have previously seen?”

Claire straightened her back and nodded her head at him. “Oh, indeed they are, and really quite extraordinary.”

***

This conversation did nothing to improve Max’s disposition, though he was seated between two beautiful and witty ladies at dinner and they flattered him by competing for his attention. Before long, his neck was stiff for repeatedly turning back and forth, and he forgot which lady was who. One was the daughter of the Duke of Belgreen and was named either Priscilla or Prudence. The other was the widow of Piers Goodson, and knew a great deal about the weather and its effect on the size of cantaloupe melons. Both were blond and slender and of age. After a while, Max realized it did not matter so very much.

Claire sat not so far away, but on the opposite side of the table. She continued to enjoy herself with the blighter Charles Longreaves, who had avid competition from a gentleman directly across from her. That man, Lord Wallace, seemed very concerned that Claire consume her meal heartily, as if he doubted she had been fed for all the time she was in Yorkshire.

Camille sat next to Claire, breaking the seating pattern so that Claire might be helpful to her. Without saying a word, Claire knew when to give her friend a fork or pass her the dinner breads, or lead her hand to the wine goblet. Camille was silent through dinner, undoubtedly absorbing all the sensations of the party around her.

At the other end of the long table, James Cosgrove was also silent, interested only in watching Camille.

It was all rather boring, and somewhat predictable. Max realized he did not miss so very much by not mingling in society all these years, though judging by Priscilla and Prudence and Mrs. Goodson, they missed him. It was wonderful flattery, though not sufficient to keep him engaged.

As the two ladies spoke, Max leaned back in his chair so they might talk to each other across his chest. He studied the elegant brocaded walls opposite him, the bright candles in the sconces, and the fine paintings hung with wire from the moldings. The Longreaves had a very fine eye for light and color, he decided, as was evident by the art they selected for the most public part of their home.

One painting in particular caught his attention, and his eyes returned to it again and again. It was of a woodland, with shafts of bright light breaking through the heavy canopy of leaves and branches. It reminded him of his own property and how sun and shadow added unexpected color to the landscape. An accomplished artist, such as the one who painted this, would see the contrasts at once.

But Max was reminded of more than his property when he studied the painting, for memories of his mother became suddenly vivid and he could imagine her voice discussing such a scene.

It was quite odd and unexpected and not altogether a welcomed moment. If one intended to visit one’s lover for the first time in over a week, it would not do to be thinking about one’s mother.

***

Claire heard his horse arrive at the stable behind her house, and caught the sound of men talking in hushed tones. After years of doing nothing that would even vaguely compromise her respectability, she was cashing in all her coins for this night, and perhaps more to follow. Her butler already knew to expect Lord Wentworth, the groom awaited the arrival of his horse, and the servants were instructed not to enter their lady’s bedchamber in the morning; if Arista had not already told the staff about the affair in Yorkshire, they certainly would be well aware of it after this night.

But what did it matter? Claire only endeavored to do good all her life, and her exemplary behavior brought her a marriage forged in blind obedience and tarnished by brutality, and a widowhood of pleasant dinner conversations. No man managed to turn her head as did Maxwell Brooks, and make her forget all the others. For the first time in years she looked forward to each day. For the first time in all her life, she truly loved someone and could convince herself that he loved her as well.

The servants would certainly talk, as would the servants of her neighbors. Several friends of the family would express disappointment in her behavior. Marissa would be perfectly delighted for her.

Claire heard Max enter the back door reserved for tradespeople and servants, and the sound of his footsteps echoing on the uncarpeted stairway cut away behind the more gracious corridors of her home. She opened her door so that he would not need to wander about the hall, and he nearly fell in upon her.

“I was listening for you,” he said softly, pulling her close.

“And I heard you stomping about like a farmer with mud on your boots,” she said, before his lips closed on hers. It is said that absence makes love grow stronger, but once they were together, it seemed like they had never been apart. Max closed the door behind them, and gently waltzed her closer to her bed, pausing only so they could breathe.

“Max, what are you wearing?” Claire said, pushing slightly away. He was dressed much as he had been at their first meeting in the woods, when she thought him a rogue and he played along with her scheme to direct him away from Brookside Cottage. “I suppose I should be grateful you no longer have that wretched beard.”

He rubbed his chin and smiled. “To grow such a thing requires some work, dear lady. And I suppose, from the tone of your voice, you would not be appreciative. But you do not like my clothes? I thought it would be an excellent disguise of sorts, so your neighbors would not guess who was coming to call in the dark hours of the night.”

“Once the servants know, the neighbors will be fully apprised of your comings and goings. And once the neighbors know . . .”

“Should I expect a visit from your brother?” Max asked, pulling off his jacket. He folded it carefully and then tossed it in the general direction of a chair.

“My brother would care more about the unstylish cut of your jacket than the fact it is present in my bedroom.”

“You are rather bothered by my wardrobe, I see. Well, until I get to Armadale’s tailor, I shall have no choice but to remove everything while I am in your company.”

While Claire watched him, Max tugged at the knot of his cravat for a moment, and then dropped his hands to his side.

“Of what would your brother particularly disapprove, do you think?” he asked.

Claire felt a sputter of impatience, wondering why he wished to discuss her indifferent brother when there were much more engaging topics for this evening, like the birthmark on Max’s thigh. She opened her lips to protest, when she caught the glint in his eyes, and took her cue.

“He would utterly despair of this rag of a cravat,” she sighed, and tucked her finger into its knot to loosen it.

“I will have you know I only just purchased it and it is of the finest Oriental silk,” he protested, though not too emphatically.

The cravat followed Max’s jacket to the floor near the chair.

“And what of this vest? My brother would think that embroidery is regrettably provincial,” Claire said as she unbuttoned the elegant garment.

Max frowned. “I am rather fond of this vest, I brought it back from Paris.”

“And everyone knows the French have no sense of style.” Claire dropped the vest to the floor, too impatient to bother with aiming for the chair. She leaned into Max’s chest and his arms promptly came around to embrace her. He smelled of soap and leather and, impossibly, of the Yorkshire woods. She would be perfectly satisfied to remain like this forever, but this night held the promise for much more.

“I regret to inform you that my brother would likely disapprove of this shirt,” she said, as she started to tug at his waist.

“He seems an extraordinarily fussy gentleman,” Max said softly. “On what grounds do you suspect he would vote to censure it?”

“You do not know my dear brother. He would censure on no greater grounds than that I would approve. And I do approve this garment on you, you understand.” Claire slipped it off, and licked his bare chest. “But I prefer it not on you.”