Lady Whistledown Strikes Back (37 page)

“I believe that has answered my question,” he said, his voice velvet rough against her ravished nerves.

“Question? What question? That I still enjoy kisses? It was nothing.”

He gave her a burning look. “It was more than nothing and you know it.”

“Oh? How can you tell?”

“You dropped your napkin.”

Her gaze followed his to the floor. A pool of white lay at her feet. Blast. It must have fallen from her unfeeling fingers. “That proves nothing,” she finally said.

“My hand just went numb. I—It often does that.”

Oh dear, where had that come from? She could tell from his stunned look that she had at least made

an impression.

A faint quirk of humor warmed his eyes. “Your hand goes numb? How long has that been happening?”

“Oh … weeks,” she said airily, determined to stay the course. “In fact, it has happened so often that I scarcely notice it any more.”

He chuckled. “You’d cut off your nose rather than admit that I affected you, wouldn’t you?”

She tried to collect her thoughts, her mind scattered a thousand different directions. “I—I hope you

don’t think that just because you kissed me, that I will give you the diary. I am quite serious in my request, Max. I want an annulment or I will auction the diary to the highest bidder.”

His mouth curved in a smile that was arrogant and smug. “Will you be at the Hargreaves’ Grand Ball?”

What was this? “Perhaps,” she answered cautiously.

“Then I will see you there and we will discuss this more thoroughly.” His gaze spilled over her once more, molten silver that burned even as it pleasured. “Until then, Sophia.” He gave her one last smile, then turned and walked out.

Sophia was left standing in the middle of the room, one hand on her still-tingling lips, her body shivering, her mind awhirl with the realization that after all these years, after all the hurts, after all was said and done, Max still had the ability to. melt her bones into a puddle of desire with nothing more than a touch

of his lips.

Her thoughts too chaotic to lend themselves to something as mundane as morning visits, Sophia retired

to the solitude of her room.

But once there, she found the quiet ringingly loud. She paced back and forth between the bed and the fireplace, her mind racing. Why had she reacted to Max’s kisses in such a way? She’d meant to remain aloof, composed. But all that had fled under the force of his passion.

She pressed her hands to her cheeks. There had always been a physical bond between them. But she’d forgotten the strength of that bond and how it affected her emotions. “It’s nothing,” she told her reflection as she passed it in her pacing, trying to ignore her kiss-swollen lips and glowing skin. “It will go away and everything will be back the way it was.” Just like Max.

She pressed a hand to her chest, where it ached with the fury of her response. Honestly, this was ridiculous. Her heart wasn’t still tied to Max’s; it couldn’t be. She’d just been startled and thus had reacted far more strongly than she’d expected. After all, their previous union had been extremely passionate and exquisitely physical. Added to that, it had been twelve long, lonely years since she’d experienced the wonder of genuine lovemaking, something she had enjoyed immensely.
Of course
her body had overreacted at Max’s touch.

The reasonableness of the explanation soothed her. Sophia brushed her fingertips over her lips, the pressure of his mouth lingering yet. She still missed that portion of their lost relationship—the joy and intimacy of being completely uninhibited with a man. The memories flooded back, fresher and more poignant than before, and she paused in the center of the room, remembering with renewed vigor the breathtaking feel of his hands, the delightful heat of his mouth, the tortuously delicious taste of his bared skin, the-—“No!”
She sunk her chin to her chest and began pacing more furiously than before. That was all in the past and there was no gain to be had in such thinking. If she wanted the warmth of a real relationship again, she’d have to find some way to get Max to agree to the annulment. Her future lay somewhere

else, with someone who would never leave her. Someone who did not return only because she’d threatened to expose his family to ridicule.

In truth, that part hurt—that she’d been forced to such low tricks. But she was so tired of being tied to

a man who did not care. Who did not seem capable of ever caring.

Her mind flew to the kiss, to the deep tenderness she had felt. What had he been trying to prove? That she was still a victim for his sensual spell? Blast it, she hoped she had not shown her weakness. Surely that one kiss wouldn’t lead him to make such a hasty conclusion. Sophia plopped down on the edge of

her bed, her arms crossed as she made up her mind. Whatever had happened this morning, she would

not be so weak again.

When next she met Maxwell Hampton, she would be ready … for anything.

This Author once again proves herself the most intrepid and meticulous journalist in London. Herewith, the guest list from Lady Neeley’s failed dinner party:

The Earl and Countess of Canby, with their daughter, Lady Mathilda Howard.

The Earl of Standwick, brother of Lady Easterly.

Lord and Lady Easterly (although all accounts point to their having arrived separately).

Lord and Lady Rowe.

Lord Alberton.

Lady Markland.

The Hon. Mr. Benedict Bridgerton.

The Hon. Mr. Colin Bridgerton.

Mr. Brooks, nephew of the hostess.

Mr. Thompson, of the 52nd Foot Guards, son of Lord Stoughton.

Mr. and Mrs. Dunlop, with their son Mr. Robert Dunlop, also of the 52nd Foot.

Mrs. Featherington, widow, with her daughter Miss Penelope Featherington.

Mrs. Warehorse, widow.

Miss Martin, companion to the hostess.

And, of course, Lady Neeley.

The above names should not be construed as a list of suspects, although of course that is what Lady Neeley insists it is. One would be remiss, however, if one did not point out that Lady Neeleys name is also on the list.

LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 31 MAY 1816

Since she wouldn’t be seeing Max until Lady Hargreaves’ Grand Ball, Sophia had to wait a little longer

to prove her indifference. It made perfect sense that one should look one’s best while making such an important point, so she dressed in a ravishing gown of cornflower blue overlaid with a white silk netting, her blonde hair twisted onto her head with little tendrils curling before each ear, her feet encased in a gorgeous pair of new beaded white slippers that sparkled with every step. She knew she looked her best when the footman’s mouth dropped a little as she walked into the front foyer on her way to the carriage.

She arrived at exactly ten, a long line of coaches filling the street before the house, lights blazing in the darkness. Lady Hargreaves held one and only one ball at the height of the season, a very paltry, frugal attempt to repay the many invitations she received throughout the course of the year. The old woman disliked spending her fortune on anything that smacked of splendor, luxury, or comfort, so she offered little in the way of refreshments or entertainment. Yet still people flocked to her grand ball, some to see how scavengerly the old woman could be; others to guess which of her many grandchildren was currently in favor. Since Lady Hargreaves had a disconcerting habit of taking offense at the slightest imagined wrong, every year a different grandchild could be seen holding the position of favorite. It was said that whoever was in favor when the old lady died would inherit a fortune. All told, it was a rather macabre game of musical chairs.

Sophia arrived in the main ballroom to find that Lady Hargreaves had hired an insufficient orchestra.

The talking of the guests overpowered the rather desultory efforts of the musicians, making dancing nearly impossible. The rooms were already warm, and the faint musty odor that permeated the entire ballroom due to the fact that it was only used for this one event a year added to the general discomfort of the many guests, all of whom were standing around, gossiping with fevered determination in an effort to overcome then-boredom.

Sophia made her way through the room, nodding to this acquaintance and smiling at that. Her cheeks pinkened when Lord Roxbury walked by, gracing her with a wink. The man was a sad scamp. He’d attempted to begin a flirtation with her on more than one occasion after Max had left, but by that time, Sophia had hardened her heart against all men and she’d sent him on his way. Still, she couldn’t help

but give him an appreciative glance; he was an attractive man for all that.

She made her way to the far side of the room, near the terrace doors, catching sight of her brother

leaning against a wall, looking with some misgiving at the contents of the plate in his hand.

As she made her way to his side, he held out the plate for her inspection. “I’ve never seen cake this stale.”

She lifted on tiptoe to peer at the morsel. “It does look rather dry.”

He tapped a fork on it. “Hard as a rock. Dropped a piece on my foot and bruised my small toe.”

Sophia shook her head ruefully. “I daresay Lady Hargreaves didn’t spend more than twenty pounds on this entire affair. She is invited everywhere on account of her fortune and yet she has not the grace to offer fresh cake for her guests.”

“The music is appalling, the rooms stifling, and the food …” He glanced around and then surreptitiously pulled a flask from his inner pocket and held it over the cake, dribbling liquid over the entire plate. Once he was done, he took a swig from the flask and then replaced it in his pocket. Sighing happily, he took a bite of the soaked cake. “Mmmm! Rum cake. One of my favorites.”

“How can you eat that?”

<> “Easily,” he replied with unimpaired cheer, finishing off the cake with great relish. As soon as he finished, he placed the empty plate on a nearby table, glancing around expectantly. “Have you seen Max? I thought he’d be here.”

So had she. But for John’s benefit, she shrugged as if she couldn’t care less.

“I haven’t seen him.”

“Really? I rather thought—” John pursed his lips.

“You thought what?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.” He pushed his hands into his pockets, his lank form bowing as he leaned against the wall. “Know what I heard in the foyer when I arrived? Lady Neeley was there, telling everyone within hearing that she had thought it through and knew who had stolen her bracelet.”

Sophia stilled. Something about the way John was looking at her made his words seem imminently important. “What else did she say?”

“I don’t know, for the crowd separated us. But I wouldn’t put it past her to indicate Max. Seemed to me she was heading in that direction.”

Sophia stiffened, outrage flashing through her. “If Lady Neeley thinks she can spread such vicious rumors, she has another think coming. Max was merely a guest, as were we all, and—”

“Easy, my dear! Don’t flash at me! I’m just telling you what I heard.”

“Well, she’s wrong.”

“Of course.”

“Max would never do such a thing.”

“I can’t imagine it either.”

“She should be
shot
for making such accusations.”

“I will help you load the pistol.” He grinned. “You are certainly testy this eve.

Missing your lapdog, that Riddleton fellow?”

“Thomas is not my lapdog,” she said, a slight tinge of irritation still resting on her shoulders. “He is a friend and a wonderful person.”

John pursed his lips in a silent whistle. “Poor bugger. Describing a fellow as ‘a wonderful person’ is the kiss of death in a courtship.”

<> “It is not a courtship! Besides, what do you know about courtship? You spend all your time dangling

after plump women with notoriously good cooks rather than having any serious flirtations.”

“I am a member of White’s,” he said loftily. “I know all about male suffering. I hear it every day.”

“You hear a lot of drunken lumps complaining about things they secretly cherish.”

“There are no drunken lumps at White’s. Drunken peers, yes. But drunken lumps, no. They have a

very strict admission process.”

“It can’t be too strict; they allowed you in.”

“You—” John’s gaze flickered over her head, into the room beyond. “Welllll ..

.”

“Sophia.” Max’s voice came from behind her. It spilled over her and wanned her head to toe.
Act unaffected,
she told her unruly senses.
Act as if you don’t care. As if you never cared. As if you’ll never care again.
Pasting a determinedly casual smile on her lips, she turned to face him. He was dressed in very fashionable garb this evening, his black coat perfectly fitted, his hair trimmed. But no matter how Max dressed, there was still an edge of danger to him, as though the civilized clothes hid an untamed heart. “Easterly,” she said with a smoothness she did not feel, “how nice to see you.”

“And you.” He bowed, his gaze flickering to John. “Standwick. How are you?”

“Fine. Just enjoying a touch of rum cake and talking to m’sister. How are you enjoying this lovely,

overly plum event?”

“It is without compare and will be even better once I’ve had some rum cake and a chance to speak with your sister, as well.”

“Well, you’re out on the rum cake. I had the last piece. Damned good it was, too.” John straightened

from the wall. “But if you wish to talk to Sophie, she’s yours. I might wander over to the card room and see what’s occurring there.”

Sophia stared. Blast it, what was John doing? She grabbed his arm and said through a false smile, “The card room! What a wonderful idea! I believe I should accompany you. I’m dying to play piquet.”

John removed her hand from his arm. “You hate piquet.”

“I
love
piquet.”

“No. Heard you say at the Remingtons’ soiree that piquet was for imbeciles and those too stupid to