“Enough! Let me get to the lady.” Lavinia did not recognize the voice that boomed over the melee. “A militia is on its way, I tell you! Those who do not want trouble should go.”
Lavinia took her hands from her face. Her head pounded, and the light was so bright. A very large man stepped between her and the sun and grabbed hold of her arm.
“I will take you back inside.”
Lavinia looked for the boy with the lamp and saw him disappearing toward the far end of the square. She squinted. The rock must have rattled her vision, because he appeared to be climbing into a crested carriage.
The man swung her up into his massive arms. “You cannot linger. You must go back.”
She gazed up. “Do I know you?”
He glanced down as he carried her toward the door, but he did not answer. Still, he had met her eyes long enough for her to feel the shock of recognition. “You—you took me to Vauxhall last night.”
“Sullivan, ma’am. The name is Sullivan.”
Sullivan’s head snapped to the side as something hit his face, but he did not stop moving. He tightened his grip and hunched his shoulders, protecting her as best he could. He ascended the steps backward, eyes on the remaining crowd.
A rock hit his shoulder as he placed her on her feet. “Inside, now.”
Lavinia dared not disobey. She had weakened the crowd’s strength, and they had further dispersed on Sullivan’s warning. The angriest, however, remained in the square, and they were determined that chaos would reign.
She unlatched the door. “Come, too,” she panted.
“No.” Sullivan faced what remained of the crowd and folded his arms. “If you want to get to the lady, you must get through me.”
What could Lavinia do to protect a man twice her size? She frowned. Get out of his way. She stumbled into the house and closed the door.
Sophia stood within the hall, arms wide.
“Foolish, foolish girl,” Sophia scolded as she clasped Lavinia. “Brave and foolish girl. We’d sent Maggie for help. What were you thinking?”
“They were angry with me, not you,” Lavinia said. “I could not let you suffer, not when you have done so much for me.”
Sophia pushed Lavinia to arms’ length and shook her head.
“I only wished to calm the crowd,” Lavinia said. “I was the cause of Thea’s distress.”
Sophia wiped her eyes. “You worry overmuch about the duchess. As for me—”
A thunderous boom split the air.
“Oh God, did someone shoot Sullivan?” Lavinia asked.
Sophia rushed into the sitting room. “No,” she called. “A carriage has come. Gentlemen with muskets hang off both sides, and two armed footman stand on the rail. People are scattering.”
Thea appeared at the top of the stair, pale but standing. Lavinia and Thea gazed at each other in silence as they listened to a voice filter brokenly through the windows.
“We…come…ladyship.”
Lavinia strained but could not make out the words. Thea took a deep breath and walked down the stairs like a condemned queen. Lavinia followed the duchess into the sitting room.
“Who is it?” Lavinia asked.
“I am not certain,” Sophia replied, “He looks like—”
“The militia has not come,” Thea interrupted, “though he’s saying they are near.”
Lavinia frowned. “How can you tell?”
“I would recognize my husband’s voice anywhere.”
As Sophia returned, Thea shoved through the door of the dining room.
“Could it be Wynchester?” Lavinia asked Sophia.
Sophia shrugged. “I cannot fathom why he would come, but if your Mr. Harrison has brought Wynchester to Thea’s side, I am very impressed.”
Lavinia pressed her hand to the side of her temple, over the growing lump where the rock had hit.
“All will be well, Lavinia, you will see,” Sophia said. “I was not certain before, but I am now.” Her shoulders eased down. “Let me look at your injury.”
Lavinia turned her face and allowed Sophia to examine the spot where the rock had landed.
“Do you need to sit?” Sophia asked.
“It throbs. I was dizzy at first, but the pain has mellowed to a mere ache.”
“The lump does not look pretty.” Sophia frowned. “Your wounds could have been much worse.”
Lavinia lifted her brows and then winced when a sharp sting followed.
Sophia patted her shoulder. “I think, dearest, that you should try to maintain ennui while that heals, unless you feel expressiveness trumps pain.” A knocker sounded. “You seem to be without servants. I will answer. Check on Thea, would you?”
“Thea,” Lavinia called as she entered the dining room. “Do you wish to leave through the mews? The back should be clear enough by now.”
Thea opened shutters she had closed. “I will not run from my husband. I am not that much of a ninny. Ah look, the militia is filling in the square.”
“I am concerned about you, Thea.”
She bit her lip. “I apologize if I seemed overwrought. Crowds make me lose sense.”
“What happened?”
Thea’s gaze lost focus. “Telling you now would do me more harm than good.” She roused herself, shook out her skirts, and stiffened her back. “As fate would have it, I did not dress to see the duke.”
“Come.” Lavinia slipped her hand through the slit in the side of her skirt and worked her fingers into the pocket tied around her waist. She pulled out a lace handkerchief.
The duchess was taller than Lavinia by a few inches. Lavinia had to reach up in order to brush her handkerchief across Thea’s brow and down her cheeks. “Do not worry, Thea, you are still stunning—even when perspiring.”
Thea snorted.
“You are stunning,” Lavinia said.
She smiled halfheartedly. “A duchess does not sweat, Lavinia. She glows.”
“Ah, that’s the spirit,” Lavinia said, curving her lips into something resembling a smile.
“I suppose you would like to look your best for your Mr. Harrison, riotous crowds notwithstanding.” The duchess rolled her eyes and plucked the cloth from Lavinia’s hand. “Black streaks do not emphasize your best features.” Thea rubbed at Lavinia’s cheeks, careful not to disturb Lavinia’s wound. She shook her head. “Coal ash was inspired. Theatrical, perhaps, but inspired.”
A giggle bubbled up. “I had forgotten about the ash. I wanted to shock the crowd to silence and seem sincere in my grief.”
“Sincere? Mad, more like.” Thea held one side of Lavinia’s face and concentrated on removing the soot. “Thank you.” She did not look into Lavinia’s eyes. “When you faced that crowd, I know you were thinking of me.”
Lavinia smiled, with love for Thea glowing in her chest. “You would have done no less for me.”
Thea swallowed. “Despite what Sophia said, I am not jealous of Mr. Harrison, just cautious. I wish for your happiness.”
“I know, Thea, I know,” Lavinia said, wishing she could also know what would bring Thea happiness.
“Do you love him?”
Lavinia stopped breathing. She’d been infatuated with Max the boy—and the boy had brought her heartache by leaving. Max the man was a more complex puzzle. Again and again he’d placed himself between her and danger, even as she did her best to push him away. His trust in her was fragile, as was hers in him. And yet—
He was breath. He was sunlight. He was essential.
“Yes, I love him. The heart does not listen to reason.” Nor did the heart wait for the resolution of unanswered questions.
Thea nodded thoughtfully.
Sophia leaned through the door. “There’s a scuffle in the hall. Your housekeeper has returned and will not allow Maggie through. She demands to speak with you.”
Lavinia smiled with anticipation. Her house. Her staff. Her life.
“I will go.” She headed for the door.
“Oh yes,” S
ophia called, “Mr. Harrison is on the steps with Maggie.”
Chapter Fifteen
When Lavinia entered the hall, Mrs. Clarke was blocking the door with arms crossed. In the past, Clarke had reported Lavinia’s every word and action to Vaile, all painted in the worst possible shades; the mere sight of the housekeeper’s glower had caused Lavinia to shake.
“I will take things from here, Clarke,” she said. “Please prepare tea.” She cocked her head as if making a commonplace request.
“That hussy you call a maid will not come through the main hall.” The housekeeper’s nose whistled as she snorted disgust. “What would Lord Vaile say?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea. I said I will take things from here. If preparing tea at my request is beyond your ability, you may seek a position elsewhere.” Lavinia delivered her threat with a smile—one of Sophia’s favorite tactics. “Please be quick. We have guests.”
Mrs. Clarke’s eyes widened, and she loomed as if she’d donned stilts, but Lavinia did not flinch.
“I end my employ, then. The marquess will take me back into the Elmbrooke household.”
As the housekeeper marched toward the mews egress, Lavinia raised her shoulders and then let them drop, easing out of her antagonism. If Mrs. Clarke did not return, then she did not return. The dark, troubling feeling that had filled her since reentering Vaile House gave way to a new freedom. She would prevail. She yanked the handle.
“Maggie!” she said, holding open the heavy door with her full weight. “Come in, come in.”
“Mr. Sullivan needs help,” Maggie said, stumbling. “Oh, my lady, allow me.”
Lavinia exchanged places with Maggie and turned, smothering a gasp.
Max, expression grave, held Sullivan against his side. Max’s hair tie had gone missing and dark locks fell awkwardly over his dusty shoulders. On his cheek he sported a dark purple bruise. Their eyes met, forging a bond as real and solid as bronze. For a sliver of a second, everything but his face went dark.
“I am unharmed,” she assured him, “thanks to Mr. Sullivan.” She forced her gaze to the pain-hunched jarvey. “Are you badly hurt?”
“Just fine, your ladyship.” Sullivan said, clearly not.
“Of course you are.” She summoned her newly claimed authority. “Maggie, take Mr. Sullivan to the kitchens and get him cleaned up and bandaged.” Before Sullivan could protest she added, “Give him what’s left of those biscuits we had this morning, would you? He must be very hungry.”
Sullivan perked at the mention of food.
“This small offering,” she said, “is the least thanks I can provide.”
Sullivan nodded. “I am much obliged.”
“I owe you gratitude,” she said, “not the other way around.”
“I will return,” Max promised, casting her an inscrutable look before assisting Sullivan to the kitchens.
She watched him retreat with her heart twirling and leaping in a frenzied dance. He had come. But what did his coming mean? Was he here now because she had sent for him? Or, was he here because his heart compelled him to her side?
Spilikins! The reason did not matter. He was here. Period.
“A-hem,” the duke coughed lightly.
How did one address a duke in a situation such as this? Daft, this sudden concern with propriety when her hair swung about her shoulders in mad disarray.
She looked up into the eyes of the man she presumed Thea loathed and saw nothing of a ruffian. He occupied the shadowed portion of the hall, large and awkward and—she stepped closer—could one of the most powerful men in the kingdom be nervous?
She had imagined Wynchester would possess a villain’s demeanor. Entitled. Ruthless. Selfish. Uncaring.
She examined his features.
Entitled, yes. Ruthless, perhaps. Yet, the duke stood in perfect contrast to selfishness, and he most certainly cared. His breath was shallow and his eyes darted. He searched without speaking. His terror was plain.
Her eyes settled on his purple jaw. Had he taken a hit for Thea? Perhaps Sophia was right. Perhaps there was hope for the duke and Thea.
“She is unsettled but safe.” Lavinia answered his unspoken question.
He inclined his head, sniffed, and then stood tall.
“Shall we join the duchess and Lady Sophia in the sitting room?” Lavinia asked, turning to lead the way.
She froze while her skirts swished around her legs. Max blocked her passage. His skin flushed like a warrior fresh from battle. His jaw set with determination to fight. She had her answer: he was here because fierce loyalty had drawn him in her time of need.
Her body buzzed like a honeybee in June.
“I just suggested we retire to the sitting room…” Her breath skipped as her heart continued to dance. “…where there are seats.” She rocked in her muddied slippers, toe to heel. “Imagine that.”
Where had her wits fled?
“You are hurt,” Max said.
Completely ignoring the duke, he strode to her side, took her hand, and drew her under the light streaming from the hall’s window. The scent of anger flowed through his layers of linen, though she understood she was not the object.
“Just a bump,” she said. “A very small scratch.”
His rough, capable hands cupped her cheek as he examined her bruise. His palm burned. Not a scorching burn, but a comforting, warming sort of smolder. Her breath reached to the nadir of her lungs, yanking her stomach tight.
“Rock?” he asked.
“I think so.”
Grasping her shoulders, he flattened his lips and searched her face. His eyes were the deep green of the Cornish moors in spring. Fight fled. Her soft moan of a sigh had absolutely nothing to do with pain.
“I thank God you were not injured worse.” Struggle for restraint thinned his voice. He brushed her hair from her face and placed his fingertips under her chin.
Love, peace, and refuge. Her skin tingled and she moistened her lips.
“I was not acting recklessly. I had to face the crowd. Thea and Sophia were at risk.”
“I understand.” His voice dunked her in a mineral bath of warmth as his thumb teased her chin. “I wish you had not put yourself in danger, but I understand.”
Warmth pooled in her belly. She leaned toward him like a flower to the sun, softly expelling her unthinkingly held breath.
“You are all heart, love. Courage and heart.” He chuckled, sardonic and rough. “Though sometimes I wish you had more sense…”
“Does this count as my coming to you?” she asked.
“I should never have said those words. True honor offers no conditions.”
“I am glad you are here.” She put her love into her eyes.
“Vinia.” Her name was a plea from a naked and hungry soul.
“Max.”
She held on to the back of his neck as if he were an angel carrying her to the heavens. He touched his forehead to hers.
“A-hem.” Again, the duke. This time louder and with more impatience.
Even if she wished, she could not have attended Wynchester. “Sophia?” Lavinia called. Her eyes never left Max. “Will you see His Grace to the sitting room?”
“This way.” She heard Sophia say before the door’s gentle click signaled they were alone.
Max touched her hair as if it were a wondrous filigree creation and not a wild mess of tumbling tangles. What could she say? How could she show her affection?
She picked her way through her former words, now scattered through her mind like shattered crystal. Hopeless, this search for sentiment to salvage. She must begin anew.
“I am changed,” she whispered.
“You are the same as you have always been.”
“No, I am not.” She blinked, clearing a blur. “I have suffered. But, I have changed for the better since you’ve come home.”
She had chosen her words well, from his thunderstruck air.
“Does that mean you’ll give me—us—a second chan
ce?” His fierce question was a plea from a fraying rope’s end.
“Yes.”
A smile slowly dawned in his bloodshot eyes. He dropped his gaze to her mouth, focusing with an archer’s quiet assurance. His strong hands gripped her waist. He pulled her from her faltering legs and lifted.
Joy shot sparks into her belly at the touch of his lips. She tightened her arms around his neck, holding on, holding him. Her heart couldn’t have beat faster if they’d been tossed by a storm-encompassed, rain-battered frigate.
His mouth, lips, and tongue worked in perfect concert, probing in pillowy strokes fated to leave her conquered. His kiss left her shaking from captured waist to dangling toes.
He slumped against the stair, slowing his feast as he let her feet slide smoothly to the carpet. Her dress tangled in his breeches as he leisurely unpeeled the fruits of her surrender.
She pulled back, panting. “I have missed you, Max.”
“Miss is not a strong enough word.” He kept one arm clamped around her waist while he followed the line of her nose with his fingertip. “I haven’t been able to breathe since I heard of the riot. I cannot convince myself you are safe.”
She took cover in his refuge, resting against his solid chest, her body gently rocking with the force of his breath.
Could she have this peace always? Perhaps, though their wounds were proof the moment was a temporary pause, a rest before the furious tempo resumed.
She glanced up, touching the bruise on his face.
“Did the crowd do this?”
His wan smile made her heart tumble.
“No,” he replied. “For this, I owe Wynchester. No—do not pull away. He had insulted both you and the duchess. We’ve settled the worst of the matter. His black cheek left a devil of a throb in my knuckles.”
He’d punched a duke? For her? With a dubious raise of her brow, she said, “I would not be the thing that comes between you.”
“Love,” his eyes softened, “that is my decision. Besides, the duke is here, is he not?”
Her heart refused her questions. She held to his waistcoat’s lapel, slipping her fingers into the delicious warmth beneath.
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