Chapter 23
“Argh!”
The punch rocked Maxwell’s head back. Pain shattered through his jaw. Nothing was broken yet, but it would not be long until it was. He breathed through his teeth, raising his hands in a parody of his usual pose.
The pain felt good. Blood tasted bitter and sharp in his mouth, and he spat to one side.
Perhaps he’d lost a tooth.
That would be good. Fine. Better than his miserable existence of sitting at home and waiting for Thalia to come back, only to realize she would not be returning any time soon.
He had frightened her away, made her feel as though she had no place in his life, and now this pain was redemption, of sorts.
He could not fix the situation with Thalia, but at least someone was punishing him for it.
Another blow slammed into his ribs, and he staggered back. The room twisted and spun out of control. His breath turned to fire in his chest.
Good, good.
A red haze covered his vision as he looked back at the man facing him.
“Fight back, coward,” the man spat.
Maxwell smiled, knowing blood covered his teeth, knowing he half looked like a monster. That matched how he felt: a monster through and through, chasing away the best thing to have happened to him in his sorry existence.
Maxwell swung, knowing the blow was too slow and that the other man would duck under, which was what he did. Momentum had him stepping forward, unable to stop the other man’s fist from connecting with his stomach.
Agony.
He grunted; the breath knocked from his lungs entirely. The sharp slice of pain from his ribs indicated that something—possibly something vital—had broken.
He ought to surrender. As a second son, he always knew when to surrender; it was a skill his brother might never have learned. But surrendering now, when he still had so much penance to pay, seemed foolish.
This wasn’t all there could be.
He needed to live and breathe this pain for it to become a part of him. Only then could he consider it punishment enough. It soothed some part of him to think he was getting what he deserved.
Thalia would never do this. Her punishment came in her absence, which she probably thought was no punishment at all.
No doubt she believed that he cared nothing for her, because to her, it was love or nothing.
Either he loved her, or he didn’t care if she lived or died.
Her unhappiness gave her no room for nuance, but she did not understand.
By not loving her, he was protecting her.
By keeping his distance and not finding her now—even though he could, if he wanted; he was a Duke with resources to his name, and he would have no difficulty in locating her—he was doing her a favor.
If he loved her, he would hurt her. His father was proof of that. Some men could love in an uncomplicated way, but his family had never been uncomplicated.
He was not uncomplicated. There was a darkness in him that came out at times, like now, when he was being beaten to a pulp.
The pain was immediate, and it was satisfying. There was no distant, vague, undefined yet unbearable ache of parting and emptiness. No, there was this sharp crushing of bones.
The next blow had him crashing to the ground. He landed hard, his head slamming against the floorboards, and the strength drained from his limbs.
He was done.
“Any more, and I’ll kill him,” his opponent said in disgust, spitting somewhere beside Maxwell.
Maxwell closed his eyes and let himself feel. In a moment, he would rise and return home to the empty house he called home.
Every breath ached.
He thought of Thalia.
Someone hauled him up, and he hunched over, protecting his tender chest. He wiped blood from his face with the back of his hand and awkwardly pulled his shirt on before staggering to the door.
Then he was out on the street, waving for a carriage to take him back home, praying that Lydia saw nothing when he finally got there.
She didn’t. Unfortunately, Maxwell climbed into the dark, empty house, blood on his shirt and his breathing pained, and he found a surprise of another nature waiting for him.
Simon sat in the study with a small light illuminating his face. By the looks of him, he had been waiting there for quite some time; there was an empty glass of brandy beside him, and an open book on his lap.
Maxwell groaned, leaning against the wall. “I’m not in the mood to entertain a lecture.”
Simon looked at him, eyes narrowed. “By God, you’re a mess.”
“It’ll heal.” He grinned, feeling his lip split. “And I have no intention of showing my face to the world at present.”
“Fortunate, as you’d send small children running away screaming,” Simon said dryly. “What has possessed you to take up boxing again?”
“I never truly stopped.”
“This is different.” Simon slammed both palms against the desk and pushed himself to his feet. “And tell me what the devil you were thinking by telling Thalia you don’t love her when anyone can see you’re pining away without her.”
Maxwell set his jaw, ignoring the ache. “It’s best for us both.”
“You’re a mess.” Simon sighed and tugged the bell pull. “At least let me patch you up. How bad is it?”
“Cracked ribs, at a guess. He was a tough one. Got some good punches in.”
“You let him hit you, you mean.” Simon poured another glass of brandy and handed it to Maxwell. “You may as well drink.”
Maxwell tipped it back, the alcohol stinging against the cut on his lip. “You can’t change my mind about this, Simon. There’s no point trying.”
“I suppose you know she’s staying with us.”
Maxwell winced, trying to find a more comfortable position on the chair. “I suspected as much.”
“And you haven’t once come to see her.”
“What would be the purpose?”
“To reassure her, for starters. And to convince her that you do care for her and she will not live a miserable life empty of affection.” When a footman arrived, Simon dispatched him to find some bandages and water, then took a seat opposite Maxwell.
“I know you are a stubborn man. No, a fool. But you must concede that this path is madness. Why must you insist on this course of action?”
“You don’t understand,” Maxwell said.
“No, I don’t. But I would like to, so please, explain things to me. In simple terms, so I might understand.”
“There are no simple terms.” Maxwell gritted his teeth as his chest gave another spasm of pain. “Or at least, none that you would accept.”
“We both know you’re in love with her.” Simon accepted the bandages and water a maid brought. He wet one of the bandages, handing it to Maxwell. “Clean your face. I’m going to bind your ribs. Fool.”
“You met my father,” Maxwell said through clenched teeth.
“You know as well as I that in our family, love is not love. If it were, my mother would still be alive. So would my brother. As much hurt as I may be causing Thalia now, better that than I fall in love with her and—if I’m close enough to hurt her more, I will. ”
Simon paused in his wrapping. “Is that what you believe?”
“I have the evidence of my own eyes to support my claims. What else should I trust in? Is her happiness worth risking?”
Wordlessly, Simon crossed to the bell pull. A servant arrived almost immediately; they must have been waiting. Simon dispatched them to bring Lydia to them.
Irritation rose in Maxwell at his friend’s presumption. “She’s abed,” he said. “And I am hardly in a position to receive her.”
“You ought to have considered that before punishing yourself.” Simon scowled at him. “I need to get through your thick skull, and I think she may be able to help me.”
Maxwell attempted to rise, but Simon pushed him back into the seat.
“Sit down and stop fighting this. You are a fool, Maxwell. A cursed fool. Trust in us, your friends, that we may in fact be attempting to do what is best for you and Thalia. Do you suppose I would dare act against her, given how close my wife is to her? I am not putting your best interests over hers, believe me, but I have seen her state these past few days, and this is not sustainable. Ah, Lydia.”
He turned to where Lydia was standing in the doorway in her nightgown.
Maxwell turned his face away so she might not see the full extent of his injuries. His chest burned, but for once, the pain wasn’t a relief.
“What is it?” Lydia asked, her voice uncertain.
“I’m sorry for summoning you here like this.” Simon softened his voice when addressing her. “But your uncle has a preconception about himself I would like to take steps to disprove, if you would help me.”
“Maxwell?” Lydia’s voice sounded too young, and he wished vehemently that Simon had not brought her here to see him in this state. “What happened?”
“It’s nothing.” He smiled, and his lip split again. He let the smile drop. “I just got into a bit of a fight.”
“Over the years you have known him, has he ever made you feel unsafe?” Simon asked.
Lydia frowned. “No, of course not. He has been everything that is good and kind.”
“Has he ever harmed you in any way?”
“No.” Lydia’s voice came stronger now, and Maxwell caught a glimpse of the woman she would be once she entirely grew out of girlhood—a force to behold. “He would never do anything like that.”
“You are certain?”
“Positive,” Lydia said. “To what do these questions pertain?”
“Has he ever raised his hand against you?”
“No,” Lydia said.
“Is his anger ever unjust?”
“Even when Mama hurt him and acted against Thalia, he was calm and collected,” Lydia said, gathering steam.
“He is a good man, and I trust him entirely.” She came to kneel before Maxwell, taking one of his hands in hers, the blood on his knuckles a stark contrast to her pale, soft skin.
“You are the greatest uncle I could ever have asked for,” she told him.
“And Thalia is fortunate indeed to have you as a husband.”
“Do you love Lydia?” Simon asked.
Maxwell clenched his jaw. “That’s different. She’s my niece. I think of her as my daughter.”
“As though your father made that distinction,” Simon said with disgust. “Answer the question.”
“Yes, I love her.”
Lydia squeezed his hand. “I know you do.”
“And you see how that in all the years you loved her, you never did anything to harm her or make her feel unsafe in your presence?”
Maxwell looked into Lydia’s face and knew with a deep, grounding certainty that he would never, ever do anything to hurt her.
Such a thing was not possible. He could never conceive of harming such a young, innocent, lovely girl.
His father had raised his hand against his mother and them, but he could not raise his hand against Lydia.
But was that enough?
“Thalia makes you happy,” Lydia said. “And I know she makes you so. You’ve been different these past few weeks since marrying her.
Like you’ve been living your life in the dark and have finally stepped into the sun.
” She paused, her eyes glistening with tears that never fell.
“And I believe—I truly believe—that my father would have wanted you to find happiness.”
Christopher.
That Chris would have wanted him to find happiness was undeniable, but Maxwell had always assumed his happiness would come from quiet, resigned contentment at his life, not from a woman.
Not from love, when love could go so terribly wrong.
Except in all his years, it had yet to go wrong. Simon was right: he did love Thalia.
This was love. He loved her.
He dropped his head into his hands.
What have I done?
“Send for Anna tomorrow,” he said, standing and going to the door. “I have somewhere I need to be.”
“Where?” Simon followed him, but Maxwell was indifferent to pain and everything else that might try to deter him.
There was only one place he could be right now—and it wasn’t here, in the study he’d inherited from his father.
It was as though something had clicked in his mind, snapping back into place.
“She can look after Lydia,” he repeated, shaking Simon off and finding the butler. “Ready the carriage,” he said. “I will leave tonight.”
“Where to, Your Grace?”
“Marrowhurst Hall.”
The journey took longer by night than it would have done by day. Maxwell spent the time sitting and thinking about Thalia, memorizing everything about her—although he already had. He knew everything there was to know about this woman.
He loved her.
Finally, as the sun was just about to rise, the chimneys of Marrowhurst Hall came into view.
He stepped out without the help of his coachman and went to the door.
A very sleepy footman opened it for him, and he went straight upstairs, not so much as bothering to greet his servants or explain his presence to them.
Nothing mattered but this.
He entered the room he’d come here to see. Christopher’s face swam before his eyes. His entire body was on fire. As the butler came to ask if he wanted anything, he shut the door.
And then, for good measure, locked it.
Now no one could enter—which would be for the best.