Chapter 7
“How are matters developing between you and Lady Thalia?” Simon asked a few days later at White’s, a glass of brandy in his hand, one leg folded over the other.
Maxwell did his best not to tense. Ever since that ill-advised kiss, he had been doing his best to forget all about her. She had a tendency to make him lose control, and he could not allow that.
He ought to know better. A man of his age, with his experience, should not be so easily tempted by a mere girl. A lady with no experience and who, most notably, had rejected him in the past.
“In what manner?” Maxwell asked, keeping his voice disinterested.
“You were engaged, but you broke things off. Only, I’ve noticed the way you watch her.” Simon grinned over the rim of his glass, and Maxwell groaned, then gestured to a serving boy to bring him more wine. “And so, I wondered, naturally, if you’d changed your mind about her.”
“Not in the slightest.”
“Even now, you’re acquainted with her beauty?”
Thalia’s beauty never failed to astound Maxwell—the lushness of her figure and the soft chocolate depth of her eyes. He doubted he would ever be acquainted with it.
He heaved a sigh. “I had heard rumors of her beauty before I ever met her. Seeing her in person changes nothing. We would not have suited.”
“And why is that?”
“We don’t like one another,” was the easiest response Maxwell could give, although the heat chasing through his body every time he thought about that kiss suggested something entirely different.
He didn’t like her; he liked the feel of her body against his. The press of her lips. That was all.
Not a foundation on which to build a marriage.
Besides, she had fled from him.
“What of Lydia?” Simon asked lazily, Maxwell’s indifference, evidently having convinced him to change the subject. “Is she settling in well?”
“She is.” Maxwell allowed himself a small smile. “She’s having a wonderful time. My only concern is that she will attract fortune hunters. She already has.”
“That’s the price of being a lady of means,” Simon said. “I expect she has more sense than you give her credit for.”
Maxwell didn’t agree. His niece was a headstrong girl, but she was also na?ve. If he didn’t intervene, he worried she would allow herself to be seduced by someone looking for a marriage of convenience, and then she would have no choice but to marry him or be ruined in the eyes of the ton.
“It’s all right,” he said. “All it means is I will have to attend events with her. It’s a bore, to be sure, but I would rather do that than see her fall prey to less noble minds.”
“The best uncle a girl could ask for.” Simon raised his glass with a slightly unsteady hand. “And probably the most irritating to boot.”
Maxwell rolled his eyes.
It seemed everywhere Thalia turned her head, she ran into the Duke.
So far that week, she had seen him at Almack’s, at a flower show, at a music recital, and now at a small soiree. Every time, he had seen her—she was sure he had seen her—but his gaze had passed straight over the top.
At least, to her relief, Lord Vauron had not bothered her again. If she had not kissed the Duke—her mind frequently replayed that moment in her head, often at the least convenient of times—then she would have been tempted to approach him and thank him for his service.
But she had kissed him. And so, she kept her distance as much as she could manage.
“Your eyes are like the shining stars,” the man beside her said, with a smile that could almost have passed for genuine.
Almost.
Mr. Bletchley was the latest in a long line of potential suitors her father had thrown at her. This one, at least, was closer to her age, but so far under his mother’s thumb that he kept looking at his mama for confirmation that he was doing this right.
If nothing else, that would be enough to put Thalia off.
She sipped her lemonade, wondering if it was sour enough to burn through her tongue; she might be excused. Then she could go to Elliot’s studio and work on her latest commission, which she was in danger of not finishing on time.
Paying off Elliot’s many debts by promising work by the famed Alessandro Rossi was an excellent idea in theory, but it had been far less practical in actuality.
Mr. Bletchley leaned in closer, and she was at liberty to see he was balding on the crown of his head.
How old was he?
Only around five-and-twenty, she thought.
Unfortunate.
“I believe the musicians mean to strike up the first number,” he said, extending a hand. “Would you do me the honor of dancing this one with me, Lady Thalia?”
From the other side of the room, she could see her father watching her like a hawk. Over the past week, she had endeavored—subtly—to repulse four new potential suitors, and he had screamed in her face until he was purple with rage.
If she refused Mr. Bletchley now, her father would take that personally, and she would have another argument on her hands.
But before she could accept—however unwillingly—his hand, Miss Parsons approached with a lady in her wake.
“Mr. Bletchley,” she said, gesturing to the lady. “This is Miss Olivia Greene.”
Mr. Bletchley turned a shade of rosy pink Thalia hadn’t expected to see on the man, and without looking for his mother’s permission even once, extended his hand toward her.
“Miss Greene,” he said grandly. “May I have this dance?”
Thalia bit back a laugh. There was nothing her father could do or say about this, although there was bound to be a way in which it was her fault. Her fault, no doubt, for not being compelling enough that Mr. Bletchley wanted to dance with her.
Miss Parsons turned to Thalia with a mischievous smile. “You’re welcome. You looked as though you were in need of some rescuing.”
Thalia laughed and allowed the younger girl to link her arm.
“He compared my eyes to stars. Has some poet done that recently? It’s all any gentleman can think to say to me, as though I have no other features available.
” She grinned at Miss Parsons’s laugh. “I have ears and a nose and hands, yet they are not of adequate interest.”
“What would you say if a gentleman were to compliment your ears?”
“I would be surprised, I’m sure, but at least it shows a little more imagination. A man should at least be inventive if he cannot be sincere.” She glanced down at Miss Parsons’s blonde head. “How did you know he would be so taken with Miss Greene?”
“Oh, she has been talking about him for ages.” Miss Parsons rolled her eyes.
“They already know each other, you see, and I believe there was some attachment until her father stepped in and ended their understanding. She has been pining after him this whole time, and I suspected he felt the same way.”
“He must have done so if he neglected to get his mother’s approval for the dance,” Thalia said.
“Thank you. I thought I would be obliged to endure his company for another half hour, which would have been insupportable. But where are your suitors? Every time I have seen you, you have been surrounded by them.”
“Oh, that.” Miss Parsons sighed. “My—That is, His Grace is being very diligent in ensuring I am not taken advantage of.”
“I see. He’s chasing away your suitors, is he? That isn’t very helpful of him.”
“He’s a lot better than he was,” Miss Parsons said hurriedly, as though saying anything against the Duke were punishable by death. “It’s just that he takes his duty toward me very seriously.”
Thalia peered at the younger girl. She did seem very young, but she was obviously of an age to marry, or she would not be venturing into London’s marriage mart.
“If you are friends,” Thalia said slowly, carefully, unsure if she was treading on dangerous ground, “could it be he’s jealous of the young men looking to court you?”
“Jealous?” Lydia burst into a peal of startled laughter.
“Oh heavens, no. If anything, he needs encouraging to think of me as old enough for marriage at all. He thinks I ought to retire to the schoolroom.” She leaned closer.
“He is like an uncle to me,” she confided.
“And I assure you there has never been anything of that nature between us.”
Thalia’s shoulders slumped with relief. It wouldn’t be unheard of for men in their thirties to be suddenly taken with a girl of Lydia’s age, and indeed for guardians to wait for their wards to be of age so they were eligible for marriage, but she had not wanted to think it of the Duke.
“His problem is he thinks me a fool,” Miss Parsons said. “Unable to differentiate a fortune hunter from an earnest gentleman.”
“Sometimes, if a gentleman is flirtatious,” Thalia warned, “it can be difficult to tell a difference between the two.”
“If ever I struggle, I will ask for advice,” Miss Parsons said simply. “I just need to ask him to give me the opportunity to speak with them in peace. And then not to demand I tell him everything after.”
Thalia suppressed a laugh. “How autocratic.”
“Yes, and I can just tell he wants to warn me against every gentleman I meet.” Miss Parsons looked up into Thalia’s face, her expression trusting.
“I wondered if you might speak with him. You may have some sway with him; you know what it is to be a young lady in London looking for a husband. And you were engaged to him, after all.”
Thalia’s stomach dropped, flipped, and lodged in her throat. “I have no influence on him at all if that’s what you were hoping. Our engagement was dissolved some time ago, and we barely know one another now.”
“Please, my lady? I’d be ever so grateful!”
Thalia hesitated, but she knew all too well what it was like to have someone breathing down her neck about her marriage prospects—even though her father and the Duke came from very different places.
“I will try,” she said, “but I can promise nothing.”
Miss Parsons beamed. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”