by Lara Temple
Sophie was suddenly very grateful to Lady Melissa for having introduced Serena before Wivenhoe sprang the news on her.
‘Of course, Max told me all about her.’
‘Did he indeed? All? Somehow that surprises me. I wouldn’t think Harcourt liked discussing his failures, even with his lovely new bride-to-be. So he told you that his beloved betrothed was my mistress and that she died by poison? It was never discovered who provided it. Her oh-so-indulgent fool of a father put it out she died of a fever, but the doctor believed she died trying to rid herself of the unborn child she conceived out of wedlock. It happens, you know. Not that it is easy for a gently reared girl to find those kinds of potions. But we men tend to know how to source them when there is a need. You might want to ask Harcourt where they can be obtained if the need arises...or perhaps that would not be wise.’
Sophie had been prepared for some vindictiveness, but not for this. She had to physically hold herself immobile and expressionless. She thought of Max and the few short sentences he had shared with her and the vulnerability and passion that had followed and she wished she could hurt Wivenhoe.
‘There is a slight gap in versions between the two of you about Lady Serena,’ she replied with a contemptuous lightness she tried very hard not to show was forced. ‘Somehow I place my faith in Max.’
‘Really? What confidence! Do you know she died in the very bed she used to meet me in? Her cousins were out of town those last few weeks and we used to meet in their empty house and she would moan about your dear old Max. Not that he was old then, just a young arrogant pup who was quite unsuited for such a vibrant, pleasure-seeking creature like Serena. If he hadn’t been so wealthy and the heir to a dukedom she never would have even considered him, but their parents wanted it and Harcourt wanted it and she thought she could do what she wanted with him. But he’s stubborn, as you will learn. Too stubborn to set her free even when he knew...he knew he was wrong for her. She was the most beautiful woman I... She loved being watched, adulated. She was so alive...’ He was breathing hard, his eyes molten amber. ‘If you were clever, you’d run right back home, my dear. This is an unhealthy environment for women who think they can live as they see fit and for those who care for them. Ask poor old Lord Morecombe, holed up in his dilapidated house in Manchester Square and only coming out at night like some village freak. Sounds rather like your aunt except that at least he has cause for his histrionics. To have one’s only child killed...’
The viciousness gathered again, his eyes boring into hers.
‘You’re nowhere near as beautiful as she was, but do you honestly think someone as cold as Harcourt will do for you, Sophie Trevelyan?’
Sophie listened to this jumbled, vitriolic rush without a word, between shock and a cold fear, her mind tumbling over itself in its need to stop this, to defend Max and to defend herself against the implications of his words. Finally she found the strength to turn away towards Aunt Minnie’s carriage. Inside she sank back against the squabs and closed her eyes, letting the shaking take over. As they drew away all that remained was the image of a dark, beautiful woman whom Max had loved and lost so horribly.
Chapter Sixteen
‘His Grace is waiting for you in the parlour, miss,’ Lambeth informed her as she entered. ‘Allow me to assist you,’ he added with the flattening of his lips that was as close as he came to a smile.
She allowed him to take the packages from her, feeling rather foolish at how relieved she was that Max was there. Just knowing he was close gathered her together, like a group of scattered ducklings coaxed back into a row. Whatever Wivenhoe had said about Max, and however difficult he might be, she knew him. Perhaps not fully, but at some level she knew what he was and wasn’t capable of. Even if what Wivenhoe said was true, and she was far from convinced that it was, it couldn’t have been more than a tragic accident. She hurried into the parlour with more haste than grace. Max was standing looking absently at her painting of Hetty but he looked up when she entered and moved towards her.
‘Where were you? I’ve been waiting half an hour.’
She stopped at his abrupt tone.
‘I went to Reeves. We didn’t arrange to meet, did we?’
‘Why didn’t you tell Lambeth where you were going?
‘Why should I? I took a footman with me...’
He stood stiffly for a moment.
‘Next time you go out tell Lambeth where you are going.’
‘No,’ she replied calmly and his eyes narrowed.
‘No?’
‘No. I have no intention of reporting to Lambeth about my whereabouts. I am willing to take James with me when I go out, though I am not happy about it, but that is the extent of it. Does Hetty report to your butler every time she steps out of the house?’
‘That’s different!’
‘How? Because she’s married? Or is it because she is not some silly miss from the countryside?’
‘Because she does not have someone like Wivenhoe fixated on her!’ His voice had risen and he held himself back with obvious effort and Sophie stared at him in shock.
‘Do you understand me?’ he asked, more calmly.
‘I do, but—’ She broke off. For once she should try to think before she leaped. Sharing Wivenhoe’s words was certain to exacerbate the enmity between the two men and she did not want to cause any more trouble for Max. He had been through enough.
‘But what?’
‘Nothing. Nothing at all,’ she replied, trying to look at him casually. It was clearly a mistake. His eyes narrowed and he moved towards her with the swiftness of a predatory animal.
‘But what?’ he repeated. ‘What happened? Did you see Wivenhoe? Look at me!’ he commanded as she looked down at the faded carpet and she found enough anger in her to meet his eyes squarely.
‘Stop snapping at me! Nothing happened.’
‘I think I told you before that you are a very poor liar,’ he said. His voice had calmed, but he sounded more frightening than before. ‘Now tell me what happened.’
‘Nothing. I came across him at Reeves. He was his usual unpleasant self. That is all.’
‘No,’ he said slowly, watching her. ‘That’s not all, is it?’
For a moment she wondered if she could somehow brazen it out after all, but the pressure of his slate-grey eyes and of her own confused emotions gave her no stable point of resistance and she moved towards the canvas. She wished she didn’t like painting at all. It was nothing but trouble.
‘He told me about...his relationship with Serena. Another detail you forgot to tell me. Perhaps I should ask what else I should know before someone else decides to enlighten me? As you pointed out, I am a very poor liar and my powers of dissembling are being stretched to their limit. At least now I understand why he has “fixated” on me, as you said. I knew something had happened between the two of you. You should have told me!’
‘That is not the nature of our relationship.’
His words hit her with all the power of a physical blow and she leaned her hand on the edge of the easel, pressing into the cool varnished wood. He, too, seemed to realise what he had said and he took a step forward, but she raised her hand, halting him. The silence stretched.
‘I am sorry. That was uncalled for,’ he said finally.
‘It’s the truth, though,’ she answered with equal coolness. ‘But I think it is best you tell me if there is anything else I should be prepared to deal with.’
‘I think you have the gist of it now. After Serena...died, he and I met and fought it out. Then I joined up. We haven’t come much in each other’s way since then. Until now.’
‘There was a duel?’
‘Nothing so romantic. More like a backstreet brawl. We were both drunk and I don’t remember much of it, but he left me with this—’ he indicated the scar along th
e edge of his left hand ‘—and I broke his arm. His left arm, unfortunately.’
The image of that moment in Grosvenor Square gardens, with Max’s unrelenting grasp on Wivenhoe’s hand and Wivenhoe’s white, pain-suffused face, flashed before her. Everything made sense to her suddenly. The foolishness of her dream. And the pointlessness of caring.
‘If it had not been for Serena, you never would have said what you did to Wivenhoe. About being betrothed. You weren’t talking about me at all.’
She heard her voice, calm and reasonable and very distant. There was no pain there, or anger, or anything of the misery burning inside her. She was learning to at least emulate his cold manner and she wished she could make it go more than skin deep.
‘Serena has nothing to do with us.’
She spread her hands out, but then clasped them together.
‘You may be a better liar than I, Max, but that is going too far, even for you,’ she said quietly and left the room. She was glad he didn’t try to stop her. Even kindness would be unbearable now. She felt like a savage, wounded animal; all she wanted was to be alone. Halfway up to her room she heard the front door open and close.
Chapter Seventeen
‘His Grace, Miss Sophie,’ Lambeth said gently and Sophie started and dropped the brush that she had been holding. Since it had completely dried while she stared vacantly at Marmaduke’s painted grin, it didn’t leave a stain on the rug, but she still scuffed at the rug with her kid slipper, keeping her head down to hide her flush. For a moment she debated having Lambeth send him away. A day might have passed since their confrontation, but she was still raw. She had never thought herself prone to melancholy, but she was learning fast. She laid down her brush carefully and nodded to Lambeth. Putting off seeing him again wasn’t in her character. And she missed him, fool that she was.
He walked in and stood just inside the door as Lambeth closed it behind him. When she didn’t speak he took another step inside.
‘I came... I wanted to invite you to go to Richmond Park. You can bring your sketch pad.’ The stony coldness of yesterday was gone and he looked merely uncomfortable, and whatever pretensions she might have had to firmness began crumbling.
‘I’m not dressed for the park,’ she replied, hanging on to her cool manner, and a glimmer of a smile appeared in his eyes.
‘I have five sisters. If there is one thing I have learned, it is how to wait for them to change.’
She looked down at the floor, amazed she was so willing to succumb to that smile. She had never thought herself so weak. She shrugged.
‘Ten minutes, then.’
The smile reached the edges of his mouth.
‘Twenty.’
Sophie didn’t bother responding, but she left the room determined to somehow look her best without being a minute above ten.
She didn’t quite make it. Now that her engagement was public, Aunt Minnie had insisted on assigning her one of the parlourmaids to be her personal maid and Susan, delighted with her promotion, was waiting to pounce on her when she entered her room. Having been trained by Aunt Minnie’s own woman, a terrifying battleaxe, she was quick and precise and had Sophie into Madame Fanechal’s lavender promenade dress with its mulberry and silver pelisse and the new straw bonnet with matching lavender ribbons that Hetty had chosen for her. Sophie spared a quick look at the mirror before hurrying downstairs. At least she looked the part now. Now she had only to act like it. She stopped before the door and drew a deep breath before stepping in with dignity. Max looked over from the paintings and moved towards her, holding out his arm politely with the hint of a smile just tightening the corners of his mouth.
‘Well?’ she prompted as she picked up the cloth bag with her sketch pad.
‘Well, what? Oh, your dress. You look lovely. You have definitely found your style.’
She flushed at the appreciative warmth in his eyes as they moved over her. ‘That is not what I meant. I wasn’t fishing for compliments! How long was I?’
The smile flickered again.
‘I wasn’t counting.’
‘I told you I wouldn’t be above ten minutes,’ she said confidently.
‘Twelve.’
‘You weren’t counting.’
‘I know better. And even if I was, twelve is already an impressive feat on its own. The fact that you could achieve such charming results in so little time is nothing short of wondrous. But you don’t have to hurry. I don’t mind waiting for you.’
Sophie looked at him suspiciously as they stepped into the hallway. This switch to humorous gallantry from the bitterness of the day before was disorienting, but she was grateful he was making an effort to bring them back to normality. As painful as it was for her, he had been right in pointing out that their relationship was not one of emotional intimacy and it was best to keep their exchanges light and impersonal. It wasn’t his fault she naïvely allowed those amazing physical experiences to convince her something significant was growing between them. He had never once attempted to deceive her about the ‘nature of their relationship’ as he put it. She should have the courage and strength to respect that and not start indulging in romantic and dramatic fits. At twenty-four years of age, and after almost as many of tucking herself back in, she should be able to manage some restraint. She might be foolish enough to live in hope that something else might evolve with time, but for the moment she would follow his lead.
‘I am taking Miss Trevelyan driving, Lambeth. We will be back in a few hours,’ Max informed the butler as they moved towards the front door.
‘Will you be needing the leash for the dog, Your Grace?’ Lambeth enquired politely.
‘The what...?’ Max’s question died out as Marmaduke interposed himself between them and the front door.
‘No, you may not!’ Max told Marmaduke. ‘Go back to your room!’
Marmaduke flattened at Max’s stern tones, paws outstretched.
‘Poor Marmaduke,’ Sophie said before she could stop herself.
‘Sophie, you can’t mean to take this undergrown canine with us to Richmond!’
Sophie laughed, the tension leaving her body at the absurdity of the moment.
‘I don’t mean anything. He is clearly enamoured of you. Go back to the parlour, Marmaduke!’
Marmaduke shuffled towards Max’s boots, looking up at him, his pink tongue out and panting gently.
‘You heard her. To the parlour!’
Marmaduke lay down again, looking like a furry prostrate Buddha except for the eyes gazing mournfully up at his idol.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake...and you standing there laughing isn’t helping, Sophie!’
‘I can’t help it. Oh, very well, I’ll take him back to the parlour.’
She scooped him up and started towards the parlour, but Marmaduke squirmed and leaped out of her arms, scurrying to stand between Max and the door where Lambeth still stood waiting to open it for them, his face carefully neutral as he stared at the wall.
Max frowned down at the pug.
‘Fine. Just take his leash with you. Or maybe not—with any luck he’ll run away in Richmond.’
‘Max!’ She laughed and went to take Marmaduke’s leash from the side table by the front door. ‘Come, Marmaduke. You are going to discover a whole new world of fowl today. I hope you like curricles.’
‘If he barks at my horses, I’m leaving him on the side of the road,’ Max said as they went outside towards the awaiting curricle.
‘So far the only one barking is you, Max. Up you go, Marmaduke. There, see? He’s a natural. As long as he has your boots to cuddle up to, he’s as merry as a grig.’
‘Just keep your eye on him. I don’t trust him an inch. And keep him down there. If anyone sees me driving a pug around, I’ll never live it down.’
‘Hear
that, Marmaduke? On your best behaviour, now. Otherwise we might not get invited again.’
Max sighed and guided his team west, and Sophie held herself in readiness to grab Marmaduke, but he just sat panting happily at their feet as they drove towards Kingston Road. She resisted the urge to give the dog a hug for having so effectively defused the tension between her and Max. And for having reminded her that despite the walls Max set up so effectively, there was a kindness to him she wasn’t certain he was aware of himself. It gave her hope that he could at least find companionship with her, if not return her love. She raised her face to the sun as it burst out from behind a cloud like an actor rushed late on to the stage. She would have to find Marmaduke an extra-special treat.
* * *
‘Oh, beautiful!’ Sophie breathed, her hand half-outstretched as if the view of the park and the city beyond it from King Henry’s Mound were a painting she could explore with her fingers. And it was beautiful, Max had to admit. They had spent so long exploring the park that it was already late afternoon and the sun was low behind them and St Paul’s dome in the distance had lost its grey cast and looked rosy and gilded, rising from the paler mass of the city and framed by the vivid new green of the park.
He had been to this park more times than he could count over the years, but somehow it was different today. Like at the Exhibition, he noticed things that he had never paid much attention to, the shading of the sun on Pen Ponds, the silence that fell when they caught sight of a stag and doe standing haunch to haunch in the forest just three yards from them. The way Sophie had grasped his hand in an unconscious sharing of her wonder, her eyes glinted up at him in happiness.
It had taken a great deal of willpower not to pull her to him and try to capture that joy in a more physical way, but it had felt almost sacrilegious. He was well aware of the fragility of the peace they had reclaimed after yesterday’s clash. He had been wondering how to mend some of the damage he had inflicted but he had not imagined his olive branch of a trip to Richmond would be so successful. It was just that her enjoyment was contagious, even of things as foolish and mundane as the efforts of a line of ducklings that trailed after their mother with fierce determination, scattering and reforming around obstacles until they made it safely to the ponds while he kept a firm hold on Marmaduke’s leash and hunting instincts. And his own.