Most people assumed Maxwell had done the approaching, desperate to gain entry to some of the most prestigious parlors in the land. If that’s what they wanted to believe, then let them. The truth was, Maxwell had initially refused the viscount’s proposition. Marriage was nowhere near the top of his list of priorities. Certainly, he’d never expected to beoffereda wife, and by an aristocrat, no less. But, after some consideration, Maxwell had signed the agreement. Sybella was a handsome lass after all, and her social status would certainly open doors that had previously been closed to him. He was under no illusion, however, that their marriage would be anything less than a challenge.
Louisa Northcott was a bird of a different feather. Though her blood was as blue as the Ceylonese sapphire currently sitting in his pocket, the lass had an impetuous streak that intrigued him. He recalled the first time he’d seen her riding pell-mell across the moor, when she’d sacrificed her hat to the wind. Her subsequent shriek of laughter had travelled the distance between them, the joyful sound infecting him in a like manner, making him smile.
If honest, he’d been attracted to the lass from the outset. And, given her inquisitive nature, he genuinely looked forward to introducing her to the more intimate aspects of marriage.
Unlike Sybella, Louisa had not balked at the sight of Richmond’s erotic ceiling. To the contrary, she’d been curious about it, in no great hurry to leave. He suspected, therefore, that she’d be a willing participant between the sheets. The mere thought of taking her to bed after one of his hectic business trips was not in the least unappealing. His body respondedaccordingly, and he shifted his focus to collect himself. His gaze settled on a book that sat on the small table beside him.
The Poetical Works of Lord Byron.
“You should know that I am not a man given to flowery language or romantic notions,” he said, regarding her once more. “That said, be assured I am not, by nature, unkind, and will never ill-treat you or give you cause to fear me. My expectations of you as my wife will always remain within the acceptable confines of marriage.”
Louisa’s brows lifted, and she looked down to where her hands lay in her lap. “I am not yet certain what your expectations of me are, Mr. Harlow,” she said, regarding him once more, “nor am I familiar with theacceptable confinesof marriage, though I’m sure you’ll explain everything to me. For example, I wonder, as your wife, will I still be required to address you so formally?”
Maxwell frowned. It was a counter response, he realized, though gently expressed. “Did I prove my point even as I made it, Miss Northcott?”
The beginnings of a smile came to her lips. “Your delivery was obviously sincere, sir, but somewhat pragmatic.”
“Then perhaps I can soften it a little.” He went to her and held out a hand, which she took, allowing him to assist her to her feet. Her eyes were brown, he noticed, with tiny gold flecks that matched the ones in her hair. “I’ve never been married before,” he said, “so, in that regard, much of this is as new to me as it is to you. But I can tell you that I am entering this union without reservation. I like you, Miss Northcott. Iadmireyou and feel optimistic for our future. As for formality, let us dispense with it now. Please call me Maxwell. Or Max. Whichever you prefer or depending on your mood.”
Her chin lifted again, and the smile appeared in full. “Then you will please call me Louisa,” she said.
“Louisa,” he repeated, and dug into his pocket, pulling out the small, blue leather box with a tiny, gold catch. “Well, Louisa, I made some discreet enquiries and discovered you were born in the month of September, which influenced my choice of stone. I hope you like it. If not, please tell me, and I’ll have it changed.”
He released the catch, and the lid opened to expose the ring that had been made for her. Nestled on a tiny cushion of white velvet, the oval cut sapphire shimmered a rich, cobalt blue, the depth of color enhanced further by a double cluster of diamonds, all set in yellow gold.
Somewhere in London, a couple of Garrard jewelers were currently catching up on their sleep, having spent much of the past week finishing the ring to Maxwell’s specifications. And, judging by the look on Louisa’s face and the renewed light in her eyes, it had been worth it.
She pressed a hand to the base of her throat. “Oh, Maxwell, it’s beautiful!”
“I’m glad you approve.” He took the ring, set the box down, and reached for her left hand, sliding the jewel onto her third finger. “I believe this means we are now officially engaged, my dear.”
Fingers spread, Louisa held up her hand, eyes transfixed on the ring, which sparkled in the sunlight. “It fits perfectly,” she said, bringing her hand closer for inspection. “How did you know my size?”
“I have my sources,” he replied.
“My mother, I suspect,” Louisa said, still gazing at the ring. “It’s truly magnificent. I shall treasure it always. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He brought her right hand to his lips. “Now, I wish I could spend a little longer in your company, but my carriage is waiting. The next time we see each other will be the day we marry. But I shall write to you in the meantime, if that would please you.”
“It would please me very much,” she replied, a rosy flush staining her cheeks. “I have no reservations about our union either, Maxwell. I’m looking forward to it.”
Minutes later, Maxwell clambered into his carriage, settled back, and endeavored to ignore what he felt at that moment. It was not an unpleasant sensation, but neither was it particularly welcome. There was no room for foolish sentiment in his life. This marriage was akin to a business partnership, its success dependent on each partner doing his or her part as agreed. He felt sure Louisa, in time, would come to see that.
Chapter Eight
Glasgow, April, 1845
Gaslight punched ahole in the night, exposing wet cobbles and smoke-stained sandstone. Maxwell gazed up, with some trepidation, at the three-story terraced house, its lower bay window lit by a soft glow from within, lace curtains providing an opaque screen of privacy.
He drew breath and mounted the half-dozen steps to the glossy black door, his hand hesitating over the brass knocker before he reached for it. The subsequent raps echoed down the street like gunshots.
Moments later, the door flew open, and a decidedly feminine squeal greeted him. “Heaven be praised, I was beginning to think you’d fallen off the face of the earth.” A manicured hand reached for his and tugged him over the threshold. “Come in, quick, and close the door. You’re letting all the heat out.”
Maxwell stepped onto the chessboard-tiled floor of the hallway and closed the door as bidden. Immediately, a blended odor of cuisine, coal fires and jasmine wrapped around him. Familiar. Comforting, even.
A measure of regret stirred in his gut.
By his calculations, it had been three months since he’d last set foot in this house, though it seemed longer. It appeared the lass had gained a little weight in the meantime, though it hadn’t done her any harm. Her body was still the kind that made artiststake up their brushes, and sculptors reach for hammer and chisel. Further blessed with an angelic face, strawberry-blond curls, and moss-green eyes, Flora MacNally was, inarguably, a real beauty. Maxwell had first met her in a private club in Glasgow and she’d become his mistress soon after, happy to move into the house he’d provided.
