“He sustained some injury or another in the Battle of Balaclava,” Adelaide had told them. “He was not expected to live, but miraculously pulled through. No one has seen him since he returned home to recover. I hardly expect that we shall see hide nor hair of him during the party.”
Yet, here he stood. Hardly able to take her eyes off him, Josephine realized he was the man standing in the window when they’d first arrived. She recognized the somber expression—his lips pulled into a grimace, and his eyes cloudy like a gray fog lingering over the surface of a river. While the other guests seemed determined to avoid looking directly at him, Josephine found herself swimming in the fathomless waters of those eyes.
Her back straightened as he began making his way toward her, his gaze never wavering even as the whispers rose to a dull roar. She dropped her scone onto its plate, her tea cup vibrating in her shaking hand as he drew near. The masculine scents of sandalwood, leather, and citrus wafted up her nostrils, growing stronger when he stood right before her.
Swallowing past the lump in her throat, she fought the urge to tear her gaze from his. His stare held a challenge she couldn’t deny, as if he were daring her to look away from him. Raising her chin a notch, she set her cup aside and rose to her feet. The sound of other conversations faded away to nothing, the pulse of her rushing blood filling her ears.
He opened his mouth to speak, and she noticed that his lips were fuller up close once he freed them from the tight strain making him appear hard and approachable.
“Good afternoon,” he said, his voice a deep, rich baritone that made her toes curl within her boots. “I do not believe we’ve been introduced.”
Josephine glanced about for her aunt, or Violet, anyone who might be willing to make the introductions. It was highly improper for him to approach her this way, but her stepmother and stepsister were too busy setting their trap for Lord Davies to notice what she was up to.
Deciding it would be rude not to reply, she offered him a tentative smile. “Miss Josephine Brewer.”
His upper body moved in the hint of a bow before he replied. “Lieutenant Maxwell Davies.”
Chapter 3
“Max, so good of you to join us!”
Maxwell flinched at the booming sound of his brother’s voice, as Thaddeus crossed the room toward him with a bright smile. Of all the members of his family, his elder brother was the most understanding and accommodating following the injury that had sent him home from war in shame. Thaddeus went out of his way to inquire about Maxwell’s health, and had spared no expense bringing the very best physicians and surgeons in England to Hazelwood to tend him. However, at times he seemed a bit too attentive, and now proved one of these instances. Knowing that this house party would mark Maxwell’s first reappearance amongst polite society, Thaddeus would go out of his way to ensure he was enjoying himself and not being treated badly by anyone.
But he didn’t want Thaddeus following him about like a nursemaid. He wanted his brother to go away and leave him alone with the woman who had captivated him with her deep, dark eyes.
Josephine.
The name fit her. She stood no higher than his chest, with the curves of a sumptuous figure pressing at the confines of her attire. The heart-shaped faced he’d noticed from the window was even more alluring up close—wide, doe eyes framed with dark lashes, high, sloping cheekbones, and the fullest, lushest pair of lips he’d ever seen.
Upon entering the room, he had ignored the commotion caused by his appearance and sought her out. The reactions of his mother’s guests hadn’t shocked him in the least. He had expected the dropped jaws and not-so-discreet whispers. None of it would matter if the one person in this room who hadn’t known him before his injury proved different from the rest. To his satisfaction, she hadn’t flinched away from him, even as others gave him a wide berth while murmuring to their friends about the Davies’ broken son.
“I see you’ve met Miss Brewer,” Thaddeus continued, clapping a hand on Maxwell’s shoulder and giving him a little jostle. “And surely you remember her stepsister, Miss Burton?”
Maxwell didn’t want to pull his gaze away from Josephine, who continued to stare up at him in that unnerving way that made the surface of his skin tingle. Something stirred deep within him, like some long dead thing come back to life. It had been so long since anyone had looked at him the way she was doing—without the predictable wince that told him people saw him as half a man.
Still, a year cloistered away from polite society hadn’t made him forget common courtesy. He tore his attention from Josephine, though his awareness of her didn’t lessen in the slightest. He tried to smile as he greeted Violet, but found his mouth felt too tight to accomplish such a feat.
“Of course I remember,” he replied. “Miss Burton, it is good to see you again.”
He ought to make some banal comment about her appearance, but found he had no desire to search his mind for empty flatteries.
Violet’s smile for Maxwell held none of the warmth or charm he’d noticed when Thaddeus was the object of her attention, and her gaze dropped to his legs as she replied, “You are looking well, Lieutenant.”
Maxwell tightened his grip on the pearl handle of his walking stick, his jaw clenching until it ached. He reminded himself that all anyone would be thinking about this entire week was his damned leg. He’d known this before agreeing to attend, and ought to grow used to it. In time, he would learn to ignore it.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice clipped.
“Max, perhaps we should show the ladies about the gallery,” Thaddeus suggested. “They might find Father’s art collection interesting.”
Clinging to Thaddeus’ arms, Violet grinned, her countenance brightening. “Oh, we would love that ever so much. Wouldn’t we, Josephine?”
Maxwell noticed the dreamy-eyed look Thaddeus cast at the woman clutching his arm, and stifled a sigh. His mother and Mrs. Burton obviously had matchmaking on the mind this week, and if they had their way, a wedding would follow the New Year. It seemed Thaddeus had latched onto the bait, if the way he gazed upon Violet were any indication.
Not that it mattered to him which well-bred chit went on to become Thaddeus’ future countess. They were all the same—empty-headed, marriage-minded, and indistinguishable from one another.
Josephine’s soft voice cut through his thoughts, agreeing to join them in the gallery. For once, Maxwell decided to take Thaddeus up on his meddling. A reprieve from the crowded room was just what he needed, and it would give him a chance to speak to Josephine a bit more.
Though, what was he to say to her? He couldn’t very well confess that he’d been avoiding joining the guests until dinner, but the sight of her had changed his mind. Nor could he simply stand about drinking her in with his gaze, lest she think him a prime candidate for Bedlam.
Nevertheless, as Thaddeus and Violet led the way, he offered an arm to Josephine. She hesitated for only a moment before placing her hand in the crook of his elbow, and falling into step with him. He slowed his strides to compensate for her shorter legs, doing his best not to lean too heavily on his cane. Curious gazes followed them from the room, but Maxwell could hardly focus on them as the feel of Josephine’s hand on him caused another curious reaction.
He hadn’t been touched by a woman in over a year—at least, not any woman who wasn’t a nurse changing his dressings and bed linens. The light weight of her hand scorched him like hot steel, burning straight through the layers of his coat and shirtsleeve. It made him want to strip the garments away and hold those slender fingers against his chest so he could know what that same touch would feel like on his bare skin.
Maxwell gave his head a swift shake to clear it of such thoughts. It was the height of insanity for him to think of one of his mother’s guests this way. Especially since she was the stepsister of the woman Thaddeus might end up marrying someday. It was a complication he could not afford when his entire outlook for the future revolved around avoiding entangleme
nts. His home in Cornwall beckoned, reminding him of the solitary, peaceful life he would live once he left Hazelwood behind.
The gallery proved mostly empty, with only a handful of guests perusing the earl’s priceless art collection. Thaddeus shot Maxwell a questioning glance over his shoulder, silently inquiring whether he was all right. Maxwell gave his brother a curt nod, then turned to watch Josephine wander away from him to examine a portrait. As Thaddeus and Violet strolled to the opposite side of the wide hall, their voices lowered to a murmur, Maxwell approached Josephine. His gaze lingered on the soft chignon pinned at the back of her head, several springy coils fallen free. A few of the curls kissed the nape of her neck, which suddenly struck him as a most kissable patch of skin. Gripping his walking stick so hard he feared it might snap under the strain, he moved to stand beside her.
“This was my great-great-great-great-great grandfather, the first Earl of Windthorne.”
She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, the corners of her mouth turning up a bit. “That’s an awful lot of ‘greats’.”
His mouth twitched in the beginnings of a smile, though it never fully developed. “The Davies line is a long, illustrious one, as my parents are so fond of reminding everyone. But, you don’t want to spend your time in the gallery inspecting these old portraits. The best pieces are over here.”
He moved without offering her his arm, which she might interpret as rude, but Maxwell saw it as an act of self-preservation. If he let her touch him again, he would be tempted beyond the bounds of his restraint. As it was, he was having the devil of a time not coming up behind her, pulling her into his arms, and discovering just how she would feel pressed against him.
“Is that so?” she asked, catching up to him quickly and following him farther down the gallery.
He guided her toward the paintings his father had collected over the years. There were landscapes and watercolors, as well as the earl’s personal favorite—battle scenes. Within gilt frames hung romanticized tableaus of soldiers in red coats lifting sabers and charging with bayonets, powerful cavalry horses rising up on their hind legs with teeth bared, and flags and banners waving in the backgrounds.
Since he’d seen these pieces hundreds of times, he took the opportunity to study Josephine, her plush lips parting. Another one of those stray curls rested against her temple, calling attention to the shell of one delicate ear. There was something sprite-like about her, as if she had been born of green grass and brightly blooming flowers. He became overwhelmed with the desire to bury his face in her neck and discover whether she smelled as much like springtime as she looked.
“They’re breathtaking,” she murmured, inching closer to a particular favorite of the earl’s.
“They are falsely romanticized,” he remarked before he could think better of it. “The representation of war is hardly ever as true as the real thing.”
He cursed himself for speaking without restraint when she turned to gaze at him as if startled. Apparently, one year locked away had eroded his capacity for light conversation.
“Yes,” she replied. “I imagine you’d know that better than anyone.”
He expected her gaze to shift to his leg—as it inevitably did whenever Maxwell made mention of anything having to do with war to another person—but she never looked away from his face, and he found nothing in the depths of her eyes except for compassion and genuine curiosity.
“I apologize,” he said quickly. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Why not? It is the truth, is it not? I assume you would know better than the men who executed these paintings.”
“It isn’t nearly as pretty as the art makes it out to be, but I suppose it’s better this way,” he replied, gesturing toward one of the paintings. “Most people do not want to know the truth of what war is really like. They’d rather hold on to their images of gallant men in red coats, so they do not have to confront the reality that those men seldom return home the same as when they left.”
God, what was he saying? What was he doing? This woman had not come here to be subjected to the dark musings of a broken soldier. She certainly didn’t seem like the sort to have a stomach for the stories he could tell her. Despite her heritage being similar to those of many servants he’d encountered over the years, she had the appearance of a gently bred lady, as well as the speech and mannerisms of one. Of course she would not want to hear about the disastrous battle that had claimed countless lives and left him a crippled, hollow shell.
“I think I would prefer the truth, no matter how difficult it would be to hear,” she said. “The men who laid down their lives would deserve no less.”
Some unseen thing reached out to snare him just them, propelling him a step toward her, then another. Propriety be damned, he stood seconds away from hauling her against him and kissing her senseless. He hadn’t been struck with such heady desire since his days as a young, new soldier making his way through whores and camp followers with reckless abandon.
Thankfully, the approach of Josephine’s stepmother broke through the haze that had descended over him, blotting out all good sense.
“Josephine, Violet, come. I’ve been informed that our room has been readied for us, so we ought to go change into more suitable attire. Oh, good afternoon, Lieutenant Davies. You are looking well.”
Maxwell’s mouth drew tight as he turned to face the woman, noticing the way her disdainful stare fell upon Josephine. She looked as if she’d just swallowed something rancid, or as if Josephine gave off some offending odor.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Burton,” he replied, as Thaddeus and Violet joined their little group.
“I hope you don’t mind that we pulled the ladies away from the drawing room,” Thaddeus said. “But we thought they might enjoy a closer look at the art collection.”
Mrs. Burton’s face brightened in an instant, her annoyance with her stepdaughter momentarily forgotten. “Oh, it is no trouble, my lord. My Violet has a healthy appreciation for art.”
Maxwell heaved a disdainful snort. He would wager that nothing Thaddeus desired when it came to Violet would be any trouble to the odious woman. If his brother wanted to have the chit served up naked on a silver platter, Mrs. Burton would have allowed it in order to secure the union she and the countess so desperately longed for.
Thaddeus’ elbow nudged his ribs, reminding him that it wasn’t polite to scoff aloud in front of their guests. Maxwell nudged him back to remind his brother that he had no care for the sensibilities of people like Adelaide Burton.
“If you will excuse us,” Mrs. Burton said. “We must take some time to refresh ourselves. But, we look forward to seeing you both at dinner this evening.”
This she said while looking at Thaddeus and completely ignoring Maxwell, which he took to mean that she wouldn’t give a damn if he fell off the face of the Earth between now and then.
“Until this evening.” Thaddeus bowed to the ladies as Mrs. Burton collected her daughters and guided them toward the front staircase.
Maxwell watched them go—or rather, watched Josephine—hypnotized by the sway of her skirts about her legs and the natural grace of her stride. Thaddeus’ hand came to his shoulder again, steering Maxwell back toward the drawing room.
“Are you up for a bit more mingling? Father will be glad to know you’ve made the effort.”
No, he wanted to say. I do not want to speak to any of the insufferable people in that room.
Instead, he merely nodded and allowed his brother to guide him back to the room overflowing with their guests for the next week. For the rest of the afternoon he tried, without much success, to turn his mind away from the mysterious woman who had held his gaze longer than anyone had since his injury.
Chapter 4
“Tell me everything,” Adelaide demanded the moment they were ushered into their suite of two bedchambers.
Violet moved on swift, silent feet to the door connecting the room she and Josephine would share and closed it. There
were still maids working to unpack Adelaide’s belongings in the room she would have to herself, and they didn’t need servants listening in.
Josephine started as she realized her stepmother had addressed her instead of Violet. She would have thought the woman would rather hear about how things had gone with Lord Davies, but she was looking at Josephine with a heavy measure of suspicion in her eyes.
“It was as Lord Davies said,” she replied, fighting to keep her voice level. “He and Lieutenant Davies invited Violet and I to visit the gallery with them.”
Adelaide’s eyes narrowed, and she advanced on Josephine, her nostrils flaring like a bloodhound on the scent. “There was more to it, I know there was. I saw the way the lieutenant was looking at you. What did you say to him?”
Josephine squared her shoulders and fought the urge to back away from her stepmother. She refused to cower in the face of the woman’s abuse. She’d done that far too often in her youth, and had since learned that standing strong in the face of Adelaide’s wrath did her more good than harm.
“He introduced himself to me. It wasn’t exactly proper but I did not wish to be rude. Then, Lord Davies and Violet approached, and that was when the tour of the gallery was proposed.”
“Mother, it was all very proper,” Violet interjected, sinking onto the bench before the vanity. “And quite diverting, I must say. Lord Davies has a passion for art. I do think it just another thing that makes us so well matched.”
“You will remain silent,” Adelaide snapped before addressing Josephine again. “The two of you were alone on your side of the gallery, talking in hushed tones. What did you speak of?”
Josephine curled her hands in her skirts to keep from reaching out to throttle the woman. Every action she’d ever taken for as long as she could remember had been met with scorn and suspicion. She’d been a thorn in Adelaide’s side since birth, a burden she’d never wished to be saddled with. And she never ceased reminding Josephine of this with every harsh word and derisive glance.
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