Page 204 of Snowbound Surrender
And then he deflated. “I had hoped to spend the rest of the morning with you. You do not mind, Annika, if I leave you now?”
“I would not dare attempt to stop you,” she said with a smile. “Please go, and take all my luck with you.”
Maxim grinned, and impulsively kissed her on the lips, even as they stood there in the grounds of St. James’ Court. And then he was gone.
Anne put her hand to her lips. There was still heat there, so strong it was as though she had been branded by his love, asthough no one else would ever be able to make her feel this way, now that they have shared what they have shared.
And was that not true? After all they had experienced, after all they had been to each other, there was nothing she wanted more than to spend her life with him.
She loved him. She may not have spoken the words aloud, but he understood, surely – and he cared, perhaps even loved her.
Anne shivered. With no other companions, the open wintery air did nothing but chill her. It took only ten minutes to reach her rooms, throwing off her coat and sinking into a chair gratefully by the fire. The whole day was ahead of her, and she had naught to fill it with but a good book.
One of her favourite novels had been beside the chair, but it had gone. Anne smiled. It looked like Meredith had a similar taste.
She sighed, stretching out her legs and enjoying the comfort of the chair. When she had been a child, near Meredith’s age now, she had thought being at Court would be balls and excitement every waking moment.
Now she was older, she knew the truth: most of it was waiting around for Prinny to decide what he wanted to do!
Without her book, Anne picked up her father’s discarded paper. At least it could entertain her for an hour or two. Her fingers flicked through the pages, not looking for anything in particular, but her attention was caught by a name that was familiar.
Alexei Dmitry Immanuil Maximilian Konstantinvich.
Anne folded the newspaper and read the sentence, but it did not seem to make sense. The paragraph did not make sense either, and after struggling to understand what it meant, she sighed and moved her gaze to the top of the article.
Our editor has received reports once again that a certain gentleman, who goes by the name of Alexei Dmitry Immanuil Maximilian Konstantinvich, has been spotted at another pawnbrokers – in this case, purchasing a number of foreign looking medals. Despite having no claim to them and likely no understanding of the great mockery he has put himself to by attempting to appear far more noble than he actually is, the gentleman in question has been spotted at St. James’ Court, no less, wearing the very medals purchased merely days before! This editor hopes that Alexei Dmitry Immanuil Maximilian Konstantinvich has a few friends to whisper in his ear, and tell him of the dreadful ridicule he is experiencing across Society.
Anne swallowed, and read the paragraph again, but its meaning did not change.
Maxim bought those medals. He bought them from a pawnbroker. They were not even his medals.
Trying to ignore the frantic beating of her heart, she carefully folded the newspaper and put it down. Then she allowed the thoughts creeping at the back of her mind to come forward.
Was this editor perhaps jealous? Who would not want to be a prince, or king, or Czar?
Anne swallowed, her gaze falling to the blazing fire. An editor would not be permitted to print blatant lies in his newspaper, there would be an outcry. And when she really thought about it, how much did she know about Maxim?
Only what he told her.
Anne gripped the arms of the chair as she fought down the panic rising from her stomach. His name, his history, even his family – all of it could be lies. His name did sound a little ridiculous, now she thought about it without his intoxicating presence before her.
She had accused him, once, of being a confidence trickster. And what had he replied?
“What answer do you want? What do you want to be true?”
Maxim had said from the very beginning of their acquaintance that he had a secret. There was no proof to say that he was who he said he was. No servants, no friends, no supporters. Just her.
In a moment of irritation, Anne unfolded the paper and read the paragraph again.
This editor hopes that Alexei Dmitry Immanuil Maximilian Konstantinvich has a few friends to whisper in his ear, and tell him of the dreadful ridicule he is experiencing across Society.
How had this editor, whoever he was, known about this? Perhaps he had spoken to the pawnbroker. Why would a pawnbroker lie?
Her breathing slightly ragged, she put the newspaper down again. The newspaper would not lie, and so that could only mean…that Maxim had lied.
“Earned through battle, though I will not say who with for this is an English court with English sensibilities. Just pieces of metal, really.”
She had given her heart, her body, her soul to a gentleman who was a liar. Was he also a thief? Was he even Russian? He could be a bootmaker from Moscow, and she would have no idea.
