Chapter 19 #2
He entered his name in the books and, all too soon, was called to stand up in the small ring. The rope pressed against his back as he leaned against his. His opponent was a smaller man, but he would be faster. Maxwell knew better than to underestimate his opponent based on size alone.
He curled his hands into fists. The rest of the world fell away, the way it always did, when he was here.
A whistle blew, and they both advanced to the center of the ring.
The other man’s gaze flicked over him, taking him all in, and when the fight began, he immediately danced to the side, his arms covering his face.
Maxwell sank into a half crouch, his blood singing as he waited for the first blow.
When it came, quick as a flash, he knocked it aside and feinted to the left.
The man dodged, light on his feet. They toyed with one another until Maxwell finally lost patience and planted a blow in the other man’s face.
His fist ached as his knuckles collided with the man’s jaw, and he welcomed the pain.
If he could, he would never return to his house. This would be the only thing that existed.
He smiled, feeling the savage expression on his face grow. “Again,” he said.
By the time he finished, morning brushed the horizon. Maxwell returned home, changed, and washed, and this time, he peered into the bedchamber where Thalia lay, peaceful and undisturbed. Her hair fanned across the pillow, and he ached to be beside her.
Instead, he went downstairs to the sofa in his study. There, he curled up and tried not to think of how she would feel when she awoke in an empty bed. She might not think so now, but this was for the best.
It was his mistake for letting them become so close in the first place. If he had known he would come to be so fond of her, in such a meaningful way, then he would have put a stop to it far sooner.
Then again, didn’t he already know? He shifted uncomfortably onto the narrow sofa, too short for his size. For weeks, he had been consumed with thoughts of her, and hadn’t he known it was more than mere lust? Being around her like this had only proved it and made things worse.
He closed his eyes, knowing sleep would not come quickly without Thalia by his side.
“Who else should we invite to the ball?” Thalia asked, consulting the list beside her of all the other prominent names and families in London.
It would not do to exclude anyone, unless it was a deliberate slight; such things would be poured over by the ton, and enough gossip surrounded them already.
Maxwell frowned from where he sat behind his study desk. Ever since he had returned from boxing the other night, this spot was where he had chosen to sit, and if she wanted to spend time with him, she also had to inhabit this masculine room.
So long as she was able to sit with him, she would accept this. Welcome it, even if she had to.
“Have you included the Duke and Duchess of Kirkford?” Maxwell asked, looking back at his papers.
“Naturally. It would be the greatest offense if we didn’t.”
“And your father?”
“Do you think I should?”
“If you would rather he wasn’t there, then don’t invite him, but people will talk.”
She knew that. They had already begun to whisper. The gossip was so constant and frequent that it occasionally threatened to overwhelm her. “I don’t want to do anything that would offend anyone or be an unnecessary source of gossip.”
“Then invite him. I doubt he will attend.”
Thalia put her pen down. There was no mistaking it—this distance between them was new. She had known the sweetness of early married life could not last—they had not been living in reality—but she hardly knew what she had done to provoke him to close himself off so entirely.
“Do the rumors bother you at all?” she asked.
Maxwell made a note, the scratching of the quill overly loud in the silence. “Ought they to?”
“Everyone is asking how I managed to convert you.”
“Convert me? Was I a nun before marrying you?” He still did not look up.
“No, but you know as well as I do that you showed no interest in any other lady, and no overt interest in me before we married. Do you not see why, especially with our failed engagement in our past, people are especially keen to talk about us? If this ball is not marvelous—”
“It will be absolutely fine,” Maxwell interrupted, his usual patience distinctly lacking today. “And if it isn’t, let them talk. When something new happens, as it inevitably will, we will be superseded. Until then, there’s no harm in enduring a few whispers.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“Is it?”
“You’re a duke.”
“And you’re a duchess,” he said indifferently. “The difference is minimal, I assure you.”
It felt as though there was a gulf opening between them, and if she attempted to step any closer to him, physically or emotionally, it would swallow her. The thought made a pit open in her stomach, though she tried to reason herself out of the feeling.
They were still married. They lived in the same house. There was nothing he could do to get rid of her, even if he had begun sleeping in another room and dismissing her when he saw her.
How much could a lady hope for from her husband?
“I see you are busy,” she said lightly. “And have little interest in the guest list for our ball. I will send out invitations tomorrow.”
“Very good.”
She couldn’t help but notice he looked relieved that she was about to leave, and her heart squeezed yet again.
“Have I done anything?” she asked. “To offend you, I mean. Or to convince you that you made a mistake in marrying me?”
“What could you have done?” Finally, he looked up at her, but his eyes were flat and hard, no emotion to be seen in them. “You have done excellently as a duchess, and I expect you will continue to behave in an exemplary fashion. I have no complaints about your conduct.”
“But your happiness?” she tried.
“I had need of a wife, and now I have a wife. A wife, moreover, who can behave in a way that befits her position. Don’t let me down, Thalia, and I will have no reason to regret the match.”
Was he lying? His voice did not sound as though he thought particularly highly of his decision to marry her, whatever his words pronounced. And he didn’t meet her gaze, choosing instead to focus his attention on her hands and the papers she held there.
“Well,” she said, though anger flared at his dismissive treatment. “Then I suppose you will have no issues with me working more with Elliot.”
His brows rose, and a muscle in his jaw clenched. His gaze turned cold. “Is that supposed to be different from anything you have been doing?”
“Well, if you wanted me to stay around, or if you had plans for us, that would take precedent.” She waited, but he merely continued to stare at her, and the disappointment cramping her stomach made her head feel tight and stuffy.
Tears she never usually indulged in pressed against the backs of her eyes.
This was not the Maxwell she had grown accustomed to. The one he had teased her with over the course of the beginning of their marriage.
When he said nothing, she held the papers closer to her chest. “I will determine the guest list without you, then, and afterward, I will go to see Elliot,” she said. “I hope you are successful in your work, Maxwell.”
He looked back down at his work, and she left the room, practically colliding with Lydia, who carried a book under her arm.
“Oh!” Thalia said, endeavoring to keep her misery from her face.
Whatever she had done to offend Maxwell, she would not make it Lydia’s problem. The younger girl seemed delighted with their marriage and that they were seemingly happy; for as long as it would be possible, Thalia resolved to keep the truth from her.
“Hello,” Lydia said, beaming. “What were you doing?”
“I thought I might ask your help in deciding who to invite to our ball,” Thalia said. “Maxwell is indifferent, so long as we invite all the right people. You know.”
“I do know,” Lydia said seriously. “Of course I will help; I would be delighted.”
Doing her best to ignore the tightness in her stomach and the worry that gnawed at her chest, Thalia led Lydia to the drawing room and, with Lady Rivenhall’s help, finalized the guest list. All the while, she thought about Maxwell and his sudden coldness.
Something had happened to change their dynamic. What could she have done, and if it wasn’t her, then what else could have caused him to retreat into himself like that?
She recalled her father and his neglect, the way he had abandoned her mother to stay at home. The way, after her mother had died, he had rebuked any attempt she made to connect with him.
Was she about to suffer the same fate as her husband now? Had he married her purely because he wanted a wife, and now she had provided him with what he needed, would he follow along the same tracks as her father?
She wanted to believe he wouldn’t. Wanted, with all her heart and soul, to believe that Maxwell was better than that; that he would never hurt her in such a way.
She even went to Elliot’s studio to sculpt, but despite her freedom, she had trouble concentrating, the negative thoughts taking over.
At dinner that night, he barely met her gaze and said only three words together, disappearing to the study immediately after for more work.
And the niggling feeling inside her began to feel a lot like fear—that she had made a terrible mistake in marrying him.
One she would never be able to escape.