Lady Whistledown Strikes Back (47 page)

Sophia finished her wine and picked up John’s. It would serve him right if she drank all of his wine, as well. She would have a good deal to say to her brother when he returned. No doubt he had been diverted by the buffet table and had forgotten all about her. “Wretch,” she said aloud.

“That isn’t the greeting I was hoping for, but it will do.”

The voice melted through her, hot and sudden. Sophia whirled to find Max standing in the opening, looking darkly handsome. “What are you doing here?”

He came further into the alcove, filling up the space, warming the air. “I suppose I could say that I am here to rescue you. That I knew, by some unimaginable manner, that you were in need of me.”

“But that would be a lie. John told you where I was.”

“More than that. He left you here, right where I asked him to.”

That was bold indeed. Sophia tentatively waited to see if she was angry. She was surprised to find that she was only a little irritated, and mainly at John.

She finished his wine and placed the empty glass on the bench. “This is indeed a day of surprises.”

“Sophia, we must talk.”

The wine made her bold. “Talk. I’ve had enough talk in my life.”

His face darkened. “I do not lie. Nor do I break my word. Never again.”

“Max, I don’t—”

From down the pathway came a loud giggle, followed by a drunken admonition to shush. The voices grew closer, and Max gave a fervent curse.“It appears we are about to be invaded.” He held out his arm. “We’ll have to find another place.”

She looked at his arm, drawn to it. After a moment’s hesitation, she took it and allowed him to lead her down the path. They walked some way, turning here and there. At one point, they found themselves in a small alcove much like the one they’d just left. This time, Max came to a sudden halt, causing Sophia to run into his back. He made a soft “oof” sound, then quickly guided Sophia away. As she turned, she caught a glimpse past Max’s shoulder and saw a couple in a passionate embrace. Strange, the woman had on a gown that was just like the one she had given her cousin Charlotte. Surely not—Max turned another corner and came to yet another abrupt halt. He murmured an apology, then turned and left. Sophia hung back and caught a glimpse of Lord Roxbury embracing a slender waif of a woman. Good heavens! Was everyone at Vauxhall locked in a passionate embrace? Everyone except her?

Suddenly, that seemed a very unfair thing.

On they walked, running into three more couples and two more dead ends.

Max turned this way and

that and before long, she began to wonder if they were lost. After several more moments, she pulled

to a halt. “Max, do you know where we are?”

“Of course I do,” he growled. They made another turn and found themselves facing a wall of hedgerow, another dead end.

Sophia sighed. “We will have to ask someone for directions out of this blasted maze.”

His chin jutted stubbornly. “No. I can find it. I know where I am.”

“You do not. We’re lost. Just admit it.”

“I will not admit any such thing.” He took her hand and pulled her down another pathway. “I’m certain that if we keep walking, we’ll find a place to talk and we can—” They were suddenly standing outside the hedgerow in a large field. People milled around, laughing and talking.

“Bloody hell,” Max said.

Sophia hid a laugh behind a cough. “I don’t think we’ll have much privacy here.”

“No, we won’t. We can’t speak here at all. The only thing I know to do is—” He looked down at her, a question in his ” eyes.

She didn’t know if it was Max’s closeness, the bite to the night air, the murmur of passion all around, or the sight of so many people deeply in love, but she felt giddy, as if she’d drunk too much wine. Perhaps she had, though she found it hard to care. Instead, she leaned forward, brushing against him as she asked, “What?”

“We could go back to my lodgings.”

Sophia found that she couldn’t swallow. Her heart, which had been racing since Max had found her in

the alcove, began to thump loudly. Inside, she struggled, part of her leaning toward him, part of her pulling away. She clenched her hands together, forcing her thoughts to quiet. And then, somehow, somewhere, she heard herself reply, “Yes.”

The trip to his lodgings went in a blur. When they arrived, Max helped her out of the curricle, folding

the carriage blanket he’d tucked over her lap and handing it to his footman.

And then they were inside. Max helped her take off her shawl. “Shall we go to the sitting room?”

“First, I want to see your paintings.”

He hesitated. “I paint in my bedchamber. The light is better there than anywhere else in the house.”

She should leave. Really, she should. But she wasn’t going to. Every step took her another foot closer to Max. Closer to what she wanted. And if tonight ended in nothing but disappointment, wasn’t that better than emptiness? “I don’t mind going to your bedchamber. I’ve been there before.”

He took one look at her face and quietly led her up the stairs, past the sitting room, past the large clock that stood at the head of the stairs. He paused before a wide oak door and looked down at her.

The false sense of bravado held her in thrall, and she put her hand on the doorknob, opened the door,

and walked in. Max followed.

It was a large room, half bedroom, half work room. One wall was almost entirely windows, curtained now, but they would let in untold light by day.

Everywhere she looked, there was color. From the jewel red coverlet on the bed to the rich green of the draperies that covered the finished paintings, to the deep blue of the rug beneath her feet, the entire room swirled with texture and light. “I can see why you paint in here.”

“You should see it when the afternoon sun comes in the windows.” He quietly began lighting the lanterns that sat here and there. Sophia walked slowly around the room, running her fingers over the silk counterpane on the bed, along the smooth marble top of a large table holding an assortment of new brushes, and across the rough surface of a bare canvas.

By the window sat a painting of a summer field awash in afternoon sun. It loomed over the room, filling

it with soft colors and a sort of diaphanous light. “That’s beautiful,” Sophia said. “Your work is different. Deeper.”

“No one stays the same.” His gaze caught hers, a silent question in their depths. “That is one of life’s gifts.”

She didn’t know what to say, so she turned to examine the other paintings.

They were all covered with draperies, not an inch of painted canvas showing.

Sophia reached for the edge of a drapery to lift it.

His hand closed over her wrist. “No.”

“Why not?” she asked, looking up, directly into his eyes.

“They aren’t finished.”

She gently disengaged her wrist, rubbing where his fingers had been. She walked to first one draped painting, and then the next. “I’ve never seen you work on so many paintings at the same time.”

He shrugged, his gaze never leaving her. “Some paintings are never finished.

There is always a little

more texture to add, a little more depth, a shadow here, a touch of light there.

Those are the paintings

that have their own life.”

“I want to see them.”

“Some day. Perhaps.”

A soft knock sounded on the door and a servant brought in a tray. A bottle of wine with two sparkling glasses sat to one side. A plate of cakes were placed beside a small dish of raspberries and creme. The servant set the tray on the table, moving the paint brushes aside, then bowed and left.

Max waited for the door to close before he poured the wine. “Shall we?”

Though she knew he was talking about the wine, her mind went elsewhere.

She wanted to touch him,

to draw him closer. She wanted him to assure her, to make her heart believe all the things her head wouldn’t allow. She wanted the impossible. Sophia took the wineglass and sipped.

He poured himself one, watching her all the while. “I think you’ve had enough wine this evening.”

“And perhaps I haven’t had near enough,” she retorted, meeting his gaze over the rim of her glass.

It was then that it happened. A moment when his mind and hers fell together, touched. A moment of translucent thought. She knew then he wanted her.

That he ached with it just as she did. She could feel the tightness of his chest, the way his heart thundered. She could even taste his uncertainty, his fear that she would, at any moment, turn and leave.

But she wasn’t leaving. Not yet, anyway. Without looking away, she set down the wineglass. Then she reached up and slowly pulled the pins from her hair.

Each move took her closer. Closer to his touch. Closer to him.

He watched, his eyes darkening until they were the deep gray of a stormy sea. As the last pin came out, her hair tumbled to her shoulders.

Max sucked in his breath. “Sophia.” It was a question. In answer, she stood and slowly pushed her gown from her shoulders. It fell to the floor and pooled at her feet, a puddle of pink silk and white lace.

Max’s gaze devoured her, touching without touching, caressing every curve, every shadow. He reached over to slide his finger down her chemise ribbon.

“May I?” he asked, his voice husky with the same fire that burned inside her.

She nodded and he slowly, ever so slowly, pulled the ribbon free. Her chemise loosened and he dropped the ribbon to push the thin material off her shoulder, past her breasts, down to her hips and on to the floor. He moved quietly, stopping every time a new portion of her skin was revealed. Yet still he didn’t touch her.

Sophia thought she would explode with need. Her entire body yearned for him. Her breasts peaked, her stomach quivered, and her thighs grew damp.

He moved closer, standing with but an inch between them. An inch of thick heated air that washed across her like a summer wind. “Lay down,” he whispered.

Her breath faltering, Sophia found the bed and lay across the silk red coverlet.

Max stood looking down at her, his eyes flowing silver, his black hair touched with gold by the lamplight. “I have dreamed of this day for so long that I—” He stopped and turned back to the table. He reached down and picked up a brush. Sophia watched, shifting restlessly on the coverlet. The brush tip was thick, the end heavy with silky bristles.

Max took the bowl of raspberries and creme and brought them to the bed. He slid to his knees and dipped the tip of the brush into the creme.

Sophia’s breath suspended as she watched Max hold the brush over her left breast. His gaze met hers, a languorous heat simmering in the depths of his eyes.

With exquisite slowness, he lowered the thick silky brush and traced a line over her breast, circling the areola with a cold, creamy stroke. Her nipple beaded instantly, her breath catching in her throat as her body quivered, awash in contrast of heated lust and chilled creme.

He looked at the perfectly coated nipple and then bent and fastened his mouth over the peak. The heat

of his tongue was almost more than Sophia could handle. She arched with pleasure, a deep moan ripping from her throat.

Max intensified his ministrations, laving her nipple with his warm tongue. Just as she thought she could stand no more, he stopped and dipped the brush back into the creme. This time, he drew a line between her breasts, down her stomach, ending where her hair curled between her thighs. She shifted beneath the magic touch of the brush, groaning when he followed the creme trail over her stomach with his mouth. Her hands found his hair, and she slid her fingers through it.

“Beautiful,” he said, kissing her stomach, her hip, her breast. “So beautiful.”

He dipped the brush back in the creme and this time he moved lower. She gasped as he touched the brush to the inside of one of her knees. With slow, flickering strokes, frequently augmented with more raspberry and creme, he drew a line up her thigh.

Sophia’s body tensed and tightened with each tortuously exquisite stroke of the brush. He touched the brush to her upper thigh, perilously close to her womanhood. His gaze locked with hers. “I’ve dreamed of doing this, my love. Dreamed of seeing your eyes as they are now, shining with excitement. Of seeing your peach skin, flushed with passion.” He dipped the brush in the creme once more, lifting the dripping end so that she could see. “And I’ve dreamed of this.”

<> Before she could utter a word, he drew the cream-soaked brush between her thighs, across her swollen womanhood, the coolness of the liquid and the silky texture of the brushing producing an exquisite sensation. She caught her breath and arched in a heart-rending spasm of pleasure. “Max!” she gasped, so filled with wanting, with needing. He was driving her mad, mad with pleasure, mad with desire. She had to have him. “Please, Max—”

“Please, what? You want more?” He stroked her again, only this time, he allowed the soft tip of the

brush to linger, swirling it with an expert twist of his finger and thumb.

Sophia grabbed the sheets on either side of her, her feet planted firmly, her hips lifting. “God, Max, please! I want—” Dear God, could she say it? Dared she? What if—Another expert flick of the brush forced a cry from her throat.

Her whole body burned, yearned. And not for the brush but for the man. She wanted Max to fill her, to bring her to the passion that had been theirs. She met his gaze, her eyes wet with tears. “You,” she whispered brokenly. “I want you.”

The words were no sooner spoken than Max stood, disrobing with a quickness that spoke of his own need. Soon, he was naked, standing beside the bed. Her gaze roamed over him, admiring the breadth of his chest, the narrowness of his waist, and his muscular thighs. But it was his manhood that drew her

gaze the longest. Thick and proud, it rose before her. She squirmed in anticipation. “Now.”

Then he was there, surrounding her, over her, pushing her legs apart as he tasted her neck, her cheek,

her lips. His hands roamed over her, cupping her breast, smoothing the creme into her skin, and then…

he was inside her, stretching her, filling her, thrusting hotly.