Chapter 2 #2
“Lydia,” Joyce chided. “You cannot ask such things. Especially in a public setting such as this one.”
Lady Thalia relaxed, reaching out a graceful hand.
“It’s quite all right, Miss Parsons. I expect you have heard my name before, have you not?
” She glanced at Maxwell, her gaze searching, and he wished he were not at such liberty to note the almost caramel hue of her eyes in direct sunlight. “We were engaged, but—”
“Our arrangement ended. For practical family reasons,” Maxwell finished for her, in part out of concern she would forget the story they had put about after their engagement ended.
“Precisely,” Lady Thalia said. “The Duke and I parted on good terms.”
This time, when she glanced at him, her eyes danced with laughter.
The sight made him feel simultaneously as though he would like to kiss her and shake some sense into her. He wasn’t sure which urge would win, given the chance.
“We did,” he said stiffly.
Lydia glanced between them, laughing slightly. “A shame you didn’t marry. You seem to almost finish each other’s sentences.”
Lady Thalia laughed politely, but Maxwell fixed Lydia with another glare; the girl closed her mouth.
She didn’t know—no one did—the circumstances around the ending of the engagement. It wasn’t precisely a sore point, but he would rather it was not commonly known that Lady Thalia had been forced into an engagement with him and had begged him to end things as she could not.
That had been before the age of her majority; now she was, presumably, at liberty to refuse all gentlemen who approached her, which had to be why she remained unmarried. Maxwell could hardly imagine it was due to a lack of personal charm, much as it irritated him to note.
“Now, I really must speak of Alessandro Rossi,” Simon said, no doubt to cover for the awkward lull in conversation. “I have heard he is everything that is fashionable!”
Anna coughed, and Lydia’s eyes lit up.
“I have heard of nothing else ever since I arrived in London,” Lydia said eagerly. “The mystery surrounding him is fascinating, do you not think?”
“No,” Maxwell said shortly. “I think a man who cannot step forward to claim his artistry is no artist at all.”
Lady Thalia jerked as though he had struck her. “How can you say such a thing?” she demanded, turning to face him. It was as though she existed to oppose and try him. “Surely the true mark of artistry is that one can remain anonymous and still be praised.”
“Do you own one of his pieces?” Maxwell demanded.
She blinked, as though surprised. “No.”
“Then what do you know of his skill?”
Anna coughed again, although it appeared to be because she was hiding a laugh. Maxwell knew he was making a fool of himself, engaging in such a heated debate with his former betrothed, but the way she had leapt to the defense of that nobody made something irrational boil inside him.
“I know enough,” Lady Thalia countered. “And is not the opinion of everyone else worth taking into account?”
“So, I am to capitulate on my standards merely because everyone else possesses different ones?” He raised a brow at her, which usually compelled whoever he was arguing with to choose a different argument, or perhaps even to conclude he was the victor.
Not Lady Thalia.
Her nostrils flared, and her eyes seemed to grow even brighter. He could imagine her as a great warrior of old—perhaps Freya, the Norse goddess. A bold, defiant creature.
Now he was getting fanciful. What the devil was she doing to him?
“Perhaps if your opinion differs so drastically from that of others, you are the problem and not them?” she suggested archly.
He stepped closer. “Are you suggesting my tastes are in question?”
“Do you own any of Rossi’s pieces?”
“I do not, and I have no intention of purchasing any.”
“Then what do you know of quality? You have been out of London for the past two years, and to my knowledge, Rossi is a newcomer on the scene. His sculptures have not been available for purchase for long. So, Your Grace, if you have not seen his sculptures, and do not know the man personally, what right have you to an opinion?”
Joyce gaped at this audacity. Lydia choked back something that might have been a protest, although it was far too high-pitched for him to make out any words. Even Simon, ordinarily game for a debate, looked a trifle shocked.
And Maxwell, damn him, felt heat slide through him at her open defiance.
There were many things he wanted. Primarily among them, never to speak to this harridan again. But second among them was a desire—a rather forcible desire—to learn what else that devious mouth of hers could do.
The challenge was alive in his bones, and when he stepped closer, and she didn’t move away again, a thrill ran through him. “You state your opinions very decidedly for one who has also not purchased one of Rossi’s artworks.”
“My father has no taste,” she said, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Otherwise, I am certain he would have commissioned one by now.”
“You are adamant in Rossi’s defense.”
“When criticism of him is unjust, I think defense is not unreasonable.”
He leaned in still closer, watching the way gold sparked in her eyes at his proximity. “And do you think I am unreasonable, my lady?”
“I am dreadfully thirsty!” Anna interjected, taking Lady Thalia’s arm and practically hauling her backward. “Shall we find some refreshments? Your Grace.”
Maxwell inclined his head, immediately stepping back. As though in a dream, he came back to himself.
He was at a garden party in Vauxhall Gardens for God’s sake. There could be no more of this.
Judging Lydia adequately chaperoned and protected, he strode away with Simon.
Enough was enough.
He would not seek out Lady Thalia again.
“I am so dreadfully sorry,” Miss Parsons said to Thalia as the ladies made their way to the refreshments table. “I had no idea that things were that way between you and Maxwell.”
Maxwell.
Thalia did her best not to notice how strong and sturdy his name sounded, or how well it suited him.
Still, she would not subject Miss Parsons, who must know him well, to be on a first-name basis with him, to her opinion.
“There is no reason to apologize, Miss Parsons,” she assured the girl. “The Duke and I barely know one another. An ended engagement means nothing, I assure you. You are quite all right to ask questions.”
Before Miss Parsons could reply, as soon as they reached the refreshments table, Thalia’s father appeared from nowhere and took hold of her arm, his fingers digging in painfully. To an outside observer, the gesture might have looked affectionate, but Thalia knew better.
Her father had not shown affection for a long time, perhaps ever. The only thing he loved was wealth, gambling, and perhaps drinking. He had never loved her.
“Father,” she said, and gave Anna an apologetic glance.
“I must introduce you to a new friend of mine, Mr. Beaumont,” her father said loud enough for all the other ladies to hear. To her, under his breath, he said, “You will marry this Season, Thalia, or God help me, I will not sponsor another. This is the last of the money I will spend on you.”
Thalia bit back her retort that he had little enough problems with spending money on himself, and on wasting that money in gambling hells. Saying it aloud would achieve nothing and only make him angrier.
Mr. Beaumont, it transpired, liked fishing and himself. He waxed lyrical about both subjects, requiring Thalia to do nothing but nod and smile at him while he spoke at length about the lake on his property that was fully stocked with fine specimens.
All the while, she imagined being married to him—and revolted at the thought. No, this was not the life she could bear to lead. When he looked at her for affirmation, she forced a smile but otherwise let her thoughts wander.
Unfortunately, they kept wandering back to the Duke.
She glanced across at him, but he immediately looked away, engaging himself in conversation so thoroughly that she wondered if she had imagined the heat of his gaze on her.
Not, of course, that she had any intention of marrying him either; if she had wanted to, she would have done so when she had the chance.
She turned back to Mr. Beaumont.
Marriage was certainly not in her future. All she had to do was find a way of supporting herself. Inevitably, her father would make good on his promise to cut her off, and she could not be penniless—not when her art could save her.