Lady Vice (13 page)

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 chance?” 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.

“Thank you for coming…and the duke as well. We—we should go in. I’ve left Sophia alone with the duke and duchess.”

“Before you recover your sense of propriety, let me hold you a moment longer.”

She should protest, but—
Thud. Thud. Thud
. Through his fine lawn shirt, his heartbeat crooned her to stillness. She gave herself over to the strength in his arms. Her sigh stretched from their childhood and then through their separation to his heart’s captivating song.

“The Coroner’s Court,” he said, “has come to a verdict.”

She pulled back. “Oh?”

“Willful murder by person or persons unknown.”

A breaking wave of relief splashed and foamed, leaving her breathless and blinking with surprise. “You cannot be serious.”

“Would I lie about a thing like that?”

“Never. But I—”

He kissed her again…kissed her until she was a quivering mess, a castaway washed up onto a shore of his making.

“There’s still a chance the magistrate could name me as the ‘person unknown’,” she started.

“Yes, but
less
of a chance.” He captured her lips again. “There is a matter of the gun that killed Vaile—there is an oddity about the ball.”

She frowned. “You know that is not enough to clear me.”

His eyes held a knowing look. “We must begin with what we have, and an answer will follow.”

She sighed. If only she could believe.

His thumb drifted in sensual circles on the back of her neck. In the giddy aftermath of fear, she wanted nothing more than to spend the day curled against him—breathing the same air, sharing the same heat.

How shocking an image. And how perfectly right.

She could not deny her love, but the way forward remained shrouded. Was she ready to grant him her full trust? If yes, what could she offer him other than herself and ruin? Thea and Sophia had been horrified when she’d said she’d be Max’s mistress.

“Lavinia?” Sophia’s voice seemed conjured by her thought.

“We’re coming,” Lavinia answered reluctantly, still entranced. “We must go,” she forced. “We can no longer act as selfish children.”

He drew his fingers over her lips, grinning wickedly. “I’m afraid my thoughts aren’t at all childish.”

His tone induced shivering wetness.

“We cannot linger,” she said sternly.

“Very well.” He steadied her elbow as she righted herself. “But we will be together.”

A command, not a question. Her breath snagged at the purposeful edict in his voice. Heat suffused her cheeks. She pivoted on her heel and moved to the fireplace mirror. She twisted her hair into a simple knot as he slid behind her.

“Allow me to help.” He picked the pins from the mantle, securing her knot, one slide at a time.

“Tight and without pulling.” She met his eyes in the glass. “Maggie would be impressed.”

“Why, thank you.” He placed his hand above her waist, just under her lifted arm, and held her gaze as he kissed her neck. “We are doing this backward, you know.”

“Backward?”

“I’d like nothing better than to be removing these,” He touched a pin as his voice went husky and hoarse, “in preparation for bed.”

“Yes.” Another rush of wetness. She turned in his arms, placing her hands on his shoulders. “For now, however, we must be presentable.”

She ran her fingers through his hair and frowned.

“There is no hope for my appearance,” he said.

“So little faith.” She twisted a decorative bow, snapping the ribbon off the base of her stomacher. Using the ribbon, she tied back his hair. With a wifely sigh, she adjusted the simple knot of his cravat.

“Better,” she announced, glancing up.

There was fire in his eyes—a burning fascination.

“Ah, Max. What if I cannot give you all you seek?”

“I do not seek.” His voice was as serene as still water reflecting a cloudless sky. “I see.” He cupped her face. “Ask me what I see.”

“What do you see?” she asked, suddenly breathless.

“So much…” He nipped at her lower lip, a light kiss saturated with reverence. “Us. Our future. Children.”

Her chest knotted. “Now is all I have.”

A ray of light disappeared as a cloud darkened the window. Softly, he pressed his lips against her brow.