could find a way to blame Teresa Foscari for the poor reception of Fidelio he would.
Lady Clarissa misinterpreted his scowl. “But I shouldn’t say that, darling, because then I wouldn’t have you. Although,” she added with a return to her characteristic acerbity, “we’ve already established that you take after me. Maybe you’d be yourself whoever happened to have sired you.” Her moment of weakness had passed.
“And I take warning from your own experience. I’m not going to tie myself for life to a fortune hunter.”
“You needn’t be as unlucky as I was. Not every woman is after your money.”
“How could I possibly tell?”
This aroused her from her languid pose—feigned, of course. Lady Clarissa Hawthorne had vigor enough for two women half her age. “I don’t understand you.” She pouted, pacing in a cloud of royal blue silk. “What’s the matter with you? Men of your age should wish for a wife.”
“I can’t imagine why.”
“Don’t you want children? And what about…companionship?”
Max’s lips twitched. “I do very well in that area, I assure you.”
“Singers and actresses!” His mother snorted. “It’s time you grew up and saw to your responsibilities.”
Her stride lengthened and her arms swung in wider arcs as she roamed the vast room, working herself into a rage. She stopped suddenly and turned to face him, pinning him with a fierce stare in her dark eyes, so similar to his own. Even he could detect the remarkable resemblance between them. Perhaps it was why he was so close to his mother, maddening as he often found her. Unlike her, however, he controlled his temper. He hadn’t been spoiled to death as a child.
“I believe I run my portion of the estates competently,” he said calmly, “and I have built an opera house that is going to be the finest Great Britain has ever seen.”
“Only by throwing my money at it.” His grandfather had left him a tidy fortune of his own, a fact that Lady Clarissa liked to forget since it annoyed her that he was independent.
“The Regent is operated on sound business principles and will eventually turn a profit.” He hoped so, though it wasn’t something he’d worried about when he and his architect designed the lavish theater.
“I challenge you, Max. Let’s have a wager. If you can manage your enterprise for two seasons without putting in any more of your capital, I’ll stop hounding you about marriage. If you cannot, you marry a girl of my choice.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Because you know you can’t do it.”
Building the Regent Opera House was the only thing he’d achieved himself, not through inheritance. If he couldn’t make a success of it he wasn’t worth much.
“I don’t need to prove anything,” he said, but he lied and she knew it, evidenced by the quirk of her eyebrows. “And the Regent will be profitable. Soon.”
“In that case there’s no reason not to take my bet. Unless you are frightened.”
She was goading him, pricking at his pride and he ought to resist. Though he suspected he’d regret the effort, he was determined to prove her wrong. And if he couldn’t, he might as well settle down to the life of a dull aristocrat, tending to his estates and producing dull, well-behaved children with a dull, well-bred wife.
He reached out and shook her hand. “Done. Two seasons it is. I have until next summer.”
“And then wedding bells.”
“And then freedom from the importunities of an impossible, meddling, mother.”
“I can’t wait to see the babies,” she said, restored to good humor.
*
Why had he behaved like that? What had she done to Max that he should treat her so, in public too. Tessa had turned over the question in her mind a dozen times since Cousin Jacobin’s soirée and the drive to the City of London, alone in her hired carriage, gave her time to think about it more.
Since the conclusion of their affair hadn’t been her choice, she could think of only one
Lady Clarissa misinterpreted his scowl. “But I shouldn’t say that, darling, because then I wouldn’t have you. Although,” she added with a return to her characteristic acerbity, “we’ve already established that you take after me. Maybe you’d be yourself whoever happened to have sired you.” Her moment of weakness had passed.
“And I take warning from your own experience. I’m not going to tie myself for life to a fortune hunter.”
“You needn’t be as unlucky as I was. Not every woman is after your money.”
“How could I possibly tell?”
This aroused her from her languid pose—feigned, of course. Lady Clarissa Hawthorne had vigor enough for two women half her age. “I don’t understand you.” She pouted, pacing in a cloud of royal blue silk. “What’s the matter with you? Men of your age should wish for a wife.”
“I can’t imagine why.”
“Don’t you want children? And what about…companionship?”
Max’s lips twitched. “I do very well in that area, I assure you.”
“Singers and actresses!” His mother snorted. “It’s time you grew up and saw to your responsibilities.”
Her stride lengthened and her arms swung in wider arcs as she roamed the vast room, working herself into a rage. She stopped suddenly and turned to face him, pinning him with a fierce stare in her dark eyes, so similar to his own. Even he could detect the remarkable resemblance between them. Perhaps it was why he was so close to his mother, maddening as he often found her. Unlike her, however, he controlled his temper. He hadn’t been spoiled to death as a child.
“I believe I run my portion of the estates competently,” he said calmly, “and I have built an opera house that is going to be the finest Great Britain has ever seen.”
“Only by throwing my money at it.” His grandfather had left him a tidy fortune of his own, a fact that Lady Clarissa liked to forget since it annoyed her that he was independent.
“The Regent is operated on sound business principles and will eventually turn a profit.” He hoped so, though it wasn’t something he’d worried about when he and his architect designed the lavish theater.
“I challenge you, Max. Let’s have a wager. If you can manage your enterprise for two seasons without putting in any more of your capital, I’ll stop hounding you about marriage. If you cannot, you marry a girl of my choice.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Because you know you can’t do it.”
Building the Regent Opera House was the only thing he’d achieved himself, not through inheritance. If he couldn’t make a success of it he wasn’t worth much.
“I don’t need to prove anything,” he said, but he lied and she knew it, evidenced by the quirk of her eyebrows. “And the Regent will be profitable. Soon.”
“In that case there’s no reason not to take my bet. Unless you are frightened.”
She was goading him, pricking at his pride and he ought to resist. Though he suspected he’d regret the effort, he was determined to prove her wrong. And if he couldn’t, he might as well settle down to the life of a dull aristocrat, tending to his estates and producing dull, well-behaved children with a dull, well-bred wife.
He reached out and shook her hand. “Done. Two seasons it is. I have until next summer.”
“And then wedding bells.”
“And then freedom from the importunities of an impossible, meddling, mother.”
“I can’t wait to see the babies,” she said, restored to good humor.
*
Why had he behaved like that? What had she done to Max that he should treat her so, in public too. Tessa had turned over the question in her mind a dozen times since Cousin Jacobin’s soirée and the drive to the City of London, alone in her hired carriage, gave her time to think about it more.
Since the conclusion of their affair hadn’t been her choice, she could think of only one
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