The Further Observations of Lady Whistledown (Lady W 1) (11 page)

Part of her wanted to see it for herself, to have Maximilian show her the places he so obviously loved. The other part of her was terrified that if she loosened her grip on London, she would never see it again.

And the worst part of all was that she couldn’t see any way around it. Yorkshire or London, Maximilian or…someone who wasn’t him. “Maximilian,” she murmured, her heart beating faster at the mere sound of his name. Butterflies came to life low in her belly.

Someone scratched at the library door. Anne yelped and shoved the book back into place.

“Yes?”

Lambert entered the room, a large bouquet of yellow daffodils in his hands. “These just arrived for you, Lady Anne. Shall I put them in the morning room with the rest?”

Daffodils
. “Thank you, no. Leave them on the table, please.” She spied the letter nestled among the blossoms, and clasped her hands to keep from springing forward and snatching it up.

“Very good, my lady.” The butler set down the flowers, and left.

Since her debut, St. Valentine’s Day had meant flowers; last year her mother had counted thirty-seven separate bouquets, most of them accompanied by candies and poems, and in one memorable case, a haunch of venison. Francis Henning had evidently thought her too skinny. The scent of roses filled every room of Bishop House today, as well. No one, though, had ever sent her daffodils.

Her hands abruptly clammy, Anne rubbed them on her skirt before she lifted the folded missive from the bright yellow blooms. She opened the heavy paper, and a smaller, weightier card fell to the floor.

On the back, in a dark, even hand it said, “As I remember it.” When she picked the thing up, on the front was a six-inch-square colored sketch of a green pasture bordered by oak trees and boulders, and carpeted from one end to the other with yellow flowers. In the corner the initials “MRT” held her gaze for as long as the lovely rendering. “An artist as well,” she said, running a finger carefully across the surface.

She took a seat and placed the sketch on the table. Then she turned her attention to the letter. All the other notes and cards she had or would receive today featured hearts and cherubs and declarations of heartfelt admiration.

This one, of course, was different. “‘Anne,’” she read to herself, “‘Nineteen daffodils for the nineteen years we’ve been promised to one another. I would wish one day to show you where they grow wild.’”

“A scholar, an artist, and a romantic,” she whispered, her fingers shaking. “I would never have guessed.”

With a hard blink, she went on. “‘I am thinking of you, as I hope you are thinking of me, with desire and anticipation. I shall see you tonight. Maximilian.’”

Tonight. The Shelbourne St. Valentine’s Day ball. If she had any sense of courage or conviction, Anne decided, she would decline to attend. Then he would be gone, and she would probably never see him again.

With a sigh she stood to go examine her wardrobe. She already knew she would wear yellow.

Maximilian stood beside Lady Shelbourne’s dessert table, doing his damnedest not to pace. She’d been invited, he knew, because he’d asked her father. She would come tonight, because he needed her to.

“Damnation,” he muttered.

Others seemed to be waiting for her there as well, which only served to further blacken his mood. Lord Howard, of course, circled the room like a vulture, sampling the various available feminine sweets while he waited for the main dish. Sir Royce Pemberley was also there, though his attention seemed to be on a unique female in an equally unique pink gown that appeared in perfect harmony with the swathes of pink, red, and white silk that hung from the ballroom ceiling.

Well, turnabout was fair play. With another glance at his competition, he strolled toward Margaret, Lady Shelbourne and the pink chit chatting with her.

“Might I have the pleasure of an introduction?” he asked, stopping before the ladies.

“Of course, my lord,” Lady Shelbourne answered, swift dismay touching her face and then vanishing again. “Liza, Lord Halfurst. My lord—”

The pink chit grinned and stuck out her hand. “Miss Elizabeth Pritchard. Liza. Pleased to meet you.”

He shook her hand. “A pleasure to meet you.” Her light brown hair seemed to be coming out from its elaborate coif, the ends sticking out at odd angles, but she had an intelligence in her eyes that Maximilian couldn’t help but notice. And for once a matron seemed reluctant to see him near a single female, which in itself made Miss Liza Pritchard the most interesting part of his evening thus far.

“Might I have this waltz, Miss Liza?” he drawled. “If it’s not already spoken for, of course.”

Unless he was mistaken, she sent a glance in Pemberley’s direction.
Good
. “I’m afraid I’m all yours, my lord.”

She was taller by several inches than Anne, and as they swirled onto the dance floor, he noted that her shoes were red. And then one of them trod on his left foot.

“I’m so sorry,” she gulped, flushing.

“No need to apologize,” he returned, smiling and hoping his eyes wouldn’t water. She didn’t appear that sturdy, but—

Miss Liza stepped on him again. “Oh no!”

“No worries, Miss Liza,” he grunted. Good God, unique as she was in appearance, she danced with the grace of an elephant.

“I should have warned you,” she mumbled, “dancing is not my forte. Perhaps if we counted the steps aloud?”

His left foot was going numb, but he couldn’t help being amused. “The danger makes the adventure more worthwhile,” he returned.

To his surprise, she laughed, and then, less amusing for him but to the obvious enjoyment of the nearest couples, she began counting. “One, two, three. One, two, three—oh drat.”

He managed to avoid stumbling over her as she tripped on her own gown, then caught Sir Royce Pemberley staring at the two of them. A moment later he came forward, blocking their path.

“Might I cut in?” he asked tightly.

Maximilian met his gaze. He’d thought to find anger, or the snide disdain he was used to from Londoners, but instead he found himself nodding and stepping back, allowing Sir Royce to take his place. They said nothing else, but as Miss Elizabeth took Sir Royce’s hand and met her partner’s gaze, Maximilian abruptly realized that Anne had told the truth about the snow angels incident being nothing more than a moment of amusement. Royce Pemberley was not at the Shelbourne ball for Lady Anne Bishop. He’d already found his love.

Limping slightly, Max returned to the dessert table. The more circling Lord Howard did, the more nasty looks turned in Max’s direction. He wondered whether Desmond Howard had ever bothered to tell Anne about the young maid he’d ruined when they’d both been at Oxford, and how much the viscount had resented Maximilian’s intervention in seeing the girl safely to a position with his mother.

The air stirred. Without turning, he knew that she’d entered the room. Anne. His Anne. Straightforward as he’d been in stating he would leave with or without her, he wasn’t quite certain he could manage to go a day, much less a lifetime, without her by his side.

He managed to intercept her before Howard. “You wore yellow,” he murmured, taking her hand and brushing his lips across her knuckles.

Green eyes glowed in the chandelier light, and not just from the excitement of the dance, he thought. Could she be as drawn to him as he was to her? Dear God, he hoped so.

“Something put me in mind of daffodils, today,” she returned, the soft timbre of her voice not quite steady.

“You outshine them all. Will you dance with me?”

“Maximilian—”

“Just dance with me,” he insisted, drawing her toward the dance floor. Any protest that began with his name couldn’t be good, and if he didn’t take her into his arms at once, he had the distinct feeling he would expire.

She must have felt the same, because with an exhaled breath she relaxed and nodded. “One dance, and then we need to talk.”

“Two dances,” he countered. “After all, this piece is already begun.”

“I can’t dance twice in a row with you.”

“Who’ll notice? Besides, we’re betrothed.”

This was perfection. Holding her as close as she and etiquette would allow, he didn’t even mind the additional maneuvering required to avoid crashing into Miss Elizabeth and Sir Royce. Unlike her ice skating, Anne’s dancing was incomparable. With her swaying in his arms, he could forget he was in London, forget that a hundred other guests milled and chatted and gossiped around them, forget that Lord Howard waited in the wings for him to return to Yorkshire.

“Are you truly leaving tomorrow?” Anne asked, long lashes hiding her eyes from him.

“I can’t stay forever,” he returned, hoping that was regret he heard in her voice.

“Why not?” She looked up, meeting his gaze. “Why can’t you just stay here in London?”

For a heartbeat he was tempted. “Halfurst is my home and my responsibility. I can’t just abandon it, even for you.”

“So you would have everything your way. That’s not fair, Maximilian.”

It
wasn’t
fair, and he took a moment to consider before he responded. “I hoped you would have more desire for me than for London, Anne. It’s only buildings and some rather unpleasant people.”

“They aren’t unpleasant to me. If you had stayed, instead of running off, you would have seen that.”

She’d been talking to Howard again. “I did not ‘run off.’ Halfurst needed—”

“You let everyone say whatever they wanted about you, and you didn’t do anything about it.”

“What they said didn’t matter.”

“Ha!”

Max lifted an eyebrow. “‘Ha’?” he repeated.

“Yes, ha. All of their silly gossiping
did
matter, and it still does. That’s why you dislike London.”

“I—”

“And it’s your own fault,” she continued.

In her enthusiasm for the argument, she didn’t even notice that he pulled her closer in his arms. Six inches of space between them be damned. Anne Bishop intoxicated him as no woman ever had, or ever would again. “And how is it my fault, pray tell?”

“All you had to do was say something, you big oaf. Bankrupt or not, you might have defended your father’s reputation—and your own, Maximilian.”

“Did you just call me an oaf?”

She cuffed him on the shoulder. “Pay attention. This is important.”

It seemed more important that she was fighting to keep him in London, but he didn’t want to mention that yet. “If I were paying any more attention to you, you’d be naked,” he murmured.

“Stop that. And don’t just pay attention—do something!”

“So I should stand on a chair and bellow at all and sundry that I was grieving horribly for my father, and that I didn’t give a hang what anyone said about either of us? Or should I simply declare that Halfurst was never bankrupt, and that my yearly income is somewhere in the neighborhood of forty thousand pounds?”

She blinked her moss green eyes at him. “Forty thousand pounds?”

“Approximately.”

“Then just tell everyone—someone—that all the rumors were groundless, and they’ll—”

“They’ll like me again?” he finished. “I’ve told the one person whose opinion I care for.”

“And who…” Anne blushed prettily. “Oh.”

The waltz ended, and he reluctantly slid his hand from around her waist.

“Ah, splendid,” a familiar male voice murmured from behind him. “It’s my turn now, I believe.”

Anne tightened her grip on his arm. “Desmond, I promised Lord Halfurst the quadrille, as well. I would be happy to—”

“Do you think the sheep farmer can dance a quadrille?” the viscount asked, sneering as Max faced him. “I’m surprised he managed the waltz. What did you trade for lessons, Halfurst, mutton?”

Maximilian gazed at Howard levelly. The guests had grown silent, the better to overhear someone else’s business. Of more concern to him was Anne, practically quivering with anger and indignation beside him.

At that moment he realized he wouldn’t—couldn’t—lose her, no matter what it took. She’d made several good points in her argument. Whether he cared about his reputation or not, she did, and if they were to be married, their names would become joined.

“I have respected my fiancée’s friendship with you, Howard,” he said in a low, level voice. “But now you are embarrassing her. Leave.”

“‘Leave?’ I have no intention of going anywhere. You’re the outsider here, marquis.”

“Lord Howard, please stop,” Anne hissed. “You’ve done enough damage.”

“Oh, I’ve barely begun. Please, let’s hear more of your witty repartee, sheep farmer.”

That was enough of that
. Anne had urged him to take action. “How’s this?” Max returned.

He shot out with his right fist, catching Howard square in the jaw. With a grunt the viscount dropped to the polished floor.

“Much better.” Maximilian faced Anne, ignoring the explosion of gasps and tittering from all around them. “Come with me.”

“Good heavens,” she whispered, staring at Howard’s crumpled form. “One punch.”

Max was unable to help a grim smile at her astounded expression. “You should have told me earlier that you preferred a man of action.”

Anne felt too dazed to speak as the marquis led her out the nearest exit and down a narrow set of stairs. She’d only meant that he should defend his reputation verbally— knocking Desmond unconscious had not been part of the scenario, satisfying as the sight had been. “He’s going to be very angry.”

“Hence my escorting you from the scene,” Maximilian returned, stopping at the bottom of the stairs. “Where in damnation are we?”

“These are the servants’ stairs, I think.”

As she spoke, a footman laden with a tray of sweetmeats exited through a swinging door, nearly colliding with Halfurst. “Beg pardon, my lord,” he stammered, attempting to bow and balance at the same time.

“What’s through there?” Maximilian asked, indicating the door.

“The kitchen, my lord.”

“Is there an exit on the other side?”

“Yes, my lord. To the gardens.”

“Good.” The servant continued to gawk at the two of them, until the marquis nudged him toward the stairs. “Go.”

As soon as the footman vanished up the stairs, Maximilian yanked Anne up against him and lowered his head to kiss her with a ferociousness that left her breathless and taut with desire.