by Reid, Stacy
One of Max’s uncles—the second son—and his grandfather had died together in a carriage accident a month before he was born. Then Max’s father had passed away a few years ago. His father had left behind a grieving wife, Max, twin younger sons of nineteen and two girls of marriable age. However, Max’s uncle—the earl—despite being married to the most delightful lady had had two daughters and no male offspring when he went onto his rewards only eight months ago after a long bout with illness.
Max had even thought that the publication of his book only a few weeks before might have helped the man to his grave. His uncle’s widow had laughed tearily at that, saying the earl had been ill for some time, and it had been a wonderful blessing that he’d been with them this long. Max hadn’t known it had been that serious, and though he hadn’t been very close to his uncle, he had been deeply affected.
“Or a wife,” he finally said, recalling his mother's and sisters’ argument that he would need a wife sooner than later to fulfill the most important part of his inheritance—securing an heir and a spare. Or, as his mother had said, ‘considering what happened to your uncles, you need at least six boys, I say!’
Max hadn’t objected to his mother’s ridiculousness. He understood his duty to his title and his family. It had been over a month since he’d acknowledged that he desired a wife, children, and that his beautiful and ornately designed abode needed to start feeling like a home. His mother, his oldest sister, and two brothers who were all happily married with children of their own kept asking him when he would take the plunge into domestic bliss considering the new and very important responsibilities which had fallen on his shoulders.
The certainty that he wanted to get married sooner than later filled his heart. “I do not think that to be possible,” he mused softly.
“What?”
“To seek a wife for this season.”
Chapter 3
“Not a wife!” George hissed.
His friend’s indignation was enough to pull a smile to Max’s lips. “Not a wife, eh?”
“This is no laughing matter!” George said crossly, folding his arms across his chest and glowering.
“I think in your outrage, you forget my new responsibilities.”
“Well. Your family is still in mourning. That reason is good enough to not even think about marriage yet!”
“I never said I would be a damn fool and marry her now. Of course, I would wait until the mourning period for my uncle is over. But I could start searching.”
George spluttered his outrage, lowering his arms. “No! No! It is inconceivable you should marry without taking at least six lovers first.”
Max scowled. “Six? Why in God’s name would I need to do that?”
“Good God, man, to move from a virgin state to a wife is criminal. It is the ghastliest thing I’ve ever heard. Only bedding one woman in your entire life. Are you even a man?”
Max laughed, undaunted by his friend’s horror. “I find the notion vastly appealing. Our brides do come to us chaste; I can go to my wife in the same manner.”
“You must…my friend,” George entreated, placing a hand over his chest as if he had been grievously wounded. “If six seems too much, you must take at least three ladies to your bed before settling down to the taste and feel of one quim for the rest of your life. For me, I beg this.”
At Max’s silence, George cleared his throat. “Has there…have you ever been tempted to take a woman?”
Irritation flashed through him. “I am not a damn monk, of course, I’ve thought of it.”
“Then, by God, man, at least let me understand why?” his friend demanded plaintively.
“It hardly matters.” Max stood and went over to the fireplace, peering into the flickering flames. Why did he feel so restless?
“Is it…is there someone specific who has your interest?” George now sounded curious and contemplative.
A weakness assailed him, and Max’s heart tumbled over painfully inside his chest. “There was, but she is no longer in my heart.”
“Still, tell me about her.”
“No.” It made no sense to speak of a girl he had once loved. A girl who had stolen his heart and dreams for many years. A girl who, with one thought of her, had reduced every other woman to a shadow. A girl who had married another at the directive of her parents.
He had been away from England for several years, leaving a year after his father’s death, and exactly six months after that encounter in her bedroom. Max had always dreamed of exploring and writing about other cultures, a dream born of having traveled to Istanbul, Egypt, Mesopotamia, Rome, Greece, and even to the West Indies with his father as a lad. His mother had urged him to go, and during his travels—revisiting the old places he’d seen with his father and exploring new ones—he ended up experiencing many cultures, reading many erotic pieces of literature on the different beliefs, customs, and sexual practices. At other times, in the bawdy houses he’d even observed sensual acts of such varied delights and had befriended a woman once, who’d been a mistress to an Indian rajah.
Max had discovered something after a while. All women could please a man and be well pleasured in return. Then to deal with his frustration of not missing the one lady who’d ever captured his attention, he’d poured his fantasies onto paper, one woman his erotic muse—Amalie. Even now, her name was a silent whisper of unfulfilled longing in his thoughts.
How long had it been since he’d seen Amalie, five years and three months? How long had he loved her for? Forever. But Max did not think he loved her still. A few years ago, memories of her stopped haunting him, and his fevered whisper of ‘Thank Christ’ had been heartfelt.
He’d been a boy of nineteen when she’d been whisked off to town for her season. Of course, only a few months later, their country village had been agog with the news that she was engaged to marry a viscount. A very powerful and wealthy man, a gentleman of Society who had almost been thrice her age. She’d been a sweet, carefree girl of eighteen, and her husband had been eight and fifty.
With all the stupidity of youth and unrequited love beating in his heart, Max had rushed to London with the firm intention of begging her to marry him instead. Except he had been too late. He’d arrived at St. George’s Chapel in Hanover Square as they had been exiting, and she was being led up into the Viscount’s carriage.
Max still recalled how ethereal she’d appeared in that peach dress with it a profusion of delicate lace and trimmings. The coronet of flowers around her vibrant red hair had been set in an elegant coiffure that made her appear far more mature than a girl of eighteen.
Somehow, she had sensed his stare at the edge of the crowd. Amalie had glanced up and, for a breathless moment, such joy had lit in those unfathomable wintry blue eyes when she spied him. Her sweet, sensual lips had shaped his name before widening into a smile. And how that had made him happy, for a few minutes before as she’d descended the steps those lips had been flat, her face emotionless, her fingers clenched tightly over a posy of flowers. Amalie had pulled her hands from her husband’s and had stepped toward Max before she had faltered.
Time, distance, and her marriage to another man had withered away in an instant. But instead of running to him, an impossibility he had known, she had lifted a hand in a small wave. And her eyes. God…in her eyes, he had seen such need, and he had almost sunk to his knees in his despair. How had he never noticed she shared his regard? All those days walking by the glen in the countryside, racing their horses through the forest, the conversations they had on their long walks, he had always thought his affection one-sided.
“Where did you go?” George asked.
Pulled from his reverie, Max cleared his throat, not liking the tight feeling banding across his chest. It had taken him so long to stop thinking about her, and with just a mere thought of their past history, his heart had raced and a long-denied need which had been buried layers deep in ice trembled.
“I went to her…a place which I had not visi
ted for more than two years.” He sat down his glass on the mantel and made his way to the door. “I am taking a lady home with me tonight.”
George grinned and fell into step beside him. “And…and if the lady should discover that you have no damn idea what you are doing?”
Max chuckled. “I do know what I am doing.” He tapped his head. “I have all the theories right here.”
George scowled. “A lover on paper is not the same when you have a lush, naked woman before you.”
“We'll see,” Max said with a touch of arrogance as he opened the door and made his way back to the thick of the ballroom.
Moving through the packed room, he made his way to the upper bowers, and leaned against a thick, white column. A flash of blue caught his gaze and his entire awareness became arrested. How had Max missed her upon his arrival? Surely all of his senses should have surged to life, even if he had not seen her in the crowd. Breathe, he ordered himself, unable to remove his stare from the ravishing vision standing on the sidelines, watching everyone else dance.
Max gripped the edge of the balcony railing, and stared, shock and unfathomable needs arrowing through his entire body. Amalie. He’d been mingling in Society for several weeks now and had never encountered her. It had been a deliberate choice to not think about her, lest he slid back into that longing to have her by his side, knowing it to be impossible.
Amalie took a glass of champagne from a footman, politely thanking him, her gaze scanning the crowd. She tilted her head at one point, and it was as if she searched for someone. Who?
“Ah, the wicked enchantress has caught your regard,” George said, coming to stand by his side with two glasses of brandy. He held out one to Max, who took it, lifting the drink to his lips for a healthy swallow.
“She is known as the wicked enchantress?”
“Hmmm, you’ve heard of the scandal which rocked the quiet streets of our Mayfair some years ago?”
Five years and three months ago.
Without awaiting his reply, the marquess continued, “It seems she was seen running from her own townhouse, a certain lord hot on her heels. Whatever they were about, no one could tell, but the speculation…” George smacked his lips. “The speculation was rife and rabid. Worse, her husband died that very evening! She disappeared presumably for mourning, and returned to Society three years ago, wealthy and even more astonishingly beautiful. The very lord who had chased her…has continued his pursuit, but the lady paid him no heed. In fact, he became a laughingstock, he was so besotted. And that my friend increased her allure a hundredfold. What lingered between those thighs to have a man like Lord Peter Spencer behaving the fool?”
Something dark twisted through Max. “It is not the mark of a gentleman to speak so about a lady. I have the urge to knock your teeth in.”
Provoking humor lit in George’s eyes. “I am only repeating what everyone else is saying.”
“I do not wish to hear it and you should not bloody repeat it!”
“Well, let me tell you about Spencer then,” his friend continued undaunted by Max’s cool displeasure.
“He married a Scottish heiress last year, and she whisked him away to that godforsaken castle of hers.” George nudged Max on the shoulder. “If you should be so fortunate, it is Lady Weatherston you should try to take to bed…to relieve your little problem. The rumor is that wicked little mouth of Viscountess Weatherston is delightful.”
Max clenched his jaw tightly and did his damnedest to retain his composure. “Is that so?”
“Hmm hm, I am certain it is another baseless speculation because no man here can boast of being her lover. And believe me, my friend, they have tried most earnestly. If you succeed, you would be the first to my knowledge, and that, my friend, would already move your status from legendary to godlike.”
“You are bloody ridiculous,” Max said with an icy bite. “If I should approach Lady Weatherston, it is not for some damn tryst.” Bloody hell, why would I even go to her?
It was she who had rendered everyone else in his life and thoughts to ashes. The revelation that she’d taken none of the ton’s rakes as her lover robbed Max of breath and pierced deep into his heart. Yet he knew she was not as innocent as she seemed. Years ago, her husband had gotten her caught up into his debauched games, and Max had almost fallen prey once to their wiles. He would be a damn fool to be embroiled in anyone’s games again. Max believed in faithfulness, love, and fidelity. Amalie was a woman who had no reserve in living in gray areas.
You damn hypocrite, he chided himself, having never been the kind of man to shy away from self-introspection. He had willingly gone into that bedchamber to debauch her, even though he had known she was married. It was the knowledge that her husband also lingered that had pushed him to leave. And clearly, they had continued their games with Spencer. “I am not interested,” Max said flatly.
“Come, man—” George began, his brow furrowing.
Max slapped him on his shoulder. “I’ll be able to find a lover on my own…even if I bumble and make an arse out of myself, I think I’ll be fine. I am not certain what I was thinking of mentioning it to you.”
George scowled, narrowing his gaze. “I will give you some pointers—”
“No need!” Perhaps the sense of wanting something else which had been haunting Max wasn’t to be found in an affair. Ignoring his friend, Max made his way down the stairs and through the crowd for the second time that evening.
Predictably his name rode the air—in shocked gasps, admiring tones, and scandalized awe. It amused and bewildered him in equal measure. Who would have thought an expression of his belief in how love should be between a man and his wife would have garnered him such a reputation?
His good friend Simon, Earl Benoit, who had once been skeptical that passion could be found with his wife, was now satisfied with his countess. He’d given his mistress her congé and had been filled with guilt that, what he had given to another for several months, should have been reserved solely for his wife. His countess hardly knew what to do with the change, but whenever Max saw them together, she peered at the man with unabashed adoration, and Simon himself seemed equally besotted.
“It is all thanks to your book, my friend,” Simon had said, slapping Max’s shoulder.
So, he supposed some good…or possibly much good had come from him publishing his blasted musings. Lady Benoit had introduced to Max’s notice a number of eligible females, hoping he would have chosen one as his wife.
Yet…
Max allowed his gaze to linger on Amalie. Feelings he’d thought long dead rose inside and swamped his senses. As if she felt his rude and provocative stare, she angled her head and met his stare…with a boldness he’d not known her for. Her mouth appeared sweet, startled, soft, and once again, his name shaped that alluring mouth. Max. Her eyes widened, and her fingers tightened around the champagne glass. Yet she did not look away from him but lifted her chin slightly, and an expression of civil indifference settled on her face.
How curious.
His heart jerked, and something hot and turbulent went through his body. Oddly, in the past, he’d never had such overwhelmingly lustful thoughts of her before. While he’d hungered to kiss her, he had craved their long walks and conversations more. Max leaned against the balustrade on the upper floor, cloaking himself in shadows so he could watch her without anyone noticing.
“Oh, I like it,” George murmured, coming up behind him, his voice rich with humor. “London’s wickedest lover still a virgin and in lust with Society’s most sought-after enchantress. I am not sure whether to worry for you, my friend, or envy you. I’ve never seen her look at a man like that before. In truth, I had started to doubt that she liked our sex.”
Drawn to her beguiling sensuality, Max kept her in his line of sight as he ignored his friend and made his way down the stairs. He couldn’t help staring, despite the ripple of a whisper. She seemed different, more self-assured, more composed, that hint of naïveté which had surr
ounded her had gone. And George had been right, Amalie was even lovelier than when Max had last seen her.
Her hair gleamed like the golden-red hue of sunset under the candle-lit chandeliers. Her throat looked soft, supple, shapely above the low-cut bodice of her gown. It did not cling to her figure, but there was a suggestion of lush, nubile curves beneath that silken dress. Her smooth skin glowed with a pale golden undertone as if she spent a lot of time outdoors. Dark red ringlets curled on her forehead and nape, softening her stunning loveliness.
Memories seared through him of the time he had foolishly thought she would leave her husband to be with him. Hell, he wasn’t sure what he had believed, for a divorce had not been possible. Still, Max had willingly gone into her townhouse in Grosvenor Square at her invitation.
The years fell away, and he could see on her face that they thought of the same night—memories flowed between them, the shyness she’d exuded as she’d taken him to her bedchamber, how hopeful and in love he had felt when she had confessed how much she admired him and longed for him though she knew it to be inappropriate.
Max had been so overcome he hadn’t paused to think…to wonder too much about the situation. He had taken her into his arms and kissed her senseless.
How she had moaned and gripped his nape, arching her light, sweet body into his. And when he had slipped his fingers down to the valley between her thighs, with a passionate cry she had opened her thighs to his caress. He had rubbed her clitoris through her nightgown, and she had soaked the material with her delightful response.
As he’d tossed her onto the bed and started to strip from his jacket, something had made him glance up into a peephole where he’d seen a pair of eyes watching them. The shock of it had frozen him and blushing like a sweet innocent with tears filling her eyes, she had tried to explain.