Shrugging away such foolishness, Maximilian stepped in front of the doorway and looked in. Charlotte was seated in a chair, but there any resemblance to his homey imaginings ended, for she was not alone.
Sir Burgess, an expression of rapt adoration on his face, was kneeling on the floor before her with one of her slim hands pressed to his lips.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“What the hell is going on here?”
The bellow from the doorway made Charlotte jump in her seat. Her eyes flew to the male figure there, and she was even more stunned to recognize Max as the author of the uncivilized shout. Never having heard him raise his voice before, she stared at him wide-eyed.
“Well?” A genuine roar rose from the normally unruffled earl, and Charlotte found her tongue leached to the top of her mouth in astonishment. She glanced down at Sir Burgess for help, but he was in the process of rising and moving away from her, his eyes darting anxiously around the room as if he were looking for a hiding place.
Charlotte was on the verge of suggesting he try for one of the long windows when the baron seemed to recover himself. He drew himself up and fixed his eyes upon Max. “I was making Miss Trowbridge an offer of marriage,” he said through tightly set lips. Although she did not know him well, Charlotte judged Burgess to be the proud, restrained sort who would not take well to Max’s outrageous interrogation.
For his part, Max did not appear to be mollified by Burgess’s explanation. His dark brows were drawn down over his eyes like thunderclouds, and he was scowling in a positively ferocious manner. Charlotte did not know whether to applaud his efforts to protect her or laugh at his misplaced fury, for, in truth, Burgess had never done anything untoward.
“If you wish to offer for Miss Trowbridge, you may submit your proposal to me, and I will forward it to her father,” Max said. The words grated, as if the poor man could hardly get them past his gritted teeth. “He has put the matter entirely in my hands,” Max added in a threatening tone that seemed to challenge Burgess to dispute his claims.
That Burgess would do anything of the sort appeared highly unlikely, for the baron’s gaze dropped away from Max to flit about the room nervously. Charlotte suspected Burgess wished to avoid a confrontation of any kind, and she could hardly blame him. He had certainly done nothing to merit Max’s outlandish behavior.
Although she had to admit that Max’s possessive manner was rather wonderful, Charlotte knew that no marriage proposal would come from that direction. Meanwhile, the man was scaring away a prospective groom, and Charlotte deemed it appropriate to soothe Burgess’s ruffled feathers. “There now, since that is all settled, shall we all sit down and have some tea? Claret, gentlemen?” she offered, rising from her seat.
Burgess turned to her, his face hard as stone except for a little muscle in his cheek that twitched. Botheration, Charlotte thought with some annoyance. He was really angry. She sent a reproachful glance at Max, but the earl was still glaring daggers at the baron. “Perhaps some...brandy?” she asked, grasping at straws.
“No, thank you,” Burgess said. Then he swiveled to face Max. “I would formally submit my proposal to you now,” he ground out.
“Contact my secretary for an appointment,” Max answered.
Burgess turned pale, and for a moment Charlotte thought the normally listless baron was going to launch himself at Max. All she needed was a brawl right here in the countess’s morning room. Or, worse yet, another duel fought on her behalf! In a thrice, she maneuvered her way between the two men, just as she often came between James and Thomas.
“Where is your dear mama, my lord?” she asked pointedly as she stepped toward Max. Distraction usually worked well with the boys. “I am sure she would love to join us for refreshments. Run and find her, will you?”
Maximilian gaped at her. Did she think to shoo him off like an unwanted pest? Did she want to be alone with this second-rate pretender to a nobleman? Well, he was not going to oblige her. “I will ring for her servant,” he said tersely.
Charlotte’s eyes widened at his tacit refusal to leave. “Do that, will you?” she asked. The look she sent him made him pause. Was she angry? Before Maximilian could sort out the message she was sending, she moved to Burgess, and he felt unreasoning rage wipe out all his better judgment. Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to punch his fist into the baron’s pasty white face.
“Please excuse me, Miss Trowbridge, but I must take my leave,” Burgess said as Charlotte drew close. Obviously, the man had an instinct for self-preservation, Maximilian thought with some satisfaction.
Although he had never made use of the lessons learned in Jackson’s Rooms from the boxing master himself, Maximilian figured now was as good a time as any to demonstrate his skills. When Burgess moved as if to take Charlotte’s hand, Maximilian’s expression told him in no uncertain terms that he had better not.
“Oh, must you?” Charlotte asked. Maximilian’s eyes narrowed. Was she disappointed that the baron was going? At Burgess’s stiff nod, she urged him to call again. She was smiling at the man, sending him the gift of her sunshine, and Maximilian seethed.
Remaining where he was, Maximilian forced Burgess to step past him, with the half-formed hope that the man would give him some excuse to challenge him. The baron gave Maximilian a wide berth, however, just as if he expected some sort of snarling attack from the normally sedate earl. The idea, which should have been humorous, was not. Maximilian did feel like attacking.
Pausing just out of reach, Burgess said, “You shall hear from me, Wycliffe.” When Maximilian inclined his head in a parody of polite farewell, the baron turned two shades paler and stalked off. Maximilian allowed himself a few moments of grim satisfaction before he strode into the salon, ready to take Charlotte to task for entertaining gentleman callers unchaperoned.
He did not have a chance to open his mouth.
“What did you think you were doing? How could you be so rude? Whatever has possessed you?” Charlotte said, flinging up her hands in despair.
“What has possessed me?” Maximilian replied. “I could ask the same of you! I install you with my mother to prevent any more of these...incidents, and upon my first visit I find you here, locked in some man’s embrace again.”
Charlotte whirled, her eyes wide and flashing, her springy hair escaping from its pins. “I was not in Burgess’s embrace, and you know it! How dare you insult me so?” Her voice rose angrily.
“Humph!” Maximilian snorted. “Perhaps not at the exact moment that I entered, but how do I know what you were doing before—or what form his devoted affection might take when you gave your answer! And just what answer were you going to give?” he asked, his voice loud, too.
“That, my lord, is none of your business!” Charlotte shouted. Her hands on her hips and her face scarlet, she glared at him as if she were scolding one of her brothers. The thought annoyed him.
“You are not to see Burgess again. Do you understand?” He tossed out the order while keeping a wary eye on the legs that might suddenly kick him in the shins.
Instead of using her feet this time, however, Charlotte put both hands against his chest and shoved him with all her might. Since he was in the process of stepping away from her at the time, Maximilian was thrown off balance. He stumbled backward just as he heard Chevalier say, “Refreshments, anyone?”
With an uncharacteristic lack of grace, Maximilian knocked into the servant and his tray. He heard the clink and crash of crystal and china and the splash of liquids as everything flew into the air. Struggling for his footing in the midst of this chaos, Maximilian was upright for a moment until his boot slipped on something and he went down onto the floor in an ignominious tumble.
Never in his entire life had he appeared so grossly undignified. Sitting there upon the waxed wooden surface of the morning room floor while something wet seeped into his coat, Maximilian was so enraged that he actually saw red. The entire scene disappeared into a blazing flash of crimson before he regained hi
s vision. Then he heard Chevalier mumbling something under his breath and bustling about behind him, but Charlotte was, for once, conspicuously absent from the cleanup operation. Maximilian refused to look at her.
“Charlotte, my dear! What have you done to poor Monsieur Burgess?” The sounds of his mother’s faintly amused accents simply heaped more fuel upon the fire of his temper, and with a soft oath, Maximilian lifted a hand to his head—only to find it plastered with some sort of gooey substance.
“I heard the most dreadful shouting. Is this the way you behave in my home, sir?” Sibylle demanded. Maximilian watched the swirl of her skirts as she moved in front of him, but he stubbornly refused to look up at her.
“Maximilian!” She shrieked out his name in horror, and unable to avoid it any longer, he raised his eyes slowly to his mother. She had one dainty hand clasped to her throat as if she were going to faint from shock, but he felt no sympathy. “Maximilian, is that you? It cannot be! Whatever are you doing down there? And why have you cake in your hair?”
Without waiting for answers, Sibylle turned to Charlotte. “Surely, that was not Maximilian shouting, for he never raises his voice. Maximilian is always in control of himself. How could he not be?” His mother looked genuinely stupefied.
Charlotte did not. Nor, he noted, did she look the least bit regretful of the mess she had precipitated. “My Lady, I hesitate to inform you of this, since you have been nothing but kindness itself to me, but I do believe your son is quite mad!” Charlotte explained, her magnificent breasts heaving with her agitation.
Far from taking offense, Sibylle laughed merrily, while Maximilian attempted to rise with some semblance of aplomb. “My dear child, Maximilian is many things—most of them aggravating—but I would hardly call him mad.”
Maximilian took note of the feeble tenor of her defense, but said nothing as Chevalier held out a clean cloth. Was it his imagination, or were the man’s lips twitching? Maximilian knew that if Chevalier laughed, he would cheerfully plant a facer upon those smirking features.
Charlotte appeared nonplussed by Sibylle’s argument. “Well, then, I do not know how to explain his behavior. He says he wants to help me make an advantageous match, and yet he chases away every serious suitor who tries to approach me!” Although in the midst of wiping cream and cake from his fingers, Maximilian’s head shot up at Charlotte’s words. What the devil was she saying?
She glanced at him, colored and looked back at his mother as if she wanted to say more, but snapped her mouth shut at Sibylle’s astonished expression. “Forgive me, please, my lady,” she said. “I forget myself.” Head bent, she hurried from the room.
Maximilian snorted. He was not fooled by Charlotte’s downcast eyes as she swept past him. He wanted to grab her by the arm and shake some sense into her—or something equally violent but more intimate...
“Is this true?” Sibylle asked. With effort, Maximilian turned his attention to his mother, who was staring at him as if he were a stranger.
“No, it is not true,” Maximilian answered. “Damn it, make yourself useful, Chevalier, and help me with my coat,” he snapped, slipping out of the sopping mess. When he glanced at Sibylle, she was pressing her fingers to her lips thoughtfully, her bright, dark eyes boring holes into him.
“What is it?” he barked. “Have you never seen a man covered in food before? God knows I should be well used to it by now.”
“Very becoming,” Sibylle said, her lips curving into a smile. “Poor, poor Maximilian.” She lifted a finger to his forehead and returned with a dollop of cream, which she promptly tasted. Although Maximilian suspected her of goading him, he frowned in disapproval nonetheless. As usual, Sibylle was not behaving the slightest bit like a mother.
Laughing gaily, she swept past him, but paused for a moment on the threshold to point the errant finger at him. “Beware, Maximilian, that you do not fall, like your papa, for someone unsuitable.”
Ignoring Chevalier’s low giggle, a coatless Maximilian stormed past the servant and his mother, intent upon leaving the household immediately. As far as he was concerned, everyone in it was all about in the head.
* * *
Charlotte threw herself onto her bed. For a moment, she felt like giving in to the misery that choked her, but she would not. Instead, she rolled onto her back and stared at the elaborate bed that she now called her own. Her eyes followed the slim, spiral-turned posts up to the canopy, where the pale pink silk hangings were drawn together in a swirl.
It was beautiful. It was also a far cry from the narrow truckle she used at home, and as much as she tried to remember her father’s warnings against coveting material things too dearly, Charlotte admired it excessively. She wished she could stay here forever, but time was slipping away so quickly....
Charlotte closed her eyes against the recognition, denying it. She could feel the restraints on her hair, precarious at best, give up all pretense and release the awful, puffy curls. Her hair was her worst feature, she noted with contempt. That and her oversize bosom, although Max...
Thoughts of the earl made her pull one of the pins from her hair and toss it across the room in a burst of pique. After days of neglecting her, he had suddenly appeared, as was his wont, to wreak havoc upon her life. As far as Charlotte was concerned, his behavior today meant only one thing.
Although Max did not want her for his wife, he did not want anyone else to have her, either. Charlotte bit back a cry of outrage. She would spend no tears on the elegant earl’s account! He could strangle on one of his own schedules, for all that she cared.
But what was she to do? Each time one of her suitors tendered an offer, Max found some way to intimidate the man. She could see herself returning home penniless and husbandless, thanks to the generous guardianship of his lordship. Her anger was so great she realized she was shaking with the force of it, or was she sobbing?
A knock on the door made her sit up and wipe her face hurriedly. For one brief, horrified moment, she suspected it to be Max himself. She would not put it past him to come strolling into her private bedchamber without a qualm, to lecture her in a fatherly fashion, although there were times when she swore his interest in her was far from avuncular. “Yes?” she breathed.
But it was his mother, not Max, who came through the door. Sibylle did not appear the least bit concerned or offended about what had transpired in her morning room. “Do not fret, my child,” she said, waving her hand in that dramatic way of hers. “We will not let stuffy old Maximilian drive away all your beaux. If it is the baron you want, it is the baron you shall have.”
Sibylle stepped closer, smiling slyly. “In fact, I am certain, my dear child, that with a little scheming, you may have anyone you desire.”
* * *
Maximilian downed his second brandy and called for another, but since he was at White’s, and he invariably only partook of two glasses during his evenings at the club, he had difficulty obtaining a third. The waiter stared at him, gape-mouthed, for a long moment before responding with a hurried nod and a shake of his head.
The incident soured Maximilian’s already foul mood, which had been tried by an afternoon of unexpected fury, culminating in an ignominious fall into a tea tray. Never, in all his life, would he have predicted the mishaps that had befallen him since his acquaintance with a certain green-eyed beauty.
And Charlotte, he told himself as he gulped his brandy, was an ungracious, ungrateful chit who, left to her own devices, would sully her reputation with every man in town. Maximilian was inclined to abandon her, but he felt a niggling responsibility for her fate and to her father, who had no idea that his daughter was hell-bent on disaster.
Although he had effectively curtailed Burgess, Maximilian was well aware that there were others, too many for him to even keep straight. Why, by last count, she had under her dubious spell Raleigh, Cavely, Merton, that backward squire whose fitting name was Bottom, Clemson’s youngest boy and perhaps even...Wroth!
As if his thoughts
had conjured the man, the Marquis of Wroth suddenly appeared before him, looking cool and composed, as always. The marquis’ lips curved in a hint of haughty amusement, and Maximilian felt a rush of outraged annoyance, for Wroth’s famous disdain had never been turned upon him.
“Just what I detest seeing, a normally intelligent man making a cake out of himself over some female,” the marquis said. He looked down from his great height, as if gazing upon an insect, and Maximilian squirmed under the stare. The words sounded awfully familiar. Was he himself the author?
“What are you talking about?” Maximilian demanded churlishly.
“I am talking about you being besotted by the Trowbridge chit,” Wroth said easily, taking a seat.
Maximilian felt himself flush with anger and embarrassment, a decidedly unusual and revolting combination. “Have you been listening to Raleigh?” he asked.
Worth just looked at him in that maddening way, as if his protests were both amusing and an insult to the man’s intelligence. “My dear Wycliffe, I consider myself a superb judge of human foibles. I hardly need Raleigh to advise me.”
Maximilian ignored the insult implicit in Wroth’s reply and glared at the peer he had heretofore admired. “Well, you are mistaken,” he said.
Wroth simply shrugged negligently. “Then I would advise you to stop acting like the girl is your personal property.” The words were spoken lightly, but Maximilian caught the steel in their inflection, and it aggravated his already sorely used temper.
“You stay away from her, too,” Maximilian snapped. “God knows you don’t intend to marry her!”
Wroth stared at him. His cold gray eyes turned silvery, but he did not lose his composure. He never did—something Maximilian realized could have been remarked about himself until recently. When the marquis spoke again, his lips curled into a smile that hinted of contempt. “I have no idea what our maker knows of the subject, but what leads you to believe that I do not intend to marry the girl?”
The Vicar's Daughter Page 17