He was by far the most stunning gentleman in the ballroom. Coal black hair, coal black tailcoat, coal black breeches, coal black boots. Cravat as pristine and white as frost upon an orchid. Blood-red waistcoat, warning that the warrior beneath was not the sort to hide, but to attack. To protect what was his.
It was the boldest color Bryony had seen him in yet. She smiled. He’d worn it for her.
And, although he might not realize it, he had also worn it for him.
She tilted her mouth toward his ear. “You look splendid in crimson.”
“Like a robin redbreast?” he answered with a slow smile.
She pressed her body closer. “You could never be anything so dainty as a bird. Your strength is powerful and barely contained. More like a volcano, as hot and unpredictable as lava.”
He lowered his lips to her hair. “Then should you be dancing so close to the abyss, fair maiden?”
“I’ve never felt safer than when in your arms,” she answered honestly.
He tipped her chin toward his and kissed her.
Her knees buckled. This was not scalding lava, but brilliant fireworks. The smoke and startling bang only foretold a dazzling display of color and beauty. She could kiss him forever.
He didn’t pull his mouth from hers until the music ceased.
It was a short break between sets. Soon, the orchestra would start again. Bryony hesitated. She had never loved dancing as much as when cradled in Max’s arms.
But she loved his kisses more.
She peered up at him from behind her mask. “Care to take a turn about the gardens?”
He led her away from the glittering lights and milling bodies to the open terrace doors on the far side of the ballroom.
The air was crisp, but Max would keep her warm. The night was their blanket. A sliver of moon and a smattering of stars more than enough light for his lips to find hers.
They barely made their way down a gravel path to a secluded stone bench before he pulled her back into his arms. Bryony kissed him with all her love. Kissed him with all her fears. Kissed him with all her hopes, and dreams, and fantasies.
His mouth was hot and dangerous, his hands possessive.
This was no chaste kiss, but a claiming.
He lifted her from the bench to his lap and ran his hands over her form. Memorizing her body. She sank her fingers into his hair, careful not to disturb his mask but mindless of everything else.
Nothing mattered but his kisses.
When his fingers cupped her bosom, she gasped with pleasure and arched into his touch. His hands made her body come alive. Every inch of her tingled. An insatiable pulsation kindled in her core. She wanted more.
Panting, he wrenched his hands from her body and broke the kiss.
When she reached up to pull his lips back to hers, he lifted her from his lap and pulled them both to their feet.
“The orchestra is starting again,” he said gruffly.
So it was.
She tried to smile. Dancing came a distant second to kissing in a moonlit garden.
Well, for Bryony. She did not know if Max had stopped the romantic interlude because he was being responsible and gentlemanly or because he did not care to continue.
Perhaps even masks were not enough freedom.
Chapter 19
“You certain this is the right place?” the hackney driver asked.
Max wasn’t sure at all.
He stared out the sooty window of the dilapidated hack at the pristine brick façade of Heath Grenville’s townhouse.
This was madness.
When Max had first been invited to the “small family gathering,” he had been certain he would not attend. Presenting himself as an equal on the most fashionable street in Mayfair defied all logic.
Even the hack driver knew it. The man had picked Max up at his apartment. He knew what kind of home Max had come from.
“It’s the right place,” Max said as he forced himself out from the safety of the shadows and into the brilliant light of day.
Never had sunlight seemed so ominous.
Dusk wouldn’t fall until closer to ten, and the supper invitation was for eight o’clock. Max scowled. He was to arrive in broad daylight, unmasked and exposed. Present himself not to the familiar comfort of a rookery, but to a pristine neighborhood of obvious wealth where each manicured garden was identical to the next.
This was nothing like home.
Street sweepers populated every corner, brushing away the tiniest specks of filth from impeccably clean cobblestones so that elegant passersby should not dirty their hems. For their trouble, the sweepers were rewarded with a coin likely larger than Max had paid his hackney driver.
But money was not the problem.
Nor was he concerned about the chance of gathering dust on his boots as he strode up the tidy walk to the ornate front door. His fingers clenched because he knew not what was on the other side.
Grenvilles, to be sure.
Ideally, only the ones he had met the other day. Yet they had said family and friends. Their friends, not Max’s.
His welcome might not last for long.
He lifted his fist to pound upon the door, then caught sight of a freshly polished knocker. Of course. How gauche of him. He lifted the heavy brass ring and gave two curt raps against its base.
The door opened immediately.
It was not Heath Grenville or his wife on the other side. It was not even a disgruntled twelve-year-old in messy plaits and a pinafore.
It was a butler. A real one. The sort who would expect a calling card.
Bloody hell.
They stared at each other in silence.
Max sighed. Nothing for it but to blurt his name and hope the elegant door wasn’t slammed in his face.
Before he could do so, the butler stepped aside and swept an arm toward the corridor behind. “This way, Master Gideon.”
Max blinked. Gingerly, he crossed the threshold. His heart pounded. Not only had he been invited, special care had been taken to ensure his comfort from the moment his boots reached the front step.
He inclined his head towards the butler. “Thank you.”
Did one thank a butler? Max had no idea.
Murmurs of conversation and laughter spilled from an adjoining room.
The butler led him through the corridor to an open doorway and announced his name.
Max braced himself.
No one gasped in alarm or dismay. Instead, a half dozen familiar faces smiled back at him in welcome.
Heath and his wife. Lord and Lady Wainwright. Mrs. Spaulding, who ran the school for girls and had personally obliterated all dignity from a noble game of cards.
But Max only had eyes for Bryony.
Her eyes shone as he stepped forward to greet her. Her hair was in some sort of a twist. Her gown was a flowing mint silk trimmed with jade satin. But he couldn’t tear his gaze from her face.
She looked even more beautiful without the mask.
He tried to keep his breath steady.
“You came,” she whispered.
Of course he had. This was where he could find her.
“Mr. Gideon,” said the headmistress. “I’d like to introduce you to my husband, Inspector Simon Spaulding.”
Max copied Mr. Spaulding’s bow as precisely as he could.
“And this is my brother, Carter Winfield,” Heath’s wife, Nora, gestured to a golden-haired fellow with an ungentlemanly tanned complexion. “He’s come all the way from the West Midlands.”
“Can’t stay long,” Mr. Winfield reminded his sister. “Someone’s got to take care of the sheep now that you’ve defected to London.”
Max blinked. The sheep?
She sent him the sort of stern frown all sisters seemed to master at a young age. “I thought you hired help. You promised. Next year, I expect you to stay for the Season.”
A sheep farmer.
Welcome to stay for the Season.
“And next year,
my wife will be starring in a new production,” Lord Wainwright said with pride. “As usual, my private box is at the disposal of everyone in this room.”
An earl’s private opera box.
At the disposal of Max and a sheep farmer.
Where on earth was he?
“No doubt by then the girls will have a new Circus Minimus to perform,” said the headmistress, eyes shining. She raised a finger toward her brother-in-law. “Sell a few sheep so you can donate to the cause.”
Max turned his baffled gaze toward Bryony.
“Circus Minimus is an acrobatic charity performance the students put on to raise funds for their school,” she whispered. “A few of them are almost as good at somersaults and flips as my sister.”
Max swung his gaze back to the headmistress. This he would have to see.
The thought of future plans rooted him in place.
Would he honestly be attending a charity performance of any kind? Did he truly pretend that he was penciling in to his agenda a date to avail himself of an earl’s private opera box?
Never before had such outlandish notions crossed his mind.
Now he found himself wanting to believe in their possibility more than anything. Not to hear the famed soprano, or even to witness highflying schoolgirls, but the dizzying idea that Bryony could still be in his life after the month was through.
Even if it meant sitting in the back row watching her enjoy the festivities with her new husband. By next Season, she would be wed.
His stomach clenched. The idea of her spending so much as a single night with anyone else made him nauseous. Not just with jealousy, but a yawning sense of loss. Of fear. Of denial.
He loved her, damn it all.
She was his world. Or at least, he would like her to be. But he didn’t see how.
As strange and disparate as her family was, as her siblings might be, they had given him no indication that they considered him anything more than a friend of the family. Even that much was a significant level of polite condescension. Far more than he would have hoped for.
But he knew where the line was drawn.
No matter how much he believed in the honest desire in Bryony’s kisses, her future husband was not hers to choose. Her parents would select a gentleman perfect for her. Someone who wasn’t Max.
“Going foxing at Underhill’s hunting cabin next week?” Lord Wainwright asked the other men.
Heath Grenville shook his head. “I’ve a situation to resolve with a client.”
“And a new exhibition to finalize,” his wife added with a proud smile. “‘Romanticism in Modern Art’ will be the gallery’s finest collection to date.”
Their love was obvious.
Max tamped down his envy.
He should not be surprised Grenville had managed to marry as he wished. He was the son. A grown man, a future baron, fixer of society’s greatest scandals. If anyone could manage to wed a commoner without facing social disaster, it would be a man in Heath Grenville’s position.
Bryony, on the other hand, was the youngest girl. Her eldest sister had married an earl. No doubt her parents believed she could improve upon that feat.
The middle sister might be untitled, but he supposed a Bow Street Runner caused the family no shame. Inspectors like him were honest and smart, swift and capable. The sort of man lords and ladies would call to fix their wrongs. Someone whose presence improved their lives.
And then there was Max. He did not cause the same effect. An attachment to him would sully Bryony’s name, rather than honor it. That wasn’t something he would voluntarily put her through. No matter how much he might wish their future could be otherwise.
Besides, he would have to join the queue of admirers. His lips curled. Even his sister had managed to propose marriage to Bryony before Max could.
Not that she was likely to take a proposal from him any more seriously than she had taken the joking one from his sister.
How could he ask her to submit to a life of not fitting in, when he knew from first-hand experience how much that hurt?
“I like your family,” he murmured to Bryony.
Her eyes twinkled. “They’re perfect, aren’t they?”
Someone was. He wished he could kiss her.
In one costume or another, she always managed to straddle the line between what was accepted in her society and a secret life filled with what was not. She was a walking contradiction and he loved her for it. Baron’s daughter by day, gaming hell financier by night. He could not help but admire her.
“This is a very unconventional gathering,” he murmured to Bryony.
Her grin was instantaneous. “Have I somehow given you the misconception that I am a conventional lady?”
His breath caught. No, she hadn’t. And he adored her for it.
Two months ago, he would never have believed his future would include long nights in his office managing a gaming hell with an equally managing female. He would never have dreamed of meeting her for ices, paying a social call to a girls’ school, or dancing beneath countless chandeliers at a masquerade.
None of that had taken half as much courage as presenting himself on the doorstep tonight. Those stolen moments had been fantasy. He had longed for the possibility of something more. Had not dared to believe it possible, until now.
This was reality. And it was… Splendid.
He brushed the back of his fingers against Bryony’s hand. She smiled up at him from beneath her lashes. He clenched his jaw in determination.
If he could survive an evening in a neighborhood this lofty, with companions this diverse, then he could survive another. And another. And another.
Perhaps even a lifetime of such evenings. Was it too much to hope? He would prove it to himself tonight, and then he would prove it to Bryony.
Maybe they really could make a future together.
Chapter 20
Bryony couldn’t stop smiling. She was overjoyed Max had chosen to accept her brother’s invitation, despite his obvious initial reservations.
She understood Max’s reticence. In other circumstances, his caution would have been sound. He would soon learn to consider her siblings’ homes a safe place. A chance to pass a quiet evening with loved ones without their parents present to scold or pass judgment.
In fact, this was the perfect opportunity for Max to discover how lovable her siblings were. And for her extended family to see for themselves how wonderful he was.
And, oh, was he wonderful, inside and out. She slid another look his way. Tonight he was positively resplendent.
He wore perfectly polished Hessians, along with black breeches and a tailcoat that perfectly emphasized his powerful frame. His cravat was as white and crisp and effusive as that of any London gentleman. Her pulse quickened.
Jaw, only slightly shadowed. Thick black hair curling to his neck unrepentantly. Bold waistcoat as bright orange as flame, like the gaming hell he presided over, like the demon everyone believed him to be.
His armor didn’t fool her. She knew the truth of the man inside. Yes, he was unquestionably arrogant and ruthless and impossible. Of this, she was in full agreement. But he was also gentle and caring. Behind a dark and guarded exterior, shimmered the soul of a poet.
Was it any wonder she loved him?
“When does supper start?” he growled into her ear.
Bryony grinned. “When we’re called to the table. Soon, I promise.”
She wished she could take his hand and place it to her cheek.
He narrowed his eyes. “Is this the sort of soirée where gentlemen separate from the ladies after dinner in order to consume inadvisable quantities of port without being forced by proximity to share the spoils with women?”
She gave a careless shrug. “You may do so if you choose, but I cannot promise the ladies will leave anything but crumbs once the dessert trays arrive from the kitchen.”
“What are the chances of currant biscuits?” he asked hopefully, his eyes as guileless and
eager as a child.
“Low, I’m afraid,” she said sorrowfully. “I fear Heath will try to impress us with multi-layer torts and sugar-crystaled brûlée. Will you be able to make do?”
He lifted his nose. “I will suffer in silence.”
She grinned back at him. “I did not realize you were addicted to currant biscuits.”
“I haven’t had one in ages,” he admitted. “My mother would make them for special occasions, and for a while my sister did the same. These days, she hasn’t time.”
Bryony nodded. She was working on a plan to help his sister.
“Why don’t you bake the biscuits yourself?” she teased.
“I have,” he said instantly. “To my immense consternation, it turns out they taste much better when shared with others.”
Her heart flipped.
In that moment, Bryony vowed her greatest achievement would be the day she baked him his favorite biscuits and they shared them together, warm and fresh from the oven.
Perhaps they could make it a tradition of their own.
She leaned toward him. “I was thinking—”
A motion in the corridor caught her eye.
Her stomach sank.
It was not a footman calling them to supper, but the butler arriving with an unexpected guest.
“Lady Grenville,” he announced calmly, as if the cozy romantic evening Bryony had planned was not about to be shattered.
“Mother.” Heath greeted her with equanimity. “What a surprise. I thought you were booked elsewhere tonight.”
“Lady Febland came down with the ague.” Mother cast her sharp gaze about the room, taking each face in turn.
Heath was dapper as ever, of course. His wife Nora sweet and elegant. Nor would one know by looking at Carter that he was more at home on a farm than in a ballroom. To anyone’s eyes, he was dressed to perfection. Mother’s gaze did not linger there.
As always, Camellia and her husband looked every inch the earl and countess that they were. Wainwright’s pockets were bottomless, and his favorite hobby was spoiling his wife.
True, Dahlia and Simon weren’t quite as wealthy. Every spare crown went toward the school whenever possible. But she had been born a Grenville, and never failed to acquit herself prettily. Simon was born out of wedlock, but to a titled father. She granted even him a tight smile.
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