by Julia Quinn
“So you think I should return to Yorkshire posthaste?” he asked, amusement touching him again. However unexpected she was for him, Lady Anne was even more flummoxed by his sudden arrival.
“You did indicate that you didn’t wish to be away for an extended period.”
“So I did. First, however, I would be honored if you would accompany me to—” he flipped over the worn gossip sheet—“to the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane tonight, to see The Merchant of Venice.” He looked up at her again. “I believe Edmund Kean is playing Shylock.”
“Yes, he is,” she said, a smile lighting her eyes to emeralds. “He’s supposed to be quite remarkable. In fact—” She stopped, blushing.
“In fact, what?” he queried.
“Nothing.”
“Good. Then I’ll collect you at seven this evening.” Feeling the need to touch her, Maximilian took one more slow step forward. Running his hand down her wrist, he uncurled her fingers from the material of her gown.
She made a small sound like a gasp as he brought her hand up, brushing his lips across her knuckles. Slow heat ran through his veins as she raised her face to his, gazing at him beneath dark, curling lashes.
“I’ll see you tonight,” he murmured, releasing her as his mind conjured all sorts of things he’d rather be doing with her than letting her go.
Without waiting for a response he strode out to the hall and the foyer beyond, collecting his hat and caped greatcoat. He had some things to take care of before this evening. And he didn’t need to see the butler’s expression at his old, out-of-fashion wardrobe to know what the most pressing of them was.
When he’d arrived in town a few hours ago he’d had little thought but to collect Lady Anne and return to Yorkshire without delay. After seeing her, however, the idea of doing a little courting didn’t seem so repugnant, after all.
Chapter 2
This Author is not one to overstate one’s own importance, but it is being said that This Author’s own column, dated one week prior, is directly responsible for the recent town arrival of none other than Maximilian Trent, Marquis of Halfurst. It seems the good marquis took exception to his betrothed’s snow angel escapades with Sir Royce Pemberley.
And if that weren’t excitement enough, it was whispered that he is positively stalking Lady Anne. Consider, if you will, Dear Reader, what transpired Saturday evening at Drury Lane…
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 31 JANUARY 1814
“You refused him.”
Anne continued pacing, ignoring her maid’s piteous sighs as Daisy tried to put the finishing touches to her hair. “You should have heard him, Mama. ‘Cease having any fun and accompany me to the middle of nowhere at once.’”
“He did not say that.”
“He might as well have.”
Lady Daven, seated on the bed and watching Anne’s progress as she stalked back and forth, shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. You can’t refuse him. Your father and the old Marquis of Halfurst made—”
“Then let Papa marry him! I never asked to be exiled to Yorkshire!”
“Yesterday you were happy to be betrothed to Halfurst.”
Yesterday she’d never thought he might actually appear. With a scowl Anne relented and sat, allowing Daisy to fasten the last few hairclips in place. “I don’t like him. Isn’t that enough?”
“You only just met him. And surely you can have no complaints about his looks.”
That had been the most disquieting part of the meeting. He was handsome—far more so than she’d ever imagined. “Yes, his face was pleasant enough, I suppose,” she hedged. “But did you see his wardrobe? Good heavens, it was positively ancient! And he was mean. How did he expect me to respond?”
Her mother sighed. “Perhaps he was nervous at meeting you.”
“I don’t think he was nervous about anything,” Anne muttered.
“Whatever your initial misgivings, you will meet with him again, Anne. Short of our discovering some sort of mental imbalance on his part, the agreement stands. Your father’s honor rests on it.”
“He offered to escort me to the theater tonight.” She frowned. “Actually, he practically ordered me to accompany him.”
“Good. Your father and I shall await your account of the evening.” With a rustle of material, Lady Daven stood and swept out of the room.
“It is not good,” Anne said to the closed door. “I don’t like being ordered about; and certainly not by an antique-wearing sheep farmer.” But such eyes. She shook herself. “And I really don’t wish to be seen in his company. Everyone will make fun.”
“My lady?”
“Daisy, please go and inform Lambert that he is to let me—and only me—know when Lord Howard arrives.”
“But—”
“No arguments, please. I am not going to spend my life imprisoned in Yorkshire.”
As her maid hurried downstairs, Anne sat back to fiddle with her earrings. Her mother would’ve been livid if she’d known Lord Howard still expected to escort her daughter to the theater tonight. Anne wasn’t entirely certain why she’d decided to be so defiant—except that the Marquis of Halfurst had arrived knowing he’d already won, and he hadn’t bothered to be gracious about it, or to consider her feelings and her situation at all.
Someone scratched frantically at her door. “Come in,” she said, jumping.
Daisy slipped inside. “My lady, Lord Howard is here, and I heard the countess your mother in the drawing room!”
Anne stifled a nervous breath. “Very well. Get your shawl, and let’s be off.”
A miserable expression on her face, the maid nodded. “As you wish, my lady.”
“Don’t worry, Daisy. I’ll make certain any wrath falls on my shoulders.”
“Oh, I hope so.”
“So he just barged in on an ox cart and expected you to trundle back to Yorkshire with him?” Desmond Howard nodded at the footmen as they passed through the main doors of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane and up the stairs, where only those privileged enough to have box seats were permitted to tread.
Now that they’d reached the theater without being discovered or stopped by Lord Halfurst or any of her family members, Anne relaxed a little. “Yes, without even a by your leave or a good morning.”
“Typical.”
Anne looked sharply at the viscount’s square-jawed countenance. “Do you know Lord Halfurst?”
With her hand wrapped over his arm, she felt him shrug. “In passing. We attended Oxford at the same time. I haven’t seen him since he was last in London.”
She hadn’t realized he’d ever been to London before today. “When was that?”
“Seven or eight years ago, I’d wager.”
“Hm. And he didn’t bother to call on me then, either.” Of course, she would have been only twelve or thirteen, but they were still betrothed.
“He left after a very short time—when the old marquis died, I believe.” The viscount chuckled. “I imagine he was none too eager to stay once his solicitors let slip that he was nearly bankrupt.”
Wonderful. Halfurst was arrogant and poor. Her parents certainly hadn’t told her that, and they were insane if they thought she would willingly go off to live in some shack with him, handsome face or not. “How delightful,” she muttered. If the marquis needed her money, escaping him would be even more difficult.
Lord Howard chuckled again. “Don’t trouble yourself, Anne,” he returned. “Tonight, you’re with me. And rest assured that in his place I would never remove such a lovely blossom as yourself from the fertile environs of London.”
“Thank you,” she said feelingly, smiling as he held aside the curtain to his private box.
“My pleasure, believe me,” he murmured, seating himself beside her.
As the patrons filled the theater, oblivious to the silly pre-Shakespearean farce being enacted on stage, a commotion in the pit caught her attention. Down below, among a crowd of amused-looking commoners, stood a very handsome, wel
l dressed gentleman in the company of an equally well dressed and mortified-looking Miss Amelia Rellton.
“Who’s that with Miss Rellton?” she asked, trying not to stare, though from the direction of the opera glasses in the other boxes, no one else had reservations about doing so.
“Hm. The Marquis of Darington, I believe,” Howard said, sitting back again. “Obviously gone insane, to bring a lady into the pit with him.” He shifted closer, then glanced back at Daisy, seated quietly in the corner. “All of the lost cubs are coming into Town for the winter—and for the women—apparently.”
Abruptly Anne was grateful for her maid’s presence. “Perhaps it’s the cold,” she answered.
“No doubt.” He leaned even closer. “Tell me then, my dear, have you asked your parents to formally dissolve the agreement with Halfurst?”
The light in his blue eyes seemed too interested for such an innocent question, and Anne was reminded of Pauline’s warning that she had suitors, whether she acknowledged them as such or not. “I’ve expressed some concern,” she said carefully, at the same time wondering why she was being so cautious. Once she did convince her parents to deny Halfurst’s claim, her mother would see to it that she married someone else.
“‘Some concern’ isn’t what it sounded like earlier,” he returned, nodding at an acquaintance in a neighboring box.
The curtains went up on stage. “Shh. It’s beginning,” she whispered, sitting forward and never more grateful to see Edmund Kean perform than she was tonight.
She sat quietly, mesmerized, until intermission. She’d never seen Shylock played that way, nor so well; no wonder Mr. Kean’s performance had been causing such a stir in London.
As the curtain closed, Anne joined in the applause. “My goodness,” she exclaimed, smiling, “Mr. Kean is—”
“—completely engrossing,” a quiet male voice interrupted from the doorway. “A remarkable performance, thus far.”
Anne and Lord Howard turned at the same moment, and then Lord Howard lurched to his feet. “Halfurst.”
The marquis didn’t move, but remained in his relaxed lean against the rear wall, on the opposite side of the curtains from Daisy. From the maid’s startled expression, she hadn’t been aware of his entrance, either. His tall form was shadowed, but Anne sensed that his gaze was on her.
“Lord Howard,” Halfurst continued in the same soft voice. “I recall that you had a fondness for wagering—and for other men’s wives, apparently.”
“I am not your wife,” Anne whispered.
He pushed upright. “You were, however, to be my companion this evening, were you not?”
“I—”
“Lady Anne made the wise decision to join me, instead,” Lord Howard broke in. “And I’ll thank you not to insult my character, Halfurst.”
The marquis took a step forward, into the dim light of the chandeliers. Anne’s breath caught. The old, behind-hand garb he’d worn earlier was gone, replaced by a dark gray jacket and trousers that looked so precisely molded to his muscular frame that they couldn’t have been borrowed. Her mind, though, refused to dwell on where they might have come from. Instead, her gaze traveled up the length of him, past his pitch black waistcoat and white linen shirt and starched white cravat to his gray, glittering gaze. “You’ve…changed,” she managed, blushing.
“Only my clothes,” he returned, his eyes still holding hers. “You didn’t seem to approve of my garb this morning.”
“I think you should leave,” Desmond broke in.
Anne started. She’d nearly forgotten his presence. Lord Howard wore the self-assured look she’d often seen on his square, handsome face, the look that said he knew he had the advantage, and that he intended to use it. No doubt he would next hand Halfurst one of his scathing set-downs. It was almost a pity. She wouldn’t have minded spending the evening looking at the marquis in that splendid attire.
“I have no intention of staying,” Lord Halfurst returned with a slight, humorless smile. “The view from your box is horrendous. I’m only here to escort my fiancée to a better vantage point—namely, my box.”
“She’s with me. You’d best get that through your thick, Yorkshire skull.”
“Lord Howard,” Anne protested.
The viscount ignored her, even taking a step closer to the tall marquis. “Have you been gone from London so long that you’ve forgotten your manners completely? Go away.”
Halfurst only shrugged. “If I’d forgotten my manners, I would presently be dragging you down the stairs and out to the alley, where I would then beat you within an inch of your life for presuming to step between myself and Lady Anne. As it is, I’m only asking my betrothed to join me in my box. I think that’s quite polite of me.” His gaze returned to Anne. “Don’t you think so?”
Desmond’s face reddened. “You…I…How dare—”
“Don’t stammer, Howard,” the marquis continued. “If you have something to say, say it. Otherwise, you merely sound blustery.” He held out his hand. “My lady? I can promise you an unobstructed view of the remainder of the performance.”
Anne felt dazed. No one bested Lord Howard in a battle of wits and words, and certainly not in only one volley. And the way the marquis looked at her, as though she were the only other person in the entire theater…“What if I don’t go with you?” she asked anyway, forcing her brain to work again. She was not some bartered bride, for heaven’s sake. Or was she?
“Then I will thrash Lord Howard,” the marquis said, in such a matter-of-fact tone that she had no doubt he meant it.
She stood. “Then I’d best go with you, I suppose,” she returned in her most composed voice.
“Anne,” Lord Howard protested, moving to intercept her.
Halfurst’s hand shot out and shoved the viscount back into his seat. “Good evening, Howard,” he said, and stepped back to part the curtains.
Maximilian took Anne’s gloved hand and drew it over his arm. He kept his face turned from hers as they proceeded around the curve of curtained boxes, her maid following behind them. Whatever reservations she had about marrying him were obviously more grave than he’d realized. At the same time, seeing her in that low-cut gown of faintest violet, the curve of her bosom drawing his attention, and with a string of pale pearls caressing her throat, he wasn’t about to allow any other man near her.
He’d expected to find her pretty, but he hadn’t expected the heat that coursed through him as he gazed at her, even warmer and deeper now than this morning. He would figure her out, and he would make her desire him as he desired her—because he wasn’t leaving London without her.
“All of Edmund Kean’s performances are sold out. How did you manage this?”
Maximilian pulled aside the curtain and ushered her inside. “I asked.”
As he took his seat, he spared a glance at her. From her expression, she wasn’t thrilled with this pseudo-kidnapping. He wasn’t, either. Her parents obviously had no control over her, but even they’d been surprised to find her missing when he’d come to collect her for a night at the theater.
“I didn’t join you because you have a better view, you know.”
“Of course not. You were trying to preserve Lord Howard’s health. Noble, I suppose, but I would have preferred that you join me because you said you would do so.”
“No, you said I would do so.”
“And you didn’t contradict me. Keeping your word isn’t so difficult, is it?”
Anne narrowed her eyes. “Be angry if you wish, but no one consulted me about any of this. Don’t expect me to simply…surrender.”
Apparently he’d underestimated both Lady Anne Bishop’s sense of duty and the effort he would have to expend if he wanted her as his bride—and in his bed. “I do expect you to surrender,” he said quietly, reaching over to take her hand.
Her fingers were clenched into a fist, and though he thought for a moment that she might attempt to punch him, he leaned over to brush his lips across her knuckles. H
er hand, her glove, smelled of soap. The scent, so ordinary until tonight, intoxicated him.
She watched him as he straightened again. “If you expect me to surrender,” she said, a quaver in her voice, “then I will expect you to convince me to do so.”
Maximilian smiled. “Let the battle begin.”
Chapter 3
Interestingly enough, Lord Howard was spotted leaving
Drury Lane prior to the end of the performance. His mood was of a foul nature, and he was drinking quite liberally from a flask.
No bruises were spied upon his person, however, laying waste to all of the rumors that he and Lord Halfurst had come to blows over the lovely Lady Anne. Heated words were definitely overheard, however, leading This Author to wonder just how the altercation was avoided.
This Author is certainly not the bloodthirsty sort, but truly, Dear Reader, would not a purplish mark or two add a touch of character to Lord Howard’s rather blandly handsome visage?
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 31 JANUARY 1814
Maximilian rose early. Sleeping had been a waste, anyway, considering he’d tossed and turned all night, visions of the woman who was supposed to be his bride, and who was sleeping in another house entirely, tangled in his dreams.
Half of Trent House remained covered in sheets and shut away to keep the cold from seeping into the main rooms. Even after his six-year absence from the premises, however, the servants had thankfully responded with alacrity.
His bride-to-be, though, didn’t seem to be coming around at all. She expected to be wooed, when he’d expected to have her delivered to him at Halfurst as promised.
“Tea, my lord?” the butler asked as he reached the dining room.
“Coffee. Strong.” Maximilian selected a hefty helping of ham and eggs from the sideboard and dug in. It was a moment before he noticed the short stack of letters at his elbow, atop the day’s edition of the London Times. “What are these?”
“I believe they are invitations, my lord,” Simms supplied, pouring him a large cup of coffee.