Chapter Twenty-Four #2
“I suppose only you can answer that question,” he said, taking a seat opposite her, “though I would expect that if you’d taken anything last night, it would have worn off by now.”
“Max Ashbridge, please explain to me what you are doing in my kitchen.”
He glanced up at her, a teacup looking delicate in his strong hands. He had a callus on his middle finger from years of holding a pen and pencil; she remembered the feel of it against her fingers.
“I’m here to show you that I’m not going anywhere.
” She frowned, and opened her mouth to reply, but he raised a hand to forestall her.
“I’m not going to Paris. I’m not going to Rome.
I don’t want to work at an embassy. I don’t know what I want to do next, but I can do it here in London, where my life is. ”
She found her voice. “I suppose you don’t want to leave your family.” She should have expected that, considering how his voice tended to warm every time he spoke of them.
“No,” he agreed. “But also, I don’t want to leave you.”
The words felt loud in the quiet of the kitchen. Vesper felt her heart kicking up a perilously quick beat in her chest, and something rising in her throat. She feared that it was hope.
“Ashbridge—Max—I don’t think—”
“No.” He cut her off with a shake of his head.
“I don’t think you’re thinking properly at all.
You’re just… reacting. You’re used to enjoying a man for a night or two.
You don’t mind leaving them, because it ensures that you’re never left.
” He leaned forward. “But I’ve no intention of leaving you.
Not now, not—” He broke off, watching her warily.
“Not until you ask me to. If you ask me to.”
Vesper’s throat felt tight as she watched him sitting there in her kitchen, drinking a cup of tea that contained a substance that he’d spent his life despising, saying the sorts of things she hadn’t thought she cared if a man ever said to her, until now.
She was frightened by the feeling of fierce joy that she could feel rising within her.
“Why?” she asked simply.
“Because I’m falling in love with you,” he replied, equally simply, and she stared at him, lost for words. “I’m fairly certain you’re doing the same with me, but you don’t need to say it,” he added, and she frowned at him.
“I can say whatever I want,” she informed him, crossing her arms, and amusement flashed across his face. It felt like a privilege to see it there, with him making no effort to hide it from her. “And I don’t know why you would assume that when I tried to send you to Geneva last night.”
“Don’t think I would enjoy Switzerland,” he said thoughtfully. “Too cold.”
“That’s hardly the—”
“I know. Your brother was quite helpful in this regard, actually.”
“My brother?” She could only imagine, with faint horror, what Freddie might have said to Max.
“He seemed to think that you were attempting to set me loose, before I could be the one to do the leaving. Intelligent man, Freddie.”
“Last week he got caught shagging a producer behind a pile of kilts backstage,” she informed him.
“In some ways,” he amended, then paused. “Is his new show set in Scotland?” he hazarded, a bit uncertain.
“It is not,” she said gloomily, and then he laughed.
It felt as though the sun had come out in the cozy confines of Vesper’s kitchen with that laugh.
“My point is,” he said, recovering, “if you… if you truly don’t want me here, I’ll leave, and you’ll never hear from me again. But I don’t want that. And I don’t think you do either.”
Vesper’s hand, as if of its own volition, stole across the table, so that she could lace her fingers through his.
“I don’t,” she said, her voice quiet, too. “I just didn’t want—I didn’t want you to feel tied to me, just because we—”
“Shagged in a cupboard?” he suggested dryly.
“Well, yes. I didn’t want you to think that I expected you to stick around.”
His hand tightened on hers. “I want to stick around. And I want you to know that you deserve that.”
Vesper felt a helpless smile creeping over her face. “I can’t believe I’m falling in love with a civil servant with an enormous stick up his arse.”
He smiled then—a true, proper smile. It lit up his face, making his gray eyes bright.
He looked years younger. “Not a civil servant anymore.” His smile turned a bit smug, which should have been annoying but only made him seem handsomer to her, in the moment.
She needed professional help, clearly. “And I think you like that I am… er—” He broke off, clearly grasping for a more flattering way to phrase it.
“Constitutionally incapable of enjoying yourself?” she suggested, but she didn’t mean it, and the way his eyes crinkled at her told her that he knew it, too.
“Take me to your bedroom, and we’ll see how much I like to enjoy myself,” he suggested, with a casual sip of tea, grinning at her when she gaped.
And then, of course, she took him up on the suggestion.
That evening, the Holloways broke with tradition and had a family dinner on a Wednesday.
Vesper knew she was going to enjoy the evening the moment she walked into the drawing room, her fingers laced with Max’s, and watched her mother drop an entire bottle of champagne.
“Vesper, you might have warned us!” Amelia chided, though she looked exceedingly pleased as she said it.
“If I’d known you would treat champagne so cavalierly, I would have,” Vesper said; the bottle had mercifully landed on a rug, which softened the blow, and so was unharmed.
“Hullo, Ashbridge,” said her father, reaching out his hand, which Max shook.
Vesper had briefed him thoroughly all afternoon—during the portions of the afternoon she’d been capable of intelligent speech, that is; they’d spent much of the day in bed—and had, in a bit of a panic at the last minute, tried to talk him out of joining her at all.
“It might be best for me to prepare them,” she’d said, borderline hysterical, with one earring in.
“It’ll be fine,” he’d said, handing her the other earring. “They might as well get used to having a former Flea in their midst.”
“F.L.E.A.,” she corrected, and the grin that spread over his face was so distracting that it was some time before they finished getting ready, and many of their clothes needed setting to rights.
“I see you took my advice,” Freddie said to Max, sounding maddeningly smug from his position at the piano, picking out a tune.
Vesper rolled her eyes. “You needn’t sound so pleased with yourself.”
“Simon’s the one who ought to sound pleased at the moment,” Cecily said. “After the meetings he had today he thinks he has enough votes for the bill to pass.” She and Simon were on the sofa, George sprawled across both of their laps, fast asleep.
“Isn’t it a bit early for bedtime?” Vesper asked, nodding at her nephew.
Cecily waved an unconcerned hand. “He got into some of my sleep potion from Mackleworth’s. Took an adult-sized dose, but since he’s still breathing normally, we’ve decided not to fret.”
“How long has he been asleep?” Max asked, looking alarmed.
Cecily thought for a moment. “Nine hours.” She shrugged. “If he’s not awake by tomorrow morning, I suppose we ought to start worrying.”
“Start—”
Before Max could work himself into a tizzy, he was interrupted by the cheerful pop of a champagne bottle being uncorked; in short order, glasses were passed around the room. Amelia tapped hers.
“I thought we might have a toast?” she suggested.
“Hmm,” Freddie said, “whatever might we toast?” He smirked at his sisters in turn.
“Cecily’s reporting?”
“Or… hmm. Perhaps Simon’s hard work?” Cecily proposed, touching her chin thoughtfully.
“Very good points,” Amelia agreed gravely. “Or perhaps—did you have another idea, my love?” She looked at Lucian inquiringly. But her husband wasn’t looking at her—he was looking directly at Vesper.
And a moment later, Vesper realized the rest of the room was doing the same.
“I think,” her father said, a bit more quietly, “that we might have underestimated you, Vesper.”
“And Ashbridge,” Amelia chimed in.
“And Ashbridge,” Lucian agreed.
“Fortunately, the Fleas did, too,” Freddie said, and his father quirked a half smile at him.
“Quite.” He looked back at Vesper, who was standing next to Max, champagne glass in hand. “I’m proud of you, Vesper. Of the work you and Ashbridge have done, and of the work you’ve done running Holloway’s the past few years. And I’m sorry if we made you feel that we didn’t trust you.”
Vesper felt a smile slowly spreading across her face, and slid a glance sideways to Max, who was smiling down into his own champagne.
She lifted her chin. “Thank you,” she said, nodding. “And thank you, of course, to my capable government ally.” She inclined her head courteously toward Max, who nodded somberly. “Now, does this mean that you’ll call off the nannies?”
Next to Cecily, Simon snorted in a poor attempt to conceal a laugh; Vesper’s mother, too, seemed to be suppressing a smile.
Her father merely smiled at her, inclined his head, and said, “The club is yours to run as you see fit, without interference from the rest of the family—unless you ask for it. You’re more than capable of managing things yourself—probably better than I could. ”
“Hear, hear,” Max said firmly, and lifted his glass. “To Vesper.”
“To Vesper,” echoed the rest of the family—except for George, who uttered a particularly loud snore instead.
“We’re proud of you, love,” her mother said, a couple of minutes later, when the room had fallen back into conversation, and Amelia had come to stand next to her daughter.
She glanced slyly at Max, who was deep in conversation with Lucian and Simon.
“Though I should think it’s obvious we trust you, if we’re happy to welcome a Flea into our drawing room. ”
“Former Flea,” Vesper corrected. She looked up at her mother. “You don’t mind?”