Maximilian’s spacious vehicle suddenly seemed very small, and Charlotte could feel the heat emanating from the tall masculine form stretched out alongside her. He was close enough to rub against her shoulder, and his thigh could easily brush her leg. She drew in a deep breath and looked away. Her prayers had been answered, and he was here, alive and whole and well. She should be thankful.
She was. Charlotte felt heartily grateful to her maker that Maximilian was unharmed, and yet... Fresh on the heels of her relief came anger at the entire episode. That he should sit here, so calm and collected, after the scare he had put her through! And Stollings—bloody and bowed, for what? Charlotte felt like cuffing them both about the ears, for, though grown, they had no more sense than James and Thomas.
“Although I know you felt compelled to engage in this ridiculous duel, I am not at all happy about it, my lord,” she said as evenly as she could.
Maximilian grimaced. He had not failed to notice his demotion. Whenever Charlotte was displeased with him, he went from being “dear Max” to “my lord.” He tilted his head to the side to study her perfect profile.
“And the poor captain! What is to become of him now—a soldier injured in his sword arm?” she asked.
“Excuse me, but I tried to disrupt his aim, just in case he planned to put a bullet through my chest!” Maximilian snapped. Surely she did not care for that overblown popinjay? “I had no idea that you would rather I take his fire!”
“I would rather no one was hurt at all!” Charlotte retorted. “Really, Max, you can have no idea how I feel to know that blood was shed because of me. And the man’s only crime was asking me to marry him!” Turning to him, she displayed a pair of eyes flashing with green fire.
Maximilian felt his temper rise as he thought of the captain’s foibles, especially the man’s last bit of bravado. Stollings had sneered at his wound and at Maximilian. “You are welcome to her, my lord, for she kisses with all the passion of a fence post!” he managed to say before his seconds, obviously not anxious for a repeat of the morning’s proceedings, hushed him.
Maximilian had been furious. He wished he had shot the bastard between the legs, so that the captain’s amorous bent would be curtailed for good.
Struggling out of his dark thoughts, Maximilian found Charlotte glaring at him, her face pink with annoyance, and he was struck by the memory of kissing her himself. She had been flushed then, too—not with anger but with exquisite desire for him. She had never treated him like a fence post.
His lips curving at the recollection, Maximilian realized that Stollings had, at least, confirmed Charlotte’s story. She had not joined the captain in the conservatory to test her amatory skills. If she had, he would hardly claim her to be unresponsive.
For a moment, Maximilian enjoyed the notion of Charlotte’s innocent passion reserved strictly for himself—her tender lips opening only for him, her sweet, hot sighs called up only by his touch. Then he mentally shook himself, annoyed at such ridiculous thoughts.
“Stollings’s crime was behaving atrociously,” Maximilian snapped. “Have you so swiftly forgotten how he enlisted his sister to lure you into an inappropriate position and then forced himself upon you? What would have happened if I had not come along? Would he have stopped at kisses?” Maximilian saw Charlotte’s startled glance and knew his words were penetrating her pique.
“What if someone else had arrived? You would have found yourself married to the man, whether you wished it or no,” Maximilian added. By the alarmed look that crossed her features, he judged that the possibility gave her pause.
“All these rules between men and women,” she grumbled, waving a gloved hand in dismissal. “A fellow unable to remove his coat.... Two friends unable to be alone for a moment.... It is all too silly.”
Maximilian felt disinclined to point out that those guidelines existed for her own protection, for he had ignored them too often in his dealings with her. As it was, Charlotte appeared indisposed to debate the issue, too, for when she spoke, she uttered a new complaint.
“When Papa gets wind of this duel of yours, he is not going to be happy,” she noted sullenly.
Maximilian frowned. What did he care for the disapprobation of a country vicar? Still, he felt a bit chagrined by the distress he knew Charlotte’s father would feel, just as if he had let the man down somehow. Maximilian shook off the ludicrous idea.
“I will post a letter to your father, explaining the situation,” he said gruffly. A jolt of the coach brought him closer to Charlotte, and he saw her attention shift to the dark hair that slid across his shoulder.
With an effort, Maximilian fought the attraction that seemed suddenly to flare between them. He had never thought of his hair as particularly stimulating, but the way she looked at it made all his muscles tighten. He could imagine Charlotte’s slim, capable hands enmeshed deeply in the heavy locks, clutching them...
“Why do you wear your hair long?” she asked.
“I like it that way,” he answered curtly.
Charlotte smiled, her eyes twinkling. “Max, I know that you do not do anything without some underlying reason. Now, let me think,” she said, pausing mischievously. She tugged at one of her long fingers. “Because you cannot fit a trim into your busy schedule?”
Maximilian shook his head, his lips twitching.
Charlotte pulled at another digit. “Because you are too miserly to pay a barber?”
Maximilian tried to frown at her, but could not.
“Is the reason a deep, dark secret?” she asked. Her green eyes were fairly dancing, her full mouth parted in question, and Maximilian had to stifle the urge to kiss her. He shook his head again. “Then, why? Tell me. On my honor I will not reveal the truth to a soul,” she added, placing a hand over her heart.
Maximilian’s gaze strayed past her fingers to the swelling of her breasts revealed beneath the open folds of her cloak. They rose out of the bodice of her far too low-cut gown like pale mounds. He had difficulty dissembling. “To annoy my mother,” he said hoarsely.
Tearing his gaze away from her creamy curves, Maximilian watched her blink at him wide-eyed for a moment. Then she started laughing, a lovely, joyous whoop that lit her face. Maximilian grinned at her mirth before he added, more soberly, “Quite a bit of what I do is calculated to annoy her.”
“Surely not! You can only be a dutiful son!” Charlotte replied. Maximilian laughed with a tinge of bitterness, but further discussion was cut off by their arrival at Augusta’s lodgings. Eager to escape the path the conversation was taking, he stepped out and handed her down.
“Shall I see you in?” he asked, mentally reviewing his day’s schedule. Would a visit delay him?
“No,” Charlotte answered. She smiled so wickedly that for a moment he could swear she had read his mind. “There is no need.” She stepped away from him, but then turned to eye him levelly. “I sincerely hope that this morning’s duel is the last such bit of nonsense that I will have to view while I am in London.”
Maximilian thought of all the males vying for her hand, and he felt a sense of foreboding totally at odds with his normally clear thinking. “My dear Charlotte,” he said, smiling grimly, “I certainly hope that you are correct.”
The obnoxious manservant met them on the steps.
“Miss Trowbridge! Miss Trowbridge!” he whined, showing far more agitation than Maximilian had thought possible. “Your cousin has been worried sick!”
Charlotte felt a pang of guilt, for she knew the elderly lady would be horrified to learn of her whereabouts. In truth, she had never expected her absence to be discovered, for Augusta rarely rose before noon. Frowning, Charlotte hurried to the door. She did not spare a glance at Maximilian and was surprised when a movement behind her told her he was coming with her.
“There is really no need,” she repeated, but the look on his face brooked no argument. Charlotte knew that when Maximilian took his protective stance, there was no reasoning with him. She would have smil
ed had not the situation been so serious.
They found Augusta ensconced on the settee in a state of dishabille. She was wrapped in several blankets, although the room was near stifling, and Charlotte felt a new surge of remorse for causing her cousin distress.
“Charlotte!” Augusta’s face was pale, and she waved a lace handkerchief in a dramatic gesture that reminded Charlotte her cousin was no longer a young woman. Moving into Augusta’s arms, she received a weak hug while nearly being overcome by the heavily scented perfume rising from the lady’s prodigious bosom.
“Where have you been?” Augusta demanded in stronger accents. Before Charlotte could answer, the elderly woman turned her attention to Max.
“Wycliffe! I would never have suspected your complicity in this little escapade! Have you been alone with my niece? Do not tell me that you dragged her from my house to watch your shameful bout with pistols this morning!”
“I most certainly did not drag Charlotte anywhere, Miss Thurgoode,” Maximilian said. He stepped toward the prostrate woman, who reluctantly extended her hand. He bent over it. “I trust you are not seriously ill?”
“Humph,” she said with a heave of her chest. Charlotte could see that although Augusta’s awe of the earl prevented her from insulting him in any way, she was definitely not pleased with him. “As if you would care when you are the cause of my decline! Dueling over my niece! She will be ruined! Ruined!” Augusta said before letting her head fall back upon the pillows.
“Nonsense,” Maximilian said smoothly. “I assure you I was protecting her good name, not besmirching it, and if anything, the episode should only add more luster to her exalted position as the season’s most coveted lady,” he added, his lip curling in what Charlotte suspected was very close to a sneer.
“Perhaps,” Augusta acknowledged with a sigh, “but I am too ill to brave the gossips and too old for such excitement. This latest incident has exhausted me.” Suddenly she lifted her head as if remembering that her question had gone unanswered. “If not with you, where was Charlotte this morning?” Augusta asked, her chins jiggling with the force of her dismay.
“Although I did not invite her,” Maximilian said, sending Charlotte a black look, “she somehow discovered the location of our meeting and hid herself among the trees.”
“Oh!” Augusta fell back again with a such a cry of alarm that Charlotte stepped forward. “She will be ruined! Ruined!”
“I assure you, Miss Thurgoode,” Maximilian said in a tone that brooked no resistance, “that she shall not be ruined. No one knows of her presence except myself and one of my seconds, who can be trusted not to speak of it.”
Although Augusta appeared uncertain, she was not bold enough to dispute his words. “Charlotte, you must write your father at once. This is too much for me in my advanced years. Perhaps later in the season, after I have rested, or next year...”
The gnawing guilt that had kept Charlotte quiet was overshadowed by panic. Did her cousin intend to send her home? She thought of the fabulous sums spent on clothing and foolish fripperies Augusta insisted were necessary for a season. Had Papa’s money gone for naught?
If she went back to Sussex now, Charlotte knew she would let them down—Papa, Sarah, all of them. Her eyes flew to Max’s in horror, silently pleading for him to help her somehow. And he did. With a simple shake of his head, he checked her growing alarm. It was just a brief movement, unseen by her cousin, but Charlotte felt hope rise again with the certainty that Max, dear Max, was in control.
Unfortunately, Maximilian did not feel in control. His usual, easy assurance had deserted him, as it so often did in Charlotte’s presence. Although he could not bear to see his beauty in such distress, he was sorely tempted.... It would be so easy to accede to the old lady’s wishes and send Charlotte home. Then she would be gone, far away from London’s more unsavory types and no longer his responsibility.
Of course, her father’s money was undoubtedly spent, and to no avail, since Charlotte was sure to find no great marital prize in Upper Bidwell. However, Maximilian told himself that he could step in to help the family, to see the boys off into careers, at least. And Charlotte? What would she do? Marry a farmer, a baker, a shopkeeper like Alf? She deserved better....
She was staring at him, her startling green eyes wide and awash with unshed tears. Despite the misgivings she had expressed to him about husband-hunting, Maximilian knew that she would be devastated by the move back home. The toast retires in disgrace... He could imagine the titters of the ton, and something wrenched deep down in his gut. As much as he would like to send her away, he could not, in good conscience, ruin her only season.
“Let us not be hasty,” he urged Augusta in a tone that suggested he was unaccustomed to argument. “This morning’s work will no doubt be forgotten within the week, when some new on-dit claims society’s attention. As I told Charlotte, I will convey to the vicar my deepest regrets for the unfortunate incident.
“However...” Maximilian looked meaningfully at Augusta. “Charlotte is not at fault. Stollings is to blame and no one else. And I fear that such things are inevitable when one is the most sought-after young lady of the new season.” He forced a smile and turned to Charlotte. “Your cousin is overset. Perhaps a few days of rest will improve her health. In the meanwhile, I am sure she can persuade upon one of her female friends to escort you about.
“If your health does not improve,” Maximilian said, glancing back to Augusta, “then, naturally, we must make other arrangements.” Taking the elderly lady’s hand again, he bent over it and looked directly into her pale blue eyes, a device he used to quell any inclinations to protest his authority. “Good day, Miss Thurgoode.”
“My lord,” she answered meekly. Stepping away from her, Maximilian motioned to Charlotte with a tilt of his head.
“I will see his lordship out,” Charlotte said to her cousin as she followed him into the hall. When they were alone in the comparative privacy of the entry, Maximilian turned toward her in a businesslike manner.
“Is she truly ill?” he asked.
“I do not know,” Charlotte answered.
Although he tried to ignore it, Maximilian was stricken by the distress on her lovely features.
“My cousin is not young...”
Maximilian cut her off with a sharp look. He did not want her wallowing in guilt over the old lady’s condition. “We shall see. I shall stop by in a few days’ time. Meanwhile, I wish you to continue as you normally would. Your disappearance, coming on the heels of the duel, would be marked.”
Charlotte nodded, her eyes wide. “But if she is truly ill, then I cannot impose upon her any longer,” she protested.
“Certainly not,” Maximilian said.
“Oh, Max! I cannot go home in disgrace!” she moaned, twisting her hands in front of her. Her face was pale, her full lips atremble, and Maximilian wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms and comfort her—in the manner he had used but a few nights ago.
One step toward her, and he knew she would be pressed against him, soft and warm and delectable. His eyes moved down the slim column of her throat to the curves of her breasts, and his hands itched to touch her. Just one step and she would be in his arms, responding to him and only him...
But that would not do. Maximilian knew she was his responsibility and that he must behave accordingly. He steeled himself against the desires of his body. “Hush,” he said, more sharply than he intended. “If she remains unwell, you shall simply stay with someone else.”
“Who?” Charlotte asked, appearing truly baffled. “There is no one in London I know well—except you,” she said, with an uneasy laugh.
Maximilian gave her a crooked grin. “I will write my mother.”
* * *
Maximilian sat staring at the page before him, the fingers of his right hand drumming absently on the table. Despite his promise to Charlotte, he was wavering. Unleashing his mother into his life would be like opening Pandora’s box. He could n
ot be entirely sure what she might do, and once she was here, she might prove difficult to restrain.
He must be cracked in the head. Why else would he suggest such lunacy? Shifting uncomfortably in his chair, Maximilian knew why. He had but to look into those great, spring-colored eyes of Charlotte’s and his good sense deserted him. He sighed, staring at the empty sheet until the rhythmic sound of his fingers finally penetrated his brain and he picked up the quill. Telling himself the vicar was counting on him, he wrote, “My dear Madam.”
Although Maximilian was tempted to address her as Mother, he knew that would only annoy her, and then she might not answer his summons. Sibylle disdained the title of Mother, which reminded her much too forcibly of her age, and Maximilian had always called her by her given name.
His father had been a stiff, stodgy man whose one impulsive act had been to marry Sibylle Mollineaux, and Maximilian had often wished the earl had not succumbed to that bit of uncharacteristic impetuousness. Releasing a low sigh at the follies of men, Maximilian wrote a brief message under the greeting.
“I find myself in need of your services. Please attend to me at once.” Without a thought to the imperiousness of the words, Maximilian signed his name and put his seal to it. Then he frowned, staring at the paper, while his fingers resumed their thrumming upon the polished surface of his desk.
He assumed that the message would serve its purpose and bring his mother to London. But once here, just what would she do?
CHAPTER TEN
Miss Thurgoode was not recovering. Maximilian had to face that fact, along with the realization that Charlotte was blaming herself for the woman’s illness, whether real or feigned. Although his beauty went out nearly as often, her quips to her beaux were less spirited, her smiles more forced, her eyes dull and lifeless. He noticed it all whenever he saw her. Didn’t the others see as well as he?
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