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The Duke's Unexpected Bride
Lara Temple


From country miss…to London duchess!Sophie Trevelyan has been enjoying her visit to London, even if her closest companion is an overweight pug! Then she encounters the dashing Duke of Harcourt, who intrigues her more than is strictly proper…Max knows he must marry. He’s looking for the opposite of his high-spirited fiancée, who died some years ago, so he tries to keep his distance from bubbly Sophie. But when her life is endangered, Max feels compelled to rescue her…with a very unexpected proposal!







From country miss...to London duchess!

Sophie Trevelyan has been enjoying her visit to London, even if her closest companion is an overweight pug! Then she encounters the dashing Duke of Harcourt, who intrigues her more than is strictly proper...

Max knows he must marry. He’s looking for the opposite of his high-spirited fiancée, who died some years ago, so he tries to keep his distance from bubbly Sophie. But when her life is endangered, Max feels compelled to rescue her...with a very unexpected proposal!


‘What do we do now?’

Sophie looked up at him, her eyes wide with anxiety and curiosity, and he realised that nothing would ever be the same again. Her question was so naïve as to be almost absurd. He knew he should answer her purely on a formal level, because there was indeed a great deal to do now.

‘We seal our bargain,’ he said instead, as his baser self elbowed its way to the front of the stage.

‘How do we do that?’ she asked seriously, and he laughed—more at himself than at her—swamped by relief that it was done, that she had agreed, and that he could now finally do what he had been waiting to do since that day in the gardens.

‘Like this,’ he said, raising her chin and bending to brush his lips across hers.


LARA TEMPLE was three years old when she begged her mother to take the dictation of her first adventure story. Since then she has led a double life—by day she is a high-tech investment professional, who has lived and worked on three continents, but when darkness falls she loses herself in history and romance…at least on the page. Luckily her husband and two beautiful and very energetic children help her weave it all together.

Books by Lara Temple

Mills & Boon Historical Romance

Lord Crayle’s Secret World

The Reluctant Viscount

The Duke’s Unexpected Bride

Visit the Author Profile page at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).


The Duke’s Unexpected Bride

Lara Temple






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To Tom and Lia,

who taught me the beautiful tension

between chaos and creation.

and who would have loved Marmaduke...


Contents

Cover (#u910d0c1d-7bdc-50f6-b5ca-4a1d61b7c07a)

Back Cover Text (#u7ad7e23f-24f3-5124-9d08-6f06b9f401a1)

Introduction (#u761f02bd-791c-55d0-884c-57adc238f22b)

About the Author (#u7d4cde20-dd78-5e9d-aae1-345ffc59e6b8)

Title Page (#u051127ee-1355-52c4-9e4e-0b0fee163373)

Dedication (#u34be69f7-eae8-5175-b07e-1062a93f6f24)

Chapter One (#u7e60fc52-e063-540d-a425-170f2b981ac8)

Chapter Two (#u313bc55a-0206-5e9e-9d8b-5f32279ff722)

Chapter Three (#ued235069-360c-5abb-8d82-443594486172)

Chapter Four (#u1d60667e-8689-5e3c-970e-6216f7a1dbe6)

Chapter Five (#u4fc1f40d-492a-54e8-83dd-84dc9ea74e43)

Chapter Six (#ub7ac2762-0dff-5f13-b740-90f0f7b2fa5a)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter One (#ud5f62d0a-0425-5aa8-8e77-433dcaf99d0e)

London—1819, summer

Sophie inspected her prey. The stout pug lay in the middle of an enormous chartreuse-velvet cushion placed strategically close to the fireplace in Lady Minnie’s back parlour, which was known as Marmaduke’s Parlour—though never within the hearing of the lady of the house.

‘It’s just you and me, Marmaduke. And I’m not backing down.’

Nothing. Not a quiver of his pudgy body. She knew he was awake because his eyes were open, but otherwise he might have been in a trance, his frog-like eyes fixed on the faded gold and crimson wallpaper, his backside defiantly pointed in her direction.

‘It’s very simple, Duke. Either you let me walk you as per doctor’s orders or Aunt Minnie will probably put me on the next coach back to Ashton Cove and Awful Arthur will get to keep his record of longest sojourn in Aunt Minnie’s mausoleum, and what is more to the point, I will have to go home and I really, really don’t want to go home just yet. This may have been a version of hell for Augusta and Mary, but even if I can’t explore London, it is sheer and utter bliss to be absolutely on my own with no one criticising me, or expecting anything of me, other than Aunt Minnie’s once-a-day read-aloud session, of course. You obviously have no idea what it is like to live in a small house with nine people, not to mention being surrounded by Papa’s parishioners, most of whom are convinced you’re a changeling. Now do you understand why I need your help?’

His jaw opened and a curling pink tongue lolled out, dancing slightly with his panting breath. She knew he had no idea what she was talking about so he could hardly be laughing at her, if dogs even laughed. To be fair, she might be laughing at herself if it wasn’t so serious. She had been ecstatic when her turn to be summoned to Aunt Minerva Huntley’s London mansion had arrived, despite her older siblings’ reports about the horrors of their own visits. They had been forbidden to go further afield than the gardens across the road, spoken to no one but the servants, eaten their meagre meals in their rooms while evidence of some serious feasting took place in Aunt Minnie’s chambers and been sent packing again after only a few days. Not one of them had lasted more than a week. And no one, not even Cousin Arthur, had had any luck with Marmaduke.

Aunt Minnie’s very sympathetic butler had managed to convey to her that though the two other, less-favoured pugs in Aunt Minnie’s menagerie were quite docile, no one in the house dared approach Marmaduke since he had an unfortunate habit of producing such heartrending high-pitched squeals that the last servant who had tried to exercise him had been sacked on the spot. Sophie knew her chances were poor, but aside from her own considerations she really believed it would do Marmaduke a world of good.

‘It’s not that I hate Ashton Cove, Duke,’ she told Marmaduke’s behind. ‘But we have to face the facts. I’m not much use to my family as I am. Even if I had wanted to accept the offers of any of the men who showed an interest in me, which I didn’t, I still managed to scare them all off before they actually took the leap. And Augusta always said my one contribution to Papa’s parish work is that I’m good with eccentrics and animals because we think alike and I know not even that really makes up for my peculiarities. And here I am in London with an animal and a reclusive eccentric, apologies to Aunt Minnie, and I am making no headway. If you would only make a little, a teeny-tiny effort so I could prove I have some use? If I can show Aunt Minnie I am actually helping you follow doctor’s orders, I might be allowed to stay a little longer and perhaps even explore the town. What do you say, Duke? Just a little stroll? I promise it will be fun!’

Her bright statement followed its friends into the silence and she stood eyeing the Buddha-like canine. Clearly matters required more than words. With an indrawn breath of resolution she scooped him up from his pillow and strode out into the hallway and towards the front door. Her move, worthy of Wellington’s finest surprise attacks, so confounded Marmaduke he didn’t react even when she strode across the busy road into the gardens. Safely inside, she looped a sturdy curtain cord through the velvet bow at his neck, deposited him on the grass and looked down at her captive. He stared back, eyes wide, mouth closed. Then his head did a strange little turn, taking in the sights of the garden, a brace of pigeons picking at the gravel, a nursemaid leading two young children briskly down the path, the trees gently swaying in the spring breeze.

‘See? It’s not so bad, is it?’ Sophie said encouragingly and was rewarded by a low growl as a pigeon moved threateningly nearby. Marmaduke hauled himself to his feet and the pigeon spread its wings and fluttered upwards. That was encouragement enough and Marmaduke, who Sophie had never seen move more than a yard at a time, mostly from his cushion to his silver food bowl, now proved he could move very quickly indeed. Sophie laughed and tightened her hold on the cord and hurried after her pudgy charge as he set about ridding the garden of all forms of fowl. After ten minutes of this sport he was panting heavily, his tongue out and jaw spread in an alarming grin, and Sophie judged she had done well enough for the day and scooped him up again, heading back towards Huntley House.

He lay so confidingly and comfortably in her arms, wheezing gently, that it never occurred to her he might have more energy left in him. But just as they crossed the street, he spotted another bird at the kerb and gave a mighty leap out of her arms, setting off in pursuit. Sophie was so surprised she did not even manage to grab the cord and watched in dismay as it snaked along in Marmaduke’s wake.

After a second of shocked panic she sprang after him.

‘Duke! Heel!’ she called out sharply, with more hope than conviction, but though Marmaduke paid no heed, a man and woman stopped abruptly on the pavement ahead and the pug hurtled into the man’s Hessian boots. This moment’s check was enough for Sophie. She grabbed the trailing cord before he could recover and looped it about her wrist.

‘There—it’s back to St Helena’s for you, you traitorous little dictator. That’s the last time I take you for a walk if this is how you repay me!’

Marmaduke directed a very supercilious stare at her and bent to sniff at the boots that had been his Waterloo.

Sophie looked up, directing an apologetic glance at the couple who had been her unwitting accomplices.

‘I’m dreadfully sorry about that, but thank you for stopping him. Aunt Minerva would have never forgiven me if he had run off. He’s her favourite, though I don’t know why. Most of the time he does nothing but sit on his cushion and stare at the wall. I hadn’t even realised until today he could do more than shuffle.’ She glanced down at the offender. ‘To be fair, that was a very fine show of spirit, Marmaduke. But perhaps a bit too much of it all at once. We shall try it in stages, no?’

The woman, her dark hair tucked into a fashionable bonnet lined with lilac silk and dressed in a very dashing indigo military-style walking dress with silver facings, looked slightly shocked, but then she glanced up at the tall man beside her and giggled, an incongruous sound from someone so elegant. Sophie, having fully and rather enviously surveyed her fashionable clothes, turned her attention to the man and had the strange sensation of standing before a carefully and magnificently crafted statue of an avenging warrior. Everything about him was powerful and uncompromising and would have graced the portals of the temple of a particularly vengeful god quite adequately. He stood motionless other than his intense dark grey eyes, which narrowed slightly as she met his gaze, and she was thrown back to a memory of getting lost in the gardens of their Cornish cousins in St Ives at night and stumbling into a Greek sculpture of Mars. She had frozen, dwarfed by the moonlit, frowning and half-naked god of War, too scared to move until rationality had prevailed and she had run back to the house.

He bowed slightly and the strange impression dissipated, leaving only a peculiar echoing feeling, like the silence after stepping out of a raucous assembly, a sense of being alone and very separate.

‘That’s quite all right,’ he said in a deep, languid voice that hardly masked his impatience. ‘We were happy to be of service. I think a leash might be more effective than that cord, though.’

Sophie shook herself and tumbled into embarrassed speech. ‘I know, but Aunt Minnie doesn’t believe in going out of doors and refuses to buy leashes. It is quite sad because it’s clear he needs exercise. Look at the poor thing.’

They all glanced down at Marmaduke, who was now seated, as solid as a small boulder, his pink tongue hanging out of his mock grin, and the man’s hard, uncompromising face relaxed into a faint smile. A very nice smile, Sophie thought, surprised by its transforming effect, and the sensation of being set apart increased.

‘I am not sure he qualifies as a poor thing in my book. He looks about as indulged as humanly possible. Is Aunt Minnie by any chance Lady Minerva Huntley?’

‘Yes, do you know her?’

The couple glanced at each other and there was an easy, laughing communication in the glance that connected them and Sophie thought, with a twinge of uncharacteristic envy, that they must be a very loving couple.

‘Not really,’ the woman answered. ‘She doesn’t go out much any more. But we used to see her often when we were children and before Lord Huntley passed away. She was always very grand. Are you staying with her?’

‘Yes. I’m her niece and her latest pet.’

The lady’s grey eyes sparkled with laughter.

‘Pet?’

Sophie flushed in embarrassment at her slip. She was letting her embarrassment tumble her into just the kind of informal talk that sent her parents cringing.

‘That’s awful of me, isn’t it? She is really being...considerate, in her way. Well, thank you again, I should return Marmaduke before we are missed. Good day.’

She smiled and turned in the direction of Huntley House, tugging at the leash, but Marmaduke had apparently expended all his energy for the day and merely allowed himself to be dragged a few inches. There was a moment of awkward silence and heat licked up Sophie’s cheeks as she bent down to scoop him up.

‘You are a master of contrariness, Duke. That innocent gaze doesn’t deceive me in the least!’ she informed him and with a last nod towards the couple, which she hoped was at least a facsimile of dignity, she headed towards Huntley House, closing her eyes briefly as she realised just how ridiculous she must have appeared to that beautiful, elegant couple. No doubt they were laughing at her behind her back. It was lucky her parents weren’t there to see how predictably she had put her foot in it in her first interaction with human beings outside Aunt Minnie’s domain. Well, she was unlikely to ever see them again. She tucked Marmaduke more closely to her, comforted by his rapid panting. At least she had done some good today, even if only to a pug.


Chapter Two (#ud5f62d0a-0425-5aa8-8e77-433dcaf99d0e)

Max watched the young woman until she disappeared into the entrance of Number Forty-Eight and then glanced down at his sister with the remnants of amusement in his eyes.

‘That proves it. Madness is clearly heritable, Hetty.’

His sister laughed again and shook her head as they turned and continued heading eastwards towards Brook Street.

‘Nonsense, Max, I doubt that girl or Lady Huntley are any madder than I. Lady Huntley has just given herself over to the enjoyment of being a famous recluse and eccentric. From what I gather from my maid she is kept fully up to date on all London gossip. And that young woman is probably just bored to tears and happy to talk with anyone if she is the latest of Lady Huntley’s relatives commandeered to attend to her. Really, that woman seems to have more cousins and indigent relatives than anyone I have ever seen. Even with her fortune, if she ever does have to divide it up among them, there won’t be more than a pittance apiece.’

‘Perhaps this latest helpmate is hopeful Mad Minnie’s canines will win her exclusivity on the Huntley fortune. She certainly seems quite happy conversing with that...dog, if you can even call it that. She almost had me convinced he knew what she was talking about.’

‘You are such a cynic, Max. I don’t doubt I’d be reduced to talking to the dogs if I had to spend more than a day in there. I heard Lady Huntley sometimes doesn’t speak to these relations at all, just sends them commands through her butler. And once she sent one of them away on the night mail with only twenty minutes’ warning! I can’t imagine what would happen to that poor child if she lost Mad Minnie’s favourite pug.’

‘She’d probably find herself locked in the cellars, or worse. But I would think she would be grateful to be evicted, even if it is by the night-mail coach. And she’s hardly a child. I would say twenty-three or four.’

Hetty snorted in a very unladylike manner. ‘Of course I wouldn’t dispute the verdict of the connoisseur of all things female. Are you certain you cannot fix the date more accurately? Or wasn’t she beautiful enough to merit that degree of examination?’

‘Don’t be snide, Hetty. She was tolerable, but I don’t favour pert little country misses, not even ones of her undisputed originality. Far too tiring.’

Hetty sighed.

‘You don’t favour anyone, Max dear. Please try and be a bit more positive when we reach Lady Carmichael. She and Lady Penny won’t know what to do with your biting comments. Do behave!’

Max stopped himself from uttering just such a comment about his sister’s current offering for potential spouse. He should really learn to reserve judgement. After all, he had only spoken to Lady Penny once, at a very tedious evening at Almack’s, and he should hardly be surprised if all she had to say for herself was a sampling of the same inanities which young women felt were expected of them in such occasions. And to be fair, she did appear to be, as Hetty pointed out, a pretty, sweet and modest young woman from an excellent family. She would do very well as Duchess of Harcourt and mother of his heirs. And if she really was too boring, Hetty had promised she had three other candidates in mind.

And most of all he should show Hetty some gratitude for being willing to help him fulfil his highly regretted but inescapable promise. The thought of going through the forest of debutantes and potentially marriageable women on his own was more daunting than any military campaign he had ever undertaken. He would almost be willing to face Napoleon again rather than an endless row of Wednesday evenings at Almack’s. And that meant he needed Hetty’s help. She had been by far the most socially adept of his five sisters and until her marriage six years ago she had known everyone who was anyone in the upper ten thousand of London.

‘That is twice I’ve been called to heel today, Hetty. Have pity,’ he replied with a rueful smile.

She chuckled.

‘That was funny! And she did manage to bring a Duke to heel even if it was only you and not the pug. If I ever feel the need to take you down a peg, I shall share that story with your friends. Everyone takes you far too seriously.’

‘If you do, I might be forced to remember some of your more embarrassing escapades from our childhood,’ Max warned. ‘That was bad enough, but to liken that fur ball to Napoleon on St Helena is carrying eccentricity too far. That peculiar girl obviously has no town sense to be talking to strangers like that. She’ll get into trouble.’

Hetty waited until they had crossed Mount Street before replying.

‘I do feel sorry for her. She seemed so eager to talk. Perhaps I should be brave and introduce myself while I am in town. You know I always wanted an excuse to cross the portals of the Huntley mausoleum.’

Max smiled down at her.

‘You’ve a soft heart, Hetty. But remember what happened to Mother when she went to visit Mad Minnie after Lord Huntley died? Are you sure you want to risk a similar rebuff?’

‘Pooh, that was years and years ago. And Mama never had the slightest notion of tact and certainly no sympathy so I’m hardly surprised she was sent packing. You’re just scared of Mad Minnie.’

They stopped in front of the elegant town house on the corner of Brook Street and Max sighed with resignation.

‘Frankly, I would prefer to spend the afternoon with Mad Minnie rather than at Lady Carmichael’s. I wish I had never promised Father I would marry within ten years. Thirty-one seemed like a hell of a long time away back then and a fair price to pay to get his approval to join Wellington in Spain.’

Hetty considered. ‘I think he might have let you enlist even if you hadn’t. I know what Harcourt meant to Papa, but he was a stickler for duty and he saw nothing wrong in your wanting to serve your country. He just wanted to make certain you married eventually. I think he was afraid you might not...after what happened with Serena...’

Max stiffened involuntarily and her voice trailed off.

‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have mentioned her,’ she said contritely.

He shrugged, trying to relax the tension that always took hold when anything brought back memories of Serena. He would have happily traded quite a bit of his worldly goods for a magical remedy that could slice off that year of his life. His father, as stiff as always, had made one of his rare attempts at being paternal and supportive when he had offered him the trite ‘time heals all wounds’ aphorism. But though time had dulled the pain and guilt and all the other emotions he had tried to escape by drowning in the horrors of war, he didn’t feel healed. Just muted. Older and wiser. Another cliché.

He could vaguely remember the excitement that Serena’s beauty and vivacity had sparked in him, but just as he remembered his favourite childhood books—intense but distant, not quite real. More powerful were the feelings that gradually took their place—confusion, resentment, helplessness. Hatred. She had definitely widened his emotional repertoire. And each time something evoked her memory he still flinched involuntarily and the throb of guilt came back, proof that there was still a core of poison inside him that refused to dissipate. He grimaced at the thought. A poor choice of words...

‘It was a long time ago. It almost seems as if it happened to someone else. As for Father, whatever his motives, I was too shocked that he agreed to let me go to Spain to even consider negotiating his terms.’

‘You know, you don’t have to marry if you don’t want to. I mean...surely he wouldn’t expect you to hold to a promise if it is something you—’ She broke off as she met his gaze. ‘Oh, dear, of course he would. Poor Papa. But he’s dead and so—’ She broke off again. ‘I forget who I am talking to. Of course you will hold to it.’

Max forced a smile. He wished he had it in him to break his promise as she suggested, but he knew himself well enough to know that he wouldn’t. It hadn’t been an idle, arbitrary promise. He might never have felt very close to his father, but the previous Duke of Harcourt had done a very good job inculcating him with a sense of what they owed to their position and the people who depended on them. The Duchy was not theirs individually, but theirs in trust. Fulfilling his duties wasn’t just a matter of honour; it was a matter of practical concern for hundreds of people who depended on their properties. His father had allowed him to put that on the line by joining the army because he had been clever enough to understand that Max had needed to get away from the setting of his tragedy, but he had made it clear that every indulgence came at a price and he had chosen this particular price with a sense of evening out the scales.

And Max couldn’t really find fault with his father’s concern. He might have chafed at his parents’ constraints as a child and even fantasised that he had been stolen as a baby from the Shepstons, a warm family of fishermen from Port Jacob on Harcourt land who had often taken him fishing with them, but he was a Harcourt after all. He would not let something as important as the succession be completely subverted by his and Serena’s mistakes. There was nothing wrong in principle with a marriage of convenience. He and his parents had just miscalculated, royally, about Serena’s suitability.

Max hadn’t even wanted to get engaged so young, whatever his father’s concerns about the succession, but his father had cleverly not pushed the point, merely invited Lord Morecombe and his daughter to join them in London. The first time he had seen her she had been dressed in a bright yellow dress, bursting with excitement at finally being released from school, her dark eyes hot and focused with an intensity that was completely foreign to him. He had agreed to the engagement the very next day and had sealed their fate. Serena had gulped at life and kept demanding more and at first it had been exhilarating, utterly different from anything he had ever allowed himself. He should have known they were just too different. Part of him had, but by the time he had stopped to think it was too late. This time he would be more careful. What was the point of making mistakes, especially monumental ones, if you didn’t learn from them?

‘It’s not so bad, Hetty,’ he said at last. ‘I have to marry eventually; I might as well get it over with.’

‘It isn’t something one can simply get over with!’ she said with unusual asperity. ‘You will be stuck with your choice for the rest of your life, you know!’

‘Only too well. So I will do my best to choose someone comfortable and conformable. Even if it weren’t for the promise, I think I would have a very hard time leaving the succession to Uncle Mortimer and Cousin Barnaby and they certainly wouldn’t thank me for it.’

‘They would make dreadful Dukes, wouldn’t they? How did Mortimer put it? That the Duchy was hanging over them like a swarm of locusts about to descend upon his beloved gardens.’

Max sighed and headed up the stairs to strike the knocker.

‘Right now it does feel like one of the plagues of Egypt. Or one of those fairy tales with a cursed treasure where the genie informs you you’ve had your fun and must now pay the piper. But you’re right; I can’t have the whole of the Harcourt estate depending on them. No steward would be able to withstand the destructive capabilities of those two well-meaning idiots. They’d have all the tenants put off so they could grow a dozen different breeds of lilies and roses instead of grain and feed. Couldn’t Mother have supplied Father with another male heir so he wouldn’t have forced me into that promise? I don’t really need five sisters, you know.’

Hetty laughed.

‘I won’t ask which of us you can do without, Max dearest. Now do try at least to be charming. I know you can, if you would only put some effort into it—’

She broke off as the door opened and Max clenched his jaw and followed his sister and the butler to meet one of his potential future wives.


Chapter Three (#ud5f62d0a-0425-5aa8-8e77-433dcaf99d0e)

Sophie picked up the small package which was waiting for her on the escritoire when she came down from reading Aunt Minnie the latest chapter of Mrs Pardoe’s novel.

Scrawled across the wrapping paper was the message ‘To be delivered to Lady Huntley’s niece’. And below: ‘For the safety of the residents of Grosvenor Square.’ Sophie frowned and unwrapped the package and burst into laughter. A brown-leather leash and collar lay curled in the wrapping paper. She picked up her sketching bag and went in search of Marmaduke.

She found him in his favourite position on his cushion, rump to the room and nose an inch from the wall, panting faintly.

‘Behold, fair Marmaduke. I have been delivered the means of your undoing!’ she declared dramatically, but with absolutely no effect. She sighed and went to slip on the new collar. It took Marmaduke a moment to realise the offense against him, but by the time he surged to his pudgy feet and shook his head vigorously it was too late. Before he managed to descend into yowls she flapped one hand suggestively in front of his face and the shaking stopped, his gaze intent.

‘That’s right. Remember what fun you had chasing the birds? Well, they’re outside, waiting for another round.’ She began carefully moving towards the door and, to her surprise and amusement, he followed. They made a stately exit under the shocked stares of the butler and the doctor who had just entered the house.

‘Good gracious,’ said the doctor. ‘He can walk!’

‘And run, with the proper avian incentive. And now, if you will excuse us, I really don’t want to stall our momentum.’ She nodded, proceeding down the steps, and Marmaduke followed, thumping down each step ponderously but with resolution.

* * *

The collar and leash worked perfectly, and after a vigorous campaign against the winged invaders, Marmaduke allowed her to lead him to a bench in the shade of a chestnut tree and settled contentedly at her feet as she pulled out her sketch pad.

‘And now I will commemorate this auspicious moment, Duke,’ she informed him grandly, but he merely snuffled the grass in front of him and grinned.

She sketched rapidly, capturing the lumpy body and the beatific expression on his frog-like face. He looked amazingly content and she laughed a little at how content she herself felt at her minor victory.

‘There. I shall title it “Duke Reposing” and bestow it on Aunt Minnie so she can enjoy your fair smile even when you are sulking downstairs. Do you think she will like it?’

‘Undoubtedly,’ said a deep and vaguely familiar voice behind her and she turned in surprise. The tall man who had stopped Marmaduke the day before was standing a little behind the bench. His grey eyes were on her sketch, but there was no expression on his beautifully sculpted face. More than ever he made her think of a statue of a guardian of the gods, expertly crafted but without emotion. But though he seemed utterly cold, she was uncomfortably aware of a tingling heat that was pricking at her cheeks and she could think of nothing to say. The silence stretched and, as she struggled to think of anything that would not compound the embarrassing impression of yesterday, he surprised her by sitting down on the bench and taking the sketch pad from her hands. She looked away, but her gaze only settled on his hands and she noticed he was not wearing gloves and that his hands might have been formed by the same meticulous sculptor who had shaped the rest of him and with the aim of conveying strength and skill. But the perfection of his left hand was marred by a jagged and puckered white scar along the side, curving under towards the heel of his palm. She curled her own fingers into her palm against the need to touch it.

‘That is quite good,’ he said finally, handing it back to her.

The casually delivered comment finally woke her to the peculiarity of the situation and her confusion faded in annoyance at the very mild nature of his compliment on an issue of some importance to her.

‘It is very good, for a rough, impromptu sketch,’ she corrected him and his eyes narrowed and she could not tell if he was amused or annoyed by her correction.

‘So it is. I apologise for not showing the proper degree of appreciation. It is certainly well outside the usual fare of young ladies’ sketches, which are usually just a sight more bearable than their endeavours on the pianoforte. Do you play?’

‘Even if I did, I wouldn’t dare admit to it now,’ she replied primly. ‘Do you? Or are we proceeding on the assumption that only young ladies are expected to be execrable in artistic endeavours?’

‘I have no artistic skills whatsoever. The difference is I don’t try.’

‘Is that an observation about yourself or a suggestion to me?’ she asked suspiciously.

‘I wouldn’t presume. I did say the sketch was quite good, didn’t I? You are overly sensitive.’

His voice was deep but without inflexion, but something in the narrowed slate-grey eyes that were watching her made her wonder if he was laughing at her. It was like looking into the night, trying to make out shapes in the varied shades of black. It was easy to imagine monsters in the dark and she wondered if she was imagining that echo of amused warmth in his eyes. Probably. But it still teased at her, like a late summer breeze, disorienting her. She would never be able to capture that particular grey, a shade lighter than the sea off the bay in winter. But she would love to try to sketch his face, with its strongly chiselled features, all definite lines and planes, and the tightly held mouth that she wished would relax into the smile she had seen the day before.

‘May I sketch you? You have a very sketchable face,’ she blurted out before she could stop herself.

She had not thought his face could get any stonier, but she had been wrong. There was a flash of surprise in his eyes, like a glimmer of faraway lightning, then his brows drew together, accentuating the resemblance to a very annoyed deity.

‘No, you may not!’ he said curtly and she turned away with a shrug, leafing through her sketchbook to mask her mortification.

‘Fine,’ she said as indifferently as possible, fully expecting him to get up and leave, but he didn’t move. She came to the sketch she had made yesterday of his wife and stopped. The lovely, smiling face was a sobering reminder that she should not be looking at a married man or frankly at any man in quite that manner. Though to be fair, he was an amazing specimen. She had thought him handsome but rather cold yesterday, but now she realised it was much more than that. He was utterly, utterly male. And utterly out of her sphere. Augusta would have made mincemeat of her had she been present and probably rightly so. Sophie breathed in resolutely, determined to redeem herself with a gesture of goodwill.

‘I made a sketch of your wife, though. She has a lovely face. In fact, she looks like you a little. I find that married couples often look a little alike. Perhaps it is because we try to find people who remind us of ourselves so we can love ourselves better. Here it is. It is quite like her, don’t you think?’

She forced herself to look up at him with all the calm unconcern she could muster, trying to mirror his lack of expression. He stared at her and then down at the sketch, a three-quarters’ face of a woman and part of the shoulder of her gown. Sophie had sketched her smiling, which had been hard, but that was all she could remember. She waited, peculiarly tense, for his reaction.

He took the pad from her again and she didn’t resist. She watched his profile, trying to memorise its strong lines so she could sketch him later, but she found it hard to focus on the whole, distracted instead by the details she usually considered later when doing a portrait—the way the skin stretched taut from his cheekbone, the small groove at the side of his mouth, the shadow below the strong line of his jaw. Her hands tingled with the need to reach out and touch his face as she might a sculpture. She clasped them tightly and forced herself to look down at Marmaduke, now snoring calmly at their feet.

‘May I have my drawing pad back, please? I should go back.’

He looked up at her and there was something in his gaze as the dark eyes moved over her face that increased her already significant discomfort by a notch. And then his mouth relaxed slightly into a smile that brought to the surface the warmth she had glimpsed the day before.

‘Would you consider giving this to Hetty? I think she would love to have it. And she is my sister, not my wife, by the way, hence the resemblance.’

Sophie felt her face heat with a sudden burning blush and she pressed her hands to them unconsciously.

‘Oh, dear, I’m so sorry. I always say more than I ought. And of course you may give it to her. In gratitude for the collar and leash, which I was so impolite as to forget to thank you for. Here.’

She pulled the sheet from her pad and held it out to him, wishing the blush would fade.

He reached out to take it just as Marmaduke awoke with a snort and she started and dropped the sheet. Marmaduke, his eye catching the fluttering page, readied himself to leap, but before he could move she managed to capture it just as the man grabbed for it as well. His hand closed half on the page, half on her hand and she drew back abruptly, slightly shocked by the heat of his touch. The contact had been only for a second, but her arm felt like it had been dipped in hot water and her skin tingled uncomfortably, retaining the imprint of his fingers. She clasped her hands together again, as if she could blot it out. He merely regarded the sketch and stood up.

‘Thank you for this. Good luck with... Duke.’

She nodded and busied herself with her pad and with Marmaduke. The man hesitated for a moment and then strode off without another word and she could finally breathe. She picked up Marmaduke and headed back to Huntley House rather blindly, forcing a man driving a tilbury to pull up sharply and bark out at her as she almost stepped directly on to the road in front of him. She glanced up at the angry driver, mumbled an apology and rushed across the road and into her temporary home. Once inside she deposited Marmaduke on his cushion and hurried up to her little nursery-like room on the third floor. In its small quiet space there was nothing to come between her and her disturbing thoughts, and the memory of that moment in the park kept recurring, of his hand, strong and firm and warm, grasping hers and the way her nerves had flared, a striking of a tinderbox. It was absurd and unwanted. This abrupt, unpredictable man came from a very different world from hers, no matter how respectable her birth. Everything about him spoke of wealth and influence and a degree of comfort in this foreign world that she would never understand. She should not be foolish enough to let herself be drawn to him simply because she was lonely and he and his sister were the only people who had treated her with any degree of sympathy, though on his part quite a cold and sardonic sympathy.

This was not the first time she had been attracted to a man, after all. Why, she had spent three whole months thoroughly enthralled with the squire’s middle son John when he had come down from Cambridge before realising he was a pompous, oily snake, hardly any better than Cousin Arthur. Her fascination with him had then sputtered and faded pretty quickly which had been very lucky since he had actually considered offering for her until he, too, had come to accept his parents’ viewpoint that she was completely unsuitable. No doubt this silly attraction would fare just the same as soon as she found out a little more about this strange man.

It was just that he was so very handsome. And then there was that contrast between the cold mask and his sudden, almost intimate smile. No doubt it had done very well for him with dozens of gullible women. Well, she might not know London rules, but she was not gullible and she knew when a man was very used to commanding attention and getting what he wanted from women. In fact, now that she thought about it, she could hardly believe she had actually asked if she could sketch him. What must he think of her? His abrupt withdrawal made it quite clear what he thought of her offer. She should remember she was not back at home with people who had already come to terms, of sorts, with her strange ways. She would never find her way in this town if she did not learn to mind her tongue. Not that there was any chance of finding her way here in any event. In a matter of days she, too, would be sent packing back to Devon and all this would seem nothing more than a passing dream. She should do her best to just enjoy the remaining days of blessed solitude. It would be over all too soon.

* * *

Max walked into the drawing room where Hetty was seated at the escritoire, writing a letter.

‘Here, this is for you.’ He handed her the sketch and watched her face light up in delight as she scanned the simple, evocative drawing.

‘Max! What on earth? Where did you get this? Oh, I look quite lovely!’

‘Lady Huntley’s madcap niece drew it. I came across her sketching that pug in the park and she made me...or rather you, a gift of this, in recognition of the collar and leash we sent. It is good, isn’t it?’

‘It’s marvellous, though I suppose I shouldn’t say so since it is almost a compliment to myself. It is certainly more like me than that stiff portrait Mama commissioned before Ned and I married. Now I certainly must go and storm the mausoleum and thank her. How sweet of her!’

Max sat down, his eyes on the drawing. The absurdity of the whole encounter was still raw and he had no idea whether to be annoyed or amused by the girl. It had been many years since anyone had managed to disconcert him. Her voice and even her proper but outmoded dresses might mark her as another of the multitude of well-born young women who invaded London from the country, but the resemblance stopped there. Women of her birth and age usually knew how to conduct themselves with proper modesty and certainly did not engage strange men in conversations that were not only peculiar, but bordered on an unspoken intimacy, as if she knew and trusted him. It was absurd that for a brief moment he had taken her at face value and had been imprudent enough to even sit down beside her in the first place. He couldn’t imagine doing that with someone like Lady Penny without having been properly introduced. And Lady Penny would not be wandering alone in the gardens in the first place with no better chaperon than that pug. Or asking if she could draw a man’s face, even had she been introduced to him with all formality. It was little wonder he had been so disconcerted.

‘She asked to sketch me. She said I have a “sketchable” face.’

Hetty’s giggle caught on a little hiccup as she tried to rein it in.

‘My goodness, she is an original, isn’t she? Did you agree?’

He frowned.

‘Of course not!’

‘Oh, why not? You could send it to Mama; you know she has always wanted you to sit for a portrait. And by the looks of it she would do a very creditable job.’

For a moment Max contemplated the possibility. It was true their mother had begged him repeatedly to sit at least for a watercolour she could hang in her drawing room in the Dower House alongside the portraits she had commissioned of his five sisters. A quick sketch would be much less painful. Or should be. But the thought of sitting while the girl’s expressive blue eyes surveyed and catalogued him wasn’t something he was comfortable with. There was something too...intimate in it. If he had to be painted by someone, he preferred it to be someone who knew how to respect boundaries.

There had been no reason to even stop to speak with her and he still didn’t understand why he had. He certainly hadn’t intended to when he had seen her while crossing the gardens, but her total concentration on her sketch had made him curious. And once he stopped behind her it had been hard to move, as if doing so would disturb some unfamiliar wild animal he had come across in the parks on the Harcourt estates. Or one of the wood sprites his sisters had insisted appeared at dusk in the deepest reaches of the woods. He had watched her hand moving lightly but firmly over the page, her head slightly canted, the sun casting a warm line down the side of her neck and along a strand of light brown hair that had escaped her bonnet and curved round her neck and downwards. It was only when she had spoken to that dog of hers that he had shifted back into reality. But not enough to continue on his way.

It was his own foolishness that he had spoken with her, but it had been just curiosity. At least until he had touched her hand. It was ridiculous that such an accidental and inconsequential contact had sparked the same kind of sensation like those galvanic contraptions he had seen at the Royal Academy. He was too old and experienced for such a raw physical reaction. It was probably the surprise and that peculiar sensation of having a place as familiar to him as the gardens transformed into something where he was the interloper and not she. Yes. That must be it.

‘Are you coming to the Carmichael soirée tonight?’ Hetty asked as the silence stretched.

Max knew what she was asking and sighed.

‘I can’t do it, Hetty. Lady Penny is everything you said she would be, but she is just too...compliant. I would wish her at the devil before the ceremony was over. Who’s next on the list? There has to be someone who can have a conversation without deferring to everything I say.’

Hetty sighed as well.

‘You are probably right. Lady Penny’s first impression is unfortunately her best. Perhaps Clara Bannerman, she is very sweet and...’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Her laugh.’

‘Oh, dear. You’re right, that would be hard to bear day in and day out. Then what of Lady Melissa Arkwright?’

Max considered Lady Melissa, his gaze straying to the sketch Hetty held in her lap. She might do. She was certainly beautiful and poised and already showed signs of becoming a very skilful hostess. She could preside quite easily over his properties. It was worth examining.

‘She is suitable on the face of it. Why didn’t you suggest her before Lady Penny? She seems more the part.’

‘I know, but Penny is...nicer. I thought she might be a better mother. I don’t know. It’s not easy choosing a sister-in-law for my only and very dear brother, you know!’ she said severely and Max laughed, relaxing.

‘And I appreciate your help very much, Hetty. I know it’s not easy taking time from your family because I have been putting off dealing with my promise to Father all these years. There always seemed to be plenty of time to get round to it. I should have done something about it sooner.’

‘Nonsense, I’m having a grand time. This is my first time on my own in six years. Ned and the children will eventually benefit from a much refreshed wife and mother. Which gives me an idea—I shall have this framed and send it to Ned to keep him company until my role here is played out. It really makes me look lovelier than I am, doesn’t it? I wonder if she paints...’

Max shrugged. He had had enough of the eccentric blue-eyed sprite for one day.

‘I have no idea. Will Lady Melissa be at the soirée tonight as well? Perhaps we should go after all.’


Chapter Four (#ud5f62d0a-0425-5aa8-8e77-433dcaf99d0e)

Max strode down the stairs where his groom was holding the reins of his grey stallion. He had slept poorly after the soirée last night and he needed to ride off some of the tension he was accumulating in this unpleasant but necessary process. He had known there would be conjecture once he started showing up with his sister at social events attended by debutantes and their mamas. It was bad enough that he had to attend these events in the first place; much worse was becoming the object of wagers, even in his own club and among his own acquaintances. The sooner he made up his mind and got it over with the better. At least Lady Melissa had proven to fit his criteria very well. More than her beauty he appreciated her inherent reserve—it was clear she wouldn’t turn out to be like Serena, a beautiful but fatally flawed vessel, just waiting for the right amount of pressure to crack it. And he certainly wouldn’t have to worry whether his children were really his. Lady Melissa was as cool and controlled as Serena had been fiery and volatile. He would let it sit a day or to and then take the plunge. There was no point in prolonging the agony.

He had just taken the reins and dismissed his groom when he saw the Huntley girl walking her ungainly pug. He hesitated, wishing he had held off for a couple minutes so he could have avoided her. Still, there was nothing for it but to be civil. He held his stallion easily as it fretted at the inaction and nodded to her.

‘Good morning. I see he has come to accept his fate with equanimity.’

She stopped, smiling up at him, but perhaps she sensed his diffidence because her smile lacked the openness of yesterday and her voice was a shade more like a society miss.

‘Good morning. He actually walked down the stairs himself after his morning visit with Aunt Minnie. He is becoming quite alert, aren’t you, Marmaduke?’

Max eyed the near-dormant pug dubiously. Alert was not an adjective that sprang to mind.

‘Impressive. What did Lady Huntley have to say about the introduction of a dreaded leash into her home?’

‘I hadn’t meant to tell her, but the doctor tattled on me and it has had a most alarming effect on her.’

‘Is she angry?’

She laughed and he had to actively resist the urge to smile in reflexive response.

‘Not at all. After the doctor gave such a glowing report of Marmaduke’s performance, and I gave her Marmaduke’s sketch, she actually pinched my cheek. And apparently her spies among the servants told her the leash had been delivered anonymously and she demanded to know where it had come from, but I said I don’t know you and your sister’s name, merely that you probably lived near here and she said I was being very sly and good for me. That is by far the longest conversation I have had with her thus far.’

Max gave in and laughed. This strange girl seemed to see the positive or at least the amusing in everything. It really wasn’t quite proper or wise to be talking to her like this in the middle of the street, but as Hetty had pointed out someone as lively as she must be terribly bored with only Minerva and the pugs for company. A few moments of conversation would make no difference.

‘For how long are you captive in the Huntley hold?’

‘That is wholly up to Aunt Minnie. My other siblings lasted between a two days at the shortest to six days at the longest. That was Augusta, but she said Aunt Minnie almost never spoke to her, it was just that she liked the way she played the pianoforte. Then there was Cousin Arthur—he held on for a whole two weeks and was completely hateful and unctuous about it and I would dearly love to break his record.

‘I see. And what skill does the length of your servitude depend on aside from reforming her pugs?’

She twinkled up at him.

‘I am not quite certain. She has me read to her a great deal, the most amusing books and certainly nothing we are allowed at home. And now that she has discovered I am a fair artist she has decided she wants me to paint a full portrait...’ her voice wavered slightly ‘...of Marmaduke.’

‘Good God.’ Max glanced down at the object of the conversation and Marmaduke scratched himself absently. ‘In a heroic pose?’

Her laugh was joyful and infectious, but it caught on the end, as if she was used to reining it in.

‘Exactly. On a pedestal, with a landscape behind, or perhaps a castle. And both the Huntley and Trevelyan family arms. I told her I would be happy to, just so I can get her to buy me the painting supplies. I am to go to Reeves in Cheapside and buy what I need, which shall be very exciting, and also to the Royal Academy so I can get some ideas for the proper composition of a portrait. My dear Marmaduke is proving very useful, aren’t you, love?’

Marmaduke’s curly pink tongue lolled out and he directed her a look which was surprisingly adoring. Max smiled at the absurdity of it all—of the girl, the dog, the conversation and especially of his part in it.

‘So it looks like it is going to be a protracted stay. Have you ever been to the Royal Academy before?’

‘No, I have been pining to go see the Summer Exhibition, but one of the conditions of our stay has been that we not enjoy ourselves or at least not stray from Grosvenor Square. But now that I have a legitimate excuse to roam, I intend to take full advantage of it. The Royal Academy is this way, isn’t it?’

‘It is, but...do you intend to walk there? With the dog?’

‘Is it too far?’ she asked, concerned.

‘It is. He would expire before you made it halfway. And besides, you can’t take a pug into Somerset House!’ he said sternly. ‘And you also can’t go there on your own. You should at least take a maid with you.’

‘Aunt Minnie would never allow me to commandeer her maid and I can’t very well have James the footman trailing me around an art exhibition. I refuse to let this opportunity slip by simply because I don’t have a chaperon. I would never forgive myself. Besides, what on earth could happen to me there?’

‘That is not the point. Young women...well-born young women...do not wander around town unaccompanied.’

‘Oh, please don’t make me feel any guiltier than I already do. It is not as if I am known in London, so there is no reason anyone would ever know or even notice me. I simply can’t not go.’

Max told himself to take a firm step back. This was none of his business. And she had a point—no one knew her in London. But the thought of her wandering alone and unprotected through an unfamiliar city...

‘Take that misbegotten canine for his walk and then meet me in the garden in an hour. I will take you there,’ he said abruptly.

Her eyes widened in surprise, subjecting him to the full pressure of her sea-blue gaze. She was almost too expressive. He could see surprise and wariness and wistfulness in their multi-hued depths and he hoped no one would find out he was actually choosing to play chaperon for this peculiar girl.

‘That is kind of you, but it is really not necessary for you to put yourself out on my account,’ she said properly and some of his tension faded, giving way to amusement at what was clearly an uncharacteristic show of propriety on her part.

‘You sound like you are impersonating someone,’ he replied and her warm tumbling laugh, like the sound of water in a brook, evoked the same surge of proprietary heat as when he had accidentally touched her hand the previous day in the garden. It was short but sharp, unmistakable. Not that there was anything particular about her that merited this unwanted tug of desire. She was mildly pretty but unexceptional aside from her eyes which reminded him of the colours of the sea at summer off the coast near Harcourt. It was something that went beyond her looks, a vividness that was magnetic—an unconscious invitation to enjoy life.

‘Oh, dear, I was. My Aunt Seraphina, Arthur’s mother. She’s dreadful. I wasn’t at all believable, was I? But I do mean you needn’t go with me. I shall be perfectly fine on my own, really.’

‘Probably. We shall compromise then. I shall just make sure you get in safely and then leave you to explore while I continue on to the City. I have a meeting there later. And then you can take a hackney directly back home afterwards.’

He swung on to his horse before she could argue.

‘I will see you in an hour,’ he repeated and rode off, wondering if she would be there or whether even she would back down before such unconventional behaviour.

* * *

Somehow, when he entered the garden an hour later he was not very surprised to see her standing just inside the gates. For once she was not wearing a simple countrified white-muslin dress and spencer, but a walking dress of a pale smoky blue under a darker blue pelisse. And though the style was perhaps a few years out of fashion, it was well tailored and for the first time he could see she had a very appealing and well-proportioned figure. She also looked more her age and dignified, but contrarily that just made it clearer he should not be doing this, no matter how chivalrous his motives. Then he met her eyes which were sparkling with suppressed excitement and he relented. It was such an inconsequential thing for him and such a great deal for her, there surely was nothing very wrong in merely seeing her safely into the Academy.

‘Come,’ he said, holding out his arm and she moved towards him with her peculiar brand of pent-up energy, following him out to the street where he hailed a passing hackney cab.

She gave a breathy laugh as she settled on to the seat.

‘I feel like I am escaping from the Bastille! This is quite ridiculous. I have been here less than two weeks and already I am losing perspective on reality.’

Max smiled. He should have known she would treat this with her usual irrepressible enthusiasm. He settled back and waited for her next outrageous comment. It was not long in coming.

‘Thank you for offering to take me there. It makes it seem so much more...commonplace.’

‘That sounds disappointing. Should I apologise for taking the adventure out of it?’

‘Oh, I didn’t mean it like that... Just that I am trying to convince myself that it needn’t be such a to do. That it is quite normal for me to go to see some of the most amazing painters alive in England today. Part of me doesn’t want to go.’

‘Why not?’

‘Well, I am bound to discover that an unbridgeable chasm lies between my puny talent and real artistic skill. I am quite prepared to suffer some mortification before I can free myself from vanity and enjoy real genius.’

‘That is very...broad-minded of you,’ Max replied after a moment’s struggle not to laugh, reminding himself this was a serious issue for her, after all.

‘Are you laughing at me?’ she asked, her gaze both questioning and accusing.

‘Is that terrible?’

Her eyes slanted again in the amusement that never seemed far from the surface.

‘I did sound terribly pompous, didn’t I? But I mean it. Back in Ashton Cove I was always by far the best artist, not that anyone really cares about that over there unless they need me for the church decorations. But I know today I will see real talent. There are so very, very few and some of them will have their paintings on those walls. And I will know, for certain, that I am not and never will be of that calibre. I know that I am going to feel something in me die today and even though it will hurt, I wouldn’t avoid it even if I could, because the other side of that coin is the experience of witnessing genius. It’s still pompous, but I can’t help it—that is what I feel. Oh, look, is this Piccadilly?’

Max assented, absorbing what she said. He was acquainted with several artists because of his uncle and this was a very mature and quite unusual approach among those gifted, or cursed, with artistic talent. She didn’t speak again, aside from occasional questions about the buildings they passed as they made their way towards the Strand. Finally they drew towards St Mary le Strand and pulled up in front of the neoclassical façade of Somerset House where the Royal Academy was housed.

‘Oh, here we are! That was so very quick! Oh, come!’

She almost jumped from the hackney, waiting with clear impatience as Max paid the driver, her hand straining on his arm as he led her through one of the three tall arches into the Somerset House complex and towards the winding staircase leading to the Exhibition Room at the top of the building. Her eyes moved hungrily over the decorations that marked their passage, the sculptures by Wilton and Bacon, and the ornamented landings with occasional benches for the visitors to rest as they climbed the long staircase.

‘It’s a good thing you didn’t bring Marmaduke,’ he remarked halfway up and she looked up at him, laughter chasing away some of her intentness, but she didn’t reply. She didn’t flag on the stairs, as did many women who had stopped to rest and fan themselves and gossip, for which Max was grateful since it meant that beyond nodding at his acquaintances, he did not have to speak to anyone, though he was aware of the curious stares directed at them.

‘Aren’t you tired?’ he asked her, curious about the seemingly boundless energy she radiated.

The question cut through her concentration.

‘Tired?’ she asked in obvious confusion and he indicated the steep stairwell.

‘You’re going up these at breakneck speed.’

She flushed guiltily.

‘Sorry, but I am so excited. And I am very used to climbing up and down the cliffs near Ashton Cove. My favourite place to draw is a little bay just to the west of where we live and there is quite a steep ascent. These stairs don’t really compare. I will slow down if it is too fast for you, though.’

‘Don’t be cocky,’ he said easily and she laughed. They had just made it to the final landing and he turned her to him.

‘Before we enter the Exhibition Room and I lose your attention utterly, you should probably tell me your name in the event we have no choice but to speak to someone. It would be a bit embarrassing to introduce you simply as the girl with the pug.’

She was straining forward like a racing horse against the gate, but that checked her and her eyes widened.

‘You are quite right. How foolish, but I hadn’t realised...still, we haven’t been introduced formally so it is not at all surprising. I am Sophie Trevelyan. And you?’

He hesitated. He had initiated this, after all.

‘Max...’

‘Harcourt!’

Max squared his shoulders and turned towards the exquisitely dressed dandy who was approaching them from the Exhibition Room. His shirt points were so high his amiable face seemed to bloom from the middle of a tight white flower. He stopped and bowed to Sophie, raising one brow expectantly. Max resigned himself.

‘Miss Trevelyan, this is Lord Bryanston. Bry, this is Miss Sophie Trevelyan.’

‘Trevelyan! That’s a West Country name, isn’t it? Do you live near Max?’

Before Max could respond, she extended her hand properly and answered with a warm smile.

‘Yes, we are neighbours. How do you do, Lord Bryanston?’

He assessed her with a practised eye and bowed gallantly over her hand.

‘Much better now, Miss Trevelyan,’ he replied, his eyes wide and appreciative. Her captivating laughter rolled out and two men who had been inspecting the Carlini sculpture at the top landing turned, one of them raising a curious quizzing glass towards them.

‘I hadn’t realised the exhibition began out here,’ she remarked with such a mixture of innocence and mirth that Max wasn’t surprised to see Bryanston’s gaze sharpen, like a dog catching the scent of prey.

‘Neither had I,’ Bryanston responded. ‘And to think I almost managed to find an excuse not to accompany my aunt here today. My luck is definitely in. I should go lay a wager while it lasts. Max, be a good fellow and bring Miss Trevelyan over to join our party.’

‘Not this time, Bry.’ Max replied firmly.

‘Here, what kind of friend are you?’ Bryanston protested and turned to Sophie. ‘I don’t know why I put up with him. He’s as stiff-necked as those statues over there and about as warm.’

‘At least I’m not as gaudy as a potted plant. Where the devil did you get that atrocity of a waistcoat, Bry? It reminds me of one of my grandmother’s dressing gowns.’

‘Have you no discrimination, you heathen? I personally designed this with Stultz! That’s what your parents get for naming you after some marauding Welsh warrior.’

‘He was a Roman, he just married a Welshwoman.’

‘That’s worse. They wore sheets.’

‘I think your choice of colours is very creative, Lord Bryanston,’ Sophie interceded. ‘Not many people would have thought of putting saffron together with puce like that.’

‘Thank God for small mercies,’ Max muttered. ‘I think your aunt is trying to catch your attention, Bryanston, so run along now.’

Bryanston half-turned in alarm, restricted by his high shirt points.

‘Have some pity, man. Between my aunt and Lady Pennistone I am being reduced to emotional rubble. You clearly have a kind heart, Miss Trevelyan, convince the cold brute to join us.’

He grinned appealingly at Sophie, but before she could respond Max took her elbow, urging her towards the entrance of the Exhibition Room.

‘Go charm your aunt before she writes you out of her will, Bry.’

‘Good day, Lord Bryanston,’ Sophie said properly as they moved forward, but the laughing smile she directed at Bryanston was so vivid Max wasn’t surprised that his friend remained standing on the steps with his hand held dramatically to his breast in what might have been a very successful Byronic pose if not for his irrepressible grin. Max considered enlightening Sophie as to the lack of wisdom in encouraging the likes of Bryanston when he realised it was too late, he had clearly lost her attention.

They had entered the great Exhibition Room and she stared in awe around the enormous space, her head back and lips slightly parted. He had been here so often, he had forgotten how powerful the impact of entering the enormous hall could be during the Summer Exhibition. For someone like her it must be overwhelming. Hundreds of gilt-framed paintings jostled each other on the walls of the enormous space, lit by the wide, arced skylights that dominated the ceiling. Dozens of fashionable men and women were moving idly around or seated on the low olive-green sofas in the centre of the room. The cavernous buzz of voices swallowed her gasp of surprise. She took a step forward and then, as if suddenly conscious of his presence, she turned back to him.

‘Oh, thank you for bringing me here. You needn’t stay, I know you would prefer not to. I shall be just fine now. Good day, Mr Harcourt.’

Max hesitated, wondering if he should correct her, but since he had suffered under one title or another from the day he remembered himself there was an appeal in being just plain Mr Harcourt. This woman knew nothing about him but that he lived near her and had a sister, and unlike most of the young women he met she didn’t seem to have an agenda for him other than wanting to sketch him. Being Mr Harcourt made everything simpler, lighter. In a few days she would probably be back on her way home and he would never see her again. What was the harm in taking just a few more minutes to enjoy one of his favourite places in London in the company of someone who actually appreciated the artwork itself rather than the spectacle of people on the strut? Ten minutes and he would be on his way. There was no harm in that.

‘Come. I will show you my favourite,’ he said.

She directed a questioning look at him and then gave a little nod and he took her hand and placed it on his arm again and led her towards the other side of the enormous room. As they walked her gaze swept over the paintings, drinking them in, her lips parted as if on the verge of a smile, but he could feel the tension of her hand on his arm. He drew her to a halt just where the room led off into another corridor where a silk cord marked a barrier.

The light from the skylight was not as pronounced here, but Turner’s painting still stood out from among the more ponderous landscapes and portraits. It was labelled Venice, looking east from the Giudecca, Sunrise and its deceptive simplicity and limited palette also made it stand out. It was mostly washed sky and sea in pale pink and golden yellow and a long line of Venice’s skyline traced in purplish blue in the distance. She drew away from him, moving towards the painting, taking it in and then moving back again, forcing a portly couple to make way for her without even noticing them. Max moved so he could watch her face, the smile that bloomed slowly, suffusing her face with joy. Finally she turned to him, her eyes filled with pleasure and even some sadness.

‘I had no idea anyone could do that. He is utterly unfettered. It is quite unfair to have him crowded here like this. There is nothing here like it. I see why you love it,’ she said, her gaze locked back on the painting.

She stood there for a long moment and then with a sigh she turned away to examine the other paintings. She hardly seemed to notice that he placed her hand on his arm again, her attention fully on the paintings. Surprisingly he didn’t mind being taken for granted. Her face was so expressive of enjoyment and awe, it was enough to just watch her revelation and to answer the questions she occasionally directed at him about the artists and the paintings which became more frequent as they advanced.

When they had completed the circuit of the room he led her down a corridor to the Academy’s Council Chambers.

‘Come, I want to show you something.’

Guests could not usually enter this part of the Academy, but she would appreciate seeing Angelica Kauffman’s allegorical murals, as much for their quality as for the artist’s gender. But they had barely entered the chamber when a portly man who had been standing talking with a small group of men and women turned and noticed them and promptly gave a shout of greeting and headed in their direction.

‘Oh, hell,’ Max said ruefully under his voice. ‘It’s a good friend of my uncle’s and a relentless gossip. Once he starts asking questions, we will never escape. Wait here, I’ll get rid of him.’

He moved forward to intercept the man, grasping his elbow and deflecting him from his trajectory. As they moved towards the other end of the room, the man’s voice rang out merrily.

‘Max, old boy! What have you been up to? How is Charles? Still having a high time out with the ladies in Venice? The old dog!’

Max answered the barrage of questions about his uncle’s activities in Italy as best he could and drew the conversation to a close with a promise to remember him to his uncle. Then he turned around to an empty room.

‘You looking for that pretty little thing you came in with? Saw her head to the inner rooms.’

‘What?’ Max exclaimed and without even bothering to say goodbye he headed towards the doorway at the other side of the room. Damn the girl. It was just like her to go to the one place in the whole Academy she was absolutely forbidden to enter.

He found her easily enough the moment he entered the inner room. She was staring in wonder at the tightly packed nude paintings and studies that covered most of the wall space.

‘For heaven’s sake, you can’t come in here!’ Max said sternly, grasping her arm and drawing her towards the door at the other end of the corridor.

‘Why not?’

‘Why not? I would have thought that was obvious! This part of the Academy is not for well-bred young women.’

She turned to him with the amused twinkle in her eyes he was becoming very familiar with and which did nothing to lower his guard.

‘I know that’s what people say, but that is rather ridiculous, isn’t it? There’s hardly anything here a woman hasn’t already seen. If anything, I would have thought this wasn’t a room for well-bred young men.’

Max had to make a considerable effort not to laugh at this rather original view of the matter. She really was absurdly peculiar.

‘Besides, I just saw two very nicely dressed young women pass through here,’ she pointed out.

‘They may have been nicely dressed, but I doubt they were well bred.’

‘Oh! Do you mean they were...lightskirts?’

‘I mean that unless you want to find yourself classified alongside them, we should return to the main exhibition,’ Max said, exasperated as much at himself as at her.

She glanced back with a rather wistful look at the painting of the reclining woman.

‘It is such a pity. There are some amazing paintings in here, though I don’t know what I think about this one. There is something not quite right about her, something in the eyes. Though other than that it is one of the best paintings I have seen today, aside from Mr Turner’s...’

‘Why, thank you, miss. Though I do not know what I feel about being classified alongside Turner’s increasingly eccentric oeuvres.’

A man dressed almost entirely in deep grey and black moved towards them. He was extremely handsome, his hair was a deep shade of chestnut and his brown eyes gleamed amber around the iris, but his expression, which was calculating and faintly malicious, did not match his features. He bowed slightly towards Max and the malice became more apparent.

‘Harcourt.’

Max cursed their ill luck. Of all the men in London to run into...

‘Wivenhoe,’ he acknowledged and took Sophie’s arm, guiding her towards the door.

‘Going so soon, Harcourt? Aren’t you going to introduce me to your...friend?’

To Max’s surprise Sophie burst out laughing.

‘Oh, dear, you are right!’ she said to Max, chuckling. ‘He thinks I’m your...what is it called? Chère amie? Do you really think I look the part?’ she asked Wivenhoe curiously. ‘I wouldn’t have thought so with my looks and clothes, judging by the two lovely ladies I just saw. Did you really paint this amazing painting? Frankly, you don’t look the part either.’

That speech seemed to shake even Wivenhoe’s world-weary pose and he inspected her with a look unusually devoid of cynicism.

‘I find myself quite afraid to enquire into the meaning of that comment,’ he said at least.

‘Yes, I think that beast is best left dormant,’ Max said caustically. ‘Now if you don’t mind, I will take Miss Trevelyan back to the main room. She is unacquainted with Somerset House and has strayed into this area by mistake.’

Sophie allowed Max to propel her out of the room and back down the corridor to the main hall, her gaze scanning the paintings as she went. Once in the corridor she sighed.

‘It really is quite unfair of men to keep such lovely paintings to themselves. I am beginning to suspect that London is a great deal more straitlaced than the countryside. After all the dire warnings I received from the squire’s wife I thought it would be a great deal more exciting than it is.’

Wivenhoe gave a soft breathy laugh as he followed behind them.

‘It depends on the company you find yourself in, my dear. Harcourt is not the right escort if it is excitement you are after. Or at least not if you are gently born. I cannot speak for his other relationships since he chooses women as discreet as he.’

Sophie glanced from Wivenhoe to Max with a slight frown and Max wished he had Wivenhoe across from him in Jackson’s Boxing Saloon right now. Or preferably as they had been almost a decade ago, in a dark alley, just the two of them. He would not mind repeating that experience and hopefully doing a bit more damage this time around.

‘Wivenhoe is enjoying himself at your expense, Miss Trevelyan. You would do best to ignore him.’

‘Quite right, my dear,’ Wivenhoe replied, unabashed. ‘I am not a very dependable fellow. You see, I freely admit my vices. Max here is more circumspect about his, though to be fair they are probably milder than mine, but one can never know what such a controlled façade harbours. Certainly he is more generous, as his last high flyer would attest judging by the very lovely bauble I saw her wearing when he was done with her.’

Sophie glanced back at Wivenhoe with a sudden frown.

‘You actually sound contemptuous of people who are generous towards the women who depend on their patronage. I can’t imagine that kind of approach gets you very far, Mr Wivenhoe,’ she said with blighting coldness.

Max struggled between shock at this very improper but principled condemnation of Wivenhoe’s ethics and amusement at the stunned expression on Wivenhoe’s face. But Wivenhoe swiftly recovered his characteristic expression of jaded ennui.

‘I compensate, my dear, I assure you.’

‘If you say so.’ She shrugged, clearly unconvinced. The corridor had led back to the Exhibition Room, which was still as crowded as before, and she turned to Max. ‘And now I really should return to Grosvenor Square or Aunt Minerva will start baying for my blood. Thank you very much for showing me these lovely paintings, Mr Harcourt.’

‘I will see you home—’ Max began, but she cut him off.

‘Nonsense. You said you had business in the City and that is quite the other direction. I shall do very well with a hackney cab, I noticed there are plenty outside. Thank you. Good day, Mr Wivenhoe.’ She nodded briefly in the artist’s direction and headed towards the staircase.

‘Mr Harcourt?’ Wivenhoe enquired softly. ‘Does that original young lady have something against titles or is she in ignorance of the identity of her very obliging cavalier?’

‘She is merely an acquaintance of my sister’s. I saw her wandering into this room and thought it prudent to extract her before she came across someone like you. She’s not in your league, Wivenhoe.’

‘Oh, clearly beyond it. And not in your usual line either, my dear Harcourt. Far too outspoken. And so very refreshing. Trevelyan. That name rings a bell. Who did she say...? Ah, Aunt Minerva in Grosvenor Square... Could she possibly be related to Lady Minerva Huntley, née Trevelyan?’

Max didn’t bother answering, but merely turned and left as well. Wivenhoe’s veneer of cynical affability did not deceive him. Almost a decade had passed since the incident, but neither of them had forgotten or forgiven. He rubbed the scar on his hand unconsciously. Wivenhoe’s appearance was a sharp reminder that his idea of escorting that pert and uncontrollable country miss to the exhibition had been very ill conceived. He should have known it would only lead to trouble. Now that she was gone he couldn’t even understand why he had gone in with her. He had been drawn along in the wake of her enthusiasm like that pug of hers. Whatever the case, he would do well to stay out of her way in future. There was some quality to her that attracted trouble like bees to a flower. He had had enough of that in his life. He should know better.

* * *

‘I met Lord Bryanston at Lady Jersey’s last night. He asked me who your latest flirt was. A young woman from Devon with a pair of delightfully smiling blue eyes, in his words,’ Hetty said blandly as she sifted through the pile of invitations Gaskell had brought in on a tray as they sat at the breakfast table.

‘Bryanston is an idiot,’ Max replied, not looking up from his newspaper.

‘True. But then there was Mrs Westminger. She asked me the identity of the animated young woman you were so attentive to in the Exhibition Rooms for close to an hour. Since she is Lady Penny’s godmama I presume it was by design that she said this very loudly next to Lady Melissa now that the betting appears to have swung in her favour. She was somewhat more careful about communicating the information you had been seen with the same young woman conversing with Lord Wivenhoe, of all people. That little titbit she passed along in a stage whisper to only three of her cronies in the dowagers’ corner.’

Max folded the newspaper and laid it down.

‘Is there a question in there?’

Hetty nodded, undaunted by his cool tone.

‘There is indeed. I presume they were referring to Lady Huntley’s niece? Is any of this true? Did you really take her to Somerset House? And introduce that young woman to the likes of Wivenhoe?’

Max held on to his temper by a thread, mostly angry at himself. At least Hetty did not know the full extent of Wivenhoe’s infamy. Thankfully his parents had never told his sisters the truth about Serena.

‘Yes, I took her. Because she was about to head there, on foot, on her own, in the company of that dratted pug. But do you really think I would introduce her to someone like Wivenhoe? That was her own doing. I turned my back for one minute and she wandered off into the private rooms where she proceeded to make mincemeat of Wivenhoe. Besides, this whole thing is your fault!’

‘Mine?’

‘Yes, you were the one who said she must be bored on her own in the mausoleum. I felt sorry for her. That’s why I offered to see her there safely. My mistake, but acquit me of either taking advantage of her or exposing her to someone like Wivenhoe!’

Hetty sighed.

‘No, I know you wouldn’t. But really, Max, it wasn’t very wise to take her there at all. Naturally people are curious when you are seen squiring an unchaperoned, unknown and personable young woman.’

‘I would think my credit is sufficient to make clear I have never shown an interest in toying with virtuous young women,’ he bit out.

‘Well, precisely, it is out of character, which is why it drew so much attention. Now that it is clear to everyone that you finally intend to marry you know the gossips are having a fine time speculating who will be the next Duchess of Harcourt. I can hardly step outside the house without someone coyly asking me who you are favouring. Fine, I won’t say another word. Just do be careful.’

‘That was four more words. And don’t worry; I’ve satisfied my chivalrous instinct for the next decade. I will stay well away from that troublesome pixie.’ He picked up the newspaper again, as much to block out his sister’s anxious frown as to prevent himself from venting his resentment on her. It was just typical that the moment he did anything that was one step out of character everyone was up in arms. All his life he had walk a fine line between his independence and his parents’ confining criticism, couched always in unarguable terms of duty, but to have to put up with it from Hetty as well when all he had done was take pity on that aggravatingly buoyant girl was putting a serious strain on his civility. Suddenly he wished Hetty and everyone at the devil.


Chapter Five (#ud5f62d0a-0425-5aa8-8e77-433dcaf99d0e)

‘Lady Henrietta Swinburne, Miss Trevelyan.’

Lambeth’s voice was a blend of surprise, approval and curiosity. Lady Henrietta entered the parlour as he stood aside, approaching Sophie with a smile, her hand extended.

‘I do hope you don’t mind my showing up like this, Miss Trevelyan, but I had to come and thank you for that lovely sketch.’

Sophie stood up, still holding her paintbrush, and extended her hand automatically. Then they both glanced at her paint-covered fingers and to Sophie’s relief Lady Henrietta burst out laughing.

‘Never mind. May I stay for a moment? This is all very unusual; we haven’t even been introduced properly. I am Lady Henrietta Swinburne as your butler pointed out, but please call me Hetty,’ she announced, glancing around the room. ‘Goodness, I don’t think this place has been redecorated since Bonaparte was chased out of Egypt!’

Sophie relaxed at Hetty’s easy informality.

‘This is quite mild. There is a brocade sofa with gilded crocodile-claw legs in the Green Salon. Aunt Minnie never comes down here, but she insists that nothing is to be put under holland covers which means the colours have all sadly faded. Still, it is rather grand, isn’t it?’

‘Very grand. But then your aunt was very fashionable when we were children. What are you working on? May I see?’

Sophie turned with some embarrassment to the canvas she had been working on and nodded nervously as Hetty moved towards it.

‘Oh, he’s adorable!’ she exclaimed. ‘And you paint as well as you sketch!’

Watching the woman’s animated face, Sophie succumbed to impulse.

‘Do you know, Marmaduke’s portrait means I am fully equipped with artistic supplies and it would be a pity to waste all of this on a mere pug. Would you mind if I tried to paint you?’

‘Mind? I would be delighted! But I really don’t want to impose...’

‘Oh, I promise you it would be my pleasure. With all due respect to Marmaduke, he isn’t the most inspiring model. Please say yes. I really don’t have much else to do while I am here...’ She flushed. ‘I didn’t mean to sound self-pitying. I really would like to paint you, if you don’t mind.’

‘I would love it. When?’

‘The light is perfect right now, if you sit in that seat by the window...’

Hetty smiled and moved toward the window.

‘So be it. On condition you tell me how you like being in town.’

Sophie hurriedly picked up her sketch pad, wondering what on earth she could say. She could hardly reveal that her most memorable experience in London involved this woman’s brother. Not that her fascination with him was surprising. He was so very different from any of the men she knew back home. In fact, she rather thought he was unlike most men in London, too. She would hardly be the first or the last to be so drawn to him. His virility and unconscious air of command were bad enough, but much worse was the guarded humour in his dark grey eyes, and the fact that unlike so many people he actually appeared to sometimes find her peculiarities vaguely interesting rather than merely regrettable. That was perhaps the greatest danger of all.

Somehow, no matter how stony the façade he presented, he radiated an underlying curiosity that she felt was an unconscious invitation to be herself, an invitation she so rarely encountered it was bound to be intoxicating. It was probably completely fictitious, but it was so tempting to believe in it. She looked down at the blank paper in her hands and resolutely began sketching.

‘There’s not much to tell. I haven’t seen much, aside from gardens outside and the exhibition yesterday. Still, I am revelling in being on my own. There are nine of us at home and very little privacy and quite a lot of...meddling, you see. So, forced solitude has its advantages. Could you please raise your chin a little?’

Hetty complied.

‘Nine! I can see why this might be considered a holiday. Still, it is a pity your aunt hasn’t provided you with any entertainment at all.’

‘Aunt Minnie is convinced there isn’t any to be had any more. From her tales, London society used to be exciting, scandalous, and very licentious when she was in her prime. But it has become sadly dull and she derives much more enjoyment from her books than from reality.’

‘That’s a bit unfair. Society can still be all that, though mostly behind closed doors today. There is an unspoken agreement that if one is suitably discreet and respects the rules of the game, they can do pretty much as they please. But the moment one steps outside the bounds of the game there is no more brutal jungle. What happened to Lord Byron is just one dramatic example of what happens even to society’s darlings if they transgress.’ She hesitated, tracing the elaborate brocade pattern of the sofa with one long, elegant finger. ‘My brother, Max, is probably a fine example of how to play the game to perfection. One of his friends once told me he had never seen anyone with quite that talent for driving their horses so well up to their bits so that it looks like they might be bolting, but they are never out of control. He is just the same in society—he makes his own way, but he never transcends the rules.’

Sophie paused, but did not look up. It was clear Lady Hetty’s comment was anything but casual. Coming on the back of her own internal lectures Hetty’s words stung and she spoke before she could censure herself.

‘Are you by any chance warning me not to develop any expectations regarding your brother based on his charitable impulse yesterday? I assure you I am not so naïve.’

‘No, it’s not that!’ Hetty flushed. ‘You seem a very...sensible young woman. Surprisingly so, since you don’t know London and just how it works. It is just that...oh, dear, this is difficult...it is just that young women often...because of his looks, and his war exploits and all that...they tend to think him...heroic and develop quite the wrong ideas about him. It’s not that he encourages it. He is not in the least romantic or gallant, you know. In fact, he hasn’t a romantic bone in his body,’ she said with some exasperation. ‘If he did he would hardly have asked me to find him a wife—’ She broke off in confusion. ‘My wretched tongue. I always say too much when I am nervous. Max will have my head.’

‘Never mind. I shouldn’t have spoken so bluntly myself,’ Sophie said apologetically. She should not blame this woman for her own foolishness in being attracted to Max. Sophie chose a different pencil from her box, wondering what her father would make of her performance in London so far. She could imagine the lecture.

‘Poor Papa,’ she murmured.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Nothing. I was just thinking of my father. He is a vicar and has never known quite what to make of my ways or my love of painting. He shares your brother’s view that ladies should be adequate sketchers, but that anything else is a presumption against nature. Not that I am in any way extraordinary, but painting is more than just another accomplishment to be acquired as far as I am concerned. It really gives me pleasure.’

‘Max?’ Hetty asked, surprised. ‘You are quite wrong. Max might be very rule bound himself, but he has very few prejudices when it comes to other people and certainly not against female artists. I suppose that’s my Uncle Charles’s doing because our papa was quite narrow-minded and Mama is...well, she means well, but... Anyway, Charles was very close with Angelica Kauffman and Mary Moser who were both amazing artists and he used to take Max with him to the Academy all the time. He’s off painting somewhere in Italy at the moment which is a pity because I think you would like him.’

Sophie absorbed this, embarrassed by her curiosity and the need to know more about Max. She really could not quite make out the contradictions in his character. Max! She should not be calling him that even in her mind, she told herself sternly and leaned back, inspecting her work.

‘I think that will do for now. It’s a pity to stop now, but it’s time for me to go read to Aunt Minnie. Could you come again once or twice so I can decide on the colours and shading?’

Hetty nodded and came to inspect the drawing and Sophie tensed as she always did when someone saw her work for the first time, no matter how much she tried to be sophisticated and unconcerned.

‘It’s even lovelier than the first,’ Hetty said quietly. ‘I look...joyous, though I’m hardly smiling. It is such a pity Max doesn’t want you to even sketch him. Mama is always trying to convince him to sit for a portrait, but he has something against them. Do you think you could do a drawing of him sight unseen like you did for me before or is that too hard?’

Sophie bent over her box of charcoals and pencils to hide her flush. She knew she had to say something that would satisfy Lady Hetty. Certainly not the truth.

‘It’s easier with some people than others. I don’t know if I could, from memory. It is not just the structure of the face, but there must be something I can...base myself on, an idea of the person.’

Lady Hetty nodded, shaking out her crumpled skirts.

‘He is a bit hard to read. Mama always complains of it. But it’s not because there’s nothing there, like some people.’

‘No. I don’t think it is that. Perhaps there is just more than people expect or even want and he knows it.’

She wished she hadn’t spoken, aware of Hetty’s eyes on her, but she kept her own down as she wiped her fingers clean and then extended her hand with a smile.

‘All clean now. Could you come tomorrow, then?’

‘With pleasure! Thank you, Miss Trevelyan.’

The moment the door closed behind Hetty, Sophie’s shoulders sagged. Under other circumstances she would have been ecstatic about meeting someone so genuine. But it was a strain, having to make believe that all these references to Max had no effect on her. And the strain just made it obvious that something had changed yesterday. She hadn’t realised at the time, but she had felt so right walking with him around that immense room. Even knowing it was nothing more than the polite courtesy of a gentleman for the lady he was escorting, and even through the layers of her glove and his coat, she had been aware of the strength of his arm beneath her fingers and a radiating heat that had accompanied her as they inspected the paintings. It had heightened her senses and dimmed her judgement, like wine. After her initial protest she had not had the will to release him to his business, at least not until his anger at her about her mistake in entering the forbidden room. Then the folly of succumbing to the fantasy that there was actually something more keeping him at her side than civility became clear. She might be socially clumsy, but she wasn’t naïve. She knew she was in danger of liking him too much and it did not take his sister’s warning to point out she had no chance with someone like him. She had managed to repel men with far fewer endowments and expectations; there was no future for her with Max.


Chapter Six (#ud5f62d0a-0425-5aa8-8e77-433dcaf99d0e)

Max climbed into his phaeton and took the reins from his groom who jumped up on his perch behind. He had promised to take Lady Melissa for a ride in the park, but at the moment he would have happily just headed west until he was clear of the town and all its inhabitants. His plans of identifying, courting and securing a wife, which had seemed so straightforward a month ago when he had commandeered Hetty for the campaign, were becoming mired in the mud of his flagging resolution.

He was just about to set his team of matched bays in motion when he saw Lord Wivenhoe coming leisurely down the stairs of Huntley House, his ebony cane swinging in his hand. Wivenhoe caught sight of Max and nodded, his eyes gleaming.

‘Well met, Harcourt. Are these your famous bays? Beautiful beasts. I forgot you are neighbours with the wealthy Lady Huntley. And by extension with Miss Trevelyan.’

‘What are you doing here, Wivenhoe?’

Wivenhoe raised one chestnut brow at Max’s curt tones.

‘How very dog-in-the-manger of you. Is it my visit to the fair Trevelyan that excites your formidable frown or is that just your habitual greeting to yours truly? I didn’t think country misses were in your line, no matter how original. And she is, isn’t she? Quite refreshing. Not a classic beauty, but such an expressive countenance! She does not even need to speak to be heard, if you understand me. I had a delightful chat with Lady Minnie, quite twenty minutes of the most salacious reminiscences—on the lady’s part, I assure you—and merely for the pleasure of watching its effect on Miss Trevelyan’s enchanting visage. I don’t believe I have yet come across such expressive eyes. Better than any performance by Kean. I might even consider painting her if she is willing...’

Max reined in on his temper. He knew Wivenhoe was baiting him, but he was uncharacteristically finding it hard to ignore his taunts.

‘You must be very desperate to have to resort to teasing country misses for entertainment. Perhaps if you were more generous with your mistresses, as Miss Trevelyan suggested, you wouldn’t have to stoop so low,’ he said contemptuously and Wivenhoe’s pale cheeks flushed a mottled red.

He didn’t wait for Wivenhoe’s response, just gave his bays their head and the phaeton moved forward. As he pulled out of the square he reminded himself of his resolution to have nothing more to do with the irrepressible Miss Trevelyan and that meant to stay out of her business. It was not his role to warn her about the likes of Wivenhoe. And to be fair, she might be a country miss, but she was no fool. She could take care of herself.

‘Your Grace?’ his groom asked hesitantly behind him and Max checked his horses, realising he had been about to drive past the Arkwright residence.

‘Keep them moving, Greggs,’ Max said and strode up to the front door. Another day, another battle.

* * *

Less than two hours later Max left the phaeton at the stables and headed up South Audley Street towards home, feeling tired and disheartened, though he knew he had no reason to be. Lady Melissa had given a masterly performance, proving precisely how suited she was to be his Duchess. She clearly understood the rules of the game and had, in all but words, assured him she didn’t expect him to profess any emotions he didn’t possess and that she would be a tolerant wife if he was a discreet husband. As long as she was allowed to play her role in society to the hilt, she would evidently give him the space he needed. In fact, she was fulfilling every requirement on his list.

It was natural he would be having second thoughts about giving up his freedom, irrespective of his promise to his father, his commitment to his duties and no matter even how perfect the bride. As soon as he was married he would grow accustomed to the new order of things. He had spent five years in the worst possible conditions during the war and, despite these past five years of luxury and indulgence, he was still adaptable. It was just a matter of resolution.

He was just approaching the stairs to his home when he saw Sophie entering the garden with the lumpish pug in tow. He hesitated. Perhaps he should warn her about Wivenhoe after all. He waited for a ponderous coach to pass and headed towards the garden. She was seated once again beneath the chestnut tree, and, as usual, talking to the panting dog with all apparent expectation of being understood.

‘I am sorry there are no more birds to chase, but what do you expect? You have frightened them all out of their little bird wits and I really cannot command their presence, you know. You will have to learn to lower expectations, Duke.’

‘That would be a pity. Perhaps you should bring some crusts,’ Max observed.

‘Crusts?’ She glanced up swiftly, but there was none of the usual mix of curiosity and expectant amusement in her expression. She seemed to be looking at him from a distance, considering him. He was already on edge, but he went instinctively on alert, though he answered her casually.

‘That way you can lure back the birds for another round of exercise.’

‘How very Machiavellian. I think I would feel too guilty baiting them only to have Marmaduke chase them away. Your Grace,’ she added somewhat ironically and he remembered Wivenhoe had enlightened her about his title. He felt guilty, as if he had hidden it on purpose.

‘I understand Lord Wivenhoe paid you a visit,’ he said abruptly.

‘Yes,’ she replied in the same uncharacteristically cool voice. ‘Aunt Minnie was shocked when he sent up his card. No one has dared breach the portals of Huntley House other than us pawns, but apparently she has some very...fond memories of his father. Frankly I could have done without having to hear the details of some of them, but she seemed to enjoy herself, which is in my favour, I suppose. They had a wonderful gossip and she invited him to visit again which is nothing short of miraculous.’

‘I don’t think you should encourage him to do so.’

Her expression did not change, but the same cautionary hauteur he had seen her display towards Wivenhoe at Somerset House entered her eyes.

‘I told you there is no need to lecture me, Your Grace. I am well aware he is quite scandalous. He also seems to dislike you thoroughly, even beyond the normal degree of antagonism you might naturally excite. He was very amused by the fact that I had reduced you from a duke to a mere commoner and warned Aunt Minerva against the wisdom of allowing me to develop expectations in the direction of the Duke of Harcourt. To make his point he and Aunt Minnie then enjoyed several minutes’ gossip, debating which of the various high-born young women you targeted is likely to win the Duchy. From there they went on to discuss someone called Hellgate whose exploits I would have expected to land him gaol had he not mercifully died young. And aside from securing Aunt Minnie’s invitation to come visit again soon, that was that. Your Grace.’

‘For heaven’s sake, stop calling me that!’ Max said, annoyed and tense on so many levels he couldn’t untangle them. Contrarily his obvious discomfort brought some of her irrepressible humour to her eyes, softening them.

‘What should I call you then? Duke? Would you mind sharing the moniker with Marmaduke?’

‘As long as you don’t call me to heel again,’ he replied and she laughed, her shoulders relaxing, and some of the tension seeped out of his body. He felt ridiculous at how tense her unusual show of temper had made him.




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