The following day, Max rode to his solicitor’s office, hoping that business matters would keep his mind from wandering to Juliet. Yet he wasn’t holding out too much hope. Thus far, no distraction seemed to work.
After his visit with Markham, Max had returned home only to lie awake for half the night. He couldn’t stop thinking of her and recounting all the things he wished he could have done to clear away the anguish from her expression. Even reminding himself of the animosity between them had not aided him. And it was because she had revealed her feelings to him that made it impossible.
She’d been open to him, even welcoming his touch upon her cheek. She had not shied away or pretended indifference either but offered a rare glimpse into the heart that she usually concealed so well.
For years, he’d convinced himself that he’d conjured romantic notions that had no foundation, that he had made too much out of every look, laugh, and effortless conversation, believing that they had shared one mind. But after last night, he’d begun to believe once more.
And that was pure folly. Proof of that was the fact that he’d left Harwick House before dawn, walked to his townhouse, and then roamed those halls where memories—both painful and poignant—kept him company.
It wasn’t until he’d taken a good look at the man in the shaving mirror an hour ago that he realized an idiot stared back at him, and a familiar one at that. After all, he’d been here before, and he knew the inevitable outcome.
Juliet would sooner run—would even marry an old man she barely knew—before she would ever give Max a chance.
Leaping down from his horse onto the pavement outside his solicitor’s office, Max warned himself to put her firmly from his mind. His determination was even marked in the firm manner that he looped the reins to the post.
In the next instant, however, all his efforts fell asunder.
Lifting his head, he caught sight of Juliet exiting the bank a few doors down. Covered from neck to ankle, she wore a modest white pelisse, which was not the type of garment that evoked a man’s fantasies. And yet he was stirred all the same.
Perhaps it was the flash of red sarcenet, lining the underside, that made his pulse leap.
Why was he always so drawn to the barest glimpse of what lay beneath the surface with her? Even her white hat was trimmed in red silk on the underside. And all he could think about was stripping every bit of it away to discover what else he might find.
Here on the pavement, where dozens of people would bear witness, was certainly not the time to indulge in a foolish dream. Nonetheless, he found himself listing forward, prepared to take a step in her direction.
Thankfully, her tiger rushed around from the back of her carriage to open the door and lower the step. That red lining flashed once more as she gathered her skirts in preparation. Then, just before she slipped away, her hat tilted, and her gaze swiveled in his direction.
A smile graced her lips and held for seven full beats of his heart. In that time, he imagined striding up to her, hauling her into his arms, and lowering his mouth to hers to see if she tasted exactly how he remembered.
But then she was gone, nested inside the carriage, with the door closed behind her.
On a slow exhale, he reminded himself of the many times he’d watched her retreat. More than likely, it would happen again and again. And what Max needed was someone who would stay. What he needed was a wife. Therefore, it was time to turn his thoughts permanently away from Juliet and onto suitable candidates.
With that thought in mind, he pivoted on his heel and instantly collided with a passerby. The gangly man had his head bent in apparent study of the papers in his grasp.
“See here! Watch where you’re—” Lord Pembroke looked up at him with a glower, but then his eyes went round, the whites seeming to expand to three times their size as his irises shrank. Stumbling back, he lifted his free hand to his hat, clutching it with a boney hand. “Forgive me, Lord Thayne. Clearly I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going. I was just reading these documents about that”—he swallowed—“venture I mentioned to you . . . at Lord and Lady Simpkin’s.”
Max held up a hand, not wanting to listen to an entire recapitulation of prior events. “This is not a killing offense, Pembroke, so you may relax and simply be on your way.”
Surprisingly, Lord Pembroke listened and scurried off without another word. Max would have found the sudden exit out of character, or even strange, if he was not so grateful for it.
The sound of a chuckle from the doorway of Barnaby and Pluck drew his attention to North Bromley, the Duke of Vale, who met him on the pavement outside the solicitor’s office. “I see our friend attempted to sell you shares of a silver mine too, Thayne.”
They shared a smirk of exasperation. “What are the odds that he’s changed his conniving ways?”
When asked a mathematical question, Vale always took the matter seriously. Even now, his dark eyes sharpened, as if he could imagine a slate before him, a stick of chalk in his hand. “Factoring in the length of time he has been alive, and analyzing the portion of when we were all at school together, I’d say nine-tenths of one percent. However, if you were merely asking theoretically, then I would say none at all.”
Max agreed with a grin, a ready quip on his tongue. But then, the mention of calculations distracted him, suddenly reminding him of Vale’s Marriage Formula.
Last Christmas, Vale had developed an equation designed specifically to find an ideal match. He’d even tested it on himself and had married within days of meeting his bride for the first time. By all accounts, Vale and Ivy were truly perfect for each other, two halves of one whole.
And finding his own other half was exactly what Max needed in order to put Juliet far from his mind. “Since we are on the topic of mathematics, how fares your plans for opening a registry service for those wanting to use your Marriage Formula?”
Vale shook his head and tugged on the lapels of his coat. “Abandoned, I’m afraid. With my first child on the way and my fellowship with the Royal Society, establishing those registries no longer seems important.”
The news was disappointing. Yet Max was never one to give up without putting forth some sort of argument. “I’m certain there are many people who would benefit from it.”
Vale looked at him with interest, his dark eyes sharpening. “Are you one of the ‘many people’?”
“I have given it thought, yes,” Max admitted, always having believed in Vale’s concept from inception. In fact, he wondered why he hadn’t thought of asking Vale sooner. “As you know, I intend to leave for Lancashire at summer’s end. I would like to have the matter of a wife settled before I go.” And if there was anyone who would not balk at marrying in such a short amount of time, it was Vale, who’d married by special license.
“As I recall, you felt it was a matter of duty. Yet now, I sense urgency more than obligation.”
“The Season is nearly over, and I am running out of time.”
Vale nodded, his expression one of thoughtful scrutiny, as if he were gauging Max’s reaction. “And would it offend you to learn that I have already calculated your formula?”
“No, indeed, for I am most eager to learn the results.” Knowing Vale, this should not have surprised Max, but it did. He had to wonder why Vale wouldn’t have told him immediately.
Vale’s gaze veered to the pedestrians stepping past them, and he bowed his head absently in greeting as a low laugh escaped him. “I think not.”
“Truly, I cannot imagine any reason why I would not wish to know,” Max stated. “I have no qualms over marrying for lack of fortune, family connections, or even beauty. So there can be no name you could utter of which I would disapprove.”
When Vale arched a brow without speaking a word, Max suddenly understood why his friend had not told him the name. There could only be one reason, after all.
Because the formula had paired him with the single person whom the ton knew to be his bitterest enemy—Juliet.
Max clenched his teeth. “If that is true, then your equation is flawed.”
Vale merely shrugged, not taking offense. “Which is another reason why I have discontinued my endeavors regarding the marriage registry. It was Ivy who made me realize that I’d disregarded the most important of all factors—love. That deep, abiding emotion overshadows all the other criteria, rendering them meaningless.”
And Max knew better than anyone that Juliet could not give him love. Once upon a time, he had imagined that he could win her over, but no longer. He wanted more than mere glimpses.
A painful sense of longing pierced his heart. “Then I will simply find a suitable match on my own. There is always another way.”
Later that week, Juliet and Zinnia dined at Harwick House.
Juliet found that she was not only well enough to attend but eager. In the past few days, she’d had no more pink spells but had grown rather fond of her sworn enemy. And she even imagined that they were back to becoming the friends they once had been.
She sipped her wine contentedly. The dinner was pleasant and cozy, accompanied by the patter of rain over the copper awning outside the dining room window and the crackle of a low fire in the hearth. Max sat at the head of the table to her left, Marjorie to her right, and Zinnia across from her, providing a taste of the life she’d wanted upon her return to London.
“Maxwell has decided to become serious about finding a bride,” Marjorie said as the footmen brought in trays laden with capons, roasted potatoes, candied carrots, and also a fine aspic of pork and eggs.
All eyes fell on Max, waiting for confirmation. Juliet felt a sudden anxious rise in her pulse, though without cause. She already knew Max wanted to marry soon and had taunted him on several occasions because of it. At the moment, however, she could think of no suitable jest to cause him embarrassment.
“I had a recent conversation with Lord Ellery, who explained to me the logic of how hosting a party often brings to mind the ones, in particular, you wish to invite.” He looked pointedly at Juliet, making her wonder if he knew this had been her advice to Ellery. “Of course, it is a rather rudimentary notion . . . ” He let his words trail off as a smirk gave her the answer.
“And yet you still managed to understand the concept? Bravo, Max.” She saluted him with her glass. “Have you made the list for your party?”
“He wishes to have a ball instead,” Marjorie added, her tone shocked as she exchanged a glance with Zinnia. “As I said, he’s quite serious.”
The cozy, warm feeling Juliet had experienced only moments ago transformed into an unpleasant churning that made her wine taste bitter. She set her glass down, even while knowing that this sensation had nothing to do with her wine and everything to do with Max’s decision. When he married, it would change everything about their dinners.
What if he chose to marry an idiot, or a shrew who had no sense of humor? Or some self-absorbed cabbage whose idea of intelligent conversation began and ended with her most recent purchase at the milliner’s? If he made the wrong choice, these dinners would suddenly become a chore she would have to endure, rather than something she enjoyed.
“Actually, I have begun my list,” Max said. “It is surprising how clear everything becomes, once you set ink to paper. Several young women have shown themselves to be quite intelligent, possessing varied interests and pleasing conversation.”
Juliet clenched her fists in her lap but kept a congenial—if a bit strained—smile on her lips. “You failed to mention your requirement of one who relishes a good argument. Of all traits, surely that is on the top of your list.”
“I will reserve all of my arguments for Parliament and offer my bride a perfectly agreeable home life.”
And for some reason, hearing those words sparked Juliet’s ire. Or perhaps it was the smugness in his countenance, as if he were issuing some sort of challenge, that he would make the best husband and his marriage would be the happiest in all of England. Essentially, he was promising this to a woman he hadn’t even chosen, and—drat it all—Juliet might be the teensiest bit envious of her. Because if anyone was stubborn enough to make good on his promise and keep his wife happy all the days of her life, it was Max.
“Do you know I have never hosted a ball?” Marjorie asked, her question cutting through the sudden tension. “We’ve had parties and dinners aplenty, even with a bit of dancing in the parlor, but never a ball.”
Zinnia lifted her serviette from her lap and delicately touched the corner of her mouth. “A ball is so much effort. And our houses are similar in the way that, to truly have enough room for dancing, we would need to use the first-floor portrait gallery.”
“You are right, Zinnia. The gallery would be the only option, leaving room enough for a quintet in the adjoining hall.” Marjorie relaxed, reclining back in her chair. “That is a relief, as I’d feared I would be forced to demolish a wall, as Maxwell has done at his townhouse.”
Juliet’s throat closed, and she was thankful that she hadn’t taken another sip of wine or else she would have choked. “Demolished a wall?”
“Yes.” Max cut into his capon as if the matter were nothing of consequence.
“A ghastly sight, to be sure,” Marjorie said with a flip of her fingers in the air before she reached for her wine goblet. “I went to visit yesterday and saw the wreckage with my own eyes. Why, it is practically unlivable. I shudder to think how long it will take to finish.”
“Mother, are you purposely trying to pique Lady Granworth’s interest or unleash a tempest? As it is, dark clouds are forming above her head, and her stare is so cold that I am feeling chilled.”
Only then did Juliet realize her smile had slipped. Not only that, but the flesh around her eyes felt tight and tense. She hadn’t felt this exposed and under the glass since her marriage. Of course, during those years, she had never lost her composure. But leave it to Max to set her off kilter and then to be ungentlemanly enough to make note of it.
Drawing in a breath, she fixed an unruffled, pleasant expression in place once more.
“Of all people, she deserves to know what is happening with a property that could very well become hers in mere weeks,” Marjorie reminded.
“That outcome simply isn’t possible, as I am going to win the wager,” Max said with such certainty in his steady gaze that Juliet doubted her own choice. “And regardless, the house is mine by right and by deed to do with as I choose.”
“Not if you make it unlivable for me after I win. That isn’t fair.” A rise of anger—or perhaps panic—flooded her. Why was he doing this? After the other night at Lady Haguelin’s ball, she thought there was a renewed connection between them. Yet this evening, it seemed that Max was doing everything in his power to sever that bond. It left her confused and hurt. And then—yes—decidedly angry.
“I am still complying with the rules of our wager.” Again, he focused on his capon as if everything between them was only about the wager.
Was there not something more for him as well? But clearly, she had her answer in the gradual withdrawal of his usual challenging nature. It was replaced by a remoteness that not only made her worry about losing her home but losing her family, friends, and even her favorite enemy.
Until this moment, she hadn’t thought his victory was even possible.
Max knew something had to change. He’d been falling back into the same behavior that had once left him standing in her foyer with a ring in his pocket and a crumpled missive in his hand.
These past months had been a trial for him, though perhaps also a way for him to finally put the past to rest. At every gathering, he had an uncanny awareness of her, his gaze knowing her exact location in a room. And even when he wasn’t near her, his thoughts betrayed him by running in a constant loop of Juliet.
For his own sanity, it had to stop.
In fact, since the morning following the Haguelin ball, he’d nearly decided on a complete withdrawal from her company, but then Mother had surprised him with this dinner. And here Juliet was, filling his thoughts and his senses and making it impossible to forget her.
Hadn’t she already claimed enough of his life?
“Maxwell, if you cut any harder into that poor fowl, I will begin to fear for my plate,” Mother said with a laugh, edged with a modicum of tension.
Looking down at the shredded capon in his plate, he abruptly set down his knife and fork, then reached for his wine. “My apologies. My thoughts were distracted.”
“I imagine so,” Juliet chimed in, her smile brittle. “With a bride to procure, your own wedding to attend, and then your inevitable departure for Lancashire on the horizon, it is a wonder you’ll even have time to arrange repairs to the townhouse.”
She was goading him, he knew, but that did not stop the wayward thrill rushing through him. Damn but he loved to argue with her, loved to see that blue flame in her eyes. And even though he told himself that he would remain detached, he couldn’t resist just one more row with her.
He took a sip of wine, savoring the heated discord between them. “The work is not so extensive that it will be neglected for any amount of time. If you like, I could arrange a tour for . . . say . . . the first of June.” He paused for a moment, then feigned surprise. “Oh, but wait. You won’t be in town by then. Pity.”
With a cool gaze and steady hand, she lifted her glass to him. “We shall see.”