The following morning, Juliet met with her solicitor and went over her accounts.
Young Mr. Sternham stood on the opposite side of her desk, his gloved hands clasped in front of the brown suit hanging on his boney frame. Like his father, the elder party of Sternham & Son, he wore a monocle, pinched beneath a lowered wiry gray brow and a lifted cheek that caused an arc of wrinkles from one side of his nose to his jaw. The fact that she’d never seen either gentleman without his eyepiece made her wonder if it was fastened upon birth. Though, regardless of the origin, that large monocled eye was now staring at her with undisguised impatience.
“I am nearly finished, Mr. Sternham,” she said with an apologetic smile. She preferred to check the books herself and keep a close watch over her spending. Even though she had an immense fortune, she could never forget her father’s inadvertent lesson to her—that poor decisions are often the result of desperation.
Unfortunately, she was not wholly able to concentrate on numbers. Not since last night. Neither she nor Max had returned to the concert. Instead, Max had driven her home, holding her close in the dark interior of the carriage. There was something simple and intimate about leaning against him, her head resting upon his shoulder.
The wonder she felt in that moment still lingered with her today. Likely that was the reason her gaze kept veering to every M on the page, her eyes seeing Max everywhere.
Max’s Millinery Shop—straw hat, ribbon, gloves
Smythe’s Florists—Max, Fern, and Gypsophila
Draber’s Confectionary—Max
In fact, she had to blink several times to see what was actually there.
Merlin’s Millinery Shop—straw hat, ribbon, gloves
Smythe’s Florists—Myrtle, Fern, and Gypsophila
Draber’s Confectionary—Macaroons
Perhaps she required a monocle too.
After another minute or so, she reluctantly gave up the effort and closed the ledger. Instead of adding up the column with her solicitor waiting, she simply handed it over to him, thanked him for his patience, and stated that she would come to his office on the morrow. She hoped her thoughts would be in the right place by then, yet she had her doubts.
She couldn’t stop thinking about Max, wondering what he was doing and if he was thinking of her. Pathetic, really.
Her stomach fluttered continuously, as if she’d swallowed a hummingbird that was trying to escape. Her heart vacillated from a quick, light cadence to an irregular, anxious, and wary rhythm. And worst of all, she caught herself sighing—sighing, for heaven’s sake—at regular intervals, as if she were on a schedule.
This morning, Zinnia had asked if she was coming down with a fever.
Readily denying it, Juliet had assured her that all was well, even though it embarrassed her to no end. Her only consolation was that she could blame Max for this too.
Nonetheless, as Zinnia left to pay a call on Marjorie, she had decided to stop by the apothecary to see if he had a powder to aid Juliet’s breathing.
Now that Zinnia was gone and the solicitor was gone, Juliet had far too much time on her hands.
“Have any missives or packages arrived, Mr. Wick?” she asked as she stepped into the foyer.
“No more since a quarter hour ago, my lady.” The butler’s stately expression remained unchanged, aside from the slight lift of his brows as he glanced down to the empty salver on the rosewood table. “If there is an order you are expecting, I could send for a messenger.”
“Thank you, no. That is not necessary, just a mere curiosity.” Juliet fought a cringe, feeling as if she’d gone to Bedlam. “However, if anyone calls, I shall be in the parlor.”
Mr. Wick cleared his throat. “Forgive me, my lady, but I was under the impression that you were not at home for callers on Thursdays.”
“Oh, is today Thursday? Well, then, that explains it. I’m never quite myself on Thursdays,” she said with a short laugh and wondered if she should feign a dizzy spell for better effect.
Thankfully, she was saved that decision when three sharp knocks rapped on the door. Mr. Wick turned to answer it.
“Delivery, sir,” a boy wearing a carmine felt cap said, lifting a rectangular package wrapped in brown paper with both hands.
Juliet felt a smile tug at her lips as hopeful expectation soared through her. She wasn’t expecting any deliveries, and from what she knew, Zinnia wasn’t either. But since a similar instance had happened twice before, she could not help but wonder if this might be for her.
It seemed to take forever for Mr. Wick to check the card attached and turn around. All the while, Juliet held her breath.
Then, at last, Mr. Wick inclined his head and stepped toward her. “For you, my lady.”
The plain white card with the familiar scrawl greeted her as she grasped the edges of what felt like a shallow box. It was quite light, as if it contained no more than air, and she would be just as content as if that were all that lay inside.
“Thank you, Mr. Wick,” she said, breathless, ready to rush into the parlor to open it.
That goal altered suddenly when Mr. Wick turned back around to pay the lad. That was when she discovered that the boy was no longer the only one standing on the other side of the threshold.
Max lifted a gray John Bull from his head, his unerring gaze pinning her in place before he looked to Mr. Wick. “Is Mrs. Harwick here by any chance? I was informed that my mother was paying a call on Lady Cosgrove this morning.”
“My apologies, Lord Thayne. I’m afraid that Lady Cosgrove left a short time ago in order to—I believe—pay a call on Mrs. Harwick,” Mr. Wick said, a puzzled inflection to his tone. Poor Mr. Wick. He was likely to believe that everyone became out of sorts on Thursdays.
Max clucked his tongue in regret. “I must have misunderstood. My thoughts have been somewhat distracted of late. The only thing I seem to recall is that Lady Granworth is not at home on Thursdays, so I suppose I shall have to return from whence I came. Good day, Mr. Wick.”
Astounded, Juliet watched Max turn without even sparing her another glance. She was torn between outrage and laughter. How dare he come all this way, see her standing not four steps from him, and not even ask to see her! And yet, she had the distinct impression that he had not come here for his mother, especially when he had never done so before.
“Mr. Wick, you may inform Lord Thayne that I am, presently, at home,” Juliet said, speaking loudly enough to call attention to Max, who then glanced over his shoulder with a smirk on his lips. “Unless, of course, he has a more pressing engagement.”
She turned away, not waiting for his response.
Inside the parlor, Juliet closed her eyes and did her best to quiet the thrumming of her pulse. She clutched the package to her breast and told herself that it was foolish to react this way simply because Max was here. He’d escorted his mother here on several occasions this Season.
Then it occurred to her that this was the first time he had come alone and, presumably, to see her.
Happy—simply for the sake of being happy, she supposed—she crossed the room, sat on the settee, and placed the unopened package on the table, the card beaming up at her.
Mr. Wick appeared at the door, somewhat befuddled. “Lord Thayne to see you, my lady.”
Then Max emerged, his hat and gloves absent, his dark hair slightly mussed and curling at the peak of his forehead in the shape of an apostrophe. He bowed, his gaze never leaving her, not even to shield the blatant passion burning in his eyes.
“Thank you, Mr. Wick. That will be all,” she said, hoping the tremble in her voice was not detected.
The butler left without a care, while Max, on the other hand, seemed to study her even more closely.
“How good of you to see me,” he said, taking the chair opposite her. “You are looking quite well. Far better than the impression Lady Cosgrove gave.”
Ah, so he had known she was here alone. “And what did she say, mere moments ago when she came to call on your mother?”
He grinned unabashedly. “That you were near death’s door, likely stricken with a fever, a breathing ailment, thoughts adrift, unable to focus on a single task . . . ”
“She did not.” At least, Juliet didn’t think it sounded like Zinnia to reveal so much.
“Then perhaps those are my ailments alone,” he said with an absent shrug, as if he hadn’t revealed something so monumental that it stole her breath.
“I am in perfect health at the moment,” she proclaimed, simply because it pleased her to contradict him.
He sat forward, elbows on his knees, fingertips pressed together. “Are you certain? Because I do see a package on the table, and you seem to have forgotten all about it.”
She suppressed a smile. “It would be rude of me to open it with you present.”
“Why? Afraid it is from an admirer and that the contents might be of an intimate nature?”
Her own curiosity spiked, her flesh tingling and drawing taut. Could that be the reason Max had come this way, precisely when the package was delivered? Did he want to witness her discovering the contents?
Unable to resist the challenge of drawing out the suspense, she reached out and brushed her fingertips over the string. “There is no way of knowing. This very thing has happened twice before, and the card was not signed.”
“Hmm . . . So there is no telling who the sender is or what could be inside.”
“None at all.” She withdrew her hand and clasped it in her lap.
Max narrowed his eyes. “And you aren’t the least bit curious?”
“Me? You know that I would never reveal such a shortcoming in my character. Since it is you, however,” she whispered, “I will tell you a secret. If curiosity were a rash, I would be covered in spots from head to toe.”
He gritted his teeth but smiled at the same time. “Then open the blasted package.”
“You would not mind?”
“I insist.”
Lifting the package to her lap, she tugged on the string, her heart beating madly beneath her breast. As always, she took her time in parting the paper, savoring the moment, and . . . just perhaps prolonging the torment of her audience on purpose.
At last, she reached the box. Then, lifting the lid, she discovered what lay within the blue felt lining.
Her breath stalled in her throat.
“The door of a birdcage.” In fact, she would guess that it was one of the doors from Lady Falksworth’s aviary, as it looked the same, with slim metal bars painted white and curled at the corners for decoration.
“And now it is always open,” Max said, his hushed tone proclaiming his sincerity and something more.
She laid her hand over it, tenderly, as one would touch a priceless treasure. Unlike the two gifts that had come before it, this was not meant to incite either her ire or her amusement. It was far more tender in sentiment and something only Max could have given her. Because only Max knew her intimately. He had been her friend, her enemy, and then her lover. And now, even though she wasn’t sure what they were any longer, she was certain of one thing. She was falling in love with him.
The sudden realization terrified her.
Looking to Max and seeing the tenderness in his gaze only made matters worse. Before now, the only man she’d ever thought she loved had been his brother, Bram. The result of that experience had left her defenseless.
With Max, she shared a history, a deeper connection that was more than smiles and flirtations. Somehow, she knew that loving him would be worse when it ended. Catastrophic, in fact. After all, he needed a wife before he left for Lancashire, while she . . . did not need or want a husband. She enjoyed her new life of independence. Loving Max put that in jeopardy. He was the type of man who would want everything she could give.
Slipping the box to the cushion beside her, she stood, her gaze darting to the window and then to the door.
Max stood too, his brow furrowed in concern. “Are you unwell?”
She shook her head, trying to hold on to her composure, even as she began searching for her fan, crossing the room to the milieu table and opening the drawer. “Just a trifle warm. There doesn’t seem to be enough air in the room.”
Of course, she could be worried for no reason at all. It was entirely possible that nothing would change between them. But even as the thought formed in her mind, she knew it wasn’t possible. Max was looking for a wife and maybe even thinking that she would be willing. Oh, she hoped not. She hoped he knew her better than that.
Max came up behind her, a comforting presence at her back, his hands tenderly skimming down the length of her arms. “But your skin feels cool.”
“Does it?” She closed her eyes, relishing the feel of his hands on her and wanting to lean back against him so badly that it nearly caused her pain not to do so.
“I do not think you are overly warm. In fact, I think the gift upset you. If that is true, then I will remove it at once.”
“The gift was perfect.” As of yet, he had not admitted to sending it, but she no longer wanted to keep up this pretense between them. “You understand me better than anyone.”
And because it seemed like a need she could not control, she turned in his arms and kissed him.
The touch of her lips released a whirlwind of hope and desire inside Max. Everything between them was finally coming together. Not pressing his suit seemed to be working. If this was his reward, he would give her all the time she needed, even if waiting went against every instinct to claim her as his own. He wanted the entire world to know that she was his at last.
He wasn’t going to risk losing her a second time.
Breathless, she pulled back from the kiss, her hands poised against his chest. “What do you want of me, Max?”
He could see the panic in her expression. And while he liked that they were always straightforward with each other, he knew it was still too soon to tell her the truth—that he wanted all of her and for each and every moment, for the rest of his life. “Only what you are willing to give.”
His answer seemed to soothe her fears, because she twined her arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his again. This time, her kiss was eager, searching, and fervent, almost desperate, as if she needed something more from him. Assurance? Clarity? He wasn’t sure. So he gave her everything he could in that moment.
Knowing exactly how she liked to be kissed, he grazed her mouth with his and ever so slightly nipped her with his teeth in the way that always made her tremble. She clung harder to him, parting her lips on a soft moan. And he lost himself in that sound, that admission of intimacy not even she could conceal. He walked her backward so they were shielded behind the open door.
Like days before, they wound up against the wall, ardently kissing and groping. Her hands slipped beneath his coat and down his back. She surprised him by gripping his arse and pulling him closer, her body welcoming the thrust of his hard flesh against her. Through the yellow muslin, he palmed her breast, worrying his thumb in circles over the pert tip. She gasped into his mouth and reached between them to the fall of his trousers.
But just then, he heard the sounds of a door opening, followed by Mr. Wick’s voice as he greeted Lady Cosgrove in the foyer.
Max stayed her hands. “Your cousin has returned.”
Juliet blinked, her eyes going wide, her gaze darting around as if only now coming to the realization that they were standing in her cousin’s parlor. “Quick. You must pretend you were just leaving.”
He laughed, looking down at the blatant evidence of his arousal. “I will need a moment or two.”
“Oh dear.” Her wispy golden brows lifted, and a small puff of air left her swollen lips. “You will need to carry something in front of you. Something quite large.”
He grinned. “I could carry you out of here and solve two problems at once.”
Her gaze lifted to his, lingered, and for an instant she appeared to give the thought consideration. But then, alas, she shook her head. “It would create more problems than it would solve. Here.” She reached for her fan and opened it with a snap. “No. That won’t do. We need something larger. Perhaps you could pick up a chair and pretend you are moving it about the room.”
Knowing they were running out of time, Max took her hand and led her back to the settee before sitting in the chair across from her. He dared to press one kiss upon her cheek. “You may want to open your fan, for you are displaying a lovely shade of pink above your breasts and along your throat.”
No sooner had Juliet opened her fan than her cousin walked into the room.
“Good morning, Lord Thayne, Juliet.”
They returned the greeting as if it were typical to encounter them alone in the parlor. Max supposed they were fortunate that Lady Cosgrove appeared distracted, her hands worrying the knot of her reticule.
“I am glad you are both here for I have some news. Your brother,” she said to Max, “the Marquess of Engle, has just returned to London.”
Instantly, Max looked to Juliet to read her expression. Her gaze darted to his and then quickly away, as if to conceal her reaction. He did not want to think about why the mention of his brother’s name would make her do so.
He swallowed. “That is excellent news.”
“Not entirely,” Lady Cosgrove added with downcast eyes and a sorrowful shake of her head. “It is with my deepest regrets to also inform you that your sister-in-law, the Marchioness of Engle, has died.”
Juliet covered her gasp with her fingertips. “That is dreadful news. Oh, Max, I am so sorry. Please extend my deepest regrets to your mother and to Bram.”
Bram. She still referred to him by his given name, as if there were still a familiar sentiment between them. Now, his brother was a widower. And Max was suddenly wishing he’d carried Juliet out of here when he had the chance.