by Eliza Knight
Max drew in a deep breath and pushed herself forward, settling stiffly in a chair. Though instinctively she wanted to keep her gaze on the ground, she managed to force herself to look up and meet her father’s regard.
“I’ll not draw this out, as you are right that we have guests waiting for us. For you.”
Her eyes widened slightly. “For me?”
As Max understood it, her father had planned the dinner to entertain some of his fellow Parliament members and to push them toward a cause he wished to press into the queen’s notice.
Was she the cause?
Baron Dalston gave a curt nod and steepled his fingers.
“From the men you see tonight, you’re to choose a husband. I’ll approach them about marrying on the morrow after you make your decision.”
Max clamped her jaw shut when it desired to drop to her lap. She kept her silence as she tried to absorb each word her father had just uttered. Her jaw started to hurt and her fingernails dug into her palms. Marry. Choose a husband. She blinked rapidly, trying to recall the few guests she’d been introduced to before being swept into her father’s study. All of them had been at least twice her age. None left any memorable impression on her.
“Father—” But she couldn’t bring herself to ask why. She’d been a burden on the man since her mother’s death two weeks after she was born. A bitter taste swept over her tongue. When she was growing up, he’d taken every opportunity to let her know how much she displeased him. Often, they did not even reside in the same residence, as he couldn’t stand the sight of her. ’Twas Max’s fault her mother had died and she well knew it.
The baron had finally had enough of her and was ready to push her off onto someone else. Worse was that he wanted it to be someone whom he could then persuade to his political causes. That was what she’d been reduced to—a pawn. Not even a pawn who was deemed that important, given the lords who’d attended her father’s dinner. Mostly other barons and a couple of earls—but they were all as old as her father and previously married. She was to be a second wife, a breeder, and not even a breeder of an heir, only the spares.
Max wasn’t surprised. Couldn’t be offended. ’Twas the way of things. She should be happy that her father was allowing her to choose—quite unheard of. Likely that was how he had hoped to gain her agreement to marry rather than running away.
“I know this is a lot to take in considering you only just arrived from Cumbria this morning, but I’d not had a chance to tell you before now.”
Max nodded. He could tell her anything he liked. The fact of the matter was she’d been summoned from their manor in the north only because he wanted to marry her off. She kept her gaze steady on her father’s face, studying the creases in his brow and the way his gray eyebrows sprang from his face as though frightened. What dark acts had those brows witnessed?
The baron sat forward, the crease in his forehead growing as he observed her warily. “Do not cause a scene,” he said.
He was always saying that, as if she’d done such a thing before. Max had known her place from the moment she was old enough to comprehend. She’d accepted it. Lived it. Never questioned it. Well, never questioned it if it was warranted. Perhaps there had been a time or two she’d caused a scene.
“Yes, Father,” she answered, not wishing to disrespect him by correcting his assumption, or adding that some of those scenes were, in fact, justified.
“Now that we’ve settled that, let us go back out and greet our guests. I’ll expect you’ve made a decision by morning about which lord you wish me to approach.”
Max cleared her throat and licked her lips. “Might I have one question, sir?”
The baron grunted, crossed his arms over his chest and sat back. Max took that as an affirmative, though he looked anything but agreeable.
“’Tis not something we’ve spoken of before and I’m merely curious. What is my dowry to be?”
“Quite right you are. There will be five hundred pounds and a few of the treasures I’ve collected over the years, including the Theodosia Gladius and the poesy ring I recently acquired.”
Max’s gaze shifted to the mantel where the Gladius sat. She tried not to cringe. Something about the item made her nervous. She wasn’t sure how her father had come by the sword, but the moment she’d seen it, a chill had passed over her. Why was he willing to part with it now when he’d not wanted to see it go from his household for as long as she could remember?
It was on the tip of her tongue to say she didn’t want it, but something caught her eye from the window and the words melted away. She slid her gaze toward the curtains, certain the one on the far left was billowing a bit more than was natural. Someone was hiding there. She was certain of it. From the look of the boot peeking beneath the curtain, it was most likely a man and if she was going to have to choose a husband tonight, and this fool had been idiotic enough to listen in on the humiliating conversation, then she was going to enjoy his own disgrace when she teased him about eavesdropping.
“Very well, Father.” She turned her gaze back on him and beamed him a smile. “I shall not disappoint you. In fact, I may have already seen a suitable match.”
“Indeed you have?” Her father pushed from his chair to stand, obviously trying hard not to look skeptical.
“Oh, yes. Though he seems shrouded in mystery.” Max had to bite her lip to keep herself from laughing and she kept her eyes glued to her father so as not to draw attention to the curtain.
The baron rolled his eyes. “Do not let such flights of fancy be the deciding factor behind your ultimate choice. And pick more than one. You do not have the best dowry of all the eligible maidens in London. In fact, pick at least three. You’re not a prize, daughter, and it will be prudent for me to approach multiple lords.”
Max sucked in a silent, ragged breath. Her father certainly knew how to show his daughter her worth. Heat filled her cheeks and she tried hard to brush aside the pain of her own sire’s rejection.
“Yes, Father,” she said quietly, no longer interested in toying with the man behind the curtain. Especially not when she’d been brought so low in his presence. Whoever it was probably thought she was a total imbecile.
Baron Dalston walked around the side of his desk and crooked his elbow, waiting for Max to stand and take hold. Though she wished to stick out her tongue, stomp her foot and run away, the best choice was to simply take her father’s proffered arm and walk back into their great hall with her head lifted and a smile plastered on her face.
Chapter Two
Sebastien let out his breath when the door finally closed, leaving him alone in the study. He shoved aside the curtain and glared fiercely at the Gladius sitting upon the mantel.
First the baron had stolen the ring from Sebastien’s father, withheld the Gladius from sale—thievery in itself since it rightfully belonged to his family—and now he would give them to the man who’d take his impertinent daughter off his hands, as if the sword and ring were worth no more than a sack of wheat.
And that chit was trouble. She’d clearly seen him hiding behind the curtain and had teased him rather than telling her father. Though he was grateful she had not. Sebastien frowned all the more at her implications that she would choose him to marry. He would never want to deal with a wench like that.
He gritted his teeth. There was still the opportunity to steal the sword tonight, to slip back for the ring when the baron was out of the house another day. All he had to do was grab the Gladius and go. He’d have to circle back around to the stables and perhaps make an excuse as to why he was doing so if intercepted by any of the other nobles. If he ran into none, no groom should question him. He was well above the station of a lowly baron and worlds apart from a groomsman. No one would question him if he demanded they ready his horse.
Above the hearth, the portrait of the baron, his deceased wife and his wench of a daughter caught Sebastien’s gaze. In the portrait, Lady Maxwell was perhaps a girl of only twelve and her mother look
ed to be not that much older. They were the spitting image of each other. With blonde locks swept up beneath lace and pearled hoods, each wore a gown of blue, though varying in shades, with silver embroidered stomachers cinching their waists and ivory lace ruffs around their necks.
Lady Maxwell’s eyes seemed to stare out at him, a pretty blue like that of a summer sky. Whoever the artist was, their talent rivaled that of the resident artists at court. The painter had perfectly captured the women’s creamy skin and the etched lines of the baron’s brow.
He was much older than his wife. If Sebastien hadn’t known better, he might have even thought that the two ladies in the portrait were the baron’s daughters.
But he did know and he wasn’t going to let a silly portrait and a brash young woman get in the way of his plans. Decision made, Sebastien strode with confidence to the hearth and once more reached for the Gladius. For a second time, the moment he touched the hilt, a painful jolt stung his fingertips and leapt its way up his arm and into his chest. He cringed at the uncomfortable pain. Was it a sign from the Lord that he was the rightful owner of the Gladius, that the relic had found its proper holder? He wasn’t willing to think it meant the opposite—a warning to stay away.
He once more sheathed the sword and clipped it to his belt. With one last look at Lady Maxwell’s painted eyes, he turned to leave the room—and came face-to-face with the woman in question.
“I was not aware that my father had invited a thief to his Parliament feast.”
Sebastien scoffed, ignoring that her eyes were as blue and piercing as those in her portrait, and the fact that she was even more beautiful in the flesh. “Let us get two things clear, my lady. I am not a thief and we both know this is not a feast for the Parliament.”
He expected her to be angry. He expected her to swing the door wide and shout for her father’s guards. What he didn’t expect was the slow, sensual smile that curled her lips.
Taken aback, Sebastien felt his stance waver. Indeed, she was every bit as impertinent as her father had hinted.
“Right you are regarding the feast, for I seem to be the meal that is up for devouring, but a thief you are.”
He tried not to let her words affect him, for devouring her was exactly what his more base and primal side wanted very much to do. Try as he might, he couldn’t help the rush of blood through his veins and the sudden, intense interest that took hold. His gaze slowly raked over her form, taking in the slope of creamy flesh at her neck, the swell of her breasts pushed up by her stomacher, the way the lace ruff barely hid from sight her lush flesh. Lower he roved to the flat of her stomach and the wide swell of her hips accentuated by a hoop and thick petticoats. Lord, but he wanted to peel away every single layer.
“If I were a thief, as you say, then perhaps I’d steal you away this night.” What in bloody hell was he saying?
Lady Maxwell raised a light-colored, perfectly arched brow. “Would you? And not collect on a paltry five hundred pounds? You’d at least get the Gladius for free.”
And the ring. Sebastien chuckled. “But I’d be saddled with an impudent girl.”
Her hand fluttered to her chest, drawing his gaze back to the lush swell. “I am not a girl.”
No, she was not a girl. He almost laughed that she’d not at all tried to defend her insolence. Sebastien inhaled deeply through his nose, dimly aware that he could smell the faint floral scent of her cologne. “Precisely why you must leave this room. Now.”
Her eyes widened at the blatant lust in his voice. What had come over him?
Lady Maxwell’s lips parted in shock and she took a step back. And then another. Her back hit the door and she reached behind her to grip the handle. “Are you a defiler, too, sir?”
“I am no such thing,” he said, offended. But had he not implied that he would ravage her? “I only bed women who wish it.”
“I do not wish it.”
“But you want me to steal you away,” he goaded her.
“I did not say that. And if I did, it wouldn’t be so you could defile me.”
“If I were to take the five hundred pounds and the relics honestly, then would I not do just that?” Sebastien had to bite his tongue from continuing. This was no way to speak to a lady. He knew better. Every word that he’d spoken was enough to allow her father to call him out.
Still, she did not run.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“I’ll not give you my name, else I not get away with taking this.” He patted the sword.
“I could scream,” she said.
“You could. But you will not.” He didn’t know that for a certainty, but there was something about this lady, the way she eyed him with interest, the fact that she stayed and provoked him as he’d prodded her, that made him realize she wouldn’t give him away. She wanted something from him.
“Tell me who you are.” It was a demand, but given in such a subtle and soft way that he almost answered her.
Almost.
“Lady Maxwell, I am leaving this house. With this relic.”
Again, that curve of her lips. She cocked her head and a glint of something mischievous shone in her eyes.
“What are you thinking?” he asked, a question he’d never put to a woman before. Unless she was his mother or sisters, he could care less what a woman thought. Normally. What was it about Lady Maxwell that made him lose his sense?
“Only that I told my father I have a suitor in mind. That if I were to disappear from the great hall, he should meet me in the study with said suitor.”
Sebastien’s mouth fell open and he stared over her head at the door, expecting to see the baron barrel through it.
The woman laughed at him and Sebastien saw red. He gritted his teeth, clenched his fists. If he’d not been a gentleman, he might have sent a curse her way, but he kept his words to himself.
The line of her throat bobbed when she swallowed. “I was only jesting, sir. But if you do not put the relic back on the mantel, I will indeed have to alert someone. As you heard, my father is only providing five hundred pounds. Not a great sum compared to other eligible ladies. Nor does he think me a worthy prize alone. I’ll need all that he’s providing—including the Gladius—in order to entice a man to marry.” She spoke with a not so subtle hint of sarcasm and her shoulders squared. “It is mine. Put it back.”
Sebastien found himself quite charmed by the lady’s willingness to hold her ground. But now he was at a crossroads. If he refused to put it back and she alerted the baron’s guards, a whole maelstrom of trouble would open up that he was not inclined to indulge in. Or he could return the sword to the mantel and risk the disappointment of his mother and the continued decline in her health—and let a thief keep from him what was rightfully his. Lady Maxwell had no idea that her father was, in fact, the thief, not Sebastien.
There was, of course, the third and fourth alternatives—steal her away with him or marry her.
Unease and indecision soured his belly.
Sebastien unhooked the Gladius from his belt. Yet, he couldn’t quite put it back on the mantel. He’d been so close.
“I urge you to make your decision quickly, sir, as I have been away from the party long enough that my absence is sure to be noticed. While I was jesting before, my father will indeed begin to wonder at my whereabouts.”
Blast!
Sebastien gently placed the relic on the mantel, though he wanted to slam it through the wall. He marched over to Lady Maxwell and bent low so that his face was only inches from hers. Hands pressed to either side of her against the door, he caged her in. His gaze roved over her face, taking in the thick lashes surrounding her blue eyes, the rise of color in her high cheekbones, the delicate curve of her chin and the plushness of her kissable lips. Lady Maxwell was a sensual beauty. Though she’d not the experience of court to know how to use her feminine assets to gain what she wanted, it would be only a matter of time now that she was in London.
The lady licked her lips, her breath c
atching. She was nervous at his closeness. Her breasts rose and fell with her breaths and he found his own breath hitching in awareness.
He wanted to kiss her. Wanted to press her against the door and take out on her lips all the anger and frustration he felt at not seeing his goal met. And he would have. Except her hands pressed to the front of his doublet, her eyes wide and locked on his.
“Do not,” she whispered. “You are not that kind of man.”
“What kind of man is that?” he asked, his voice rasping.
“A ravisher of unwilling women.”
“I am not,” he admitted, taking one last longing look at her lips. He felt so damned out of sorts. Never had a woman made him feel that he was not sane, not himself. He slid his hand to the door handle, resting his palm overtop her hand. The same jolt that had struck him when he touched the Gladius skated up his arm. Nerves.
Lady Maxwell gasped as though she’d felt it, too.
He twisted the handle and gently pulled, forcing her to step out of his way.
“The relics were mine before they were yours. And they will be mine again.” With those last words, he left the study and walked out of the main entrance toward the stable.
Lady Maxwell had not seen the last of him.
Chapter Three
Max stared at the closed door, stunned. Her hand was pressed to her rapidly beating heart, and the last of the nobleman’s words still rang in her ears.
The relics were mine before they were yours. And they will be mine again.
Relics? They? What had he meant? Only the sword sat upon the mantel. Then she remembered the poesy ring her father had mentioned.
His dark brown eyes had burned with hatred when he said the words. Scorn had curled his full lips as he looked down his long straight nose at her. Nor had he shown a single ounce of respect for her father. Only a man with a higher title could do such a thing—and a man who felt he was owed.
Max gritted her teeth, fisted her hands at her sides. What she wouldn’t give to be able to storm after him and furnish him with a piece of her mind. A slow burn kindled behind her ribs. If she were to have done that, she’d be scorned from society, shunned from court and most likely disowned by her father. A lady, especially one of noble descent, must never show her emotions in public. She must show restraint at all times. ’Twas one thing to raise hell with her sire a few times a year—but another matter altogether to do so with a stranger. Max felt like a puppet. She had no control over her actions and not even her own thoughts.