“Very well,” Maximilian said with a grim nod. “Around seven o’clock?”
Charlotte blinked in surprise. What was Max about? She would barely have time to get home and dress! She opened her mouth to protest, but something in the set of his lips made her change her mind. “That would be fine.”
“Good day, then, Miss Trowbridge, Wroth.” As quickly as he had appeared, Maximilian rode off, and Charlotte stared after him. He was upset, but what about? And what package could he have for her? Something from the vicarage?
“I hope there is no difficulty at home,” she murmured.
“I very much doubt it,” Wroth said dryly.
Charlotte glanced over at him with no little surprise, for she had nearly forgotten his presence. Max had a nasty habit of overwhelming her senses. “Oh, my lord, I must apologize for cutting our ride short. You will forgive me, won’t you?”
“You leave me with no choice, Miss Trowbridge,” the marquis said evenly. Although his mouth was curved in amusement, Charlotte had the feeling that Wroth was not used to having his plans thwarted. In that case, she decided, the experience would do him good. He was doted upon entirely too much by the females of his acquaintance.
Men were such troublesome creatures! Charlotte would never have suspected, but dealing with them had become extremely tiresome. Sometimes they acted more childish than Kit or Jane. And the titled ones, like Wroth and Wycliffe, were the most spoiled of the lot—always expecting the world to stop and wait upon them!
In truth, she had been a little stunned to see Maximilian. Unlike her suitors, he usually disdained seeking her out and simply sent round a note with one of his innumerable servants. If he had not been riding in the park, he probably would have dispatched a messenger, Charlotte thought ungraciously, for she knew that nothing irritated him more than altering his schedule. The thought gave her pause.
“My lord?” Charlotte asked abruptly.
“Yes?” Wroth attended her easily.
“What day is it today?”
“It is Tuesday.” His answer made Charlotte duck her head in an effort to hide the smile that tugged at her lips. No wonder Max had been out of sorts! He was off his calendar. But why?
Charlotte firmly quelled the hope that cavorted in her breast and told herself, as she always did, that Max’s actions changed nothing. He was the Earl of Wycliffe, and she was only a country vicar’s daughter. And he would never see her as anything else.
* * *
Max was still angry. Charlotte faced those dark brows, lowered menacingly, and those eyes bright with something indefinable, and she felt her heart beat frantically in response. She was unafraid, regretfully; fear would have been easier to endure. It was excitement that made her breath catch. There was something about seeing him this way—viewing the fiery, passionate side of him he usually hid from the world—that set her pulse to racing. Charlotte summoned all her will to appear serene as she rose to greet him.
“Max! It is—”
He cut her off. “Please do not see him again,” he said tersely.
“Who?” Charlotte asked, genuinely mystified.
“Wroth! That is who, or have you so quickly forgotten the man you were with this afternoon?” His smooth voice was grating, his generous mouth unyielding.
“No, I have not forgotten, but—”
Her protest was again halted. “Although I am sure your cousin is fairly drooling over the prospect of Wroth coming up to scratch, let me advise you that he will not. He has been one of the ton’s most eligible bachelors for years now and has shown no sign of changing his ways. By all accounts, he has ice water running through his veins and has no intention of ever setting up his nursery. His dalliance with you can lead to nothing. You are not to see him again,” Maximilian ordered.
Charlotte seethed, anger rushing forth at his peremptory behavior. Did he think he was her father? God forbid! Papa was a doting, gentle, reasonable man, not a spoiled, rigid, overbearing aristocrat.
“Do not take that tone with me, my lord! I am not one of your lackeys! I do not know what has caused your foul mood, but until it improves, I do not care to speak to you! Now, if you will excuse me?” She turned on her heel to leave the room, but Max caught her arm.
Charlotte felt as if her heart would leave her chest, for it pounded against her ribs so forcefully as to break through them. If she turned, would he pull her against his hard body and kiss her, as he had on occasion before?
Very slowly, her breath held tightly and her breasts heaving with the force of her agitation, Charlotte faced him. With the same careful movement, she lifted her faltering eyes to his. They were dark, so murky and deep that she shivered, anticipation sliding up her spine. Her gaze fell to his lips in a subtle plea. Kiss me, Max...
With an oath, Max released his hold on her arm and stepped back as if she had burned him. Charlotte remained standing, separate from him now and trembling foolishly while she stared at him. Max returned her steady regard, and the air between them seemed to shimmer with heat as real and sudden as a furnace blast. They remained there for endless moments, struggling with desires that threatened to ignite until the smoldering, heavy silence was broken by a rustle in the doorway.
“Will you be wanting tea, miss?” asked a soft voice. Charlotte tore her gaze away from Max to notice the young serving girl Augusta had recently hired.
“Yes, please,” Charlotte managed to say. She stared after the girl then glanced at Max. Apparently totally unruffled by their exchange, he was now holding a parcel wrapped in paper. The strange mood obviously had passed, but Charlotte did not know whether to be relieved or disappointed. She moved to the settee and sat down, cursing the man for his ability to overwhelm her senses.
Max stepped toward her, holding out the parcel. “I brought something for you,” he said, and Charlotte’s irritation vanished. A gift from Max... Her heart soared as she lifted her eyes to his.
“I had them done up because I was not sure whether your aunt would be here, and I knew you would not care for her to see,” he explained. He leaned against the wall and grinned as Charlotte ripped the paper with as much as enthusiasm as Jenny opening a birthday present.
Books. She could tell by the weight of them, and she could think of nothing better. How quickly she had forgotten their shared scholarship in the frivolous atmosphere of London’s elite. Charlotte lifted the volumes one by one, running her fingers over the titles, her hands smoothing the bindings in a reverent gesture. Long after the silly season was over, she would have these to treasure, to stimulate her mind...
“Oh, Max!” Charlotte smiled at him. “How wonderful! I have heard that these are excellent translations. If only I have the time to read them,” she added wistfully. “And what is this? A picture book! How very thoughtful of you.”
“I thought you might enjoy glancing through it,” Max muttered. “Pittenger does justice to the most famous spots.”
“Oh, Max! Do not tell me you have been there yourself?” Charlotte asked, looking at him with new eyes.
Max tugged on his collar as if it suddenly choked him, and straightened. “Yes, I took the grand tour after school.”
Awed and excited, Charlotte let her worries about Augusta and her obligations to her family fade for the moment as she was caught up in the wonder of ancient Greece. “Do sit down, Max, and tell me about all these wonderful places,” she urged, patting absently at the place beside her.
“I do not wish to keep you, if you are going out this evening,” Max said a bit gruffly.
“I am not going anywhere,” Charlotte assured him. “Aunt Augusta is not well, and her friends are tired of squiring me about, I am afraid.” Seeing the look of annoyance on Max’s face, she gestured again for him to sit next to her. “Oh, please, Max,” she asked in a plaintive tone. “Can we not stay home one night?”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
With an undisguised relief that made Charlotte hide a smile, Max agreed that they need not go out. Sitting down cozily b
eside her, he began to tell fascinating stories about the drawings in Pittenger’s book. But, to her surprise, Charlotte found that concentrating on ancient mythology was not as easy as it once had been. The nearness of the elegant earl posed the difficulty, for whenever her arm brushed his or he leaned close to point out some hidden detail, Charlotte felt her heart race and her breath catch.
The serving girl provided a welcome diversion when she brought in the tea tray. “Thank you, Anna,” Charlotte said. “Perhaps you could fetch us some of those little cakes and the fruit tarts.” Charlotte tried to maintain an affected pose as she poured, but, with Anna’s departure, she was suddenly aware of how alone they were, seated together on the same settee. As usual, she had no idea how Max felt, but in her opinion, he was creating static more powerful than that of an electrical machine right here in Miss Thurgoode’s drawing room.
Her hands trembling, Charlotte turned to present Max with his teacup, but somehow she lost her hold and dropped it into his lap. “Oh!” she gasped instantly. She saw his widened eyes, knew the liquid was scalding hot and reached for the napkin. Retrieving the cup, she pressed the cloth against his inner thigh, and he emitted a strangled noise, making Charlotte certain that he was truly hurt. Nervously, she dabbed at his leg. “Oh, Max!”
His fingers flew to her wrist, closing around it tightly and effectively halting her ministrations. Bent toward him, Charlotte lifted her gaze to his as he cleared his throat to speak. “Tell me that you have never, ever done this to anyone else,” he said. His voice was strained, his mouth tight and his eyes wide and intent upon her.
Charlotte was not sure whether he was talking of the spills or the mopping up, but she could answer honestly on both counts. “I have never, ever done this to anyone else,” she echoed. It came out rather breathlessly, as if it were not a simple confession, but something more secretive and vaguely illicit.
Although Charlotte was not sure why, the room spun itself into a dizzying inferno again, so hot that she could hardly draw a breath. It affected her thinking, making her realize that if she leaned forward slightly, she could touch his lips with her own. She noted suddenly that her hand was still pressed against his pantaloons; his grip held her there.
Staring into his great brown eyes, murky with some unnamed emotion, Charlotte swiftly vaulted past concern for his clothing toward unresolved longing. With a boldness she was certain bordered on wickedness, she closed her fingers upon his thigh, gripping his leg intimately. It felt wonderful. Max’s muscles tightened beneath her touch, and his long, thick lashes drifted shut as he breathed her name. “Charlotte...”
Her body swelled and tingled, especially her breasts, which seemed suddenly ready to burst from her low-cut gown. Only inches from him, they ached, as if even the flimsy covering was too constricting. She was close enough to catch his clean scent, which sent its own heady shock waves through her, making her want to lean toward him when she knew she should move back.
She should move back. She told herself so, and yet, when Charlotte looked at Max—elegant, fastidious Max—vulnerable before her, she felt some kind of giddy, undefined power. His head was tilted back slightly, his eyes were closed, his lips parted, and Charlotte wanted nothing more than to take his mouth with her own.
Without thinking, she stretched upward slowly and pressed small, moist kisses along his jawline. “Charlotte...” He whispered her name like a low moan that sent a fission of excitement through her. Emboldened, she reached for his shoulders, as if to hold him to her will, and put her lips to his.
His reaction was instantaneous. His tongue burst into her mouth as if it had only been awaiting her invitation, and his hands closed upon her waist to pull her nearer. Suddenly, he was bending over her, pushing her back against the pillows of the settee, his body a delicious weight on top of her.
His chest was hard, crushing her breasts and abrading them through the thin material of her gown. Everywhere they touched her skin seemed to burn, and all the while his kisses plundered her, stealing her breath and her senses. Her cool, composed Max was acting like a starving man at his last meal. It was as if she had opened the gates to unleash a tempest, and Charlotte never wanted it to stop. Never.
She ran her hands down the smooth fabric of his finely cut coat, frustrated by all the layers that separated his body from hers. Finally, she found his buttocks, encased in tight pantaloons, and she stroked the taut muscles that leapt under her attention. He moved against her roughly in response, making her aware of the rigid press of his desire, and his eyes flew open.
Dark with passion, yet bright with a kind of startled, agonized look, they met her gaze and then dropped to the breasts that were so close to his face. “Do not move,” he whispered, his hands dropping to his sides. His voice broke, as though he were in pain, and Charlotte knew a restless ache herself, a need that began where they met, male to female.
Was this sin? She noticed a bead of sweat break out on his forehead as silence, hot and tense, reigned between them. Max continued to stare at the curve of her bosom like a man struggling with some inner demon, and Charlotte knew, suddenly, that she wanted him to lose his vaunted control, to let the tempest rage no matter what the cost.
She moved, thrusting her chest upward and pushing against his erection. “Charlotte!” He gave out a low, heated cry, of exultation or surrender, she did not know which, before he reached for her bodice. His fingertips brushed against the exposed curve of her bosom, making her lean into his touch, but did not stop there. He tugged at her gown as if to pull it down, and then, with a soft, impatient sound, he slipped his hand inside.
His fingers closed around her, gliding over her naked flesh, stroking her skin and rubbing her nipples until Charlotte thought she would surely die from the pleasure of it. For one glorious instant, she found heaven in his passionate groan, in watching Max as he lay hot and heavy upon her, his eyes closed and his hand buried in her bodice.
But a gasp and the clatter of a tray brought them both up short, and Max’s wonderful heat was gone in a flurry of clothes adjusting, twisting and straightening. When Charlotte was finally seated properly again, she saw Anna, still standing the doorway, staring at them as if she had just seen a ghost. The entire tray of cakes and tarts lay at her feet, obviously dropped by the startled serving maid, who had a hand to her mouth and a flush that went to the roots of her hair.
“Beg pardon, miss, my lord! Beg pardon!” she stuttered.
Charlotte heard Max take control of the situation, coolly contriving some excuse for what had to have looked like a lover’s embrace. With the easy authority of an aristocrat, he would both calm down Anna and make sure Aunt Augusta never heard a word of gossip about the incident.
Darting a glance toward the red-faced maid, Charlotte wondered just how much the girl had seen. Although Max’s form must have hid the worst of her indiscretion, there was no doubt that the Earl of Wycliffe had been lying atop an unmarried miss—and she a vicar’s daughter.
At the memory, Charlotte had the grace to blush herself.
* * *
Maximilian was going over the household accounts. Once a month he met with his London steward and made sure that all was in order. If his staff was suddenly spending thrice the amount on wine, he would know why—or find the culprit who was swilling it without his knowledge. He prided himself on keeping abreast of the latest prices. There were no spendthrifts among his servants.
Immersed in a column of figures, Maximilian did not even look up when a knock sounded on the door. He frowned irritably, for he always left strict instructions not be disturbed when he was in conference. “Enter,” he called.
Maximilian finished his calculations before lifting his eyes to the door where his butler stood. Staid, morally upright and loyal, Hoskins had been serving Maximilian since he first established his own household. And with just one glance at him, Maximilian knew at once that something out of the ordinary had occurred to ruffle Hoskins’s feathers.
“She is here, my
lord,” the butler said, giving Maximilian a baleful stare.
“Who is here?” Maximilian snapped, his brows lowering.
“Lady Wycliffe, your mo—”
“Do not put that hated moniker to me, you old fustian!” called a high but strong feminine voice that wafted into the room from behind Hoskins.
Maximilian flinched as he recognized the unmistakable tones of his mother. His steward and butler, true to their training, did not bat an eye at the woman’s words, and he took a moment to admire the caliber of his staff. Then he stood. “We shall resume later, Egremont,” he said.
Sibylle was in the gallery, moving with her typical boundless energy and grace. Maximilian had often wondered how someone so tiny could be so lively. She was dressed in what he was certain was the newest of French fashions, the bottle-green silk cut so low over her small bosom as to be practically indecent. And he wanted her to sponsor Charlotte? He felt a moment’s misgiving before stepping toward her.
“Madame.” She flitted to him like a butterfly and brushed her lips against his cheeks. As long as he could remember, Maximilian had presented his face to her in this parody of affection. “You are here.”
“Naturally, I am here. How could I not respond to such a summons?” Her mouth curving into a soft pout, she pulled his letter from her reticule and waved it about. “The great Earl of Wycliffe sends for me, like a servant,” she complained. “What can I do but rush to do his bidding?”
Maximilian vowed not to let her bother him.
“If I were not so intrigued by your note, I would have stayed in Paris. La, Maximilian,” she breathed. “I had the most wonderful hotel in the Rue de Clichy. And the food! How I shall miss the Beauvilliers! How can I eat this English slop after I have dined on the finest? How could you drag me away, you cruel boy, when I only just settled in?”
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