her.
He wasn’t sure he could explain it, except to say that everything was, and had been, different with Anna.
It had felt different when they’d been in the nursery, and not merely because he’d been drunk (which, in fact, had not been so very different), and it had felt different when he’d woken the next morning.
It had seemed bigger somehow, better, more significant.
The week following his brother’s death had been a morass of misery. Reginald had been a self-important brat of a boy and a pompous, selfish coward of a man. Max could say without guilt or shame that he’d neither liked nor respected his brother past the age of ten. But he had loved him. Just as Anna had intuitively known, he had loved him. The loss of Reginald, and the monstrous stupidity surrounding his death, had throbbed like an open wound.
Filling his mind with the lovely Miss Anna Rees had been a welcomed balm, a necessary distraction. He’d thought of her face, her soft voice and low laughter, that long dark braid, and the way her lips had moved against his. He’d lost himself in the memory of her.
He’d even made plans—long-term plans, which was most definitely different. He would buy Anna that hound, and the cottage if she still wanted it after seeing McMullin Hall. She’d need to choose between special license or elopement. There was no purpose in waiting for the banns to be read, and forgoing marriage altogether was not an option. Any children they might have would be legitimate. Any questions of fidelity would be…Well, there would be no questions, that was the point.
By the time his last, unavoidable responsibility had been filled, he was near to climbing the walls, wanting to see Anna again. His Anna, as he had come to think of her. And bugger the rules of mourning. He’d looked forward to visiting a woman before, but he’d never felt like such an excited schoolboy, not even when he’d been an excitable schoolboy.
He’d all but bloody run to Anover House.
And when she’d refused him, refused even to speak with him, it had wounded more than his pride. It had destroyed a dream. A ridiculous dream constructed out of grief and erected on the foundation of a drunken memory, but a dream nonetheless.
In the dark of his chambers, Max ran a hand down his face.
It had become obvious very quickly that he had built the encounter into more than it was. He should have considered that he’d not just misinterpreted the situation but her intentions as well. Perhaps she’d not meant for things to progress as far as they had in the nursery and had simply regretted her impetuous behavior afterward.
She ought to have expressed her change of heart or disinterest in him in person rather than having him turned away at the door, but…it had been four years ago. They had been young and foolish…Younger and more foolish, at any rate. One might imagine they had altered for the better in the time since. He liked to think, the last twelve hours notwithstanding, he had. Perhaps she had as well.
It was possible that the wounded pride of four years ago, and a long-held sense of obligation to the Haverstons, who’d been more like brothers to him than friends, had made him a touch…imperious.
Or maybe Anna was a manipulative adventuress. Either way, he wasn’t helping himself, or Lucien, by conducting open warfare with the woman.
Which meant they would need to cry pax.
Which meant, Max realized with a long, long look at the brandy bottle, he would need to apologize.
Chapter 7
Anna rose as the first hints of sunlight peeked around the edges of her light blue drapes. Grabbing her wrap from the foot of the bed, she stayed seated on the mattress for several moments, blinking in the semidarkness.
It was a strange sensation indeed, waking up in an unfamiliar room. There was something a little bit eerie about it, and a great deal exciting. She’d not spent a night of her adult life outside of Anover House. Now here
He wasn’t sure he could explain it, except to say that everything was, and had been, different with Anna.
It had felt different when they’d been in the nursery, and not merely because he’d been drunk (which, in fact, had not been so very different), and it had felt different when he’d woken the next morning.
It had seemed bigger somehow, better, more significant.
The week following his brother’s death had been a morass of misery. Reginald had been a self-important brat of a boy and a pompous, selfish coward of a man. Max could say without guilt or shame that he’d neither liked nor respected his brother past the age of ten. But he had loved him. Just as Anna had intuitively known, he had loved him. The loss of Reginald, and the monstrous stupidity surrounding his death, had throbbed like an open wound.
Filling his mind with the lovely Miss Anna Rees had been a welcomed balm, a necessary distraction. He’d thought of her face, her soft voice and low laughter, that long dark braid, and the way her lips had moved against his. He’d lost himself in the memory of her.
He’d even made plans—long-term plans, which was most definitely different. He would buy Anna that hound, and the cottage if she still wanted it after seeing McMullin Hall. She’d need to choose between special license or elopement. There was no purpose in waiting for the banns to be read, and forgoing marriage altogether was not an option. Any children they might have would be legitimate. Any questions of fidelity would be…Well, there would be no questions, that was the point.
By the time his last, unavoidable responsibility had been filled, he was near to climbing the walls, wanting to see Anna again. His Anna, as he had come to think of her. And bugger the rules of mourning. He’d looked forward to visiting a woman before, but he’d never felt like such an excited schoolboy, not even when he’d been an excitable schoolboy.
He’d all but bloody run to Anover House.
And when she’d refused him, refused even to speak with him, it had wounded more than his pride. It had destroyed a dream. A ridiculous dream constructed out of grief and erected on the foundation of a drunken memory, but a dream nonetheless.
In the dark of his chambers, Max ran a hand down his face.
It had become obvious very quickly that he had built the encounter into more than it was. He should have considered that he’d not just misinterpreted the situation but her intentions as well. Perhaps she’d not meant for things to progress as far as they had in the nursery and had simply regretted her impetuous behavior afterward.
She ought to have expressed her change of heart or disinterest in him in person rather than having him turned away at the door, but…it had been four years ago. They had been young and foolish…Younger and more foolish, at any rate. One might imagine they had altered for the better in the time since. He liked to think, the last twelve hours notwithstanding, he had. Perhaps she had as well.
It was possible that the wounded pride of four years ago, and a long-held sense of obligation to the Haverstons, who’d been more like brothers to him than friends, had made him a touch…imperious.
Or maybe Anna was a manipulative adventuress. Either way, he wasn’t helping himself, or Lucien, by conducting open warfare with the woman.
Which meant they would need to cry pax.
Which meant, Max realized with a long, long look at the brandy bottle, he would need to apologize.
Chapter 7
Anna rose as the first hints of sunlight peeked around the edges of her light blue drapes. Grabbing her wrap from the foot of the bed, she stayed seated on the mattress for several moments, blinking in the semidarkness.
It was a strange sensation indeed, waking up in an unfamiliar room. There was something a little bit eerie about it, and a great deal exciting. She’d not spent a night of her adult life outside of Anover House. Now here
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