“I have nothing but the highest regard for you, the greatest respect,” he said at last. “I’m not certain what it is, exactly, that you are doing, but let me assure you…I am not dallying.”
What a wonderfully romantic thing to say, she thought, her heart beating a little faster. If it hadn’t been for the lack of privacy, she might have kissed him then and there. And it was on the tip of her tongue to say she wasn’t dallying either, but she bit the words back.
She spent every morning strolling through the countryside with him. She sought him out for company and conversation at every turn. She’d kissed him twice, and rather hoped to add to that number. Even now, she was sharing a picnic with him beneath the stars.
And she did all this knowing it was leading nowhere. She wasn’t a lady, and this wasn’t a courtship. Eventually, it would be time for her to go.
What was she doing, then, if not dallying with the man?
What were they both doing?
“That wasn’t meant to make you sad,” Max murmured.
Anna shook her head. She didn’t want to be sad, there was nothing to be gained by it. If her time with Max was limited, then it was all the more important she make the best use of every moment.
“I’m not sad,” she replied and almost believed the lie. “Merely thoughtful.”
She was lying.
Max knew that Anna would never be an easy woman to read, but he liked to think he was beginning to recognize the signs of certain moods. Certainly, there were some things she was no longer able to hide from him completely. And he knew she was lying.
He’d rather have known why. Why the devil would a sentimental confession from him make the woman sad?
That wasn’t at all flattering. Nor promising, considering he had other sentimental confessions planned for the night.
“What are you thinking?” he asked, hoping to draw her out.
“I was thinking of…Oh, all sorts of things. Mrs. Culpepper. My mother. It has been a trying few days.”
He murmured an agreement and tried to decipher if she was still lying or not, and what he might do about it either way.
“Have a slice of apple,” he suggested and felt like an idiot. Because, really, he ought to have been able to come up with something more helpful in the moment than fruit.
But she seemed to appreciate the effort. Smiling, she accepted the slice and took a small bite from the end. “Let’s speak of something cheerful. Tell me something I don’t know about you. Tell me about your nieces.”
He hesitated, still concerned, but ultimately decided that it was in his best interest to cheer her in whatever way she preferred. “I confess, I do not know them as well as I ought. My sister-in-law is not overly fond of me, and I find we are all happier if I do not force my attentions on the family for any length of time.”
“But you bought your niece a horse?”
He lifted a shoulder. “I am kept apprised of their interests.”
“By the dowager viscountess?”
“No, by the greatest viscount that never was.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“My cousin, Mr. William Dane. He runs the estate for me while I’m away, which is to say, he runs the estate. He came to me three years ago in hopes of borrowing the money to purchase a commission—the plight of a third son of a second son, I’m afraid. I’ve known William since infancy. He’s a good man, a fine leader with a head for business and a talent for diplomacy. I asked for his assistance in running the Dane estate and he gladly accepted.” He popped a grape in his mouth and spoke around the food. “My involvement became unnecessary some time ago.”
“He sounds a competent man.”
Max nodded. “The Dane family has never been so well off. The tenants and staff have never been as happy. Even my difficult sister-in-law cannot find fault with the man, and I assure you, Lady Dane could find fault with Everlasting Paradise. The viscounty should have gone to William.”
“What would you do, then?” she asked, reaching for her goblet of wine.
He watched her lips touch the rim as she took a sip. It was a small, simple act, but one he found incredibly sensual. “What do you mean?”
“If you hadn’t the responsibilities of a viscount, what would you do with yourself?”
“Exactly what I do with myself now, only more often. Drink, lounge about”—he winked at her—“seduce beautiful women.”
“Liar,” she accused on a laugh. “You’re not half as wicked as you would have people believe. You’ve already told me you’re not a rake or libertine. You’re certainly not lazy.”
“Know me so well, do you?” he asked and wondered what she would say if he told her that, while he may not go about seducing women indiscriminately, he was plenty eager to seduce her, specifically.
He could show her wicked. He was coming out of his skin with the want to show her how much fun it could be to be fully, unapologetically indecent.
Which was why, he thought with a quick glance at the group on the other blanket, he’d brought along half of Caldwell Manor as her chaperone.
“I believe I know enough that I might make a respectable guess at what you might do if you were truly free of all constraints,” Anna said. She took another sip of wine, then set down her goblet. “You wouldn’t return to a soldier’s life, I think. You resigned your commission before becoming Lord Dane. You haven’t the patience for politics. The church wouldn’t have you. I wonder…” She tilted her head. “What is it you do with yourself when you’re not thumbing your nose at the ton? When no one’s watching?”
His lips curled up slowly at her question, then he waggled his eyebrows in the most ridiculously suggestive manner he could manage.
Anna gasped, clearly caught between horror and amusement. “That is not what I meant.”
“I know.” He laughed. “But I do so appreciate that you knew what I meant. You really have had an unusual education. Was there nothing your mother left out?”
“How would I know if something was missing if she didn’t make me aware of its existence to start?”
She had a fair point. “Your own personal research? I imagine the library at Anover House wasn’t short on material of a…let us say explicit nature.”
“Oh, well, if everything there is to know about such things can be found in the books on the subject that my mother possesses, then, no, she didn’t leave anything out.”
“Does she possess a goodly number of books on the subject?”
“Oh, yes,” she assured him. “Stacks and stacks of them.”
“I should have spent more time in that library.”
She laughed and shook her head. “The best ones were kept separately as part of my mother’s private collection.”
“Dare I ask what makes a book one of the best?”
“Artwork,” she said succinctly.
He considered that. “As in the inclusion of, or the quality therein?”
“Well, quality is so subjective…”
“Indeed. What was the title of your favorite?”
It was impossible to tell in the dim light, but Max got the impression Anna blushed a little at the suggestion. “I’ll not tell you that.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted on a laugh. “I just don’t care for the idea of it. Knowing you’ll look at it knowing I’ve looked at it.”
“I already know you’ve looked at it,” he pointed out.
“Yes, but you don’t know what ‘it’ is.”
Well, now, this was interesting. “Are we speaking of a specific it? A favorite bit of artwork in a favorite book, is it?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Near enough. What’s it a depiction of?” He laughed when she sniffed and turned her head. “It would’ve been titled, being in a book. What’s it called? Tell me.”
“Not for all the naughty artwork in England, milord.”
“What about France? The French have created some spectacular—”
>
“Yes,” she said coyly. “I know.”
The drawing Anna was thinking of wasn’t particularly wicked, not so far as drawings in Anover House went. It was a colored sketch of a young man and woman embracing in a sun-dappled garden.
Her embarrassment was not in the nudity portrayed…well, not all the embarrassment…it was in the sentiment. The couple were entwined in each other’s arms, lost in each other’s gaze, seemingly oblivious to the world around them.
For Anna, the picture was a sweet bit of ink and imagination that epitomized every silly romantic notion she’d ever had about falling in love. And it was that silly romanticism that embarrassed her. It was always a little uncomfortable to admit wanting something you knew you couldn’t have.
“I think we should return to our original topic,” she declared. “What it is you would do, were you free to do anything at all. I would guess—”
“You may guess all day and not land on the answer to that,” Max cut in. “So, let us strike a deal. I shall tell you what I would do, were I completely free, and you will tell me the name of this book with—”
“No.”
He sighed quite dramatically. “Very well. I’ll tell you what I would do, and you can tell me the same.”
It hardly seemed a fair trade, as he already knew that what she would do and what she was going to do were the same thing—purchase a cottage for herself. But if Max hadn’t thought of that, she wasn’t going to enlighten him. “Very well, you first.”
“It’s quite simple for me. I would be a man of business.”
She sent him a bland look as she reached for a bit of bread. “Oh, do be serious.”
“I assure you, I am in earnest.”
She took a second glance at his features and saw that there was no hint of teasing or humor on his face. Good heavens, he was serious. “But if business interests you, why leave the running of the Dane estate to your cousin?”
“Because that’s not the sort of business that interests me—crops and rent and politics.” He shook his head. “I would do something else. I would be in trade.”
“Trade?”
“Are you shocked?”
“Yes, rather.”
“Because it’s unseemly for a man of my station?”
She thought she heard a touch of defensiveness in his voice, but she couldn’t say for certain. “No, because it requires a considerable level of dedication, above and beyond simply not being lazy. You told me when we first met that you didn’t dedicate yourself to anything because it was entirely too much work.”
“I was lying,” he admitted. “I wasn’t about to admit to the lady I was hoping to impress that I wished to be a man of business. I wasn’t that drunk.”
Anna was certain that, for as long as she lived, she would never understand how it was the inebriated sorted out their priorities. Drunk enough to offer marriage, but still sufficiently sober to keep his secret? It was baffling.
“Why do you wish it?” she asked.
“Because what you have is what you’ve earned,” he explained. “And because what I might earn would be mine, not tied to an estate. And because I’m damned good at it.”
“You engage in trade now?”
“You’re sworn to secrecy.”
“Yes, of course.”
He nodded and reached for his wine. “I’ve made a respectable sum in the past six years. All under the name of Mr. Jeremiah Blackwater.”
“You’ve an alias? In earnest?” She broke out into delighted laughter when he nodded. “Oh, that’s marvelous. I’ve never met someone pretending to be someone else before.”
He tipped his goblet at her. “How would you know?”
“You have a point,” she conceded. “But why do you have one at all? You’ve never expressed a care for the opinions of the ton before, why care what they think of this?”
“I don’t, particularly. But my nieces could suffer for it.” He shrugged, as if a little embarrassed to have been caught caring. This was not, she realized, as easy a conversation for him as he would like to pretend. “It is one thing to remove oneself from good society. It is something else to drag four young girls along behind you. The eldest will make her debut in a few years.”
Anna considered that—an uncle with a reputation for excess would do little to harm his niece’s chance at a good match. An uncle who sullied his hands in trade would hardly render her a pariah, but there would be whispers and ridicule. Some doors would be closed to her, some gentlemen out of reach.
She smiled at Max, pleased with him for a dozen different reasons in that moment. “You see? Not half as wicked.”
“I’m glad you think so. It will make it easier to gain your cooperation when I ask you to marry me.”
Surprised by his careless words, and not a little hurt, Anna’s gaze snapped to his. “Don’t jest about such things. It’s not—”
“Why should I jest?”
“Are you…” She studied his face, found it difficult to read. “Are you being serious?”
“Perhaps.” He took a sip of his wine, eyed her over the rim of his goblet. “And if I was? If I was to request your hand in marriage tonight—?”
“I would say no, of course,” she cut in as her heart began to hammer. “I cannot believe we’re having this conversation.”
“You can’t be that surprised,” he muttered, lowering his glass. “It’s not the first time.”
It was the first time he’d broached the subject of marriage while sober; that was close enough. “And my reasons for saying no haven’t changed.”
He cocked his head, remembering. “You said no because you wanted the cottage and the hound.”
“Yes, and because I didn’t want to be a member of the demimonde or the beau monde.”
“Why not?” He set his drink aside, visibly irritated. “Why do you give such weight to the opinion of others?”
“I don’t—”
“Why do you bind yourself to someone else’s narrow definition of respectability and honor? Why should it make a difference to you?”
For her, it wasn’t a matter of being considered honorable or respectable, it was a desire for people to stop considering her altogether. But aside from that, it pricked at her to hear him speak so casually of respectability and honor, as if a woman might toss them away with all the care one might show an apple core.
“It’s all well and good for you to say,” she retorted. “You don’t have to care for your honor. You’re a viscount. In the eyes of society, you were born honorable. You’ve honor to toss away. Huge, unending quantities of it.”
“That’s not entirely—”
“What’s more, you can get it all back again if you wish. A bit of good behavior, a few words of atonement, and suddenly your antics were but youthful indiscretions.” She waved a hand that wanted to shake. “Boys will, and all that. You’re reformed now, redeemed, welcomed back into society with open arms.”
“That’s certainly not—”
“Do you suppose a woman like me will be allowed the same courtesy?” she pressed. “Do you know any woman who’s been allowed to completely free herself from ignoble origins, or a lady who’s been allowed to redeem herself after a fall?”
He didn’t answer, though whether it was because he couldn’t come up with a response or he was merely tired of being interrupted, she couldn’t say.
“No,” she answered for him. “There is no redemption for a fallen woman, nor acceptance for the daughter of a well-known courtesan. She is a spectacle for life.”
“A spectacle,” he repeated slowly. “That’s it, isn’t it? This has less to do with what others say than the notion they’re speaking of you at all. You don’t want the attention.”
“Yes, that is it,” she eagerly affirmed. She wanted so desperately for him to understand. “I loathed attending my mother’s parties. I hated being stared at, whispered about, being made the subject of speculation and wagers, and no end of jests, I’m sure. I don’t want t
o be a spectacle. I want to be like everyone else.”
“No one is like everyone else—”
“Don’t,” she cut in. “Don’t play with my words. This isn’t a game.”
“I don’t mean to make a game of it. Anna, look at me.” He waited until she lifted her eyes to meet his. “I don’t want you to be like everyone else. I don’t want you to be like anyone else. You’re perfect just as you are.”
Irritation melted away as pleasure warmed her from the inside, out. “Max—”
“Marry me, Anna.”
Anna suppressed a groan as pleasure gave way to hollow longing. Oh, how she loved the idea of spending the rest of her life with Max. But oh, how she loathed the idea of being a viscountess. Just the thought of playing the part of Lady Dane in London made her stomach turn and her palms sweat. She’d not be just a spectacle amongst the demimonde then, but amongst the ton as well. She’d have gone from the Ice Maiden of Anover House to the Grasping Whore of McMullin Hall.
“We can’t marry, Max, you must know that. I can’t go back to London. I won’t.”
“You…” Max’s mouth thinned to a hard line. He glared at her, then swore once, gained his feet, and strode five feet away to glare at something in the distance.
Wishing she had some way to make things better, Anna watched him drag a hand through his hair then come back and stand before her with his legs braced apart and a determined glint in his eye. “Fine. Fine. A cottage it is.”
“What—?”
“But something closer to Caldwell Manor and McMullin Hall than next to your Mrs. Culpepper,” he grumbled. “I’ll not spend days in a carriage to visit the only other country gentlemen I know.”
Anna stared at him in astonishment. He meant it. He truly meant it. He would forgo London and stay in the country with her.
It was an astoundingly selfless, wondrously romantic offer. Oh, not nearly so wicked, she thought, and it was on the very tip of her tongue to say, Yes, yes, a thousand times yes. A life in the country with Max. A lifetime together to take walks and share meals and read quietly in the library or perhaps play a game of chess. It would be a dream come true…for her.
It would be his nightmare.
“You’d perish of boredom within a year,” she said quietly. And before that year was up, he would resent her for his choice, and she would think less of herself for having accepted his offer. She knew what it was to be well and truly trapped. He was the last person on whom she would wish such a fate.
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