Chapter 19

CHAPTER NINETEEN

M ax could not remember the last time he had danced at any sort of gathering, but he had been a diligent student in his youth. His mother had insisted on it, and he would have done anything to please her and see her smile.

"Everyone is staring," Caroline whispered, though she did not miss a note or a step, seamlessly joining hands with him to begin the opening promenade.

Max gazed down at her. "Caro, look at me."

She did, those honeyed eyes of hers drawing him in like a bee to nectar. There was something so vulnerable and innocent in her expression and the way she chewed her lower lip, awakening a beast in him. A creature of strength and ferocity, who would roar and snarl at anyone who tried to harm her.

I mean to protect you, Caro, from the slings and arrows of these tedious gossips. I will shield you from it all.

He had done all he could to keep her reputation and dignity safe, and though he hoped the war was won through the story he had fed into society, that did not mean they would not still encounter a few rebellious skirmishes from those who relished a scandal.

The orchestra played a lively tune, and Max's keen memory flooded into his limbs, reminding him of every step.

The promenade came to an end, and he raised his hand and Caroline's above his head, while she turned in a circle around him. Coming back to face him, they held hands, stepping in and stepping out in a fluid rise and fall. And soon enough, he did not need to tell her for a third time to keep her gaze on him. It was almost as if she could not look away.

Even as they began to dance away from each other, forced to spend a moment turning around another lady or gentleman or linking arms with someone else to turn a circle, their eyes did not waver from one another. And when they were reunited, there was a fierce power in it; they held tighter to the other's hands, they stepped closer than they had before, each blissful reunion a breathless, urgent experience.

"I think we are supposed to talk," Caroline said, her cheeks pink, her breath ragged as they came together again, linking arms to turn around and around.

Max smiled. "What would you have us talk about?"

Inside, his stomach clenched, wondering if she was going to bring up the matter of an annulment again. He did not know what he had said to elicit such anger from her in the carriage, when he had thought he was offering her something she might desire—the opportunity for love, with no effect upon her future security—but it appeared that her ire had ebbed for now. He hoped to keep it that way.

"I… do not know." Caroline's eyes sparkled. "You dance very well. I did not expect that."

"Whyever not?"

"I do not know that, either."

He hesitated as they began to turn in the opposite direction. "My mother wanted me to be a graceful dancer. I had a tutor, but my mother would always have the last dance with me. We would laugh and we would talk and though I did not much care for the lessons themselves, I would look forward to them all week. Sometimes, it was the only moment I had with her—just the two of us."

He smiled at the memory, a lump forming in his throat. "Every couple of weeks, my father would come in to see how I was faring with the dancing. He would cut in toward the end, and I would sit and watch my parents dance together as if they were newlyweds again. They loved to dance."

"That sounds… wonderful," Caroline gasped, hurrying through her last circle so she could face him again. "You rarely speak of your mother and father, while you let me prattle on about mine at my leisure."

"I suppose I am more interested in what I do not know than what I do," he replied.

She eyed him as they joined hands once more, to promenade through a tunnel of other dancers with arms arched. "Did they love each other?"

"Without end," he said, swallowing thickly. "I always thought it rather… bittersweet that they died together. They would not have wanted it any other way."

They came to the end of the tunnel, forced to part as they made their way back down the other side to the start, where they raised their own arms and touched their hands together.

"Even witnessing that, you are so dubious of love. How is that possible?" Caroline asked the moment they were reunited.

He shrugged. "I am dubious of how freely the word and the sentiment is bandied around, with no real truth to it. I am dubious of people claiming to be in love because I have seen what it is actually like. Theirs was a love of the rarest sort. So rare that they would not be parted under any circumstances."

So rare that, at times, it was like no one else existed… He kept that part to himself.

"My parents were like that," Caroline said. "But they were forced apart. Cruel, really. But, in a selfish way, I am glad one of them got to stay. I cannot imagine what it would be like to lose both at once."

"Nor would I want you to."

The dance would soon come to a close, but it was the conversation that Max was in a hurry to end. There was a reason he did not speak of his parents often; it was the one thing that caused his strength and stoicism to falter. He would not let his wife see him vulnerable, much less a ballroom full of people.

"If I may, how did it happen?" she asked, both of them moving up the line of the human tunnel as other dancers had their promenade.

Max had known the question might be coming, but it did not lessen the wrenching pain in his chest. A crack that he ordinarily did his best to prevent.

"It was a stormy night. They were returning from a party. A river had swollen near to Greenfield House, and the banks had burst, but it was too dark, and the rain was falling too hard to see properly," he explained flatly. "The flood had weakened a bridge, and the carriage was simply too heavy. The bridge collapsed, and they were swept away. The driver managed to escape, but they did not."

"Max…" Caroline's voice was soft, widening the small crack that had appeared in his heart. "… Oh, Max. I am so very sorry."

The music faded to a close, and Max and Caroline found themselves at the top of the tunnel. They lowered their arms and Max bowed to his wife, while she curtseyed in reply.

"It was a long time ago," he said.

"Whether it was yesterday or fifty years ago, I am still sorry for your loss," she urged, coming forward to take his hands in hers.

Desperate to distract himself, determined not to see the sorrow in her eyes, he raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. The brush of silk against his mouth made the skin tingle, and not for the first time, he wondered what it would be like to kiss her properly. To feel, for a moment, like their marriage was not pretend. To have someone to support him, to stand forever at his side, to cherish him, and to be cherished in return.

"Goodness, look at us," he said, forcing cheer into his voice. "We have become so very solemn again. It is a party, wife of mine! Let us celebrate and return to those drinks."

She smiled back, but sadness lingered in her eyes. "That would be wonderful."

As the hours ticked onward, Max's plan seemed to be working too well. The other guests had softened to the appearance of the scandalous pair, watching with fond and envious eyes as Max and Caroline danced thrice more. Even when they retreated to the corner to refresh themselves and whisper, they were watched and talked about, but the language was kinder, the remarks more admirable.

"If you cared more for your appearance," one mother scolded her daughter, "perhaps you would get a duke to fall in love with you."

"There is nothing so scandalous, really. It is practically the same as a courtship," someone else said.

"Oh, but are they not the most handsome couple you have ever seen?" A young lady swooned. "Is it any wonder they fell in love? Beauty attracts beauty."

"If it had been the brother, I would have believed there was some wrongdoing," a haughty older lady commented, her nose in the air. "But I have never heard anything but good things about His Grace, and the Duchess seems to be a sweet creature. Clearly, it was as detailed in the scandal sheets—a misunderstanding."

"Do you see the way he looks at her?" A younger woman sighed. "And the way she looks at him? I should like that, though I will need the Matchmaker if I am ever to achieve it."

The constant commentary put Max's mind at ease, and after a glass of port or two, he began to relax. Conversation flowed between him and his wife, they had not circled back to the matter of his parents, and whenever he met her gaze, he still thought her to be the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

Better yet, she had made quite the impression on the gentlemen who had come to speak with Max about matters of business. She was intelligent, quick-witted, with as keen a mind for enterprise as her brother.

"Spices, silks, and muslins will always be in demand," she had said to one gentleman, Lord Pocklington, when he had suggested that it was impossible to know what would make money. "The gentlemen of a household might control the finances, that is true, but one must consider who purchases more. That would be the lady of the household, and a lady will always buy the finest fabrics and wish to impress guests with dinners that are talked about for weeks afterward. It is how a lady gains a reputation as an exemplary host, or as exceptionally fashionable, and other ladies will emulate anything that garners the good kind of gossip."

Lord Pocklington had stared at her for a moment, before giving her a round of applause. "My goodness, she is right! I have never heard it spoken so… clearly before."

Max had never been prouder of her, or more impressed. Indeed, he had a feeling he should have allowed her to help him when she had offered it weeks ago. Perhaps, he would invite her to assist him from now on.

But as the hours wore on and the guests imbibed too much, he could see his wife flagging. It had been a long day for them both.

"Do you wish to leave?" he asked, bending his head to whisper in her ear.

She stifled a yawn, shaking her head. "Not at all. I will leave when you are ready to depart."

"You look half asleep, Caro," he said, smiling.

"It is the warmth in here," she protested. "Perhaps, a wander in the fresh air would revive me."

He slipped his hand into hers. "I quite agree. The gardens here are beautiful, though I doubt we shall see much in the dark."

"That does tend to be a problem with the dark, but I shall let my imagination substitute what I cannot see," she replied, allowing herself to be led through the crowded ballroom to the French doors on the opposite side.

The autumn air was a shock, an icy wind whistling across the terrace, nipping at the cheeks of the weary couple as they stepped out. There was no one else outside, everyone choosing to bear the humidity of the ballroom instead of risking the cold. But Max found it rather refreshing as he closed his eyes and inhaled a deep lungful of the crisp air.

"It is colder than I thought," Caroline said quietly, after a few minutes of companionable silence.

He glanced down at her, his hand still holding hers. In the silvery moonlight that pierced through the wispy clouds, he noticed that she was trembling a little, trying to be brave.

"Do you want to return indoors?" he asked.

She shook her head. "It is too stifling. I would rather shiver for a while."

"There is no need for that," he assured, as he quickly shuffled off his tailcoat.

He did not ask her to turn, instead putting his arms around her so he could drape the warmer garment over her shoulders. With one hand, he pinched the lapels closed over her chest, but his other arm remained around her, his hand lightly resting on her back.

"Is that better?" he said thickly, knowing he should not be so close but unable to draw away.

She peered up at him. "It is as good as any blanket. It is… still warm."

"I have more warmth to share," he told her, pressing her even closer, until there was nary a hair's breadth between them.

Beneath the tailcoat, he felt her palms turn toward him, resting against his chest. Instinctively, he let both arms wrap around her, pinning the tailcoat shut with the pressure of his body instead of the pinch of his hand. And as they stood there on the terrace, whipped by the cold wind, they just gazed at one another, not saying a word.

Her eyes searched his face, and the air around them seemed to shift, like there was some magic woven into the chilly gusts. Max glanced at her lips, saw them part slightly, and his head dipped until he was but an inch away from changing everything between them.

Her warm, frantic breaths seemed to whisper an invitation to kiss her.

Do not give her false hope; she wants a rare, forever love, not the bare minimum a husband can offer, his mind whispered back.

"Your lips are turning blue," he said, loosening his hold on her. "Come, let us return inside before the gossips begin their whispering again."

Her brow creased, her mustered smile a sad, resigned one. "And not a moment too soon," she said flatly. "I believe your tailcoat has lost its warmth."