How long had it been since he’d seen Amalie, five years and three months? How long had he loved her for? Forever. But Max did not think he loved her still. A few years ago, memories of her stopped haunting him, and his fevered whisper of ‘Thank Christ’ had been heartfelt.
He’d been a boy of nineteen when she’d been whisked off to town for her season. Of course, only a few months later, their country village had been agog with the news that she was engaged to marry a viscount. A very powerful and wealthy man, a gentleman of Society who had almost been thrice her age. She’d been a sweet, carefree girl of eighteen, and her husband had been eight and fifty.
With all the stupidity of youth and unrequited love beating in his heart, Max had rushed to London with the firm intention of begging her to marry him instead. Except he had been too late. He’d arrived at St. George’s Chapel in Hanover Square as they had been exiting, and she was being led up into the Viscount’s carriage.
Max still recalled how ethereal she’d appeared in that peach dress with a profusion of delicate lace and trimmings. The coronet of flowers around her vibrant red hair had been set in an elegant coiffure that made her appear far more mature than a girl of eighteen.
Somehow, she had sensed his stare at the edge of the crowd. Amalie had glanced up and, for a breathless moment, such joy had lit in those unfathomable wintry blue eyes when she spied him. Her sweet, sensual lips had shaped his name before widening into a smile. And how that had made him happy, for a few minutes before as she’d descended the steps those lips had been flat, her face emotionless, her fingers clenched tightly over a posy of flowers. Amalie had pulled her hands from her husband’s and had stepped toward Max before she had faltered.
Time, distance, and her marriage to another man had withered away in an instant. But instead of running to him, an impossibility he had known, she had lifted a hand in a small wave. And her eyes. God…in her eyes, he had seen such need, and he had almost sunk to his knees in his despair. How had he never noticed she shared his regard? All those days walking by the glen in the countryside, racing their horses through the forest, the conversations they had on their long walks, he had always thought his affection one-sided.
“Where did you go?” George asked.
Pulled from his reverie, Max cleared his throat, not liking the tight feeling banding across his chest. It had taken him so long to stop thinking about her, and with just a mere thought of their past history, his heart had raced and a long-denied need which had been buried layers deep in ice trembled.
“I went to her…a place which I had not visited for more than two years.” He sat down his glass on the mantel and made his way to the door. “I am taking a lady home with me tonight.”
George grinned and fell into step beside him. “And…and if the lady should discover that you have no damn idea what you are doing?”
Max chuckled. “I do know what I am doing.” He tapped his head. “I have all the theories right here.”
George scowled. “A lover on paper is not the same when you have a lush, naked woman before you.”
“We'll see,” Max said with a touch of arrogance as he opened the door and made his way back to the thick of the ballroom.
Moving through the packed room, he made his way to the upper bowers, and leaned against a thick, white column. A flash of blue caught his gaze and his entire awareness became arrested. How had Max missed her upon his arrival? Surely all of his senses should have surged to life, even if he had not seen her in the crowd. Breathe, he ordered himself, unable to remove his stare from the ravishing vision standing on the sidelines, watching everyone else dance.
Max gripped the edge of the balcony railing, and stared, shock and unfathomable needs arrowing through his entire body. Amalie. He’d been mingling in Society for several weeks now and had never encountered her. It had been a deliberate choice to not think about her, lest he slid back into that longing to have her by his side, knowing it to be impossible.
Amalie took a glass of champagne from a footman, politely thanking him, her gaze scanning the crowd. She tilted her head at one point, and it was as if she searched for someone. Who?
“Ah, the wicked enchantress has caught your regard,” George said, coming to stand by his side with two glasses of brandy. He held out one to Max, who took it, lifting the drink to his lips for a healthy swallow.
“She is known as the wicked enchantress?”
“Hmmm, you’ve heard of the scandal which rocked the quiet streets of our Mayfair some years ago?”
Five years and three months ago.
Without awaiting his reply, the marquess continued, “It seems she was seen running from her own townhouse, a certain lord hot on her heels. Whatever they were about, no one could tell, but the speculation…” George smacked his lips. “The speculation was rife and rabid. Worse, her husband died that very evening! She disappeared presumably for mourning, and returned to Society three years ago, wealthy and even more astonishingly beautiful. The very lord who had chased her…has continued his pursuit, but the lady paid him no heed. In fact, he became a laughingstock, he was so besotted. And that my friend increased her allure a hundredfold. What lingered between those thighs to have a man like Lord Peter Spencer behaving the fool?”
Something dark twisted through Max. “It is not the mark of a gentleman to speak so about a lady. I have the urge to knock your teeth in.”
Provoking humor lit in George’s eyes. “I am only repeating what everyone else is saying.”
“I do not wish to hear it and you should not bloody repeat it!”
“Well, let me tell you about Spencer then,” his friend continued undaunted by Max’s cool displeasure.
“He married a Scottish heiress last year, and she whisked him away to that godforsaken castle of hers.” George nudged Max on the shoulder. “If you should be so fortunate, it is Lady Weatherston you should try to take to bed…to relieve your little problem. The rumor is that wicked little mouth of Viscountess Weatherston is delightful.”
Max clenched his jaw tightly and did his damnedest to retain his composure. “Is that so?”
“Hmm hm, I am certain it is another baseless speculation because no man here can boast of being her lover. And believe me, my friend, they have tried most earnestly. If you succeed, you would be the first to my knowledge, and that, my friend, would already move your status from legendary to godlike.”
“You are bloody ridiculous,” Max said with an icy bite. “If I should approach Lady Weatherston, it is not for some damn tryst.” Bloody hell, why would I even go to her?
It was she who had rendered everyone else in his life and thoughts to ashes. The revelation that she’d taken none of the ton’s rakes as her lover robbed Max of breath and pierced deep into his heart. Yet he knew she was not as innocent as she seemed. Years ago, her husband had gotten her caught up into his debauched games, and Max had almost fallen prey once to their wiles. He would be a damn fool to be embroiled in anyone’s games again. Max believed in faithfulness, love, and fidelity. Amalie was a woman who had no reserve in living in gray areas.
You damn hypocrite, he chided himself, having never been the kind of man to shy away from self-introspection. He had willingly gone into that bedchamber to debauch her, even though he had known she was married. It was the knowledge that her husband also lingered that had pushed him to leave. And clearly, they had continued their games with Spencer. “I am not interested,” Max said flatly.