The Further Observations of Lady Whistledown (Lady W 1) by Julia Quinn Page B

heard in her voice.
    “Why not?” She looked up, meeting his gaze. “Why can’t you just stay here in London?”
    For a heartbeat he was tempted. “Halfurst is my home and my responsibility. I can’t just abandon it, even for you.”
    “So you would have everything your way. That’s not fair, Maximilian.”
    It wasn’t fair, and he took a moment to consider before he responded. “I hoped you would have more desire for me than for London, Anne. It’s only buildings and some rather unpleasant people.”
    “They aren’t unpleasant to me. If you had stayed, instead of running off, you would have seen that.”
    She’d been talking to Howard again. “I did not ‘run off.’ Halfurst needed—”
    “You let everyone say whatever they wanted about you, and you didn’t do anything about it.”
    “What they said didn’t matter.”
    “Ha!”
    Max lifted an eyebrow. “‘Ha’?” he repeated.
    “Yes, ha. All of their silly gossiping did matter, and it still does. That’s why you dislike London.”
    “I—”
    “And it’s your own fault,” she continued.
    In her enthusiasm for the argument, she didn’t even notice that he pulled her closer in his arms. Six inches of space between them be damned. Anne Bishop intoxicated him as no woman ever had, or ever would again. “And how is it my fault, pray tell?”
    “All you had to do was say something, you big oaf. Bankrupt or not, you might have defended your father’s reputation—and your own, Maximilian.”
    “Did you just call me an oaf?”
    She cuffed him on the shoulder. “Pay attention. This is important.”
    It seemed more important that she was fighting to keep him in London, but he didn’t want to mention that yet. “If I were paying any more attention to you, you’d be naked,” he murmured.
    “Stop that. And don’t just pay attention—do something!”
    “So I should stand on a chair and bellow at all and sundry that I was grieving horribly for my father, and that I didn’t give a hang what anyone said about either of us? Or should I simply declare that Halfurst was never bankrupt, and that my yearly income is somewhere in the neighborhood of forty thousand pounds?”
    She blinked her moss green eyes at him. “Forty thousand pounds?”
    “Approximately.”
    “Then just tell everyone—someone—that all the rumors were groundless, and they’ll—”
    “They’ll like me again?” he finished. “I’ve told the one person whose opinion I care for.”
    “And who…” Anne blushed prettily. “Oh.”
    The waltz ended, and he reluctantly slid his hand from around her waist.
    “Ah, splendid,” a familiar male voice murmured from behind him. “It’s my turn now, I believe.”
    Anne tightened her grip on his arm. “Desmond, I promised Lord Halfurst the quadrille, as well. I would be happy to—”
    “Do you think the sheep farmer can dance a quadrille?” the viscount asked, sneering as Max faced him. “I’m surprised he managed the waltz. What did you trade for lessons, Halfurst, mutton?”
    Maximilian gazed at Howard levelly. The guests had grown silent, the better to overhear someone else’s business. Of more concern to him was Anne, practically quivering with anger and indignation beside him.
    At that moment he realized he wouldn’t—couldn’t—lose her, no matter what it took. She’d made several good points in her argument. Whether he cared about his reputation or not, she did, and if they were to be married, their names would become joined.
    “I have respected my fiancée’s friendship with you, Howard,” he said in a low, level voice. “But now you are embarrassing her. Leave.”
    “‘Leave?’ I have no intention of going anywhere. You’re the outsider here, marquis.”
    “Lord Howard, please stop,” Anne hissed. “You’ve done enough damage.”
    “Oh, I’ve barely begun. Please, let’s hear more of your witty repartee, sheep farmer.”
    That was enough of that . Anne had urged him to take action.