It felt as if she’d lost her. She’d never been apart from Mrs. Culpepper for more than a night or two. And now it would be . . . She didn’t know how long it would until they met again. It could weeks, months. The one good constant in her life growing up had been replaced with uncertainty.
She felt an errant tear slip down her cheek. Then another.
“Anna.”
She shook her head as her vision began to blur and took a step back from Max. Oh, this was humiliating.
“I should like to be alone now,” she choked out, “if it’s not too much trouble—”
“It is.” His arms slipped around her gently, pulling her close. His breath was warm in her ear. “I don’t want you to be alone.”
Clearly, she didn’t really want to be alone. She stepped into the embrace, gripping the lapels of his coat and resting her forehead against the cool fabric of his waistcoat. For the next few minutes, she quietly cried out her heartache against his chest while he held her tight and whispered soothing nonsense in her ear.
“There now,” Max whispered as her tears began to subside at last. “Better?”
Not at all. Her head hurt, her eyes burned, there was no getting air through her nose, and there was little chance she looked any better than she felt.
But she didn’t want him to think his efforts weren’t appreciated, or that she’d inconvenienced him for nothing, so she pulled away a little, to prove she was capable of standing alone, and nodded.
“Liar,” he accused gently. Keeping a supporting arm about her waist, he led her to the settee. “Come here. Sit down with me.”
Max sat down next to her, produced a handkerchief, and handed it to her silently.
Anna wiped her face with shaky hands. “I’m dreadfully sorry—”
“Don’t,” he cut in. His hand came up to brush a comforting circle over her back. “Not about this.” He took the handkerchief back and brushed a corner of it gently across her cheek. “I have a younger sister. Did you know that?”
She sniffled, shook her head.
“I wasn’t sure if Engsly had mentioned it. Beatrice Dane. You’d like her.”
“We’re similar?” she asked.
“Not the least bit,” he assured her and smiled. “She’s just exceedingly likable. Lively, charming, sharp as a whip . . . I suppose you do have some traits in common. My father married her off to a sixty-eight-year-old baron a week after her seventeenth birthday.”
Anna grimaced but held her tongue. She found that sort of arrangement most unfair, but perhaps Max felt differently. She was willing to debate the topic with him later, but right now, all she wanted was for him to keep talking.
“I spoke out against it,” Max continued. “But when my father made it clear he would brook no opposition, I let the matter drop. Because it was expected of me.” Max set aside the handkerchief. “Two years later, she arrived at my town house with my newborn niece in her arms and a myriad of bruises on her face.”
“Oh.” Anna’s stomach twisted at the thought.
“She’d been expected to deliver an heir.”
Anna didn’t know what to say to that. It was awful and disgusting, but according to Mrs. Culpepper, as common as arranged marriages in which the bride’s cooperation was debatable.
“I’m sorry,” she tried.
“Not as sorry as I, for having done nothing to prevent the match.”
“But you helped her when she came to you with your niece,” Anna guessed.
“I did,” he said quietly. “Our options were limited. A divorce was out of the question, as it would leave my niece in her father’s hands. Once again, I asked my father for help. Once again I was told not to interfere.”
“But you did as you pleased.”
Max’s expression turned grim. “Not entirely, or I’d have run Beatrice’s husband through with a dull sword and hung his rotting carcass from the nearest tree.”
“I see.”
“Beatrice wouldn’t hear of it. She’d had her fill of violence. So, I hid her away. Someplace the blighter will never find her. Try though he does.”
“You’re certain?”
“She has a new name and a new life.” A wistfulness entered his voice. “And the world is a very big place.”
The world? Anna had assumed she’d gone off to Scotland or Ireland, or possibly the continent. She’d not considered the world.
“You’ve not been able to see her, have you?”
“Not in years.” Max looked down at the handkerchief he was still holding. “It is no easy journey and I can’t risk leading her husband to her.”
“I am sorry,” she said quietly, wishing she had more to offer. “That must be very hard.”
“It is always hard to say good-bye to someone you love.”
Anna nodded, thinking it helped, however, to have the ear and shoulder of someone who understood. “Thank you for telling me of your sister.”
“Of course.” He leaned back into the corner of the settee. “I like to speak of her, truth be told.”
“It doesn’t make you sad?” Even thinking of Mrs. Culpepper right now made her sad, and she wasn’t nearly as removed from her as Max was from his sister.
“The why of it all does, yes. But then I remember that her husband is a very old man consumed by hate. He’s not long for this world, I think.”
And when he was gone, Beatrice would be free to come home. Anna wasn’t comfortable wishing for the death of someone, but rather thought she might be able to make an exception for Max and Beatrice’s sake. “Is all this why you became known as the Disappointment of McMullin Hall?”
“It was the start of it. When I took a moment to think on it, I found I couldn’t arrive at a compelling reason to continue on, trying to please my father and his ilk. I never once found success in the endeavor, and no good had ever come from my efforts. I find it is better to please oneself than to worry over disappointing someone else.”
“And it pleases you to spend your nights in the company of the demimonde.”
“It does, yes.”
Though she’d already known it to be true, she hated hearing it, which was probably why her voice took on an edge. “And your days sleeping off your excesses?”
“Not every day,” Max responded calmly. “Certainly fewer than four years ago when we met. I had a point to make then, and the lost opportunities of my salad days for which to make up. But I do continue to enjoy the carefree life in London.” He cocked his head at her. “Do you expect me to feel shame for it?”
She shook her head. She’d never thought of her mother’s world as being carefree. It seemed a desperate and grim existence to her. “I suppose one’s view of that world is dependent upon how one arrived there, and whether or not one is allowed to leave.”
“I don’t understand.”
And she wasn’t sure if she was capable of making him understand, but she had to at least try. “You’re like a wealthy patron at a shabby tavern. You’re only there because you wish it, and you may choose to leave at any time. That is not the case for everyone.”
“Not for you.”
“Yes, though I wasn’t thinking of me, specifically. Do you truly believe that every fallen dove and merry widow of the demimonde left good society by choice? That every woman at my mother’s parties wishes to be there? Some have been forced into that life, left with no other choices but to find either a protector or the workhouse. They are not living their lives as they see fit, nor do they deal a figurative blow to the strictures of the ton. They’ve merely traded trying to please people like your father and his ilk, for trying to please people like you.”
She knew she’d gone too far almost immediately. Max rose from the settee, his face set in hard lines.
“I would never forced my attention on a woman, nor would I ever sit idly by while someone else—”
“Of course not. That is not what I meant. You must know that is not what I meant.”
“I’m not sure that I do,” Max snapped. “God, you
would make me out to be a lecher, a heartless jackal preying on the wounded and weak.”
“That was not my intention.” But now that she stood back to think on it, it did rather sound as if she thought the men of the demimonde were either predators of virtuous women or scavengers of the fallen, and all the women were helpless victims and prisoners. “I didn’t mean to make it sound as if all the women of the demimonde were under duress.” She searched for a way to smooth over her blunder, to make things easy with him again. “I’m sure there are many women who enjoy their positions in the demimonde. Women like my mother.” She shrugged, found a tiny loose thread on the settee cushion and picked at it. “I only wished for you to look past the obvious.”
“You wish to tell me what I should look at in my world, and how to interpret what I see?”
Her gaze snapped to his. “I didn’t—”
“I am not in need of a governess, Anna. Are we understood?”
Anna said nothing. Somehow, they’d gone from point A to the number four in the blink of an eye, and she suspected it might be mostly her fault.
“Yes, I understand.” She understood that he was furious and that she wished she could go back a few minutes and take the conversation down another path. She didn’t want to fight with him, especially not today.
She watched him stalk off to the window where he looked out over the garden and dragged a hand over his face, then over to the sideboard, where he stared at a crystal decanter full of brandy.
Uncomfortable sitting while Max contemplated drinking spirits in the morning because of something she said, Anna rose and ran a smoothing hand down the waist of her gown. “I wish—”
Max cut her off with a gesture and turned from the decanter to face her. “It is possible you struck a nerve.”
“Oh.” She’d thought he’d been working himself further into a fit, not calming down. She really hadn’t been expecting a concession. But now that it had been offered, she wanted to grab hold of it and demand more.
Look. Look at what you’ve been doing. Look at what’s around you. How could wild parties in London be better than what was to be had at a place like Caldwell?
But she wanted that for herself, not for him. “I’ve not . . . I am not accustomed to having the ear of someone . . . someone like you.”
“I’m sorry? Like me?”
“Someone who has influence over my world,” she explained. “Mrs. Culpepper’s authority in Anover House has always been limited. Madame’s control is complete, and she has never . . . listened, as you do. I grew overambitious in my argument and thoughtless in its execution—”
To her surprise, Max cut her off with a short laugh. “For God’s sake,” he groaned. “Are you trying to apologize, Anna?”
“Oh. Well . . .” She shifted her feet. “Yes?”
“Then say sorry, love.”
“Sorry.”
“Forgiven.”
Anna pressed her lips together in annoyance. She was happy to see he wasn’t angry with her still, but it didn’t sit well with her that her apology should be the end of the discussion. She shifted her weight once, twice, three times. And then she caved. “I’m not wrong in my point, you understand. I do think it important . . . stop laughing.”
“I can’t help it. You are astoundingly tenacious. I could all but see you fighting back the argument.” Crossing to her, he reached down and took her hand in his. “And I am very happy to see you feeling more yourself.”
Anna swallowed her next argument. She was feeling better, because of him. Perhaps now was not the best time to press for a debate.
“I am feeling more myself,” she agreed. She glanced at the window and saw that the rain had begun to let up a little. “And I think a visit to Hermia might be just the thing to cheer us both.”
“I think that’s a fine idea.” He reached up to brush a loose wisp of hair from her temple. “Things will be easier with time, Anna, you’ll see.”
Chapter 19
Anna was happy to discover that Max was right. Though she continued to miss Mrs. Culpepper, over the next week, her life took on a mostly lazy, comfortable feel. A new routine was established now that Mrs. Culpepper had gone and the Haverstons had all arrived.
The only aspect of this new routine Anna found unpleasant was seeing less of Max than she had before. He walked with her every morning, but he was often absent from meals or ready with an excuse for why he couldn’t join the family for a trip to the village, or for conversation in the library after dinner.
At first, Anna was afraid she’d angered him more than she’d realized with her talk of merry widows and fallen doves, but he seemed relaxed and happy during the times they were together, leading her to believe that he was perfectly happy with her company, he was just seeking that company out with less regularity.
His reasons for doing so didn’t become clear to her until a miserably stormy afternoon kept the Caldwell Manor residents confined to the house and Lady Engsly had suggested a game of charades in the front parlor.
Halfway through the game, while Anna was occupied trying to decide if Lady Winnefred’s wild hand gestures were an actual clue or merely a sign of amused frustration—her turn had gone on for some time—she felt the hairs stand up on the back of her neck.
Turning her head, she found Max standing in the doorway. He smiled at her, and as always when their gazes met, her skin warmed and her pulse sped up with pleasant anticipation. But rather than join in the fun as she expected, his eyes traveled over the laughing group, then returned to her for a moment before he’d quietly excused himself from the room.
That was when Anna realized that he was giving her the time and space so that she might come to know her family.
She thought it a remarkably thoughtful gesture. That didn’t lessen her discontent at seeing less of him, but it did soften the blow. It also helped that he wasn’t wrong in his assumption of the time she needed with the Haverstons.
It was no small feat, coming to know a brother and two sister-in-laws in so short of time. But it was achievable. Moreover, it could be good fun. Anna was happy to learn that no matter how dissimilar their origins, there were all sorts of places where two people might find common ground. Provided they were willing to look.
It was more easily done with Lady Winnefred with whom she’d already established a tentative friendship on the first day. Bold and occasionally a little crass, Anna rather thought one would have to work at finding a way to shock or offend the woman.
Lady Engsly was of a more subdued nature, but she seemed quite genuine in her interest in developing a bond with her husband’s sister, and after an initial spot of fumbling about, they discovered a shared interest in embroidery and a common love of Shakespeare.
Lady Winnefred pronounced both to be quite possibly the dullest topics on earth, but she did so with a smile. The teasing sort one reserved for friends and family.
The sight of it had made Anna want to crow.
Best of all, however, was how quickly she developed a report with her new brother, Lord Gideon.
Admittedly, it was difficult to imagine how one could not develop a quick affection with someone like Lord Gideon Haverston. He was exceedingly good-natured, quick with a smile and kind word, and quite possibly one of the amusing individuals she’d ever met. Granted, the number of people she’d truly met was limited, but Gideon Haverston had a talent for comedy, there was no denying it.
He put that talent to use one late afternoon by giving Anna a second tour of the hall of family portraits, this one complete with long, amusing, and highly improbable stories attached to each.
“You are making all of this up as we go along,” Anna accused after Gideon informed her that their great-great-aunt had run off to the Far East with a one-armed merchant.
“Not all of it. Great-Uncle Harold really did have someone else stand in for his portraits. He was obsessed with how he was to be remembered, and he wished to be remembered as tall and fair of hair. Instead, we simply r
emember him as the great-uncle without a portrait.” He turned a critical eye on the portraits they were standing before now. “But, to be honest, I haven’t the faintest idea who most of these people are.”
“Weren’t you made to memorize them like Lucien?” she asked on a laugh.
“Thankfully, no. But I did like to sit here of a rainy afternoon and imagine what they’d been like. They were all knight-errants and fair maidens when I was young, of course. A boy does like to believe he is the descendent of heroes. I grew more creative as I aged. For a time, that gentleman behind you in the walnut frame had eleven toes. Great-Grandmother Elizabeth was really a blacksmith’s daughter, secretly switched at birth.”
Anna imagined him as boy, studying the paintings, lost in his imagination. “I should have loved to have helped you create such stories as a child.”
“I should have loved the company.”
There was sincerity in his voice, and something else as well. A hint of sadness that surprised her. “You had Lucien and Lord Dane.”
“I should have loved your company all the same,” he replied. “Particularly for something like this. My brother and Max were not so fanciful as children. Funny that they should be more so as adults.”
“Perhaps they felt they couldn’t be.”
“Exactly so,” he agreed and sent her a curious look. “And what of you? Where you a serious child or a maker of tall tales?”
“Oh, I was most serious,” she admitted. “Very dedicated to my studies.”
“Were you happy?” he inquired softly.
Her gaze shot from a portrait of plump young man holding a spaniel to Gideon’s earnest face. She quite liked that they shared a fondness for silliness, though he preferred to call it a refined taste for the absurd, and so it came as some surprise to her that their conversation had taken a sudden turn into seriousness.
“Beg your pardon?”
“As a child in Anover House,” he clarified. “Were you happy? There is little I might have done to help, as I’d have been a child myself. But . . . To know that I had a sister in need of help—”
“My life has been more comfortable than most,” she assured him quickly.
Practically Wicked (Haverston Family Trilogy #3) Page 21