Temptation Has Green Eyes

by Lynne Connolly

  But it affected Max. “Your family—the Emperors—they’re the enemies of the Dankworths, aren’t they?”

  His mouth tightened, and little lines appeared at the corners. “You could say that. They seem determined to antagonize us. They’re Jacobites, and they dislike us because we’re loyal to the Crown.”

  “It’s more than that,” she said as they lurched over a pothole in the street. But she was so used to them she hardly noticed it. “It’s bad blood.”

  “It’s always more than that, Sophia. It’s never simple. Personal dislike, little acts of spite over the years, everything adds to the central argument. They’re Jacobites; we’re not.”

  That sounded so rational she could almost believe it. “There’s more.”

  “Perhaps. Does it matter?”

  “I suppose not.” The last thing she wanted to do was upset him, because when that happened, he went silent. She’d had that painful reality thrust on her in the early days of their marriage. He refused to engage, wouldn’t discuss anything he didn’t want to, throwing up a barrier she couldn’t surmount. So she dropped that part of the discussion. “I’m just…surprised.”

  “Since your maternal grandparents weren’t very wealthy when your mother married your father, we suspect the money that paid for the marriage came from the duke,” he told her.

  Yes, that made sense. She hadn’t reached as far as that in her reasoning. More than how it affected her. “Is it over then? Do we let the matter rest?”

  “Until we hear from him.”

  Shock reverberated through her. “Do you think we will?”

  “Yes, I do. The duke has planned this. Although I think that he wanted Hayes to have you. Not me.”

  “But he knew of your business dealings with my father.”

  He shrugged. “I hadn’t expected you to realize that part. I shouldn’t underestimate your intelligence, should I?”

  She shook her head. “No. So my—Northwich could have wanted me to marry you and ordered John to…do what he did, because then he has me here. With you.”

  So absorbed in the situation was she that she hadn’t realized they were so close to their house until the carriage came to a halt. She’d missed all the outposts, all the places she usually marked when she was in the city she knew so well. Everything, all her concentration on what was happening inside the coach.

  * * * *

  Three days later, Sophia knew for sure that her husband had removed the intimacy they’d shared at Devereaux House. Oh, he was more friendly, and he came to her bed at night. But he never stayed. She didn’t wake in the morning to see him smiling sleepily at her, and she missed it. Very much indeed, so much that her loneliness was almost unbearable. Before Max, she hadn’t realized how alone she was. She’d called it independence, had prided herself on her free spirit, but really she’d been alone. Without the one person she’d needed, wanted to call her own. Then she’d found him and lost him. All because she hadn’t told him the truth about her parentage. As he’d said in the coach, what did it matter who had fathered her?

  Except that it did. She was a daughter of the hated Dankworths, and presumably Max found that hard to bear. Although she wanted to ask him, reticence filled her, because she feared his rejection. Now, after what they’d done, what they’d been to each other, if he turned his back on her she would fall apart. He said he did not care who fathered her, but he must, because he was definitely more distant. When she asked him, he pleaded pressure of work. But it was more than that.

  She’d started arranging her levees, the time when she appeared in her bedroom and people visited her there. She discovered she disliked them. She preferred to spend her mornings more productively, not listening to people who wanted her patronage, not because of herself, but because she was the Marchioness of Devereaux.

  She went through her days, letting routine slot into her life, but as if it were happening to someone else. A sense of distance separated her from those around her, as if she were the exalted being some insisted on treated her. She was not; she knew that, but she couldn’t get them to see, nor would they believe her if she told them. The Marchioness of Devereaux was somebody else. Not Sophia Russell of the City of London.

  Then came the day they broke the news about Devereaux House to her mother-in-law. Max, who had pleaded outstanding business to absent himself too often since their return, asked her if she wanted to be present when he told his mother.

  “Since I had the original idea,” she said, “I should take at least part of the blame,” and received the sweetest smile she could remember from him since their return to London.

  They visited his mother at Julius’s house, where she was still in residence with Poppy. The dowager had made herself at home, although, as she explained to them, not encroachingly so.

  “I will probably go to Kirkburton House when I can. Julius is interviewing suitable companions, and it can’t be long before he finds one for Helena. But the duke needs me. Or rather, the duchess does.” The slight curl of her lip told Sophia exactly what her mother-in-law thought of that. “Unfortunately, I can’t leave my brother in his current state to her tender mercies. He deserves better. A little kindness and consideration will go a long way toward his recovery.”

  Sophia’s relationship with her mother-in-law had thawed since the early days of her marriage. At least the duchess didn’t repudiate her, treat her as a pariah or someone to be tolerated.

  After their return to London, Max squired her to balls and routs, took her driving in the park, displaying them as a couple for all to see. If anyone had suspected their previous coldness was anything but the marriage settling down, he dispelled the notion now. As a result, people started to talk to her. Really talk, as if they liked her. Not that she fooled herself about that, but she was on her way to being accepted.

  On the way to Julius’s house today, Max had told Sophia how ill the Duke of Kirkburton was. Although mildly hurt that her husband hadn’t told her before, Sophia understood that the duke didn’t want his condition bruited abroad. He was only remaining in London because his special physician refused to leave the city. Besides, taking a prominent medical man to his private house would encourage the kind of attention the duke appeared to want to avoid. “I was unhappy to hear that he is not well.”

  “He will recover,” her ladyship said firmly. “He always has. It will be no different this time. Winterton isn’t ready to assume the mantle of the dukedom. It wouldn’t suit him.”

  Sophia wondered about that. Already, Julius took much of the responsibility of the dukedom. But he’d done it by stealth, taking none of the credit, claiming to be a fashionable fribble who cared for nothing more than the design of his waistcoats. Sophia and anyone who bothered to look further could soon tell that wasn’t true. But people rarely looked beneath the surface, in her experience.

  “I took Sophia to Devereaux House,” Max informed his mother.

  “I know.”

  Sophia exchanged a glance with Helena who raised one brow very slightly in the kind of droll look guaranteed to make Sophia laugh. Helena had seen the house, then, and had similar thoughts to Sophia. But had she considered the drastic action Sophia had? She was about to find out.

  Her ladyship turned a dazzling smile on her daughter-in-law. “Did you like the house?”

  “Yes,” she said, because she had. “It’s very elegant.” At least she’d enjoyed the memories she’d made there. Most of them. Even breaking down in that horrible way when she’d used the word she’d been avoiding for months. Because Max had been there for her, had taken care of her. That went a long way to reconciling her to what had happened. And he hadn’t rejected her—not exactly.

  She exchanged a glance with Max now. Let him break the news. His mother would probably assume it was all Sophia’s fault anyway.

  “We took some time to survey the newer parts,” Max said carefully. “Unfortunately, the wings aren’t built as well as the main hous
e, and they’re already showing signs of damage. The roof leaks in part, for instance, and some of the rooms aren’t completed. It will cost a lot of money to repair.” He paused.

  Here was where his mother would tell him that he had more money than Midas, and he could repair it.

  She didn’t. “Then demolish those parts,” she said. Her eyes met her son’s.

  Sophia had positioned herself so she could see both participants, far enough along the sofa she shared with Max that she could see him. His mother sat opposite without turning her head too much and drawing attention to herself. Her father had used her as an observer for years that way. Many businessmen disregarded her, until they learned better.

  So now Sophia saw Max’s eyes widen, and his mother’s slight, satisfied smile. Please let him have the sense to accept her suggestion as if it were hers alone, she thought.

  “But that house is your life’s work, Mama.”

  The dowager’s smile faded to nothing, and she shook her head and swallowed, her eyes glistening. “It was your father’s life’s work, my son, not mine. That house killed him. He became obsessed with it, his every waking moment devoted to it.” Tears glistened at the inner corners of her eyes. One spilled over.

  With a small murmur, Poppy moved closer, proffering a handkerchief, but her mother ignored it although she gave her daughter a slight smile.

  “I will say this. I have kept silent too long. When you restored the fortunes of the marquisate, Max, I became so afraid you’d continue. But how did I tell you? You appeared to love the house.”

  “I do,” he said. “But the original part, the part I grew up in. I grew to hate it later because of all the noise and disruption.”

  The dowager sighed. “The more he built, the more he became obsessed with building more. It was like an illness.” She glanced at Poppy and then back at her son. “After his death, I couldn’t bear to live there. I turned my back on it and stayed with my family instead. Poppy, I’m sorry. I should have—”

  Poppy covered her mother’s hands which were neatly folded over her fan in her lap. “No, Mama. It would have been worse, would it not, if you’d brought me up there? And Max couldn’t have worked from the country house. Could not have achieved half of what he did.” She paused and favored Sophia with a glance.

  Sophia met her eyes, secrets exchanged between women.

  “I thought the house was cursed,” the dowager concluded. “I never wanted to see it again because it took my husband away from me. But how could I say that to you? It’s your inheritance.”

  Max closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them again, the green depths were bright. “You would come back if I—we—did this?”

  “Yes. For a while, although I enjoy visiting my relatives. I like being useful.” Now she gave Sophia a steady look. “I will come when I’m needed.” When there were children.

  “Mama, I’m so pleased. When we toured the house…I didn’t know what to do.”

  Only Sophia knew what that slight hesitation meant and she sighed in relief. He had the sense not to tell her their plans.

  “I hadn’t realized how much some parts were deteriorating.”

  “As money grew tighter, he economized.” She sighed. “But he didn’t stop. I begged him to, but he did not. You will do this?”

  Max exchanged a glance with Sophia and reached out his hand. Gratefully, she put her own in it. He squeezed it, and his eyes sent her an apology that she felt no need of, but gratitude sent a warm glow through her anyway. “We ordered the inventory brought up to date. We’ll move from there.”

  “You could sell some of the materials.”

  Just as they’d discussed, but Max received the suggestion with thanks. “We may need your help, Mama. I can’t be there all the time, because I still have my investments to oversee.”

  “You’d like me there?”

  “Only if it doesn’t upset you.”

  She scoffed. “I want to see it.”

  At last Sophia understood the woman. She’d remained with Julius because she felt needed, and it kept her away from her home. The home she detested. Every new stone would have reminded her of her husband, every one a contributor to his early death.

  Sophia left Julius’s house much relieved, and from the new spring in his step, Max felt the same way.

  In the carriage he drew her into his arms and gave her a smacking kiss. “I feel so much better. I feared my mother would never talk to us again.”

  “You did well.”

  He shrugged. “I wanted to give you the credit.”

  “I’m sure the notion would have occurred to you eventually.”

  That dry remark earned her another kiss. “But you said it. We could have gone through the rest of our lives fighting to restore what was badly done in the first place, both of us dancing around the subject. Never do that. Promise me.”

  “Never do what?”

  “If you feel something, say so. If you want something, say so.”

  How could she do that when what she wanted most of all in the world was his love? He didn’t trust her still. He didn’t confide in her, and he kept his bookroom, where he kept all his important papers, locked. Against the servants, she was supposed to think, but she knew better. So did he expect her to ask for that? She fell silent, not knowing what to say. Then recalled his words. “You must ask, too.”

  “Oh, I will.” Heedless of the crowds surging outside, he kissed her properly, licking into her mouth with leisurely thoroughness.

  That wasn’t what she’d meant, but it would do for now.

  Chapter 17

  Sitting at his favorite table at Lloyd’s Coffee House, perusing his list of meetings and conclusions, Max lifted his head to order another coffee. He’d stay here for another hour, listen to the gossip, and let the place wash over him. If he missed anything about London, this was it. This place had given him so much, and he’d entered it as a welcome haven, away from the malicious rumors about his father and ruin.

  A flash of bright color outside the window attracted his attention, and he glanced up to see something he knew. Someone. A gown, aquamarine with white flowers embroidered over it. Pretty, but Sophia didn’t like it. She’d asked her maid to get rid of it. He wasn’t in time to see the face of the woman passing by. But she wore a familiar broad straw bergère hat and a short cloak covered the top part of her body.

  Sophia. On her own?

  He started to his feet and, after throwing a few coins to the woman at the cash desk, heedless of the amount, strode out of the coffee house. What was she doing in the City on her own? She knew the place, few better, so what more reason for her to have at least a maid? Or was French somewhere close? He saw no one, much less a footman in his livery. She should have those two at least. Her father had warned her of the dangers of being an heiress. The dangers of people lying in wait to abduct her. That had been one of his main reasons for arranging his daughter’s marriage to Max. That she would be out of danger.

  Not like this she would not. His anger rising, he pushed past a few urchins lurking around the coffee house. He covered his purse with his hand and carried on, but the short delay had been enough to let her get ahead of him.

  Just as well she was wearing that gown. Anxiety for her safety warred with anger that she would do such a foolish thing.

  He turned a corner and saw her ahead of him. She scurried down the street, not looking to right or left. Speculation filled his mind as he tried to race after her down the crowded street. The traders, beggars, and citizens seemed to be conspiring to prevent him catching up with her. Shouting wouldn’t do any good, as sound filled the air, noise he usually took for granted but now grated in his ears. People jostled him but he ignored the pleas for “Jest a penny, sir,” and “Chair, guv’nor?” and hurried along. He followed her through a pedestrian-only alley. More thronged the area, forcing him to slow his pace, and then he realized where she must be headed.

&n
bsp; Covent Garden, away from the City and toward the West End. Fear overcame his anger. She could be waylaid, maybe robbed. He needed to catch up with her.

  Another street, and then they emerged into the wide open space of the Covent Garden piazza. She was half way across the space, walking quickly on one side of the shacks that opened at night to spill out notorious madams and whores. Luckily, this being noonday, they were closed and shuttered. On the other side of her, cabbage-leaves and rotten fruit marked the site of the fruit market, but that had closed now, all but a few stragglers. All this was familiar to him, marked as he passed. But his attention remained on the figure in the bright blue gown now closing on a house at the far corner of the Square.

  Max came to a sudden halt. Someone slammed into home from behind, apologized, and moved around him. Max hardly noticed. All his attention was riveted on the two figures. Two now. Sophia had reached her objective, it seemed, and was now busy lavishing John Hayes with kisses.

  He held her tightly and returned what he received.

  No. His head spun. How so? He lost all reason for a moment, and pure red rage flooded his soul, heating his blood to boiling point.

  After all this, all he’d done, all he’d been through, to find this at the end?

  Red fury filled him to the brim. He, who’d previously prided himself on his cool temperament. He would kill her. No, he’d send her into the country. She could stay there and rot, for all he cared.

  * * * *

  Sophia arrived home in plenty of time to dress for dinner. A letter lay on the salver on the demilune table in the hall. Without waiting for anyone to present her with it, she snatched it up. Hand delivered, and the seal on the back was plain. Interesting. Her father generally used his company seal, proud of the address he had every right to send a missive to, but perhaps he was in a hurry. Or one of his assistants addressed the letter for him, because she didn’t recognize the handwriting on the outside. Breaking the seal, she went into the back parlor, waving away the footman’s offer of tea. “I’ll have it upstairs,” she said absently.