by Lara Temple
Chapter Six
Max climbed into his phaeton and took the reins from his groom who jumped up on his perch behind. He had promised to take Lady Melissa for a ride in the park, but at the moment he would have happily just headed west until he was clear of the town and all its inhabitants. His plans of identifying, courting and securing a wife, which had seemed so straightforward a month ago when he had commandeered Hetty for the campaign, were becoming mired in the mud of his flagging resolution.
He was just about to set his team of matched bays in motion when he saw Lord Wivenhoe coming leisurely down the stairs of Huntley House, his ebony cane swinging in his hand. Wivenhoe caught sight of Max and nodded, his eyes gleaming.
‘Well met, Harcourt. Are these your famous bays? Beautiful beasts. I forgot you are neighbours with the wealthy Lady Huntley. And by extension with Miss Trevelyan.’
‘What are you doing here, Wivenhoe?’
Wivenhoe raised one chestnut brow at Max’s curt tones.
‘How very dog-in-the-manger of you. Is it my visit to the fair Trevelyan that excites your formidable frown or is that just your habitual greeting to yours truly? I didn’t think country misses were in your line, no matter how original. And she is, isn’t she? Quite refreshing. Not a classic beauty, but such an expressive countenance! She does not even need to speak to be heard, if you understand me. I had a delightful chat with Lady Minnie, quite twenty minutes of the most salacious reminiscences—on the lady’s part, I assure you—and merely for the pleasure of watching its effect on Miss Trevelyan’s enchanting visage. I don’t believe I have yet come across such expressive eyes. Better than any performance by Kean. I might even consider painting her if she is willing...’
Max reined in on his temper. He knew Wivenhoe was baiting him, but he was uncharacteristically finding it hard to ignore his taunts.
‘You must be very desperate to have to resort to teasing country misses for entertainment. Perhaps if you were more generous with your mistresses, as Miss Trevelyan suggested, you wouldn’t have to stoop so low,’ he said contemptuously and Wivenhoe’s pale cheeks flushed a mottled red.
He didn’t wait for Wivenhoe’s response, just gave his bays their head and the phaeton moved forward. As he pulled out of the square he reminded himself of his resolution to have nothing more to do with the irrepressible Miss Trevelyan and that meant to stay out of her business. It was not his role to warn her about the likes of Wivenhoe. And to be fair, she might be a country miss, but she was no fool. She could take care of herself.
‘Your Grace?’ his groom asked hesitantly behind him and Max checked his horses, realising he had been about to drive past the Arkwright residence.
‘Keep them moving, Greggs,’ Max said and strode up to the front door. Another day, another battle.
* * *
Less than two hours later Max left the phaeton at the stables and headed up South Audley Street towards home, feeling tired and disheartened, though he knew he had no reason to be. Lady Melissa had given a masterly performance, proving precisely how suited she was to be his Duchess. She clearly understood the rules of the game and had, in all but words, assured him she didn’t expect him to profess any emotions he didn’t possess and that she would be a tolerant wife if he was a discreet husband. As long as she was allowed to play her role in society to the hilt, she would evidently give him the space he needed. In fact, she was fulfilling every requirement on his list.
It was natural he would be having second thoughts about giving up his freedom, irrespective of his promise to his father, his commitment to his duties and no matter even how perfect the bride. As soon as he was married he would grow accustomed to the new order of things. He had spent five years in the worst possible conditions during the war and, despite these past five years of luxury and indulgence, he was still adaptable. It was just a matter of resolution.
He was just approaching the stairs to his home when he saw Sophie entering the garden with the lumpish pug in tow. He hesitated. Perhaps he should warn her about Wivenhoe after all. He waited for a ponderous coach to pass and headed towards the garden. She was seated once again beneath the chestnut tree, and, as usual, talking to the panting dog with all apparent expectation of being understood.
‘I am sorry there are no more birds to chase, but what do you expect? You have frightened them all out of their little bird wits and I really cannot command their presence, you know. You will have to learn to lower expectations, Duke.’
‘That would be a pity. Perhaps you should bring some crusts,’ Max observed.
‘Crusts?’ She glanced up swiftly, but there was none of the usual mix of curiosity and expectant amusement in her expression. She seemed to be looking at him from a distance, considering him. He was already on edge, but he went instinctively on alert, though he answered her casually.
‘That way you can lure back the birds for another round of exercise.’
‘How very Machiavellian. I think I would feel too guilty baiting them only to have Marmaduke chase them away. Your Grace,’ she added somewhat ironically and he remembered Wivenhoe had enlightened her about his title. He felt guilty, as if he had hidden it on purpose.
‘I understand Lord Wivenhoe paid you a visit,’ he said abruptly.
‘Yes,’ she replied in the same uncharacteristically cool voice. ‘Aunt Minnie was shocked when he sent up his card. No one has dared breach the portals of Huntley House other than us pawns, but apparently she has some very...fond memories of his father. Frankly I could have done without having to hear the details of some of them, but she seemed to enjoy herself, which is in my favour, I suppose. They had a wonderful gossip and she invited him to visit again which is nothing short of miraculous.’
‘I don’t think you should encourage him to do so.’
Her expression did not change, but the same cautionary hauteur he had seen her display towards Wivenhoe at Somerset House entered her eyes.
‘I told you there is no need to lecture me, Your Grace. I am well aware he is quite scandalous. He also seems to dislike you thoroughly, even beyond the normal degree of antagonism you might naturally excite. He was very amused by the fact that I had reduced you from a duke to a mere commoner and warned Aunt Minerva against the wisdom of allowing me to develop expectations in the direction of the Duke of Harcourt. To make his point he and Aunt Minnie then enjoyed several minutes’ gossip, debating which of the various high-born young women you targeted is likely to win the Duchy. From there they went on to discuss someone called Hellgate whose exploits I would have expected to land him gaol had he not mercifully died young. And aside from securing Aunt Minnie’s invitation to come visit again soon, that was that. Your Grace.’
‘For heaven’s sake, stop calling me that!’ Max said, annoyed and tense on so many levels he couldn’t untangle them. Contrarily his obvious discomfort brought some of her irrepressible humour to her eyes, softening them.
‘What should I call you then? Duke? Would you mind sharing the moniker with Marmaduke?’
‘As long as you don’t call me to heel again,’ he replied and she laughed, her shoulders relaxing, and some of the tension seeped out of his body. He felt ridiculous at how tense her unusual show of temper had made him.
‘I had forgotten that. Was that why you stopped that day when Marmaduke escaped? How embarrassing. You must have thought me quite mad.’
‘You did make a very...distinct first impression.’
‘That is a polite way of saying you did, isn’t it? I suppose I was going a little bit mad in that house. But never mind. This is a red letter day, do you know? Today I match Arthur’s record of two weeks at Aunt Minerva.’
‘And how are you celebrating this feat?’
‘I wouldn’t dare, not yet at least. The day is not over and Aunt Minnie might yet decide to send me packing, literally and figuratively. If I am still h
ere by tomorrow, I shall try to think of something suitable. My options are rather limited though.’
Max sat down on the bench beside her before he even realised what he was doing. Marmaduke ambled over and plopped down at his feet, resting his flabby neck on the tip of Max’s boot.
‘Marmaduke! That is heresy!’ Sophie admonished the pug. ‘Don’t know you a gentleman’s boots are sacred?’
Max smiled and shook his head. He pulled off his gloves and bent to scratch the pug’s head and Marmaduke’s eyes closed, his mouth opening in a blissful smile.
‘They will survive. My valet might give notice, though.’
She laughed.
‘He really seems to adore you. It is very strange.’
‘Now, how should I take that?’ he asked with a smile.
‘It was an observation about Marmaduke, not you,’ she replied primly. ‘I am merely trying to understand him.’
‘What’s to understand? He’s an indolent, contrary pug with occasional shows of good taste. Aren’t you, boy? See? He agrees with me.’
‘So now you understand him?’
‘I can be quite bright when it suits me. Like Marmaduke.’
It was foolish, but her tumbling laughter felt like a reward. She didn’t answer, though, just watched him pet Marmaduke. The silence was so comfortable he began to feel uncomfortable.
‘How did you get that scar on your left hand?’
It was a sign of just how lulled he had become that he almost began answering her question before he realised its peculiarity. She seemed to have surprised herself, too, and she winced, her cheeks turning bright pink.
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean... Oh, dear.’
She looked so embarrassed he took pity on her and tried to ignore the way every word and gesture of hers just added to his tension. She couldn’t know the scar’s significance.
‘Ancient history. I know it’s ugly.’
He started pulling on his gloves again, but she reached out and stopped him.
‘Oh, no, it isn’t at all, quite the opposite.’
It was an absurd thing to say and he wasn’t surprised at the burn of colour that swept up her neck and over her cheeks. He had rarely seen a woman blush quite like her, as wholeheartedly and passionately as she seemed to do everything. He should have felt impatience or been merely touched at this sign of gaucheness, but that wasn’t the response it evoked in him. He had no idea what sparked this visceral reaction, but without warning or transition his body woke, demanding he reach out and feel that heat, transform it into the passion he knew was there. There was banked energy in her, waiting, and he wanted it. It would be like watching the sea being transformed from the calm sunniness of summer to the full rage of a storm. The urge to act, to take, was so powerful it bordered on pain and he stood up and took a step away from the bench.
Marmaduke, having lost his pillow, grumbled and transferred his head to Sophie’s slipper. She didn’t seem to notice anything unusual, but merely glanced up. Her unconsciousness of the storm she had set loose in him made a bitter mockery of it and he turned away, taking in the green and grey of the garden, its sane, familiar expanse.
‘I must go now. Good day, Miss Trevelyan.’
He headed off through the garden, as aware of her presence on the bench behind him as he had been of French snipers in the Pyrenees during the war. A kind of stinging, visual alertness to danger. Her informal, light-hearted acceptance of his company only made it worse. He should make it clear to her that her friendly openness could be seriously misconstrued by men. But in a way that would be a lie. She might treat him with unusual candour and amicability, but there was nothing flirtatious about her. It would have been so much easier if there were. He knew how to deal with flirtatious women. He had no idea what to do with Sophie.
He picked up his pace as he crossed the street. Even her name was a taunt, the way his mind enjoyed playing it out. His only rational explanation for such an extreme reaction was that his resolve to marry and put an end to his very comfortable way of life was turning everything on its head. Some part of him was obviously fighting back against the enormity of the step he was about to take by making a fool of him. The timing of this unwanted desire made it clear this was just a reaction...
If he for a moment contemplated throwing out all his carefully considered criteria for a perfect wife on an urge which in the end was merely a few days in the making, he must be more off balance by the prospect of giving up his freedom than he had thought. Even if she was interested, and she showed no sign of that, she fulfilled almost none of the criteria he had so carefully outlined in his mind for a future wife. He would be making precisely the same impetuous move as he had with Serena and he was still paying the price of that mistake. This pathetic throwback to juvenile sexual excitement just at the presence of a woman would probably fade faster than it took to actually get to the altar. And then where would he be? Tied to a woman he could not control nor really understand and who treated him as she probably treated the many cousins she had mentioned. For all he knew she might even have a suitor back home, some fresh-faced squire’s son...
He entered his home and headed directly to his study. It was a sign of just how low he had sunk that the thought of some hypothetical suitor could spark this burn of jealousy. He had lost all sense of proportion. In a few days she would head back to her corner of Devon and he would realise this had been an embarrassing and aberrant moment of madness. The thing now was to stay out of her way.
Chapter Seven
Sophie angled the easel to catch the light so she could inspect what she had accomplished so far and prepare for Hetty’s arrival but she did not yet lay out her paints. She had been very surprised to hear from Lambeth that Lord Wivenhoe had called again and was upstairs with her aunt, ostensibly to deliver a book he had promised her the previous afternoon. Sophie did not remember any such promise and just hoped that this time they would make do without her. She had not admitted it to Max...to the Duke of Harcourt, she corrected herself mentally, but she had felt very uncomfortable yesterday during Lord Wivenhoe’s visit. It was not just his taunts, but the intent, calculating look when his dramatic eyes settled on her. And especially his gossip about Max.
She already knew from Hetty that Max was planning to marry, but it had been painful to sit there listening to them go through the list of the flawless London-bred hothouse flowers lined up for him to choose from who were as different from her as the proverbial chalk from cheese. Not that she was surprised. Max’s combination of title, wealth and physical endowments would buy him the very best in the marriage mart. On a more modest scale she had seen the same sordid drama played out numerous times in Ashton Cove and nearby Lynmouth. Until now she had just laughed and shrugged at the game, but somehow her sense of humour failed her in this instance. There was something so disappointing in the thought that he was just like everyone else, which was ridiculous, because of course he was. Why should he be any different? Simply because he had taken pity on a foolish provincial and taken her to see an exhibition...it did not mean a thing other than that he, like his sister, was a basically decent person. Nothing more than that.
Above all he was, as Hetty had said, a man driven by a sense of duty. Whatever she thought she detected behind that cold, controlled surface was likely only the creation of her own overly vivid and wishful imagination. It was just that she was so peculiarly comfortable with him. Whether it existed or not, she felt he took her at face value. She wasn’t used to men reacting to her with that mix of curiosity and amusement and she had allowed herself to read too much into it. She wondered whether it was because he had grown up in a predominantly female house that he had acquired the very useful skill of putting women at their ease without even seeming to, without ever giving up that that cool, contained detachment.
And it certainly did not help at all that he was so unfair
ly male. She almost hated the way her body reacted every time he was near. Or even when he wasn’t. It was enough just for a stray thought to enter her head, or the memory of that fleeting, seemingly inconsequential touch of his hand on hers. Really, it was quite pathetic. She was becoming as missish as any seventeen-year-old pining after a story-book hero, just as Hetty had warned her. She felt like cringing when she remembered her comment about his scar. His withdrawal had been painfully obvious. If she had an ounce of sense she would stay well away from him from now on. It would be hard enough to return to Ashton Cove after her time in Grosvenor Square and everything she had seen and done these last few days. Now the thought of going back was as near unbearable as she could imagine. She turned away from the light and closed her eyes. They flew open again as the door opened and Lord Wivenhoe stepped in and closed the door behind him.
‘I told your aunt I would show myself out, but really I am quite glad I found you. I was hoping to have a word with you,’ he said without ceremony.
Sophie shook her head, too bemused to realise yet the impropriety of his presence alone with her in a closed room.
‘A word with me?’ she asked, but his attention had been caught by the easel.
‘Not bad,’ he said absently as he inspected her study of Hetty, before turning to Marmaduke’s painting, his cold eyes gleaming with malicious amusement. ‘That, however, is abysmal. Not your execution, which is passable, but the subject. I am so very glad I have reached the stage when I can choose my models. At least when this is yours you will be able to paint whatever you like.’
‘When this is mine?’ she blurted out, startled.