Chapter 17
The journey to Marrowhurst Hall took several hours. They intended to stay two weeks, learning each other a little better, and so Thalia might accustom herself to her new life.
Maxwell had worried it might be too much of an adjustment, but to his relief—and delight—she took the grandeur of his family home in without pause.
“I hope there are no portraits of your father on the walls,” she said as he walked with her along the gallery. “If so, I will have them taken down.”
Maxwell bit back a smile as they stopped before a portrait of Christopher that had been completed on his twenty-first birthday.
This was the brother he had always remembered,; the one with a small smile on his face.
At this time, he had yet to meet Joyce and had not yet known the pain of a broken heart.
He was happy, and looking at him in this way made Maxwell wistful in a quiet, understated way. Hungry for a past he could never have, but was reassured to know his memories of Christopher drunk in his room were not the only way his brother had been.
“No portraits of my father,” he said. “I had them taken down when he died.”
“Good.” She slipped her hand in his. “What of your mother?”
In answer, he led her to the only surviving portrait of his mother, made when she had just married their father. Younger than Maxwell remembered her, but although she had passed away when he was ten, he only recollected bits and pieces of her.
A gentle hand in his hair, her perfume as she bent to hug him. Her quiet voice sang lullabies, so long as his father was not around.
Whenever he was, she retreated into her shell so effectively that it was as though she ceased being a person at all.
The portrait of her showed a pale, pretty woman with dark hair and a sweet smile. Thalia looked at her for a long time without comment.
“She has your eyes,” she said at last.
Maxwell smiled. “Yes. Christopher and I both shared her eyes.”
“And hair, I think.” Thalia tilted her head. “I expect we would have been friends if I’d known her. She reminds me a little of Anna. Sweet and gentle, but with spirit when she wants to show it.”
“Perhaps. She never showed much spirit around my father.”
“I expect he is to blame for that.” She said the words matter-of-factly, but they still struck Maxwell as though she had punched him in the chest. “The cruelty of men cannot be overstated. My own father is evidence of that.”
She smiled ruefully, but it was as though Maxwell ceased seeing her and instead saw his mother. The way she had been when she had married his father; he had not been there, but he imagined she had been eager for her new life to begin, not knowing how cruel he could be.
The worst part was that his father had loved her. If he had not, he would have treated her with indifference. But he had adored her, and it had broken something in him. Always jealous, always angry, always seeking ways she could have betrayed him.
Love had been what ruined his father. And, in turn, Christopher. If he had not loved Joyce, he would not have lain with her—she was the daughter of a gentleman, after all. The temptation would not have been too great if his emotions had not been involved.
Thalia laid a hand on his arm, breaking his thoughts. “What is it?”
He shook his head, unwilling to give voice to the dark path his thoughts had taken. “Nothing. Let me show you which rooms we could use for your sculpting.”
In the end, they decided on a large, south-facing room formerly used as a schoolroom.
“Are you certain you want to change its purpose?” Thalia asked, looking around the large space and imagining Maxwell and Christopher in the room.
There was a large blackboard set up at the front, a wooden globe on a table, and two desks. She pictured a tutor standing at the front of the room, lecturing to small, disinterested boys, and the thought made her smile.
Maxwell’s smile had disappeared. He leaned in the doorway, looking around the room with a frown.
When she glanced at him, however, he exchanged his frown for a quick smile. “Of course I don’t mind. There’s no one here to need it.”
No one now.
They had not yet discussed the potential for children. Now they were married, Thalia understood it was entirely likely to happen, but a muscle feathered in Maxwell’s jaw as he looked around the room.
Perhaps the place held no happy memories for him.
She would change that in time.
For now, she would transform this space.
“Imagine it,” she said, twirling, pleased to find his attention fixed entirely on her. The tension in his posture eased. “I will be here with my art; my hands covered in clay and my muses standing before me.”
“Muses?” His brow raised. “What muses, pray?”
“Any that will have me.”
“I will have you. What other muses do you need?”
She flushed as she remembered the night when he had posed for her, and she had created his likeness.
My best work, she fancied, will be influenced by him.
“Well,” she said, tilting her chin and looking him square in the eye, “why not show me what you are made of?”
“Now?” His lips curled, the earlier tension entirely gone as he moved closer, every step measured. “But you have nothing with which to sculpt.”
“I have my imagination.” She held up both hands, laughing a little. “I can use this for future sessions.”
“You won’t need to,” he growled, catching her and burying his face in her neck. “You will always have me. No need for any other muses, Thalia.”
She pretended to wiggle away, still laughing. “I hadn’t known you were so jealous.”
“Then let me educate you.” His teeth sank into the soft flesh of her shoulder, and she gasped.
A flash of pain sank straight through to her core.
It was as though he knew everything that she would like the most, as though he could read her body far better than she ever could.
“When something is mine, Thalia, it has no opportunity to become anyone else’s. Do you understand?”
She slid her hands up his back, holding him to her. This was what passion looked like, she thought. Just like this. “So that’s a no to the prospect of other muses?”
“Any other male muses,” he corrected. “You may have other interests.”
She was sure, ordinarily, she did. But with his arousal pressing insistently against her, and that strange hollowness assailing her again, she rather thought her only interest was Maxwell and everything they could do together.
“Kiss me,” she said. “Then, if you please, inspire me.”
His hands came to cup her backside, rubbing her against him. His voice was gravelly when he spoke. “Your wish is my command, Duchess.”
He lowered her to the ground, and there, on the floor of his former schoolroom and her soon-to-be art room, he made love to her in languorous movements.
The first night, they asked for a tray in their room.
The second, mostly to appease the servants, who wanted to greet their new mistress, they ate in the large, imposing dining room.
As always, this house was filled with memories of Maxwell’s father, but with every passing minute, Thalia banished more of them.
Whenever he lost himself in the past, she kissed him to bring him back.
She drew her skirts up her legs in the library, tugging her stockings down and holding his gaze as she widened her legs, touching herself until he came back to himself.
He took her with almost savage urgency then, and ever since, the library held fewer unpleasant memories.
The schoolroom was one of the worst. A miracle, really, that she had stepped into that space and declared it perfect before she realized what it was.
It only took a handful of days for the sculpting equipment she had ordered from London to arrive, and when it did, she directed the footmen to carry it into her room. Knowing she would want time to set up her equipment, he took himself to his study to address the needs of his estate.
Only when he finished, and she had yet to emerge, did he finally come to find her.
She sat in the middle of the room, a strange wooden contraption set up before her.
A wheel, upon which sat a lump of clay, a bowl of water, and leather stretched out below.
Her arms were smeared with gray, and her hair fell into her eyes from where a handkerchief held it back.
Here, she was not a duchess; rather, she was an artist, lost in her craft.
As he watched, she dipped her fingers into the clay, kicking the wheel so it spun, and beneath her fingers, the clay took shape, wet and slick.
It formed a tall oblong first, then with gentle, precise movements, she flattened it, made it shorter and fatter, and used her fingers to draw lines across the surface. A vase took shape underneath her.
She was so immersed in her work that she didn’t see him coming. It was only when he came up behind her, sliding his arms around her waist, that she noticed him at all. He felt her jump, then relax into his hold.
“Max! You scared me.”
She was the only one to shorten his name the way Christopher had, and he found himself loving it.
“Why?” He nuzzled her neck. “Did you think I was another lover sneaking in?”
“No, but—” She drew in a breath as he kissed the curve of her shoulder. “I’m not used to having any lover.”
“Did I disturb you?”
Her hands were still on the clay, the wheel underneath still turning. “Only a little. I was accustoming myself to working here.”
“Do you like the space?”
She leaned into him a little harder. “I do. Do you?”
“I like you being in it.” He slid his hands down her arms, reaching the dried clay, then the mess of wet clay at the edges of her hands. “And I like seeing you create. What are you making?”
“Why don’t you help me?” Her fingers spread, accommodating him, and he did not hesitate, sliding his between hers and letting her guide their joint hands.
The clay was soft and malleable under his touch, shifting under every pressure. She guided him to the water, then back to the clay, still twisting. Under her tutelage, he helped form a hole down the center with his thumbs, gradually widening it until the lump of clay now resembled a vase.
His finger slipped, and the vase turned immediately crooked. When he attempted to rectify the damage, he pressed too hard. The vase, so perfectly shaped before, slid to one side, twisted and lumpy and in imminent danger of falling.
Thalia broke into a sudden, bright peal of laughter, and Maxwell chuckled, sliding closer against her body, the clay a wet, slick mess against his hands.
He kissed her neck. “It seems I am not destined for sculpting.”
“You could be, if you weren’t so clumsy.”
“Do you know who you are talking to?” he asked, mock haughtily. “I’ll have you know, I’m a peer of the realm.”
He brought his hands back up her arm, trailing fresh clay there.
“A clumsy peer of the realm.” She laughed, turning on her stool to face him, the clay now a misshapen lump on the spinning wheel.
Her clay-covered arms perched on his shoulders. His clothes would be ruined, but he didn’t care as he gathered her onto his lap.
“Clearly, I will have to show you who’s boss.”
“Have you forgotten who you’re talking to?” Her voice was teasing, and she rubbed her nose against his. “Signore Alessandro Rossi, at your service.”
“I prefer not to think about other men when talking with my wife.”
A shiver ran through her. “Your wife.”
“My wife. Mine.” He reached underneath her on his lap and unfastened his falls.
She pushed her skirts out of the way, gripping his shoulders as she guided herself to rub against him. He felt a little as though he was losing his mind, the way he always wanted to be with her, touching her, or feeling himself inside her.
This would end; he was certain. But for now, it felt good to indulge, and as long as they were at his father’s house, he would rather be consumed with desire for her than think about what his father had done.
“Yours,” she whispered as she slid down on him, wet and tight. “Always.”
He could not say the word back, even though the feeling in his chest swelled, as though his body wanted to return the sentiment.
As though she was the only thing in the world he could ever want.