by Julia Quinn
“Bloody hell, Soph! Max will be furious.”
“His pride will be pricked,” she agreed far more calmly than she felt.
“Yes, but…” John raked a hand through his hair, oblivious of the fact that he was mussing it. “Max never answers your missives.”
“No, he doesn’t. But this time he will be forced to. I won’t take a note from the solicitor in answer to this question.” Sad as it was, that was how Sophia and her erstwhile husband communicated: She wrote whenever an issue involving their joint property arose—usually about business matters and the sale of land or the return on some investment and the such—and he never answered. Each and every time she was at the point of taking matters into her own hands, she would receive word from Mr. Prichard saying that the issue, whatever it was, had been seen to.
Sophia’s stomach rumbled yet again. “Where is our hostess? I’m famished.”
John lifted his head and looked across the room. “Lady Neeley’s by the door, speaking to Lady Mathilda. And—” His brows snapped down and he leaned forward, blinking rapidly, as if trying to clear his eyes.
“What is it?” she asked.
His brows slowly climbed to their normal height as he turned a serious look her way. “B’damn, your missive worked, and all too well. He’s here, Sophia. Max has returned.”
Sophia’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, though no sound rang out. Everything around her faded into nothing as blood rushed to her head, her heart galloping as if she were running uphill and not standing in a drawing room in the best part of town. She simply could not credit it. Her mind whirled around the thought, skittered toward it, but refused to touch it.
John placed his hands on her shoulders, bending to look into her eyes. “Sophie? Did you hear—”
“Yes,” she gasped, placing a trembling hand on her forehead. Max. Here. Good God. “But—how? He w-would have only gotten the letter—”
“I don’t know,” John said. He looked over her head in the direction he’d seen Max, then gave her shoulders a squeeze before releasing her. “You had better collect yourself. He’s coming this way.”
Sophia turned and looked—and then forgot about being hungry, forgot that her brother stood at her side, forgot that her new shoes pinched and her feet hurt from standing so long. All she knew was that Max—the man she’d thought she’d loved; the man who had promised never to leave her, but had; the man who had been her husband for two wonderful months and then walked out without a word—Max was across the room, making his way toward her.
He was so tall and broad shouldered, his thick hair still as dark as night, his eyes the same cutting silver that she still saw in her dreams. Emotion flooded through her, clutching her throat painfully.
In all the times she’d imagined this moment, she’d never thought she’d have to deal with such an overwhelming swell of sentiment. It is just the shock, she told herself desperately. Yes, that’s what it is—shock. Once I’m able to grasp that he is really here, really walking toward me, I will be able to act correctly.
John touched her arm. “Are you well?”
Using every ounce of strength she possessed, she wrenched her gaze from Max. “I am fine.” She glanced around the room and realized with a sinking heart that she was not the only one who had noticed Max. Several other people had seen him and were now pointing in his direction and whispering. Sophia knew what would come next—all those people would remember that she was also here, and once again she’d have to face a maelstrom of rumors and innuendo. “I wish we could leave.”
“We can. No one would fault you for refusing to be in the same room as your husb—”
Sophia sliced a virulent glare at her brother. “Do not call Maxwell Hampton my husband. He was never my husband, though at first, I believed he lov—” Raw emotion clutched her once again, and this time tears dampened her eyes.
Blast it! She had no wish to appear weepy when she spoke to Max, especially not with so many people watching. Anger would protect her from tears. She forced herself to remember all those years ago, when Max had walked out. She remembered the talking, the pitying glances, and the hollow feeling of being alone, sleeping alone, awaking alone, eating breakfast alone, going to church alone. All of the things she’d been forced to do because her husband, in a fit of pique, had walked out of their house and never returned. Warm, familiar anger stirred in her veins.
“Hello, Standwick.” Max’s deep voice seemed to fill the air and heat it.
John nodded briefly. “Easterly. How are you?”
So polite, so formal. Which was a good thing, as several people had edged closer, hoping to hear their conversation. Everything said would be repeated, discussed, and analyzed. Taking a deep breath, Sophia forced herself to meet Max’s gray gaze—and immediately wished she hadn’t.
From a distance, he had appeared much the same. But up close, she could see that his face was harder now; the slash of cheekbones more arrogant, if that was possible. Strands of silver were threaded through his hair at the temple, which gave him a slightly saturnine appearance. He was leaner, and somehow larger, at the same time, as if he’d grown in presence somehow. But it was more than that—beneath his urbane gaze was a streak of red-hot anger. It seared through her, heating her skin like a roaring fire.
“Max,” she managed to say through suddenly dry lips. “H-How nice to see you.”
He nodded once, his gaze traveling slowly over her, touching on her hair, her eyes, her lips. A jolt of recognition flickered through her, a rampant fire that made her shiver and melted her resolve to appear unmoved. She had to fight the impulse to take a step forward, toward the man who had left her so callously, toward the man who would, if she gave him the chance, reject her yet again so swiftly, so certainly, that her heart would finally break.
The realization lit her ire and fanned her irritation back to its normal heights. Damn him. It was all she could do to force her mouth into a false smile and say through lips suddenly stiff, “It has been a long time.”
He nodded curtly. “So it has.”
Just the sound of his voice sent a tremble through her.
He reached out and took her limp hand from her side. Then he bowed and brushed his lips over the back of her glove. To her utter dismay, a jolt of lust hit her, fanning over her skin, tightening her breasts, her nipples beading as if in anticipation.
She closed her eyes and let the wave channel through her. How could she have forgotten this? There had always been something raw and physical between them. A connection of the basest kind, she realized as she fought to control her traitorous body and searched for some words to smooth over the stretching silence.
Say something! she told herself. Everyone is looking. Waiting. But somehow, her body and mind were no longer speaking of their own accord, and instead, her fingers tightened over his, as if to never let go.
And there they stood, looking at one another, hands clasped, neither speaking, equal amounts of anger and lust pulsing between them.
John cleared his throat. “Ah…Sophia?”
Heat flushed her cheeks and Sophia yanked her hand back to her side. Good God, how silly that must have looked! She didn’t risk a glance at Max; she couldn’t stand to see the smirk that must now be on his face. “I—I’m sorry. I was just—I’m afraid—I’m just—”
“Famished,” John said smoothly. “As are we all. I wonder when dinner will be served?”
“Soon, I hope,” Max replied, his voice deeper than before, as if he, too, was shaken. His gaze remained on Sophia. “You’ve changed your hair,” he said abruptly.
Her hand moved toward her head. Of course. He’d always wanted her to grow her hair long, but she never had, declaring it took too much time to put up. But after he’d left, she’d felt the ridiculousness of those words. “I haven’t cut it since—” She caught herself just in time. It was a trick, an attempt for her to lay her heart bare so that he could stomp it into the ground. But she was no fool. “It is rather l
ong.” She swallowed. “So. Max. What brings you to London?”
Something in his eyes flared, a flash of tightly controlled anger that was frightening in its intensity. “You know very well what brought me here. We have much to talk about, we two. I will call on you in the morning.”
Blast him! Did he have to speak so peremptorily? Sophia lifted her chin and said frostily, “I will not be home in the morning.”
His gaze narrowed and he stepped closer, his broad shoulders blocking the light from the candelabra. “I will be there at ten.”
“I have visits at ten.”
“Then I will come at nine. We can breakfast while we talk.” Sophia stiffened in outrage and a humorless smile touched his lips. “Did you expect pleasantries? If you did, you were sadly mistaken. I do not take threats kindly.”
“I thought to force a quick answer from you, not a visit. Besides, it wasn’t a threat. It was a promise.”
“I don’t take those kinds of promises well, either.”
“Yes, well, it doesn’t matter, for you cannot come tomorrow. I will not be home at nine, either.”
He raised his brows. “You are forgetting something.”
“What’s that?”
“I know you. You do not rise early in the mornings. You like to lay in bed….” His voice feathered to a halt, deep and warm, both threat and promise in the depths.
John cleared his throat again. “Yes…well…I uhm—” He glanced helplessly at Sophia.
“I…I…” Damn. What could she say? No matter what, she had to meet Max face-to-face sooner or later. “Very well. I will see you at breakfast. But I eat very, very early.”
His gaze narrowed. “How early?”
She started to say six but caught herself just in time. Discomforting Max was one thing, but getting up before it was properly light was another. “Eight,” she said, temporizing. That was still four entire hours earlier than she normally ate. Her servants would be up in arms.
“Very well. Eight it will be.” He recaptured her hand, only this time, the kiss he pressed to her fingers was more substantial, the heat of his mouth burning through the soft material of her glove.
Sophia’s breath fluttered, her legs trembled. After all these years, after all the hurt she had so carefully built into a solid wall of anger, the scoundrel still had the ability to turn her legs into water with the most simple of touches. Blast him to hell.
Lady Neeley let out a cry—something about her bracelet’s clasp being broken. Max reluctantly released her hand, gave John a respectful bow, then returned to their hostess’s side.
As soon as Max was out of earshot, John said, “Sophia, we don’t have to stay if you don’t wish. I’m certain everyone would understand.”
No they wouldn’t. Oh, they would pretend to understand and offer their support, and all the while they’d laugh behind their fans. Sophia knew exactly what the world thought of a left-behind wife—a horrid concoction of pity and superiority, all of it bitter and none of it palatable. She lifted her chin. “Never let it be said that a mere Hampton had rousted a Throckmorton from the field of battle.”
John adjusted his cravat as if it had grown a notch too tight. “Do you think he’ll grant the annulment?”
“Not without cost.”
John appeared troubled. “What cost?”
“That,” Sophia said grimly, “is the question.”
Chapter 2
And as if the excitement of the missing bracelet wasn’t enough to fill a column, allow This Author to be the first to inform—
Viscount Easterly has returned to London!
Indeed, the prodigal nobleman appeared quite unexpectedly at Lady Neeley’s ill-fated supper and surely would have remained the prime source of gossip had Lady N’s bracelet not gone so inconveniently missing. By all appearances, Lady Easterly was unaware that her husband planned to attend, and according to several witnesses, the pair were shooting positive daggers at each other throughout the supper—or rather, throughout the soup course, which is all the guests were allowed to eat before the evening fell quite apart.
Indeed, one lady commented (quite callously, in This Author’s opinion) that it was too bad the evening was forced to a premature end; surely the Easterlys would have provided excellent entertainment had their fury been allowed to continue unchecked. It would have been, the aforementioned lady added, a scandalous scene to end all scandalous scenes.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 29 MAY 1816
The next morning, Mr. Prichard entered the sparsely furnished antechamber of his office. He halted on seeing a visitor standing beside the window, face tilted down to observe the street below. A high brimmed hat shadowed the man’s face, his broad form blocking the early morning light.
“I am sorry,” Prichard said, trying not to sound surprised. It was a rare occurrence that anyone reached the office before he did. “May I assist you?”
The man turned his head, the early morning light slanting across his face.
Prichard took a startled step forward. “My lord! How wonderful—when did you arrive—I—” His voice would go no further.
A deep ripple of laughter broke from the viscount, the somber expression dispelled with a peculiarly sweet smile. He removed his hat, the sun lighting the planes of his face and glinting off his black hair. “I am informing you of my return this very instant.” He spread his arms wide. “Behold, the prodigal son returneth.”
It had been years since the solicitor had visited Viscount Easterly in Italy. The intervening years had changed the man; he had grown broader of shoulder and leaner of appearance. There was a hardness, a straight line of lip and brow that was far more somber than the man’s thirty-two years warranted. Of course, that was only natural, considering everything that had transpired. Indignation filled Mr. Prichard’s heart. “You should have never been forced to leave. It is a disgrace that—” He faltered to a halt. The viscount had just thrust his hand forward, as if to shake hands.
Mr. Prichard gulped. “I—It would be unseemly if I were to—”
Max took the man’s hand and shook it firmly. Living on his own had shown him several things, one of which was the value of a true heart. “Come, Prichard! I’ve entrusted you with my soul, as it were. The least I can do is shake your hand.”
Mr. Prichard’s thin face heated. “Your father never would have approved of—”
“My father lost the family fortune by the time I was sixteen. While I esteem his worthy qualities, there were things about him that I have chosen not to repeat.” At one time, Max would have cut out his own tongue rather than admit such a home truth about his father. But the time for politeness was long past. “Had you been a lesser man, you might have robbed me blind whilst I was gone. You did not and for that, I thank you.”
Prichard gulped a disclaimer before gesturing toward his office.
Max tucked his hat under his arm as he preceded the solicitor into the warmly lit room and found a chair nearest the desk. As he took his seat, his gaze wandered to the window, to the familiar sight of London’s soot-covered buildings and the welcome sound of English voices raised in greeting as street vendors lined the cobblestones.
Prichard took his seat behind the desk, curiosity burning brightly in his gaze. “My lord, I am so glad to see you! Have you been to see the viscountess?”
“We dined together last night, after a fashion.” And what a shambles that had been. Lady Neeley’s blasted bracelet had gone missing and she’d raised such a rude fuss that everyone had left the dinner in high dungeon. Which was fine, as far as Max was concerned. It had been pure hell sitting in a room so close to Sophia, and yet not being able to even look her way.
He shifted in his seat, restlessness making his knees ache. “She looked well.” Better than well. She had appeared radiantly healthy.
“So the viscountess was happy to see you?”
“She did not flee the room. I took that as an encouraging sign.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a
folded missive, and handed it to Prichard. “Read this.”
The solicitor took a pair of wire spectacles out of his pocket and placed them on his nose, then squinted at the letter. “She has your uncle’s diary? The uncle who supposedly had an affair with the queen?”
“Yes. The diary was locked in the vault and I didn’t think to take it with me when I left so quickly. Apparently, Sophia found it. If the diary is made open to the public, the parentage of half the ton could be called into question.”
The solicitor handed the missive back to Max. “Would she do such a thing?”
Max smiled faintly. “She is as pigheaded as I.”
“You seemed the perfect couple. I have often wondered if perhaps you’d been a trifle precipitous in deciding to leave the viscountess.”
“What else could I have done? Take her with me into exile? Condemn her to the same hell to which she had condemned me? I couldn’t—” He clamped his mouth closed. Damn it, it had been twelve years. He should be used to this feeling, the sense of loss, of betrayal. But somehow, he wasn’t. “Lady Easterly made her decision and I made mine.”
“My lord, I do not blame you for leaving; you had every right.” The solicitor shifted in his chair. “Whatever the circumstances, I must say that you have been more than generous in dispersing funds to her ladyship. I find it curious how you have managed to bring in such sums of money in these uncertain times. You have never explained that to me.”
“No,” Max replied calmly, “I never have.”
Prichard pursed his lips and then said in a slow, cautious manner, “Last month I went to visit Lord Shallowford. His lordship has an extensive art collection.”
Max kept his expression perfectly bland. “How pleasant for him.”
“He is quite proud of his collection. While I was at his estate, I saw a painting he had recently acquired.” Prichard paused meaningfully. “In Italy.”
“Many paintings come from Italy.”
“Not like this one. It was a pastoral scene, exactly like a painting I once saw in your lodgings almost ten years ago. If I remember correctly, the paint was still wet. In fact, I believe you were debating the placement of a certain tree.”