“Your coach needs new springs,” she said in that know-it-all voice he hated.
“Can’t afford ’em,” he murmured against the stiff cloth of her bodice, and the soft swell of her breast. He had never felt anything quite so tantalizing, being this close and yet knowing that he was unable, incapable, of taking advantage of it.
Take advantage? Max blinked and tried to clear his mind. No, no, he didn’t take advantage, he was a gentleman. Wasn’t he? Yes, he was, despite his new scandalous status.
“Oh. So you can’t afford new springs for your coach, and yet you can afford a visit to Aphrodite’s? I don’t call that sound economics.”
He turned his head so that he could look up and see her face properly, and wasn’t so distracted by other things. “Is this any of your business, Miss Greentree?”
She fixed him with an intent look. “It may be. Which girl were you going to request at Aphrodite’s? Before you saw me, of course.”
“Of course.”
She sounded smug, and he supposed she had the right to be. He had offered to pay for an entire night of her company. What in God’s name had possessed him? Some form of madness, that was certain. Well, he was cured of it now, Max told himself, at the same time snuggling in against her. She smelled of roses and woman, and despite her stays, she was incredibly soft…
He opened one eye and looked up at her. She appeared to be waiting for something, but when he tried to remember what it was he got caught up in the perfect shape of her face and her pert little nose and those long, curling dark lashes framing her blue eyes.
“Which girl, Max? Have there been so many that you can’t remember?” She sounded unhappy with him; now her fingers were tugging at his hair rather than caressing.
Max cleared his throat. “Why…?”
“Was it Maeve?” Marietta asked suddenly, but she was hoping it wasn’t. This morning Maeve had seemed like a possible friend, but that didn’t mean she wanted Maeve and Max to have been lovers. It made her uncomfortable.
Max fixed her with another one of his slightly unfocused looks, as if he’d misplaced her name. “No,” he said at last. “Not Maeve. Anyway, a gentleman isn’t supposed to reveal such things.”
He said it so pompously that Marietta’s fingers itched to yank out the hair she was smoothing. Instead she said, “I’m not asking you to tell secrets, my lord. I’m interested in…in whether you have a favorite type of woman. I have heard it said that men have preferences. For instance: dark or fair hair or auburn, blue eyes or brown, tall or short, plump or slender. Tell me, do you have a preference, my lord?”
“No, I don’t,” he said stubbornly. And then, the frown leaving his face, “You called me ‘my lord.’ What happened to Max?”
“I decided it was improper. You are a lord, and we are near strangers. I shouldn’t be calling you by your first name.”
“I’m not a lord, not anymore,” Max muttered. He moved restlessly, winced, and then sighed. There was something in that sigh that made Marietta’s heart ache for him. Max may be arrogant and bad-tempered, but he was suffering.
His voice was low, so low that she had to bend her head closer to hear him. “I am nothing.”
“Oh Max, I’m sure you—”
“I am nothing.”
Marietta bit her lip and fell silent. Max, too, was quiet, brooding on his uncertain future. After a moment she looked out of the window and realized they had entered a very elegant square, with a garden and plane trees at its center. The coach drew to a halt on the other side, in front of an austere but elegant Georgian townhouse.
“Where are we?” she asked. “I don’t think I know this square.”
“Bedford Square,” Max said, seemingly glad to change the subject, although he spoke with an effort.
“Bedford…?”
“It isn’t fashionable among the aristocracy. My father took the house from the Duke of Bedford for a pittance, when he couldn’t get anyone other than lawyers interested in living here. Hoped having a duke in residence would help attract others. It didn’t, but at least my father felt he’d got a bargain.”
The door to the townhouse opened on the figure of an elderly butler, who hobbled down the four shallow stairs to the street. Behind him a plump woman of the same vintage gathered her skirts and numerous petticoats up above her ankles and picked her way carefully in his wake.
“Daniel!” the butler called, just as the driver jumped down.
Daniel Coachman was a huge man, with wide shoulders and bulging arms, and it didn’t take him long to gather Max into those arms and extract him from inside the coach. Another man had joined the little group at the bottom of the stairs, a tall, thin gentleman in a frock coat of an unpleasant green color and plaid pantaloons. He proceeded to direct proceedings, continually urging caution. “Mind now, Daniel,” he said in a fussy manner, waving his hands about. “Mind! Is the bed ready, Mrs. Pomeroy?”
Mrs. Pomeroy’s round face was flushed. “It is, sir, don’t you fret. All nice and warmed up for his lordship here.”
“Carry him upstairs then, Daniel. Have you sent for the doctor, Pomeroy?”