Lady Whistledown Strikes Back (48 page)

Sophia’s world narrowed and collapsed onto that one moment. She lifted herself to meet him, her body aching for more even as she shuddered in pleasure. The more of him she had, the more she wanted. It was exquisite torture.

Just as she thought she’d go mad with longing, passion rose and swelled, and then exploded in a powerful thrust that left her clinging to him, crying his name into the dimness of the room.

He held her tightly, waiting patiently for the passion to subside, and then he kissed her, softly at first,

then with more pressure, moving inside her once again. This time, his strokes were longer, more even,

his body rigid with the desire to control himself. She lifted her legs and locked them about his waist, holding him closer, tighter, whispering his name and a thousand sweet endearments that she didn’t realize she knew. Her own passion began to grow, her body softening once again.

His movements grew more frantic, more frenzied, his excitement piquing her own. Her excitement

swirled to meet his, and when he arched, shouting her name, she went with him, clutching him

frantically as passion stole her away once again.

Afterwards, they subsided, limp and damp from their exertions. Sophia lay perfectly still, quivers of pleasure shivering through her. How long had it been since she’d felt anything like that, she wondered dazedly.
Twelve years,
came the answer.
The night before Max left.
Through the delicate web of after-passion that encased her like a cocoon came a wave of sadness. They had so much, yet… could she? She closed her eyes, listening to her heart only to hear … nothing. Even after such exquisite passion, she was still filled with all the feelings and doubts she had before. A sudden spate of tears threatened, and she threw her arm over her face as she fought for control.

Max’s breath was warm on her temple. “Sophia? Are you well?”

She swallowed the lump of emotion and removed her arm, managing a faint smile. “I am stunned. Overwhelmed. Too boneless from exertion to do more than lay here like a lump and fight the desire to stand naked in your window and proclaim to the world how incredible that was.”

His smile broke through, that peculiarly sweet, sexy smile that was all Max.

“You, my love,” he said, punctuating his words with a shiver-inducing kiss on her neck, “are hardly a lump. In bed, you are all silken skin and insatiable movement. A palette of delight, a canvas of rich color. Sophia, we belong together.”

She brushed his hair from his forehead with a tentative stroke, sadness welling inside. “Making love

was never our problem. Being in love was.”

“We can fix that. I know we can.”

Sophia closed her eyes. Fix their marriage? Like a broken wheel on a carriage? Or a torn flounce on one of her gowns? No, she didn’t think so. They could talk away their anger and bitterness and perhaps learn to accept each other’s faults. But fix her heart? That, she feared, would never mend. Even here, even now, the taste of sadness held her back, separated her from him.

He sighed, drawing her head to his shoulder. “Rest, Sophia. We will talk when you aren’t so tired.”

She was too sleepy to argue, the wine she’d drunk seeping through her veins, her emotions too raw and too near the surface. Tomorrow, she’d think about the painful things. But not now. She snuggled down deeper into the sheets, her cheek pressed to his chest. He stroked her hair, his warmth lulling her to a dreamless sleep.

Max lay for a long tune, savoring the feel of Sophia against him. She moved in her sleep, settling even more co-zily, her hip against his hip. It was so natural, having her with him. Like blinking his eyes. Or breathing. He did it without thinking, but if he ever stopped, his entire world would fall apart.

He tightened his grip, resting his chin on her silken curls. “Never again,” he murmured into her hair.

“This, my love, is forever. I will find a way back into that heart of yours. Wait and see if I don’t.” The words comforted him, and it was with a satisfied smile that he finally fell into a deep, deep sleep.

In the matter of Lord Easterly vs. Mr. Riddleton (on the question of Lady Easterly), it appears that the victory must go to the viscount.

The Easterlys disappeared quite suddenly at last night’s reenactment, and no one has seen hide nor hair of them since.

LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS,
19 JUNE 1816

Sophia awoke slowly, a delicious warmth spreading throughout her body. Max lay beside her, his naked leg thrown over hers. She smiled against the pillow and closed her eyes, savoring the feel of that masculine leg, enjoying the sound of his deep, even breathing. His scent lingered on the sheets and she breathed deeply, capturing every essence of the moment.

How she’d missed this, waking to something other than an empty room. She snuggled deeper into the bed, wiggling a little as she did so. Though still asleep, Max shifted immediately, removing his leg only to draw her into his arms. Sophia held still, her back pressed to his warm body. She felt so… loved.

She caught her breath. That was exactly what she felt— loved. Cherished, even. But she had felt this before, only to lose it all in a single moment, ripped away as if it had meant nothing. Sophia took a slow breath, then, moving very carefully, she freed herself from Max’s embrace. She slid to the edge of the bed and climbed out, careful not to awaken him.

Max frowned in his sleep, then rolled over, gathering the pillow as if to replace her. Sophia looked down at his profile, outlined so sweetly against the crisp linens. His jaw was already stubbled with morning growth, his thick black lashes making crescents over the hard angle of his cheeks. He was so beautiful, sleeping the sleep of the content. Her heart warmed at the sight.

What was it about him that affected her so? With a bittersweet rush of feeling, she wished with all her heart that things had been different, that
they
had been different.

But that was wasted thinking, wasted time. They were what they were and that was not going to change. Sophia gathered her clothes, then washed at the small stand beside the bed. She had just fastened her gown when she spied her hair ribbon lying on the floor beside one of Max’s paintings.

She bent to retrieve the ribbon, when the bottom edge of the painting caught her eye. The drapery covered the entire picture except this one small corner.

It was of a woman’s slipper, a delicately turned ankle rising from a silk shoe.

Sophia’s hand froze over the ribbon, her gaze locked on the edge of the painting. Max never painted people. She used to tease him to put a person in one of his paintings—a wood nymph or a knight in shining armor—but he’d always laughed and said he hadn’t the talent. Yet at some time, he had apparently found the talent. And a willing model by the look of it, she thought with a touch of sudden resentment.

Who was the woman who had so inspired Max to stretch his talent? Some lurid, red-lipped Italian countess? A laughing French beauty with black eyes and white skin?

Whoever it was, Sophia didn’t want to know. She straightened, threading the ribbon through her fingers with short, jerky movements. Actually, it wasn’t that she didn’t want to know, it was that she didn’t care. Not even a little. Her gaze still locked on the corner of the portrait, she wondered if the woman was pretty? Young?

Of course she was, Sophia told herself angrily. As if Max would settle for anything less than the most beautiful of women. She slapped the ribbon into her hair, yanking it into a semblance of a bow, and then jammed her feet into her own slippers.

Yet even as she did so, her gaze was drawn back to the covered portrait. Her mind raced furiously.

Blast it, who was it? She glanced at the bed. Max lay sleeping. She suddenly wished he was awake to answer her questions, explain his actions.

Yes, she wanted him awake. But… her gaze flickered to the draped portrait. If he woke up, then she’d have to ask him to show her the portraits and he might say no.

What a quandary. She turned to the bed and eyed Max’s sleeping form with a speculative gaze. She should at least attempt to wake him up.

She sniffed loudly, but he didn’t move. Well. That didn’t work. She cleared her throat softly, then said, “Max.” She didn’t raise her voice, or strain the word.

She merely spoke it.

He didn’t move at all, and Sophia breathed a silent sigh of relief. At least she could say she’d tried. Of course, he’d accuse her of whispering or some such nonsense. But she hadn’t. Not at all. In fact… she pursed her lips. She had to be fair. Had to at least honestly say she’d
tried
to wake him up.

She bent over and took off one slipper, then held it at arm’s length and dropped it on the floor. The resultant bang made Max jerk in his sleep, but no more.

Satisfied, Sophia stuck her foot back in the fallen shoe. There. No matter what, she could say she’d tried to wake him but he hadn’t roused. Tiptoeing eagerly, she went to the first painting and lifted the drapery a tiny bit.

The folds of the skirt of a graceful white dress filled the bottom of the canvas, each stroke of the brush drawing her eye, raising her gaze up the painting.

Sophia pushed the drapery up, off the portrait, until it fell to the floor.

It was her. Max had painted a portrait of her.

Only in the portrait, she was fat. Fat!

The drapery was yanked back in place. “What are you doing?” Max’s voice, gruff with sleep, made her start guiltily.

“I-I was just—”

“Looking where you had no permission to look.” He crossed his arms over his bared chest, his feet wide.

She lifted her chin, mainly to keep from ogling him. It was difficult to discuss anything with Max when he was naked and rumpled. “I asked if you minded, but you didn’t reply.”

“I was asleep.”

“I tried my best to wake you. It’s not my fault you’re a deep sleeper. Besides,”

she plopped her hands on her hips, outrage beginning to build, “what right do you have to paint me like that?”

He frowned. “Like what?”

“Fat. You painted me fat.”

“What?”
His brows snapped down. “I did no such thing.”

“I saw it.” Her gaze narrowed. “Have you been selling your paintings?”

He glanced from her to the painting. Suddenly, his eyes crinkled at the corners. “Yes. I’ve been selling a lot of them.” He rocked back on his heels, looking irritatingly smug. “In fact, the prince just bought one last week.”

The prince! Good God! “Is that your idea of vengeance? To sell fat paintings of me for all the world to see?”

His gaze slid over her, lingering on her breasts. “Oh no. If I was to declare vengeance, I’d take it in a far more personal form. Face to face, as it were.”

Despite herself, she blushed. “Enough of that. Just what do you mean by painting me in such a manner?”

“You didn’t see what you thought you did.”

“What did I see then?”

He looked at the painting again, then shrugged. “I suppose it won’t hurt if you see this portion of my work. But I must tell you that this is my own private collection. Mine and no one else’s.”

He lifted the covering once again. Sophia had to force herself to look at it, beginning with the face. She realized that in the portrait, she was somewhat younger than she was now, and there was a dewy look to her face, a secretly pleased sort of smile. At least he hadn’t painted her without teeth, or added a few inches to her nose, or something equally galling.

Gritting her teeth, she allowed her gaze to drop lower. The woman in the portrait had fuller breasts, and a much rounder … Sophia stopped. Blinked. Gasped. “You—I— you made me pregnant!”

He lifted his brows. “After last night, I certainly hope that is not true.”

She stamped her foot. “In the portrait! You made me pregnant.”

He stepped back as if to admire the painting. “It’s the way I thought you’d look if I had stayed and we’d been together. Beautiful, aren’t you?” His gaze moved from the painting to her. “You have always been the most beautiful woman in the world to me, Sophia. You always will be.”

Her shock melted into nothingness. How could he say such things and make them sound so rich with meaning? So true?

Her gaze went back to the painting. She’d been wrong; it wasn’t a work of vengeance. It was a work of an emotion of far greater power.

Sophia cleared her throat and gestured to the other paintings. “And these?

May I… may I look at them?”

He was silent a moment, and then he nodded. “I suppose so.” He stepped back and allowed her to walk to the next portrait.

In the next one, he had painted her as he’d last seen her, at age nineteen, her eyes shining with happiness and excitement. There was something unformed about her expression, as if all she’d known was happiness, which was primarily true, she decided with a grimace.

She glanced at herself in the mirror over the mantel, comparing herself to the picture. There was a tentativeness to the Sophia in the picture, a sort of wistful wondering. But the eyes that met hers in the mirror were sure, unhesitant, her head held high.

She smiled. She liked the new Sophia better than the old, but did Max? She stole a glance at him, but his expression revealed nothing.

Shaking off a sinking feeling, she moved to the next portrait and removed the drape. She caught her breath, staring in amazement. Once again, it was of her, only this time, she was older. Not quite the age she was now, but close.

She was sitting in a field of flowers, sunlight in her hair.

Tears sprang to her eyes, and she reached out and rested her fingertips on the painting. When had he done these? And why?

She slowly dropped her hand and looked at the next portrait, reaching over and tugging the drapery free. It was fresh, this one, the paint still damp. Her own face stared back, just as it was now, only she was standing before a fireplace in a room she recognized… . She tilted her head to one side, noting the placement of a chair, the edge of a bird cage—she straightened suddenly.