The Further Observations of Lady Whistledown (Lady W 1) (12 page)

“Someone will see us,” she managed, tangling her fingers in his black hair.

“I don’t care.”

“I do.”

He lifted his head again, gazing down at her with glittering gray eyes. “Because you don’t want to be forced into marriage?” he breathed.

“Max—”

Grabbing her hand, he pushed through the kitchen door. A dozen servants froze in various stages of meal preparation. “Ignore us,” he commanded. Heads lowered at once.

“Maximilian,” she repeated, half wishing she’d kept quiet so he might have continued kissing her in the hallway, “what happens now?”

“Wait here a moment.”

To her surprise he left her and went scouring about the kitchen, apparently looking for a snack. At the far end of the room he seemed to find what he was after, because with a murmured word to one of the cooks, he wrapped something large in a napkin and returned to Anne.

“You know your Greek mythology, I presume?” he asked, holding out his hand.

“Yes,” she answered, dividing her attention between his intent face and the item resting on his palm, “though I don’t see the relevance between golden—halved—apples and this situation.”

A slow smile touched his mouth. “Wrong myth. Open it.”

Her heart unexpectedly thudding, Anne pulled back the napkin. “A pomegranate,” she said.
A pomegranate
.

Maximilian cleared his throat. “As you may recall, the lovely Persephone found herself torn between her lover, Hades, in the world below, and her mother, Demeter, in the world above, until they devised a way for her to have both.”

Abruptly Anne couldn’t breathe. “You would leave Yorkshire?” she asked, her voice breaking.

“That, my love, is up to you.”

A tear ran down her cheek. “You called me your love,” she managed.

“That is because I love you.”

“Oh my, oh my,” she whispered. She could have everything, now. She could have Maximilian Robert Trent. He would be hers, forever. Fingers shaking, she removed six pomegranate seeds, one after the other. “Six months in Yorkshire, and six months in London,” she said.

“And you with me, Anne. Say you’ll marry me.”

She took the red fruit from his hand and set it aside, then flung her arms around his shoulders. “I will. Yes, I will marry you,” she said, laughing and crying at the same time. “I love you so much.”

He kissed her, lifting her in his arms and swinging her around and around. “Thank God,” he murmured, over and over again.

Anne couldn’t stop kissing him. Three weeks ago she would never have thought that she would agree to marry a sheep farmer, much less that she would want to do so. He would have to stay in town a few more days now, because she didn’t think she could stand letting him leave without her. And if he obtained a special license quickly, they could be in Yorkshire by spring, and she would be able to see the daffodils bloom.

“Happy St. Valentine’s Day,” she whispered, hugging him tightly.

She felt him smile. “Happy St. Valentine’s Day.”

Suzanne Enoch

A lifelong lover of books, Suzanne Enoch has been writing them since she learned to read. Born and raised in Southern California, she lives a few miles from Disneyland with her collection of
Star Wars
action figures and dogs, Katie and Emma, both named after heroines from her books. The
USA Today
bestselling author is currently at work inventing the wild, wicked hero of her next historical romance.

Suzanne loves to hear from her readers, and may be reached at P.O. Box 17463, Anaheim, CA 92817-7463, or send her an email at [email protected]. Visit her website at
www.suzanneenoch.com
.

Two Hearts

Karen Hawkins

For my cat, Scat,
who graciously allows me
to sit in her favorite chair
while I’m working on the computer

Chapter 1

As if the frigid weather weren’t providing the ton with enough to talk about (and indeed, for a population so enamored of discussing the weather, this year’s improbably cold winter is proving to be a boon for those who do not excel at the art of polite conversation) there is always Miss Elizabeth Pritchard, who seems to have set her cap rather astonishingly for Lord Durham.

This Author does not believe this to be an impossible match—after all, Miss Pritchard is reputed to be quite plump in the pocket, and there is none who would find her personality unappealing (despite her obvious eccentricities). But it cannot be denied that she is rather a bit older than the average debutante, and indeed, older in fact than Lord Durham.

Will Miss Pritchard trade in her name for that of Lady Durham? Perhaps when the Thames freezes over…Ah, wait, the Thames HAS frozen over.

Nothing, apparently, is impossible these days.

L
ADY
W
HISTLEDOWN
’
S
S
OCIETY
P
APERS
,
26 J
ANUARY
1814

L
ady Margaret Shelbourne marched to the ornate fireplace that graced one wall of the breakfast room. “There!” she announced grandly, tossing the paper into the crackling flames. “
That
is what I think of Lady Whistledown and her scandal rag!”

Her husband, Lord James Shelbourne, didn’t even look up from his place at the head of the table where he sat perusing the latest edition of the
Morning Post
. After ten years of wedded bliss, he was far too used to his petite wife’s theatrics to pay much heed. Thus it was left to Meg’s brother, Sir Royce Pemberley, to respond.

He lifted his quizzing glass and eyed the curling ashes that had once been Lady Whistledown’s latest efforts to beguile the
ton.
“I thought you rather liked Lady W. You certainly seemed anxious enough to read the thing; you snatched it off Burton’s tray before he could announce it and almost vaulted over my chair in your eagerness.”

“I did not. I merely leaned in front of you to—” Her gaze narrowed when Royce’s grin slipped out. “Oh!” she said, stomping a dainty foot. “You’re teasing me. That is the problem with you; you are
never
serious.”

“Never,” he agreed. “What did Lady Whistledown say that has irked you so?”

“It wasn’t about me; it was about Liza.”

Liza, known to the
ton
as Miss Elizabeth Pritchard, had been his sister’s best friend since childhood. They were virtually inseparable, though one would be hard pressed to find two more different females. Meg was tiny, blond, perfectly coiffed at all times and a complete flutter brain, while Liza was tall, with light brown hair, mischievous cat green eyes, and a horrid sense of fashion. She was also one of the most logical women Royce knew. “What did Lady W say about Liza?”

“That she has formed an attachment, though how Lady W knew—Royce, that’s the reason I asked you to come by this morning.” His sister paused for a dramatic moment. “I fear Liza has decided to marry.”

The words hung in the room, like the smoky haze of a newly lit candle. Though he knew he shouldn’t feel anything but irritation at Meg’s melodrama, the pronouncement was a shock. Liza? To wed? “Surely you are mistaken.”

No one who knew Liza and understood the depths of her pragmatic nature would believe such nonsense. Liza’s parents had died when she was only three and her maternal aunt had passed away the year of Liza’s debut. She had been left alone at an early age with no one but a musty old solicitor who had believed his duties as guardian stopped at his office door.

A lesser female might have been distraught, but Liza had calmly gone on her way, purchasing a house, inviting an elderly, poverty-stricken cousin to live with her, and learning what she could from her guardian. On her twenty-fifth birthday, by then a confirmed spinster in the eyes of the
ton,
she’d surprised no one by pensioning off her hired companion and taking complete control of her fortune.

“I’m not mistaken about a thing,” Meg said, clearly offended that Royce hadn’t believed her. “The man’s name is Durham.”

“Never heard of him.”

“He’s new to town. He’s a distant relative of Lady Sefton’s, I believe.”

Every two years or so, some ill wind would shake a handful of fortune hunters into the ballrooms of London and one or another would settle on Liza as his victim. With Meg’s help, Royce had vanquished each and every potential threat.

Liza, of course, never noticed. She was supremely unaware of her own positive traits and the lure of her substantial income, which grew every year under her careful supervision. She also seemed completely content to remain as she was—single and unfettered by the demands of a spouse, much like Royce. Or so he had assumed. “I cannot believe Liza would do anything so scatterbrained.”

“I didn’t give the relationship any credence, either, but…” Meg hesitated. “She’s been a bit blue-deviled since her birthday last month, you know. I’m afraid she’s a little vulnerable.”

Royce frowned at that. He’d seen Liza not two days ago. She
had
seemed a bit distracted, but nothing more. She certainly didn’t display any symptoms of having developed a lifelong passion for a mysterious fribble. “Liza is not the type of woman to run into something as serious as marriage without thinking it through.”

“She
has
thought it through. Why, she even gave me a list of all the reasons she thought Lord Durham and she would suit.”

“Liza and her infernal lists! What does she think she’s doing? Buying a horse?”

“She is thirty-one. Most women are married and have children by now.”

“Liza isn’t most women. I vow, Meg, have you been ragging her about marrying again? For if you have, I’ll—”

“Of course I haven’t,” Meg said, her cheeks flushed. “I didn’t say a word to her.”

From the breakfast table, James rattled his paper in a telling way.

Meg’s face pinkened even more and she hurried to say, “It’s only natural Liza should meet someone and fall in love. I just wish she’d chosen someone we knew.”

Liza in love? Why had Meg said
that
? It was one thing to decide to marry; it was another to actually be in love. The thought settled between his shoulders and produced a distinct restless feeling. Royce stood. The breakfast room seemed dark and oppressive while the bright light beaming through the windows from the snow-covered street offered escape. Escape from what, he didn’t know, but he felt the very real need to breathe some of the icy cold air that hung outside the frosted window. “Meg, I really must go. Thank you for breakfast.”

He turned toward the door, then stopped, a sudden thought gluing his feet to the carpet. “Meg? Do you…do you think she’s really in love with this Durham fellow?” The question surprised Royce. He hadn’t meant to ask it…not aloud anyway.

Meg’s smooth brow puckered in thought. “No,” she said slowly. “Not yet. But she feels that she’s missing something. And you know Liza. If she wants something to happen, it happens.” Genuine concern touched her voice. “Royce, what do we do? What if this Durham is not a nice man?”

Royce considered this for a long moment, a strange weight pressing on his chest. Finally, he said in a heavy voice, “I’m not sure we can do anything.”

“What? You’d allow Liza to make the mistake of her life without a word?”

“She’s a grown woman. If she really cares for this man—” He broke off, the words thickening in his throat. Bloody hell, what was wrong with him? This was Liza, for heaven’s sake! The one woman he could trust to act sanely and logically. The one woman he respected above all others. Didn’t he
want
her to be happy? Of course he did. She was like a—

He glanced at Meg and frowned. Well, not a sister. He certainly didn’t take Meg into his confidence the way he did Liza. Nor did he have long, serious talks with Meg about…well, anything really. After all, she didn’t understand him. Not really. And when he was feeling particularly blue, he certainly didn’t seek out his sister, knowing she could make him feel better. Only Liza.

In fact, now that he thought about it, it had always been Liza. Over the years, she’d become his confidante just as much as she was Meg’s. And now all that was threatened by some poppycock who was probably after poor Liza’s fortune and would end up breaking her very tender heart. The thought angered him, which was a very unusual feeling for Royce. In fact, he was inundated with unusual feelings, none of which he recognized.

“Royce, I am disappointed that you are not offering to help.” Meg crossed her arms, her gaze daggerlike. “I daresay you’re too busy flirting with some new inamorata to bother with poor Liza.”

“I never flirt.”

“What a whopper! What about last week, when you were making snow angels in Hyde Park with Lady Anne Bishop? Lady W put it in her column and everyone was talking about it. I was never so humiliated in my life.”

“Humiliated? By a snow angel?”

Meg squared her shoulders. “Royce,
someone
must discover Lord Durham’s intentions. This man could be a fortune hunter or
worse
.”

Shelbourne peered over his newspaper at Royce and mouthed the word “run” before retiring once more behind his paper shield.

Had Royce’s head not been pounding, he might have smiled. “What else could Durham want from Liza other than her fortune?”

“Her virtue.”

Blood roared behind Royce’s eyes. Damn it, there was no way he’d let any man take such advantage of Liza! As much as he hated to admit it, Meg had a point.
Someone
needed to see about this Lord Durham.

And that someone would be Royce. If he didn’t look into this Durham wastrel, Meg would, and God only knew what a mull she’d make of it. “Very well. I’ll see what I can discover.” And he would, too. He’d find out every blasted ugly thing that tainted the man’s mysterious past and show it all to Liza.