Chapter 3
“What a wonderful evening!”
As the carriage pulled up outside Maxwell’s home after yet another tedious ton event, he felt as though he had ventured into battle and barely emerged with his life.
When he had been a bachelor living by his own rules, he had never needed to entertain such tedium, yet this was something all young ladies of the ton must endure in order to find a husband.
Fortunately, Lydia’s face was alight with excitement and joy, and she clutched Maxwell’s arm as they entered the house.
“I had so much fun!”
He nodded at her. “Did you enjoy dancing?”
“Exceedingly. Almack’s is so very elegant. Did you not think so? I would go every night if I could.” She beamed, leaving Maxwell to privately thank his lucky stars that Almack’s opening schedule made such a wish impossible to grant.
Joyce curtsied to him in that insufferably proud way she had. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
“Come now, Joyce,” he said, biting back his irritation. “You need not use my title every opportunity you get.”
She inclined her head, her expression unfreezing by a degree.
Although she was undoubtedly grateful that he had offered to take them in to sponsor Lydia’s first Season, he also knew that looking at him was painful, in a way.
Maxwell’s brother, Christopher, ought to have inherited the title. And really, he ought to have married Joyce—he would have done, if their father had allowed such a thing.
“You have known me long enough,” Maxwell added.
Once he had inherited the title and his estate, he had sought out Joyce and Lydia, knowing it was what his brother would have wanted. She had been forced to marry a much older viscount to protect herself and her illegitimate daughter; Maxwell had offered her aid over the years.
This was merely the latest in a long line of other things he had done to assist.
“Well, after all, I am the wife of your dear friend,” Joyce said, drifting gracefully across the room to drape languidly over a sofa.
Maxwell’s teeth snapped together. He could hardly reveal to the ton that Joyce had been his brother’s lover, telling everyone that he had known the old viscount had been the easiest way to explain their connection.
“No one has questioned our story,” he said.
“Only because no one of that generation has cared to ask why such a man might have known a duke like you,” she said, and placed a hand over her face. “Regardless, Lydia and I are grateful. Are we not, Lydia?”
Lydia placed a hand on his arm, looking up into his face with childlike adoration.
Ever since he had first stepped into her life as an uncle figure, she had viewed him with touching, if misplaced, admiration.
She believed there was no problem in the world he could not fix and believed with equal sincerity that he deserved only good things.
He did not have the heart to disabuse her of that notion.
“Did you have a good time this evening?” she asked hopefully.
He didn’t want to lie, but to admit the truth would be crushing to a girl such as her.
“I took pleasure in watching you enjoy yourself,” he told her. “It has been a long time since I found dancing so enjoyable.”
Her eyes sparkled. “Perhaps that is because you have yet to find the right partner.”
“Perhaps.” He tweaked her curl. “Do you think you found the right partner?”
“Oh, no, but I had a lovely time.” A frown touched her brows. “May I ask you a question?”
He suppressed a sigh.
Here we go.
Lydia had an insatiable curiosity about him and the life he led outside of her experience. “Of course,” he said.
“Why did you not marry Lady Thalia? When we met her the other day, she seemed lovely and engaged, you animatedly!”
Lady Thalia.
Maxwell had been doing his best to keep her from his mind, but now she was thrust there again.
Those eyes. He thought perhaps her eyes were the most appealing thing about her. And her mouth. She had a rather spectacular mouth, and it said some spectacularly audacious things.
He could not forget the way she had asked him not to marry her.
Or the way she had stood up to him in Vauxhall Gardens when he had challenged her about the ridiculous sculptor.
“She and I… We were not well-suited,” he said. “As I explained, we parted amicably, and there is nothing more to it. The past is the past, and there is no need to discuss it.”
Joyce waved a hand from the sofa. “Lydia, dearest, you ought to know better than to ask gentlemen about their romantic affairs. Do not pester the Duke with unnecessary questions.”
She gave him a long, assessing glance from under her lashes. In public, she simpered—a defense mechanism, he was certain. But in private, her words and expressions were honed like a knife, ready to fall in his back at any moment.
It was no secret that she resented his entire family, and he could hardly blame her. For Lydia’s sake, he entertained her in his home and pretended at civility; they both did. But he never forgot that her mind was as quick as it could be sharp, and that she missed nothing.
“Yes, Mama,” Lydia said.
The club was vibrant with sound. Maxwell walked through, his knuckles bandaged, his coat plain and somewhat shabby. He only wore it here, where he preferred to remain anonymous; he would rather word did not get out about his doings here.
Last time, seeing Lady Thalia had been a mistake. Fortunately, she seemed as willing to spread the story of his presence here as much as she wished to spread stories of her own dealings, whatever they may be.
At the thought of the gentleman—if he could be called that—who had accompanied, his teeth clenched.
None of my business.
Two painted women blew kisses at him as he descended the creaking wooden stairs to the floor below, where a ring had been set up in the center of the room. Two men brawled, their bare skin bloodied and shining in the candlelight. Ladies and gentlemen watched, exchanging bets.
This was the world he often felt better suited for. The rules were simple here: fight and win. Or lose.
Maxwell never lost.
Sometimes, he thought he could leave it all behind—the boxing, the underground fights, the ring, and the jeers of the crowd. He was a duke, after all, and nobility did not brawl like commoners for all and sundry to watch. The most gentlemen ought to do is take lessons with Gentleman Jackson.
But every time, Maxwell returned. He craved the unsheathed violence in the air, the thrill that came from every landed blow. Even the pain. There was something soothing about the reliability of pain; he knew precisely what to expect. It never took him by surprise.
Pain made him feel alive.
And most importantly, it made his thoughts quieten. When something happened to make his thoughts spiral into something manageable, he came here.
The fight ended. One of the men needed to be supported out of the ring, and Maxwell stepped up. His opponent was a smaller man, but would likely be nimble. Over the years, Maxwell became accustomed to sizing up other men in such a hurried manner.
If he could get a punch in, it would all be over. Maxwell knew his prowess.
But this man looked as though he would be good at dodging.
Excellent.
Maxwell needed a challenge.
The match began, and Maxwell sank into that place inside himself where the world finally made sense. He pranced on the balls of his feet, raised his fists, and circled.
Like sharks, they waited to see who would make the first move.
And like sharks, when they did, it was bloody.
The other man got in three punches to Maxwell’s torso, pummeling his right side. Pain throbbed about his ribs, a welcome relief.
They danced. For all Maxwell fought in this underground ring, he had been taught by the best. Boxing, like all sports, was a matter of mastering the technique. Strength played into it, of course, but there was no use in strength if one did not have finesse.
Maxwell’s bound fist collided with the other man’s jaw. He heard a crack, and the man staggered, landing against the ropes. His eyes went unfocused. Maxwell followed up with another blow to the sternum. The man blocked, but not fast enough.
He went down.
Maxwell panted. In the break between fights, he sucked on an orange segment. The citrus exploded on his tongue, and he accepted a drink of water. Sweat beaded on his skin.
He fought again, and again. Men, large and small, dropped before him. His knuckles became bloodied; his entire body was one glorious ache. He finally felt free.
When at last he had won enough, he stepped out of the ring, his chest heaving.
Tomorrow, he would be bruised; tonight, he felt nothing but relief.
“Good show,” someone called, waving a wad of notes at him. “You will make me rich yet!”
Maxwell nodded, not deigning to give a response as he slid his shirt over his battered torso, followed by his plain waistcoat and the tattered coat he wore for these outings.
Thus disguised, he made his way up to the main level.
Ordinarily, on occasions such as these, he would have a drink or two, perhaps even a game of cards, before returning to his townhouse. Tonight, however, he had just called for a drink to be brought when he spied familiar dark curls.
There were plenty of new girls working this club, and no doubt making plenty from the men who attended. But this was not a working girl, painted and exposed, flirting with whoever might take her home.
Lady Thalia. Again.
All the peace he had derived from his fight fled as he strode across the room to where she was standing.
“Lady Thalia,” he hissed, spinning her around so she faced him. “What the devil are you doing here again?”
For a moment, he thought she might not recognize him. The last time, it had been dark, and he had been sure she would not.
Now, a frown flickered in her eyes immediately as they traveled over his unkempt appearance.
“I might ask you the same question, Your Grace,” she said pertly.