‘No need. I brought every decent gown I own and...’ His words finally permeated her brain. ‘Did Eleanor not tell you she invited me to stay?’
His mouth settled in irritated flat line. ‘She neglected to apprise me of that fact. I wonder why?’
Effie did not need to wonder, but now felt hideously embarrassed to be put in the awkward position of defending herself and Eleanor—who was only being practical.
‘She insisted. She believed you would need me here...to be your constant shadow in case you were put on the spot.’ She watched his jaw clench and his dark eyes harden. ‘If it is a problem, I can just as easily take it all back home...’ She instinctively turned towards the carriage in time to see the last of her baggage disappearing towards the house with the butler marching behind it.
‘Smithson!’
The butler halted at Max’s bellow, then swiftly changed direction. ‘Yes, my lord?’
‘What were my sister’s precise instructions regarding Effie’s luggage?’ His arms were folded, one booted foot tapping impatiently.
‘To take the artefacts and documents directly to the study and her trunks to the Rose bedchamber, my lord.’
‘And when were you given this instruction?’
‘Several hours ago, my lord. Just after we dispatched the carriage to fetch Miss Effie.’
‘I thought as much.’ He huffed out a sigh of complete disgust. ‘Kindly show Miss Effie to her room, would you, Smithson?’ Then he stalked towards the house without so much as a backwards glance.
* * *
Max was going to murder his blasted sister! And he’d enjoy doing it! Despite having strict orders not to interfere, she hadn’t been able to stop herself. Now Effie was ensconced in a bedchamber just across the landing from him in the family wing and would be playing the part of his fiancée for the duration!
Utter torture and not a damn thing he could do about it.
With a growl he tossed his second ruined cravat aside and snapped open a third, because to compound his misery she had also insisted dinner was a formal affair, ostensibly to impress the stuffy antiquarians, but he was now of the firm belief it was also to parade Effie in front of him in a beautiful gown in the hope temptation would spur him into acting.
Well, the joke was on Eleanor because Max would be tempted if she was wearing a blasted sack, but he’d already acted and wasn’t about to risk acting again under any circumstance, so she could have saved them all the trouble! Once bitten, twice shy.
And devastated at the result.
How the hell was he supposed to sleep knowing she was just across the hall? And in the Rose bedchamber, no less. The one which he presumed his uncle’s wife had used when she was alive because it was the feminine mirror image of his. The one his sister had been using since her arrival, but had suddenly vacated out of the goodness of her manipulative heart. No wonder his sibling had gone to ground. She knew damn well he’d be fuming!
Keelhauling was too good for Eleanor! Walking the plank was too good for Eleanor! She had gone too far this time! As soon as these three dreadful days were over with, he was sending the manipulative meddler back to London with the biggest flea in her ear and banning her from returning for at least a month! It was predominantly her fault he felt so awkward in his own skin. Hers and the gawping antiquarians. And the smitten Sir Percival, whom he did not trust to not flirt with Effie despite her being fictitiously betrothed to him. Max wasn’t entirely sure he could cope with anyone flirting with her in his presence, let alone an eccentrically charming, similarly scholarly and as passionate an antiquarian as Sir Percival Egerton. Even if he was exceedingly short and round.
Although, apparently, being short and round did not prevent Sir Percival from wooing and he’d said as much.
‘Too bad she’s all yours, old chap, else I’d be after her like a shot.’
And no doubt he would be, too, once the truth came out or if Effie was similarly tempted. They were, intellectually speaking, basically two peas in a pod.
But if she was tempted by a man six inches shorter than her and as round as a cricket ball, would she be so easily repelled by a few scars? Scars which had healed and were never going to get any better. He glanced at the covered mirror still embedded in the wall and seriously considered taking a quick peek at his reflection to see if he might pass muster.
Perhaps if he only glanced at himself in profile it wouldn’t make him queasy? Just to check his cravat was tied correctly and he didn’t look ridiculous in the bronze-silk waistcoat his meddlesome sister had laid out in the absence of a valet. Because Max could not bear the thought of showing the full extent of his hideousness to another—even if that other was a servant paid to suffer it.
Gingerly, he walked towards the mirror and making sure he was stood with his right side to the wall, he moved just the edge of the sheet to one side. The waistcoat wasn’t too bad and his cravat was straight if a little boringly tied. The black coat his sister had also selected fitted well around the shoulders.
So far so good. And probably best if he left it there.
Except for some reason he couldn’t.
He let his eyes move upwards.
Good grief, his hair had got long! So long it practically touched his lapels. And since when had it decided to curl? As there was no way he could envisage facing anyone without it to hide behind, he supposed it wasn’t too bad. It wasn’t as if he could grow a beard instead. Thanks to the burns, he no longer needed to shave the ruined side of his face and half a beard would be both pointless as well as ridiculous.
He risked tilting his chin slightly and was amazed the pasty invalid he had come to expect was no longer present. Thanks to all the digging he had a tan. Not as deep and as brown as his skin was prone to turn in the hot sun of the Caribbean or during the summer heat around the horn of Africa, but the good side of his face was golden and it looked healthy enough. And he didn’t feel sick at the sight of it.
Yet.
Perhaps he should risk a proper look? See if Eleanor was right and the damage wasn’t entirely hideous. Perhaps if he learned to accept himself as he was, a bit of his old self-confidence would return and then maybe...
And perhaps he was simply just chasing windmills and should leave well alone. He pulled the sheet back down, but stayed where he was. Then practically jumped guiltily out of his skin when Smithson rapped on the door.
‘Mrs Baxter has sent me to remind you that, as the host, you are expected downstairs immediately to be there to greet your guests as they arrive. Which would be in five minutes, my lord, so you are in grave danger of being late.’
Max had forgotten he was the host. Like so many things, he was grossly out of practice with social etiquette and dreading this meal because he couldn’t escape it. He used to be a charming and much sought-after dinner companion, so he supposed the skill must still be there somewhere. Buried deep inside and probably in dire need of an airing, but he would attempt to locate it for Effie even if he was still furious at his sister.
* * *
He found Eleanor in the drawing room, thankfully alone. ‘What the hell do you think you are playing at?’
‘I am sure I do not know what you mean?’
‘Inviting Effie to stay? Putting her in the Rose room? Making her my fiancée was one thing—I was prepared to give you the benefit of the doubt on that one—but the rest smacks of blatant matchmaking when I warned you not to interfere!’
She gave him a withering glance and then rolled her eyes. ‘Inviting her to stay was basic common sense and you might as well know I’ve told her to be your shadow for the duration, too, Max, as leaving you alone with those men is bound to be problematic.’ It galled that she had a point. ‘And as for the Rose room, surely, as your fiancée, it would be expected she be given a room to reflect her new status in the household?’
‘I doubt the antiquarians will w
aste their time wondering which room she is sleeping in.’
‘Then you underestimate Sir Percival.’ Not what Max wanted to hear. Her voice dropped to a whisper as they heard the distant sounds of movement beyond the door. ‘Surely you noticed the passionate glint in his eye when he first saw Effie?’ He had and he didn’t like it. ‘I shall be keeping my beady eye on him and reminding him she is spoken for.’
‘Thanks to your interference. Make sure that is the last of it, too.’
‘As if I shall have the time! I knew I should have readied the room and the house for guests before they arrived. Thanks to you, I am chasing my tail. It is a miracle I have managed to pull together a proper dinner for this evening. Make sure you keep them all thoroughly occupied tomorrow. We do not want any of them seeing the butcher, the baker and the candlestick maker traipsing into the house with emergency supplies. I am expecting you all to leave promptly after breakfast and not to return until at least luncheon.’
Then she turned on her heel and sailed to the door in time for Lord Denby and his snivelling crony, Lord Whittlesey, to walk through it. ‘Gentlemen! I trust your accommodations are to your satisfaction...’
Max put himself in charge of dishing out the drinks, much to Smithson’s blatant consternation, to ease himself into hosting, keeping one eye on the door for Effie. Sir Percival entered next and made straight towards him.
‘I have been reading your essay again, Rivenhall, and it has thrown up so many questions.’ Oh, dear. ‘For example, how can you be entirely sure the bracelet in particular predates the Romans rather than be something from a later period? Only some medieval jewellery is sometimes impressively ornate.’
‘When you see it after dinner, I am certain it will alleviate any doubts.’ A fudged answer, but the best he could manage on his own. ‘And if that doesn’t convince you, the shield we found last week will.’
‘A shield, you say? A partial?’
‘Intact. Solid bronze and really quite magnificent.’
‘Oh, you are a tease, old chap! How am I supposed to compose myself at dinner when I’m as excited as a...?’ He paused mid-sentence and suddenly gaped over Max’s shoulder, the ancient shield clearly forgotten. ‘I say!’
Max followed his dumbfounded gaze to Effie, who was a positive vision in red silk. So lovely it made his heart pound and his mouth go dry. Before he could reconnect his brain to his feet and move towards her, Sir Percival had wasted no time.
‘Miss Jones—how lovely you look.’ He bent low over her ungloved hand and kissed it.
That kiss galvanised Max into action and, imbued with the most peculiar and inescapably proprietary feeling, he went to claim her. Not caring, for once, what anyone thought but Sir Percival, who needed to learn she was most definitely not on the market.
Chapter Nineteen
Dig Day 802: no progress and, more worryingly, no plan...
‘Good evening, my darling. Don’t you look ravishing.’ A flirty Max was not something she had ever seen before, let alone experienced, and it completely scrambled her wits. Or perhaps that was simply the way her nerve endings danced when he lingered over kissing her hand, then curled it possessively around his arm. He anchored it in place with his warm palm as he escorted her into the room as if they were a real betrothed couple. It was such a solid arm, too, one which should have made her feel secure, when in fact it did anything but. He lent down to whisper in her ear and his warm breath sent tingles shooting down her neck, bouncing down her spine towards places which really had no place making their presence so apparently known in polite company. ‘Your earrings match for once. I am impressed.’
‘So do my shoes.’ Was that her voice? It sounded strange. Too squeaky. Too breathy. Obviously flustered. She quietly exhaled to try to slow her racing pulse. ‘Thanks to the maid Eleanor has assigned me, I even have proper hairpins.’
‘Which is sad, because I much prefer the pencil.’ He kept hold of her arm as they reached the others. ‘Gentlemen, may I introduce you again to my fiancée, Miss Effie Jones. The very best assistant a man could wish for.’ He squeezed her hand reassuringly as he said this and nearly all of her residual disappointment in him from the last week disappeared. He was attempting to give credit where credit was due as well as playing along with her charade. Nobody had ever done either before, for either the sake of her work or simply for her.
Lord Denby grimaced, or at least the half-hearted attempt at a polite smile when his eyes were so obviously not attempting the same came across as a grimace. ‘You draw very pretty sketches, Miss Jones.’
Pretty! She wanted to stamp on his sanctimonious foot. As if he sensed that, Max took charge. ‘I believe dinner is about to be served. Shall we?’
Miraculously, as if they had rehearsed it in advance, Smithson simultaneously opened the big double doors to welcome them all into the formal dining room. As the ranking peer, technically Lord Pompous should have walked through the big double doors first, but Max strode forward regardless, slanting her a heady glance which told her he had absolutely done it on purpose just for her when the disgruntled Marquess was forced to trail behind.
He solicitously escorted her to her chair and gave her hand a final squeeze of reassurance before he let go. Eleanor had done a splendid job of the table, which was fit for a royal banquet. The silver shone, the tall and ornate candelabra twinkled and there was a stunning arrangement of both flowers and fruits as a centrepiece which included a pineapple—the most expensive and rare of fruits. Lord only knew where she had found one on such short notice. Max was seated at one end, with Lord Denby and the mostly silent Lord Whittlesey, and she had been placed at the other flanked by the friendly faces of Sir Percival on one side and Max’s sister on the other.
As their host, Max made a toast welcoming them properly to Rivenhall on behalf of the both of them, which was another thoughtful touch, and then the soup was served.
‘Your fiancé was telling me you found a shield last week, Miss Jones?’
‘We did indeed, Sir Percival...’
‘Oh, do call me Percy. Sir Percival is such a mouthful.’
‘We should be delighted to drop the formalities, Percy. At least at this lowly end of the table. Please do call me Eleanor and this is Effie.’
‘We did indeed find a shield, Percy—well, Max did actually—and it is magnificent. I’ve searched through every research book and through all my back copies of Archaeologia and I cannot find any record of anything similar.’ She did her best to describe it while he listened intently, interrupting only with the most pertinent and sensible questions. It was obvious he was a true antiquarian in every sense of the word—knowledgeable, curious and with an enthusiasm which matched hers, but which seemed sadly lacking in the other two gentlemen from the society.
‘It has entirely altered our perception of the dwelling as it is so fine and so ceremonially decorative, I am becoming more convinced that we have stumbled upon the house of a tribal leader or an individual of great import. Max is convinced that person is also a woman because there have been several feminine items—like the bracelet alongside personal items like a comb and a rather delicate cloak pin.’
‘Really? How wonderful! A queen rather than a king. Your very own Boudicca.’
‘Obviously, it is too soon to be anything beyond speculation at this point, but certainly worth bearing in mind as we excavate the rest of the site. But the shield is breathtaking... I really cannot wait to show it to you.’
‘And I cannot wait to see it!’
‘Then why don’t the pair of you quickly pop out before the next course is served?’ Eleanor leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘I doubt the other gentlemen will notice as they seem thoroughly engrossed in their own conversation.’
Effie glanced down the table where they were indeed engrossed. As if he sensed her staring, Max’s eyes suddenly locked on hers and held for a moment, making her pulse
quicken, before he returned his concentration to Lord Pompous on his right. He was different tonight. Every inch the Earl. Commanding and confident and effortlessly in charge despite the superior and snooty peer sat beside him. ‘We can’t. Leaving would be rude...’ And it would leave Max entirely exposed exactly as Eleanor had warned.
‘It is only rude, Effie dear, if we are being very formal and we have already decided to eschew that here in the cheap seats. Five minutes will not hurt.’ She glanced at her brother, then back at Effie before nudging her in the arm. ‘Go. Everything is well in hand here. I shall make suitable excuses and have a footman fetch you before the fish arrives. I dare say we shall cope without you.’
‘Well, if you are sure...’ She stood, intending to slip out quietly, but as soon as she did, every other gentleman around the table immediately stood, too. Then Percy appeared behind her and pulled out her chair, then offered her his arm.
‘They will only be a moment.’ Eleanor waved their unconventional departure away and ushered them all to sit. ‘Tell me, Lord Denby, what kindled your interest in antiquity?’
Lord Pompous was only too pleased to answer, allowing the pair of them to leave without the slightest objection, but as Effie walked through the door on Percy’s pudgy arm, she could feel Max’s eyes boring into her back. She turned and there they were. Dark, intense and swirling with an emotion she could not decipher, but which thrilled her nevertheless.
* * *
‘Could it be part of a quernstone?’ Percy was running the flat of his hand over the fragment of obviously carved, curved sandstone she had pondered since she had dug it up a few days before she had found the pot and just a few scant inches from the hearth. He was in no hurry to leave the library despite the other two gentlemen being obviously ready to move on to the port because, thanks to Max, it was Effie who was holding court.
‘I suppose it could be...’ She stared at the object as he examined it, taking in the worn narrow grooves on the flat side. ‘It certainly has the look of something which could grind grain into flour... If it is, of course, it entirely contradicts Dio’s accounts of the tribal Celts as hunter-gathers.’
Redeeming The Reclusive Earl (HQR Historical) Page 18