Chapter 19
Just two weeks after their arrival back in town, it was Lydia’s birthday.
Thalia, having been apprised of this, spent a large portion of her time in Elliot’s workshop—until she had a better place to work, she would have to avail herself of his space—making a small wooden carving for Lydia.
Given Rossi’s prominence and the popularity of his work, she knew even a small gift would be perfectly placed to make the girl happy, and she wanted to do all she could to make Lydia smile.
The girl was eighteen now, of an age to be married in Thalia’s opinion, and the beautiful debutante sculpture, one leg poised as though in a dance, her arms raised elegantly, was the exact way to celebrate such an occasion.
Or so Thalia hoped.
Maxwell, in his usual way, had bought Lydia a stunning ruby necklace, and he handed it to her wrapped in paper with an offhand, “A little trinket, now you are old enough to wear such things.”
Thalia didn’t miss the way Lady Rivenhall’s lips thinned, but Lydia’s eyes lit up when she saw the beautiful piece of jewelry.
“Oh, Maxwell!” she said, reaching over to kiss his cheek. “You are quite the best uncle in existence.”
“Here,” Thalia said, leaning forward. “Allow me.”
She took the necklace and fastened it around Lydia’s neck. It sat prominently against her pale skin, seeming to glow, and Lydia immediately rushed to a mirror so she might admire her reflection.
“Thank you, thank you!” She twirled, letting her skirts fly around her, and Thalia marked the similarity between the pose and the sculpture she had made. “I feel like a princess.”
Maxwell attempted to hide his pleased smile behind the gruffness that Thalia knew he only revealed to others at moments like these. “All right, sit down. It was nothing.”
“We are very grateful,” Lady Rivenhall said to Maxwell, and it was as though she had spoken the words through gargled glass; Thalia could practically hear the reluctance in the words. “But, Lydia, remember, you cannot wear it too often.”
Thalia bit her lip, though she wished she could speak up for Lydia’s sake. Young ladies were not supposed to be too gaudy, but she wanted Lydia to have the opportunity to feel beautiful and valued—all things that every young lady craved.
“I have a little something for you, too,” she said, and held out the wrapped gift. She hadn’t told Maxwell her intention, and she felt his gaze on her now as Lydia took it.
“What is it?” Lydia asked, weighing the sculpture in her hands.
“I commissioned Alessandro Rossi to create this for you,” Thalia said. Technically, it wasn’t a lie; she had commissioned herself, as Rossi, to create this for Lydia. “A symbol of this first year in London. Go on, open it.”
Lydia did, moving carefully, as though she was afraid the package would explode. Then, when the final flap of paper fell away, and the sculpture was revealed, she sucked in an unsteady breath.
The sculpture was small; Thalia could not have created something larger with the time constraints in place. Even so, she had done her best to capture Lydia’s essence, and by the way Lydia looked at it now, with tears in her eyes, Thalia had done it right.
If she had more time, she might have experimented with wax, just like Catherine Andras. But she had no time for that. Later, she would see if she could bring it into being one of her mediums; no doubt she would be able to make commissions faster.
Lydia looked up at her, one hand over her mouth. “This is so beautiful,” she whispered. “You commissioned this from Rossi?”
Thalia smiled. “I wanted you to have something special. It is not every day a lady turns eighteen.”
“Thank you so much!” The figurine was still in her hand, but Lydia flung herself from her chair and embraced Thalia. “It looks just like me.”
“I gave him your likeness.”
“You are too good to me!”
“It’s as I told you when I first arrived here,” Thalia said, smiling over the top of Lydia’s head at Maxwell, who watched them both with a soft expression, far softer than anything she had seen on his face before.
“I always wanted a sister. And I hope… I very much hope that even when you marry, we will still be friends.”
“Of course we will!” Lydia said warmly, leaning back to admire the figurine once again.
Thalia had painted it with as much detail as she could, squinting until her eyes ached in the candlelight, as she had endeavored to finish with enough time for it to dry.
Painting was not one of her best skills, but she fancied she had done a good job with this.
“Have you seen it, Maxwell?” Lydia asked, holding it up for his inspection. “I know you don’t think much of Rossi, but you must admit this is an excellent piece.”
“On the contrary,” Maxwell said, a small smile playing around his lips. “The statue in my study is a Rossi design.”
Lydia gasped. “No!”
“I admit to initially being unnecessarily dubious about Rossi’s quality,” he said, turning the small figurine around in his hands. “But this is excellent, Lydia. I hope you will treasure it.”
“I will!” Lydia jumped to her feet, her face alive with excitement. “Come with me, Thalia, and help me decide on a place to put it.”
Thalia could not have resisted even if she had wanted to. Accepting Lydia’s hand, she allowed the younger girl to pull her from the room.
Maxwell could not quite suppress his smile.
There was a warmth in his chest he was beginning to become familiar with, that he had started feeling when he had first taken Thalia back to his home in the country.
Seeing the way she had accepted and loved Lydia as a member of her family made him feel oddly hopeful.
Buoyed, even.
Joyce adjusted her skirts. “She seems so at home here. So natural. Do you not think?”
“Hmm?” Maxwell barely spared her a glance. With his time so taken up with Thalia and Lydia, he had little enough time for her now, especially when she always seemed to view things with such cynicism.
He understood—that was how he often viewed them himself. But it made him weary.
“Your new wife. She has settled in as though she is one of the family. I had never expected you to become so invested in a wife, but she has won you over.”
“Won me over?” His brows drew together, and he frowned over at her. “In what manner?”
“You always held yourself apart from all ladies; I assumed that was your preferred way of being. But she has changed you.” Joyce gave an elegant, calculated shrug. “I confess, it has surprised me, but if you are happy with her, who am I to complain?”
He opened his mouth to say that Thalia had not changed him, but then he recalled the warmth in his chest when he watched her. The affection that always overcame him whenever he thought about her.
This was not mere fancy, a lust that she could fulfill, as he had expected it to be when they had first come together. She had become more than that, and when he thought over every interaction, he realized how far he had begun to fall for her.
If he were not careful, he would end up deeply in love with her.
Every iota of his being rebelled against the idea. He was not a man at liberty to let his heart rule him; if he did that, he risked repeating his father’s and brother’s mistakes.
His father loved his mother, and that had been the ruin of them both.
No. This would not happen.
“What’s wrong?” Joyce lifted her tea to her mouth and took a delicate sip.
“Is not felicity the very purpose of marriage? If you had merely wanted heirs, you could have married someone entirely less spirited, and she would have made for a placid, amicable wife. Instead, you married someone to set the ton aflutter, and who will most definitely argue with you if she perceives you to be in the wrong. That is not a marriage made out of duty alone.”
With every word, she seemed unaware that she was striking the axe down harder and harder.
Maxwell inhaled slowly. “We both know I offered for her out of a sense of obligation. Her situation was such that—”
“It is quite all right, Maxwell. You can be honest with me.” Joyce smiled, but all Maxwell could see was the way Thalia’s face lit up at Lydia’s joy.
All the memories they had shared.
His own blindness.
This could not happen. For her sake and his, he could not love her. Would not. One way or another, he would find a way of preventing himself from ruining them both.
“What’s wrong?” Joyce asked, sipping more tea. “I thought you would be pleased to hear me call her a member of the family.”
“Enough.” He bit off the words. “You have said more than enough.”
Joyce raised her brows but settled back onto the sofa. “I do hope so,” she murmured. “It’s about time you saw things for what they are.”
“She is a duchess, and you will continue to respect her,” he said, his voice sounding oddly distant. “Do you understand me?”
Joyce smiled. “Oh,” she purred. “I understand you perfectly. You have nothing to fear from me, Your Grace.”
Perhaps not, but he had everything to fear for himself.
And by extension, for Thalia.
Instead of following Thalia upstairs to bed after dinner, Maxwell made a slight excuse of having work to do and waited in his study until he felt as though she had gone to sleep.
Once he thought she had, he collected his plain clothes from the dressing room and changed in the light of a single candle.
Tonight, he needed to lose himself, and there was only one way he knew how to do that.
He did not dare peer into their shared bedchamber to see Thalia lying there, for fear he might lose his resolution and climb into bed beside her the way he had done so many times.
Instead, he hurried from the house and called a cab to the underground club he had visited so many times.
There, he walked down the stairs, feeling as though he had almost come back home after an extended period abroad.
The happiness he had found with Thalia, however briefly, had been a dream. But this was real.