by Lara Temple
Sophie struggled to understand what Lady Melissa was saying. Amidst the confusion of thoughts and emotions she held firm to the image of Mary calmly removing the bowls of ice from her lap.
‘Very sad,’ she managed. ‘Did you know her?’
‘Dear me, no. I was still in the schoolroom. But Mama said she was quite the most beautiful and vivacious girl she had ever seen. It was to be the event of the Season, their marriage. And then she fell ill and died quite suddenly and mysteriously. Harcourt was clearly heartbroken for he joined up and went to serve with the Duke of Wellington in Spain. Quite a touching story, don’t you think?’
It took every ounce of control Sophie possessed to keep her face blank throughout this little speech. Everything seemed to have slowed down, moved away from her. Even Lady Melissa’s complacent vindictiveness was diminished to near insignificance next to this revelation. And under the shock and pain was a stab of anger that Max had not thought it right to tell her something so significant. That she had to find out like this, from this spiteful young woman who was obviously relishing her confusion and embarrassment. The silence stretched, but Sophie could find nothing to say and finally Lady Melissa stood up unhurriedly, her perfect rosebud mouth curving in a pleasant smile.
‘Good day, Miss Trevelyan. Good luck.’
‘Good day, Lady Melissa,’ Sophie forced out.
When Hetty returned a moment later she didn’t question Sophie’s request that they return home.
* * *
Just as they pulled up in Grosvenor Square, Sophie turned to her.
‘Hetty, I would like to speak with Max for a moment. There is something... Could you please ask him to call on me...when he can?’
The smile in Hetty’s eyes dimmed. ‘Is everything all right, Sophie?’
‘Of course. There is just something I wish to ask him.’
Hetty reached over and placed her hand on Sophie’s tightly clasped hands.
‘I know it isn’t easy just yet, but you will be fine, believe me. Don’t let anyone upset you. It just takes time.’
Sophie’s eyes burned with misery.
‘It’s not that. But thank you. For everything, Hetty.’
‘It is my pleasure. Oh, I wish I didn’t have to return to Somerset tomorrow but I have been away quite too long already. Lady Cranworth said she will be delighted to act as my replacement chaperon for the next week until you leave for Harcourt and then of course we will join you there in a couple of weeks to prepare for the wedding and to let you meet my band of mischief makers.’
‘I would love to meet them,’ Sophie said truthfully, wishing she could beg Hetty to stay. ‘Have a good trip home, Hetty. And thank you again for everything.’
‘It has been my absolute pleasure. Really and truly. And I will tell Max to call on you as soon as he can.’
Sophie returned Hetty’s warm embrace and let the footman hand her out of the carriage. For once the thought of seeing Max left her empty and cold.
* * *
Sophie looked up from book she had been trying to read. For a household unaccustomed to visitors, the servants were very prompt in answering the door and it was not more than a couple of minutes after the knocker sounded that she heard Lambeth welcome Max. She laid down her book and stood up, too nervous to remain seated.
‘His Grace, the Duke of Harcourt,’ Lambeth announced grandly as he opened the door.
‘Thank you, Lambeth. You may show him in.’
Max entered, smiling faintly, but there was also a questioning look in his eyes and she wondered what Hetty had told him. Sophie took a deep breath, trying to gather her resolution about her. Max stopped, his eyes narrowing, and the smile faded.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing. No, that’s not true. There is something I wish to ask you.’
His expression didn’t change but he seemed to have moved away from her.
‘Very well. What is it?’
She turned towards the window. Perhaps if she didn’t have to see him it would be easier.
‘Lady Melissa spoke to me at Mrs Bannerman’s this afternoon. She took great pleasure in informing me about your previous engagement and had a fine time with my confusion. But that isn’t the point. The point is that I would have thought you might have...prepared me. You should have known someone would mention it.’
The silence stretched out behind her, but she didn’t turn. Finally he spoke.
‘I am sorry you were...embarrassed. And you are right that I should have mentioned it. It was a long time ago.’
She forced herself to turn. He had become statue-like again. There was no anger there, there was nothing. He might be looking at a stranger or at a shop window. She wondered what he would do if she put her head back and screamed. If anything could shake him when he shut down like that. His very lack of passion about the topic only increased her burning jealousy of the lively beauty Lady Melissa had described. She knew him well enough by now to know when he was closing down on something that mattered to him. Clearly this Lady Serena had mattered to him. She walked over to the sofa and sat down, arranging her skirts in unconscious imitation of Lady Melissa. When she realised what she was doing she stopped and looked up at him.
‘I would like you to tell me whatever you think is necessary for me to know so I do not have to fear being ambushed by your...your friends or your enemies.’ She put up her chin, proud of the calm, reasonable statement she had managed to produce despite the rumble of hurt inside her.
He breathed in deeply and moved to stand behind the brocade Louis XVI chair opposite the sofa, placing his hand on it. She wanted to tell him to sit down and not loom over her like that, but she kept silent, waiting.
‘Very well. I was engaged to Lady Serena Morecombe some ten years ago. She was the only child of my father’s close friend, Lord Morecombe. She was very...high spirited. A month before we were to be married she killed herself. That piece of information is not widely known so I would appreciate it if you kept that to yourself. It was put about that she died of a fever and, though I don’t know if it was fully believed, it was accepted as the official version. That is all.’
Sophie’s pain was displaced by shock and a surge of pity. Somehow the cold, passionless delivery of something which must have been devastating for him made it almost unbearable. Even her jealous hurt was out of place here.
‘Oh, Max, I’m so sorry,’ she whispered, holding out her hand. He didn’t move, but something hot and stormy broke through his almost blank gaze, then it was gone again.
‘It was a long time ago,’ he repeated and she shook her head, dropping her hand. There was no point in saying that it was still present even if Lady Serena wasn’t. She had never felt so distant from him. She wanted so much to reach and ease that core of pain she knew was there and she had never felt so inadequate or out of her depth.
‘I didn’t mean to pry. And I am sorry to bring up something that pains you. That wasn’t my intention. I just...’
* * *
Max kept his breathing steady, resisting the urge to take the offered hand and accept the solace of that invitation and the absolution it offered. She was right—it was ridiculous to have kept it from her and he had no idea why he had. No, that wasn’t true. He didn’t want her, or anyone, knowing the truth about him and Serena.
As he had told Sophie the barest facts about Serena he had expected shock, or revulsion... He hadn’t been prepared for empathy, for the warm invitation in her eyes and voice and that outstretched hand. But he couldn’t claim what he didn’t deserve. He might even have been more comfortable with the kind of responses he had come to expect from Serena, for whom compassion had been as foreign as restraint. He had never understood the fury of Serena’s jealous rages when all the time she had been the one engaged in an illicit affair while he had battled both t
he desire she had had no compunction about fanning and the need to find satisfaction elsewhere, clinging like a fool to notions of fidelity.
She had taken him in royally and instead of guilt all she had felt was resentment that he had refused to dance to her tune. In the end he had just sought any excuse to go back to Harcourt on business just to escape her. And himself. He had never hated himself as much as when he had been with Serena that final month. The thought of sharing any of this with Sophie...that would never happen. He didn’t want her or anyone to see that side of him. She could never understand or forgive the pitch of hate and frustration he had reached. It would be foolish to accept her unconsciously seductive offer of sympathy.
Still, when she lowered her hand and headed towards the door he moved after her without knowing quite why.
‘Where are you going?’
‘I...upstairs. I think I would like to rest before the ball.’
He reached the door before her. He should let her go, but he didn’t want to, not yet. He searched for something to say, something that would bring back that embracing warmth. She might offer just as much to a dog, but right now he didn’t care, he needed it. She had dragged back not just the memories but the emotions he dreaded and he didn’t want to be left alone with them. He turned the key in the lock, leaning his hand on the door.
‘You can leave in a moment,’ he said as she looked up at him in surprise. ‘You’re right. I should have told you. That was poorly done of me. But I’m not used to...sharing information about myself.’
To his astonishment she picked up his free hand and just held it. His breath hitched, changed rhythm. It was the heat of her fingers on his palm, the way the curve of her thumb fit against his. She might hold a child’s hand just so, but it didn’t feel like that. It felt...inescapable. An invitation more seductively posed than any of Serena’s carefully calculated postures. And then she did something worse. She raised his hand and touched it to her cheek.
‘I’m sorry, Max,’ she whispered and let go of his hand, except that he didn’t release hers.
* * *
Sophie was unprepared for the kiss this time. There was nothing gentle or teasing in the way he drew her to him, his mouth covering hers. It was urgent and demanding, sending heat coursing through her, and her body surged against his, seeking relief from all the confusion and yearning that had been building up since she had met him.
The world outside the boundaries of their need faded and all that mattered was that he wasn’t pushing her away, that his hands were sliding down her back, curving over her behind, pressing her against him as the kiss deepened and darkened. The drugging, plundering motion of his mouth and lips and tongue on hers was so intoxicating she shut out the hurt and fear that had preceded it, sliding her arms around his neck and arcing her body against him, trying inexpertly to mirror the still-foreign intensity of his kiss, utterly unlike anything she had experienced before and utterly unlike anything she might have expected from him.
She felt she was stepping out of a tight cave, blinded by light but suddenly able to move. This was freedom. And Max was with her. For the first time she felt he was really with her. She had somehow breached his shell and she could feel him, and there was such need there that she was swamped with love and the need to embrace him whole. She wanted to be closer, more. She wanted to give him everything, parts of her she hardly knew existed, with a confidence that was as unfamiliar as it was exhilarating. Most amazing was that these were the parts of her everyone condemned and he wanted them, he wanted her. For the first time she felt stronger than him, surer that this was the right thing to do, that he belonged with her. That he needed what she could give him, whether he knew it or not.
The thoughts swirled through while her body rushed ahead, trying to show what she would never dare say aloud. She rose on tiptoe, pressing against him with all her weight, sliding her fingers deep into his hair, and he groaned, his whole body sinking against her, pressing her between his body and the door without for a second abandoning the assault on her mouth. She loved the feel of his body pressed against her breasts which were suddenly so sensitive she felt every rasp of the silk shift pulling against her flesh as he moved against her. Even the pressure of the unyielding surface behind her became part of this maelstrom of sensations, an imprisonment that accentuated the urgent, seeking centre that was taking over, a contrast to the firm silkiness of his lips and the drag of his tongue on hers. She was drowning in sensations, in his taste and feel and scent, and she knew this was only the beginning. If anything, the force was gathering, focusing. They had been carried past the first barrier, like a ship carried by a swell over a reef, and now she felt completely separated from safety, from everything.
His mouth abandoned hers suddenly, his breath uneven, and through her lashes she met his eyes, a fierce stormy grey that should have scared her but didn’t. She had no idea desire could be so beautiful, a threat and a promise.
‘Max, I want you...’ She didn’t even realise she had spoken the words, but they seemed to strike him physically. His eyes closed and his hands curved under her thighs, raising her, and she instinctively locked her legs about his waist, even as his body surged back against hers, crushing her, and the pressure just where she needed him most sent a swirl of pleasure through her. His mouth moved with devastating force and precision to the soft, sensitive flesh of her neck, teasing it, drawing it into his mouth, the onslaught of his tongue and teeth exciting and frustrating her, making her twist against him. She felt like a battleground, a hundred forces clashing and erupting in her, and there was nothing she could do but somehow survive it. And at the edge was the need to act, to do as much beautiful damage to him as he was doing to her, to make him suffer and churn like this. To feel him and taste him. And see him. God, she wanted to see him, all of him. It wasn’t right to have all these layers between them.
She dragged one arm from his shoulders and managed to get her hand under his coat, tugging his shirt out of his pantaloons. His skin was so hot under her hand, hot and smooth, and it burned all the way up her shoulder, adding to the urgent ache she was becoming. She slid her fingers over the muscles of his back as far as she could reach and images danced through her brain of paintings she had seen, images superimposed on the fantasies about him that had come in the dark in her little room. But it wasn’t enough, she wanted to see him, to see him utterly bared, to explore every inch of him with every sense she possessed. This was no statue, she could feel his muscles flinch and tighten under her fingers, his breathing as harsh and unsteady as hers, and when a whimper came out of her that she hardly recognised as her own she felt the a tremor run through his whole body and felt a surge of power that elated her. She might not reach him any other way, but here he couldn’t keeping her at bay.
‘I want to see you,’ she moaned, digging one hand into his hair and dragging his mouth back to hers and another shudder coursed through his body, but she wished she had kept silent because he pulled back, his eyes burning and intent, but already she could see the withdrawal. He let go her legs and they slid down.
‘We have to stop...’ His voice was torn and scratchy, but the resolution underneath was unmistakable.
‘No!’ she said angrily, too frustrated and off balance to be cautious. ‘You started this. You can’t keep starting this and then sending me on my way. It’s not fair!’
‘Fair...’ He gave a broken laugh, brushing the hair back from her face as if he found it hard to stop touching her. ‘Sophie, you’re right. I shouldn’t have started this. But we need to be sensible.’
He pulled her against him, her cheek pressed against his chest, and she could feel his heartbeat, hard and fast, echoing against her and inside her, feeding the throbbing pulse that refused to calm. She gave a little sob, trying to draw on the strength of the body encompassing hers to counter the chaos she had become. She hardly realised her fingers continued to moving gen
tly against his back. The need to touch him was a compulsion, the tips of her fingers so sensitive she could feel the pulse of blood under his skin, the way his muscles tensed as she glided over them, the agonised drag of his breath as he fought to regain control.
‘Sophie, stop... We can’t do this. Not yet...’
But his words, deep and tortured, were in complete contrast with his actions. The arms that had pinned her slid down her back, urging her against him, and she instinctively parted her legs to bring him closer, only the resistance of her skirts holding back the need to encompass him. Caught in her own daze she saw the struggle behind the heat in his eyes and the capitulation. He cursed almost inaudibly, a low rough sound that was as much a caress as a profanity, and his hands released her only to drag up her skirts, his fingers grazing her bare skin above her stockings. She felt unbearably soft against his hands, as if she could feel herself through him. His gaze held hers as his hands curved over her thighs, moulding them, tracing lines on them, shifting them further apart as the hampering skirts rose, dragging his palms up their softness and down again until her whole body contracted. She had no idea what to do other than cling to him and wait out this incomprehensible, unbearable need that wouldn’t relent.
She knew something was going to happen, she was certain of it, that she no longer had to fight him for it. She could just let go and feel. Follow his fingers as they gentled and slowed, just tracing down to the line of her garter before moving up, easing her legs apart slightly with his knee so he could reach the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, higher. She bit her lip to curb the moan that built up, but it pushed through, carried on the waves of unrelenting heat his hands were setting loose, concentrating on the pulsing, demanding fire between her legs. He caught the sound against his mouth, teasing her teeth from her lip, his own replacing them, nipping at her sensitised flesh and the edge of pain released something in her and she finally moved, digging her hands into his hair, pulling herself against him, opening her mouth under his and he gave in and deepened the caress into the hungry kiss that had been held back, taunting.