When Ivory arrived, the carriages of the men who would be attending the auction had yet to descend upon Helmsdale House, though she had no doubt they would not be far behind. She was led past the ballroom with all its treasures and shown into one of the upstairs chambers. It was a suite meant for a queen. There was a massive hearth with a roaring fire, chasing away the chill from even the farthest corners. A large bed dominated one side of the main room, with beautiful silk bed-curtains in shades of rose and blue. The walls were covered in cream-colored paper etched with swirling leaves, and the pattern was repeated in the embroidered cushions scattered across the bed. Just off to her left a deep hip tub steamed, with soft towels stacked neatly beside a selection of scented hard soaps. On a small table by the door, a bottle of wine had been opened, its contents waiting to be tipped into the delicate glass that was surrounded by an assortment of cheeses and small cakes.
Ivory’s first instinct was to refuse it all. But then, what was the point? It had been her choice. She had known exactly what she was doing when she had agreed to this.
There was little point in wasting a perfectly good tub of hot water just to feel sorry for herself. She undressed, leaving her clothes draped over the bed, and wandered into the dressing room, where she climbed into the steaming water. She sank down, closing her eyes, feeling a residual ache in places she had long forgotten about, reawakened on the floor of her study. She wondered what Max was doing now. Hopefully he was at home with his aunt and his sister, where he belonged.
She stayed in the tub until the water cooled and then soaped and rinsed herself quickly before stepping out and toweling herself dry. She returned to the bedroom, only to find her ordinary clothes were gone, having been replaced by undergarments so fine they were almost transparent, and stays with satin ribbons. There were silk stockings, a pair of embroidered slippers, and a complement of jewelry that would get people talking. And lying beside that was a gown meant to stop conversation altogether.
It was the color of twilight, a deep indigo that changed hue as she moved around it. The bodice dipped indecently low, and the skirts fell away from a wide band meant to hug her ribs and graze the undersides of her breasts. She ran a hand over the fabric, hardening herself against the regret that was welling up in her chest. She had performed like this too many times in her life. She knew exactly how the script would play out once the last note had faded.
She had never felt more alone than she did at that moment.
A knock came from the door, and a maid who was roughly the same size as King’s guards stuck her head in the room. “Can I help you dress, miss?” she asked, and it wasn’t really a question.
Ivory sighed, reaching for the chemise.
* * *
He didn’t have a plan.
That, for a man who meticulously plotted courses and made preparations for worst-case scenarios, was terrifying. He was making this up as he went, and there were only two times in his life that Max could remember having been so unnerved. Both of those times, he had found himself on the deck of the Odyssey as she wallowed on an oily ocean, the air around him heavy and thick and electric. Powerless to do anything but watch as the skies turned black and the clouds roiled and stacked as they advanced toward him.
The ballroom at Helmsdale House was not so different. He’d been searched when he entered the house—an efficient invasion of his personal space as two guards made sure he was not carrying weapons. The lack of a means with which to defend himself left him feeling further exposed and vulnerable. He was armed now only with his wit.
An eerie silence pervaded the ballroom, broken only by the hushed whispers and murmured conversations of men. In the center of the expansive ballroom, a massive square rug had been laid, and this muted any steps that might normally have echoed off the gleaming wood floor. The men already gathered in the ballroom were dressed in dark, somber attire that gave no indication of personality or preferences. Each faceless man wore the black domino that King had provided, and it lent a disturbingly sinister air to the room.
There was no sign of Ivory. Or any other female, for that matter.
Around the edges of the ballroom, glass cases, easels, and pedestals had been assembled, displaying their wares. The chandeliers had all been lowered, and the light bathed each treasure in a soft light. Max fell in with the rest of the guests, drifting around the edges of the room, his hands clasped behind his back. Every once in a while he paused to study a piece, as though he were considering its worth, before moving away again.
He stopped in front of a vibrant painting of a beautiful woman reclining against a tapestry of scarlet, a white swan arched between her thighs and resting its head on her naked breast. It was erotic and masterful, and he knew he should recognize it, but there were a hundred different thoughts zinging through his brain and none of them involved art.
Max leaned closer and read the small card resting at the bottom of the canvas, which read Leda and the Swan. Flanking the painting was a looming bronze statue, a triumphant David with one foot resting on the head of a vanquished Goliath. The small card at the base of the pedestal simply read David.
“An admirer of Michelangelo, are you?” The question came from behind him.
Max straightened abruptly, turning to find a man standing behind him, his hand resting casually on an inlaid ebony walking stick, rubies glinting from his fingers. He was dressed in the same impeccable black evening attire that every other man in the room wore and was probably about Max’s age, red-gold hair cut and styled and falling artfully over his forehead. He was regarding Max with pale-blue eyes, and he could have been any one of the guests at the auction, except this man was not wearing a mask.
“Yes. These are exquisite,” Max answered evenly, knowing instantly whom he was addressing.
“They are, aren’t they?” Those pale eyes appraised him. “This is a fine piece here,” he said, gesturing at the sculpture. “Bronze, not marble, which makes it especially rare. As is the painting. Did you know that this canvas was found in a brothel in Rouen?” he mused with distaste. “Can you imagine? Michelangelo relegated to decorating the walls of whores?”
“No.”
King gave a slight shrug. “Ah well, this is what happens when the mob is allowed to rule. Ignorant French peasants stripping the grand châteaus and palaces, happy to trade such treasures for a barrel of damp gunpowder.” He smiled a cold smile. “The revolution has been wonderfully profitable.”
“Indeed.”
King’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you?” he asked abruptly.
Max had known that even with the mask, he would still be noticeable. No doubt King had an idea who each man in this room was. He certainly knew who had been invited. And who had not.
“Maximus Harcourt.” Let King do with that what he might.
There was silence for the space of a heartbeat. “Alderidge.”
Max gazed back at him. “Yes.”
“How did you get in here?” It was said with mere curiosity.
“The same way everyone else did. Through the front door.”
“I see.” King drummed his fingers on the handle of his walking stick, his eyes taking in every inch of Max’s appearance. “I must confess, your presence here tonight is most unexpected. Startling, even.” Yet King didn’t look startled. He looked almost…amused. “Your sister is no longer here, you know, Your Grace.”
“I know.”
“I do hope she has learned her lesson. Some men can simply not be trusted.”
Max kept his stance impassive through sheer force of will.
“Why are you here?” King asked. “Have you come to kill me for the role that I played in Lady Beatrice’s…misadventures?”
“No. Not tonight.”
“Hmmm. The duchess said you were an arrogant ass. You don’t disappoint.”
“Miss Moore shouldn’t be here.”
King’s mouth twisted. “Ah. So you’ve come to ride to her rescue. The duchess makes her own choices, Your Grace. As she did this afternoon when we came to our agreement regarding the release and safe return of your sister. Whatever infantile guilt you might be harboring regarding the duchess’s actions on your behalf will find no purchase with me.”
Max concentrated on drawing air into his lungs in measured breaths.
King sighed impatiently. “She doesn’t need to be rescued, Your Grace. This is nothing that she hasn’t done before.”
“It is something she should never have had to do again. For anyone.” Max took a menacing step toward King and immediately three guards closed in on them.
King’s fingers stopped their drumming on the handle of his walking stick as he waved his men off.
“How much?” Max said quietly.
“I’m afraid you don’t understand, Your Grace. This is an auction. Where everything is available to the man who simply wants it the most. I cannot make side deals in shady corners. My reputation would be in tatters.” He paused. “I will, however, allow you to stay, provided you don’t disrupt my soiree. If it makes you feel better, you will have your chance to ride to her rescue at the end of the evening, provided you don’t squander all your money on the beauty and craftsmanship that surrounds us now. For the impossible will become quite possible. At least for a clever man.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because it amuses me.”
Max eyed the guards still hovering behind King and considered his odds. They weren’t good. It would be impossible to help Ivory if he was dead. “I want to see her.”
That surprised a bark of laughter from King. “And why do you think I would ever grant you such a request?”
“Because then I would not kill you one day for your role in my sister’s…misadventures.”
King gazed at Max with shrewd speculation. “How very dramatic.”
Max waited.
“Oh, very well. I will allow you two minutes. Two minutes to say whatever it is you need to get off your chest, make whatever apologies you think will make you feel better.” He stepped aside, gesturing for Max to precede him. “I do so love the dramatic.”
* * *
Ivory stood in front of the long mirror, running her hands down the elaborate silk dress. It had been a long time since she had looked like this. It had been a long time since she had done what she was about to do.
“You’re quite stunning.”
Ivory’s eyes snapped to the doorway in the mirror. King was standing there, leaning casually on his walking stick.
“There are almost a hundred men downstairs who are positively quaking in excitement over the possibility of an appearance by Ivory Bellafiore. It will be a wonder if they can even concentrate on their bidding.”
Ivory watched King in the mirror, not turning around.
“Oh, come now, Duchess, don’t be so sullen. You think I’m going to auction you off like a piece of common art to the first old man with more money than hair?” He closed the door and crossed the room, coming to stand directly behind her, his eyes meeting hers in the glass. “You deserve so much better than that.”
Ivory stared at him.
He stroked the length of hair that fell down her back, still damp from the bath.
Ivory frowned and stepped away.
King dropped his hand. “If someone is going to take you home tonight, he must prove himself.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’ll see. It might be possible no one even does. It might be me who ends up enjoying your company this fine evening, and I have to admit, Duchess, the idea has a certain appeal.”
“I don’t understand. Why would you do this?”
“Because it amuses me.”
Ivory felt a rush of anger. She turned to face him. “Whatever game you’re playing here, King, know that I’ve met my end of the bargain. Lady Beatrice and her family are off-limits. Forever.”
“Of course they are. I agreed to that.” He looked annoyed. “The situation that we currently find ourselves in is—”
“Business, King. Nothing more. You were in possession of a child—”
“Bah. She was hardly a child. She was eighteen. I was told you were thirteen when your pa sold you. And you turned out all right.”
Ivory closed her eyes. She couldn’t even begin to understand his twisted logic.
“You have a visitor.”
Ivory’s eyes snapped open. “What do you mean, a visitor?”
“Apparently you have some unfinished business that needs to be addressed before we can proceed this evening. You have two minutes. I trust you can resolve any outstanding issues in that time.”
Ivory looked at him in utter confusion. What kind of ploy was this? “Who?”
King turned and strode to the door, then pulled it open. “Two minutes,” he said, and vanished into the hall.
Ivory was still staring after him when Max stepped into the doorway.
* * *
“Max?” It came from the far side of the room, shock making it barely audible.
He shoved the door shut behind him and crossed the room in desperate strides, coming to an abrupt halt in front of her. He stared, a little breathless at the vision before him. She was dressed in an elaborate blue silk gown, her skin flushed and glowing. Her hair was pulled back from her face and then left to tumble down her back almost to her waist in a glorious mahogany curtain, making her look a little like a medieval princess.
“Max, what are you doing here?” she gasped.
“What does it look like? I’m storming the Bastille. Albeit not exactly how I pictured it. I have no weapons, no army, and I’m dressed in evening clothes.”
She blinked. “Oh God. You came here for me?”
“Of course I came here for you. What the hell kind of question is that?”
“A good one.”
“Wrong. The better question is what are you doing here.”
She didn’t flinch. “I can take care of myself, Max.”
He closed the distance between them, unable to help himself. He caught her face in his hands and brought his mouth to hers, the gentle, reassuring kiss he had intended suddenly unraveling into a desperate, demanding one. He wondered who needed his reassurance more, she or he. She swayed against his body, and he pulled her closer, as if he could shield her from everything unpleasant that had been and might yet come. They stood that way for a long moment before he pulled back slightly, searching her eyes.
“What have you done?” He brushed his fingers down her cheek.
“What I had to.”
“I won’t let you do this.”
“You don’t have a choice, Max. This was my choice, and I would make the same one again.”
Max fought the urge to simply pick her up and throw her out the window. Surely there were some bushes she might land in. Or perhaps the impact would finally knock some sense into her head.
“The windows are locked. Though I suspect that is more of a precaution to keep people out than to keep them in.”
“What?”
“You were looking at the windows. Were you planning on throwing a chair through the glass? Knotting the bedsheets and climbing out?”
“Sounds reasonable. We’re getting out of here.” He grasped her arm.
“I can’t leave.”
“Of course you can. Over my dead body will I allow you to be reduced to an…entertainment for those men downstairs.”
“That’s just the problem, Max.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“My presence tonight ensures the safety of Beatrice and your aunt. And you.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that King isn’t stupid. It means he made sure innocent people would get hurt if someone stormed the Bastille.”
Max swore. “Then I’ll take Beatrice and Helen out of London—”
“And live the rest of your lives looking over your shoulder? Max, it’s done. Beatrice is home. Your family is once again whole and secure and safe. Don’t make it all for nothing by doing something stupid.”
“I let you go. That was stupid. And I’ll do whatever it takes to remedy that. There is nothing that I have that I wouldn’t give for you. Nothing.”
Ivory was looking at him, emotion welling in the dark depths of her eyes. “I’ll be fine,” she whispered.
“You shouldn’t have to be fine, Ivory. You should be free. Protected from things that you survived once and that you shouldn’t have to survive again.” He brushed his lips across her forehead. “I want to do that for you.”
A loud rap made him jump. “Your two minutes are up.” King’s muffled voice came through the door.
She leaned forward, kissing him hard and swiftly. “Max, I—”
The door swung open, and King stood there, his hulking entourage at his back.
His pale eyes went from Ivory to Max and back. “I trust you two have resolved your issues?”
Max stared stonily back, silent.
“Good to hear it.” He stepped back from the door. “Like I said, Your Grace, you’re welcome to stay so long as you behave. My men will attend you to make sure that you have everything you need.” The threat was pointed.
Max clenched his fists behind his back.
King turned to Ivory. “Time to go, Duchess,” he said. “Your audience awaits.”
* * *
Max had come for her.
He had somehow discovered what she’d done and had somehow gotten into this house. Had somehow negotiated with King for the most precious two minutes of her life. Even though his efforts hadn’t changed the inevitable outcome, no one had ever done something like that. She’d relied on herself and her wits so long, knowing that no one was ever coming to rescue her from anything. But Max had.
Maybe it was out of guilt or a sense of duty or remorse. But maybe it was for another reason entirely.
And as she waited downstairs for the auction to conclude, she held on to that maybe as tightly as she could. She was still holding on as she was led into the ballroom, now cleared of its treasures.
Each sculpture, each antiquity that she had glimpsed when she’d first arrived had been whisked away, no doubt packed carefully in a straw-filled wooden crate and shipped to wherever it was destined to disappear again. The only thing left was a looming bronze statue of David that it would require an army of muscle-bound men to remove.
Around a massive square rug, men had gathered, and though Ivory had been prepared for it, the faceless, shifting crowd sent a shudder through her. They waited, like a horde of masked executioners, a strange undertow of excitement churning throughout the room. Knowing that whatever was going to happen next would be different. King was about to present these jaded, cynical buyers with something novel. Something that they could compete for. It was this that she hated. This bleak feeling of exposed vulnerability that reduced her to a thirteen-year-old girl who had learned hard lessons about how one survived when one started with nothing.
Beside her, King was smiling. Or smirking. It was difficult to tell which.
“You are going to make me famous, Duchess,” he whispered under his breath so that only she might hear. “You are my most incredible coup yet.”
* * *
Max first became aware of the absolute silence that had fallen when he began to hear his own pulse pounding in his ears. He turned toward the door, and everything around him dimmed.
Ivory was walking toward him, or at least in his general direction. She looked neither right nor left, her gaze fixed firmly on something that only she could see. Her face was composed and serene, and she might have been strolling through Hyde Park on a Tuesday afternoon, so unconcerned did she appear. She looked exotic and flawless and…untouchable.
King was walking by her side, clearly enjoying the spell with which he had captivated his audience. Guards were ushering men to the edges of the ballroom, and King led her to the center of the rug, stopping and turning, making sure he had the attention of all of his guests. He need not have worried. Every man in the room was riveted.
“Thank you for your patience, gentlemen,” he said. “But I had promised you something impossible and perfect, and that, my friends, takes some time, as you all know.”
There was a subtle murmur of amusement throughout the crowd. Max was imagining ways in which this man might meet his end.
“I give you Miss Ivory Bellafiore,” King pronounced with all the pomp of a royal herald. “A jewel that even the most illustrious opera houses of Europe have failed to produce these past years.” He let that point settle over his buyers. “Miss Bellafiore has agreed to sing for us tonight,” King continued. “And should you wish a more…private performance later, one man may have that chance.”
Another murmur rippled through the crowd, and this one carried the sharp edge of excitement and avarice. All these men, staring at her as if she were just another desirable object to be owned. As if they could buy her and put her in a pretty glass case so she could be taken out and admired when it suited.
Max focused on keeping his breathing even. He needed to keep his wits about him.
“Miss Bellafiore,” King said, taking a half step back.
Ivory’s eyes swept across the masses of masked men, all watching her expectantly. Max could barely breathe.
She found him where he stood, as still and as silent as the others around him. Her eyes held his, and she began to sing, no instruments or music or accompaniment, just her voice echoing throughout the ballroom, soaring up to the ceiling and swirling around each person in the room.
He had never seen her perform on a stage. He had never seen her at the royal opera houses, never heard her voice lifted up in the manner that had secured her legend. She sang in Italian, and his was rusty at best, but it didn’t matter that he didn’t understand each word. She drew him in and set his blood on fire. She was otherworldly and he couldn’t look away.
When her voice had died away, there was utter silence in the ballroom. And then King stepped forward again, clapping loudly, and the men suddenly exploded into applause. The crowd was pressing forward now, as if wanting to touch such perfection, but King’s men were keeping them back, well off the square rug. Max watched King carefully. He was looking around, satisfaction shining from his visage at the feat he had achieved. King had known how brilliant Ivory’s performance would be because he had known she would do nothing to endanger Max’s family. And he had known that after such a performance there was not a man among them who would be immune to her enchantment.
King held his hand up, and the room quieted. “Two thousand pounds,” he said, and once again the silence was absolute. “Two thousand pounds will secure you a single chance to enjoy Miss Bellafiore’s charms for the remainder of the evening, should you prove yourself worthy.”
A hum of speculation rose.
Max was grateful for the mask, for it concealed his expression. What the hell was King doing? He’d been working under the impression that Ivory would be auctioned just like every other piece that had gone before. And there was not a man in this room who would be able to outbid him. But now…
“My men are circulating. You may give your promissory note to one of them should you be so inclined.”
Judging from the flurry of sudden activity, almost everyone was inclined.
A half dozen of King’s guards, each carrying a wooden box filled with what looked like smooth wooden sticks almost the length of a broom handle, had entered the ballroom sometime during the performance. Men craned their necks, waving their notes as King’s guards came around. A note was collected from each client, and in exchange for two thousand pounds, each man was given a stick.
Max deposited his own promissory note in the hands of a beefy guard and was left holding on to the same sort of stick as the rest of the men. It was a hardwood, perhaps oak, smooth, with blunted ends, and thicker than he’d first thought. It looked more like a piece of long, stout kindling than a weapon, though used in the right manner, it would inflict some damage. Idly Max wondered how much damage he might inflict on King before he was dragged off of him and shot. Or stabbed. It would accomplish nothing, he knew, but it would certainly make him feel better, if only for a minute.
Max hefted the wood in his hand. For the life of him, he couldn’t begin to imagine what it might be for. His eyes darted around, but everyone else seemed equally perplexed. Perhaps it was a lottery. Perhaps they were to mark each stick and toss it into a pile from which it might be drawn. Perhaps—
“Has everyone been seen to who wishes to enter?” King called out. The guards had withdrawn, and a ring of men stood around the rug, each clutching a piece of wood. Another silence fell.
“Very good.” King turned slowly, appraising the audience that surrounded him. He was now holding a golden chalice of some sort in his hand, an object wrapped in pristine white cloth resting inside. Very slowly, giving everyone a chance to see, he unwrapped the object, revealing an emerald the size of a chicken egg. Beneath the overhead light from the chandeliers, it glittered and glowed.
Around him men shifted in renewed interest.
“The rules are simple, gentlemen,” King said, bending to place the chalice and its emerald in the very center of the elaborate rug. “The first man to retrieve this jewel without touching the rug upon which it rests with any part of his body will win not only the stone, but Miss Bellafiore’s company for the remainder of the evening.”
Max stared at King. Seven men could lie end to end across the square rug without reaching its edges.
“You have only one chance, so strategize wisely,” King continued. “I have given you a tool which you may use. You may find it helpful. Or you may not.”
Max transferred his gaze to Ivory. She was still watching him, her dark-brown eyes calm and steady. But she was pale. So very, very pale.
Beside her, King offered Ivory his arm. “Come, Miss Bellafiore. Let’s find a good seat from which to watch the entertainment, shall we?” He was smirking again. She took his proffered arm, her eyes leaving Max’s even though her expression didn’t change, and silently followed King to the far end of the ballroom. A dais of sorts had been set up, and two guards appeared bearing chairs, which they placed before King and Ivory.
The bastard was enjoying every minute of this, Max thought, gritting his teeth against the anger that rose. King and his queen. Presiding over his greedy, scrabbling subjects. Already men were pressing in, dropping to their knees on the floor at the edges of the carpet, straining forward helplessly with sticks that were much too short to reach anything. As men lost their balance, or their sticks fell, guards moved forward and ushered them away, their chance squandered. A trio of men were tying their sticks together with their cravats, presumably partnering to share in the spoils. Yet their longer pole drooped and fell, and still failed to reach the emerald. More men, seizing on the idea, suddenly became allies, and longer staffs were fashioned, lengths decorated with linen knots. Max watched as a group extended its pole, the wood swaying and dipping, and the end nudged the edge of the chalice. There was a collective intake of breath but then the pole fell apart, and King’s guards once again swooped in.
Other men, not willing to align themselves with partners, moved in, throwing their sticks at the chalice, hoping to knock the emerald closer to the edge of the rug, where it might be reached. Two hit the chalice, the last knocking the cup over and spilling the emerald onto the rug, but the jewel remained unreachable.
Up on his throne, King was watching with undisguised delight. As if the childish, desperate antics of these men, brought quite literally to their knees by their greed, were inexorably proving that King was the superior being. Max considered him, his mind racing. Perhaps he had never intended Ivory to go home with any of these men, and would claim her company for himself. Perhaps he’d never had any intention of allowing Ivory to leave Helmsdale tonight. And for King’s planning he was thousands and thousands of pounds richer, and it had cost him nothing aside from the two hundred pounds that he’d paid for a terrified debutante. It had cost Ivory much, much more.
The crowd around the rug was almost gone now, men retreating and muttering and seeking out more liquor in which to drown their failings. The guards had refilled their wooden boxes, reclaiming the tools that had failed. A few men were still pacing the edge of the rug, seeking a strategy that had eluded the rest. But eventually they too resorted to cartwheeling their sticks across the rug, trying to sweep the emerald closer to the edge. Max had hung back, not wanting to be caught in the surging, pushing crowd. He wandered around the perimeter, coming to stand at the edge closest to King and Ivory. He was aware he was the only one now left in the ballroom who still had a stick in his hand.
“Your Grace,” King said from his perch. “Have you reconsidered?”
“No.”
“Then whatever are you waiting for?”
Max turned to look up at King briefly before turning away. He couldn’t look at Ivory. He needed to concentrate. “I was waiting for the hordes to subside,” he said evenly.
“It was rather hectic, wasn’t it?” King was drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair and sounded utterly pleased with the observation. Max could feel the weight of his gaze on the back of his neck, and it sent unpleasant prickles across his flesh. “I noticed you did not bid on either of the Michelangelo pieces earlier,” he commented.
“No, I did not.” King was probing again, Max knew, hoping to catch him in a lie. So he told the truth. “I took your advice. Saved my money for a chance at something far more valuable.”
“Indeed. Well, whether that was good advice remains to be seen, Your Grace. You might yet leave here empty-handed. Look around you. All of these are educated, intelligent men. Yet they have failed to solve this puzzle.”
“Mmmm.” Max was beginning to appreciate the value of Ivory’s non-answer answer.
“Why do you think you are better than any of those who have failed before you?”
“Because I am better. And I will not fail.”
King’s fingers stopped their drumming. Max smiled faintly and stepped closer to the edge of the rug. The emerald lay slightly off center now, the chalice on its side, the rim gleaming in the light. Max let the tip of his stick drop to the floor and jammed it under the edge of the rug. He levered it forward, and the carpet curled, rolling up on itself. He moved down the entire side, working the tip of his stick under the edge, constantly pushing the carpet into a thicker and thicker roll.
Around him he became aware of voices, exclamations mixed with grumbles and the occasional laugh.
Entertainment indeed.
He was sweating now, the heavy rug rolling faster and more easily now that it was started. King was standing on his dais, and men were once again pushing in. Max kept his movement steady and sure, until the rolled edge of the rug bumped the overturned chalice. Very slowly he bent down and, reaching over the thick cylinder of carpet, careful not to touch it, he simply plucked the emerald from where it lay.
“Well done,” King said, his voice echoing through the ballroom.
Max curled his fingers around the stone, feeling the cut edges press into the flesh of his palm. Casually he slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket. He couldn’t tell if King was impressed or infuriated.
“Thank you,” he said, striding toward the dais. He stopped, his eyes going to Ivory. “Miss Bellafiore,” he said with a bow, “it would be my pleasure to see you safely from Helmsdale this evening.” He chose his words carefully.
Ivory stood, picking up her skirts. Silently she made her way to the step off to the side and carefully descended.
Max held out his arm, and she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, her fingers resting lightly on his sleeve. He turned slightly, only to find that King had jumped down from the low platform and was now standing in front of them, blocking their way.
“You told me he was an arrogant ass, Duchess.” His voice was low. “You never told me he was clever.”
“You never asked.” She sounded remarkably composed.
King folded his arms over his chest, his gaze going to Max’s. Max met King’s pale eyes without flinching.
“Well, enjoy your knight-errant, Duchess,” King said with a slight twitch to his lips. “For he has certainly earned your favor this evening. I might even suggest you may find a use for his cleverness in the future, provided he doesn’t sail away on you.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“You do that.” He sniffed. “A pleasure doing business as always, Duchess.” King abruptly turned and made his way through the ballroom, an entourage of guards at his side.
Max was already pulling Ivory toward the doors, unwilling to stay in the house a moment longer. They burst through the front door, both of them sucking in deep breaths of cold air. He yanked off his mask, catching Ivory’s hand in his, terrified to let it go. Terrified that if he did, she would somehow slip away from him again. He headed toward the long line of carriages, picking out the sleek lines of Alex’s equipage. There was a man pacing near the horses, bundled in warm clothes. He saw them coming and rushed forward.
“Jesus, Your Grace, that took you long enough,” Alex snapped, his eyes raking Ivory from head to toe, his lips curling slightly at her gown. “I was about five minutes away from driving this thing right through that front door.”
“Alex?” Ivory blinked. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“A great many things I never thought I’d do,” grumbled Alex. “Freeze my tail off. Drive a carriage. Trust this oaf to extract you from a monumentally stupid decision you should never have made.” He took Ivory by the shoulders and held her from him, as if searching for damage.
“Let’s discuss later, shall we?” Max urged. Much later.
“Will someone be shooting at us soon?” Alex inquired, glancing around uneasily, letting Ivory go and climbing up onto the driver’s seat.
“No. At least I don’t think so. I won Miss Moore fair and square.” Max wrenched the carriage door open and handed Ivory up into the interior. Her voluminous skirts made it awkward, and he half pushed her and the fabric ahead of him.
“You what?”
“Just go,” Max ordered, climbing in behind Ivory. The carriage lurched into motion, and Max pulled the door shut behind them, plunging the interior into blackness. In a heartbeat he had Ivory in his arms, pressing her head against his shoulder.
“I can’t say that I enjoyed any part of that evening,” Max said into the softness of her hair. “Except maybe when you sang.”
“Neither did I. Except maybe the look on King’s face when you rolled up that carpet. How did you know to do that?”
“How do you think we mend and dry out sails?”
Ivory uttered a choked laugh before it died. “I still can’t believe you came for me.” It was said with a touch of wonder.
“Of course I came for you. What you did was madness. You never should have done that,” he said. “You never should have put yourself in that kind of situation—”
Ivory pulled back from him, and he wished he could see her face. “We’re not having this conversation again, Max.”
But Max wasn’t done. “The thought of another man touching you—”
“Another man would never have touched me.”
“Are you insane? Every man in that room wanted you, and not just to hear your voice. They would have taken you back to whatever hole they had crawled out of and then—”
She shifted, and he could hear the slide of silk. She fumbled for his hand in the darkness and grasped it, pressing what felt like a tiny glass vial into his palm.
“And then I might have urged him into bed. Brought him a relaxing glass of wine,” she said in a low voice. “A very relaxing glass of wine. Or port. Or whatever my mark might be drinking. So relaxing, in fact, one might be overcome by sleep.” Her fingers found the edge of his face, as if gauging his expression by touch. “I would see to his comfort, of course, then. Remove his clothes, rumple the bedsheets, discard the leftover drink. Even leave a note, expressing my gratitude and my admiration if I thought it was necessary. Men’s egos can be fragile things. Especially if one cannot seem to remember what happened after one climbed into bed with Ivory Bellafiore. It’s important to leave them an account of what they would like to believe.”
Max swallowed, feeling the smooth glass in his palm, knowing what it would contain. “You would drug them.”
“Yes.” There was no apology in her voice.
Nor, he reflected, should there be.
“I learned my lessons early, and I learned them well. No one ever rode to my rescue. I survived by my ability to manipulate men.”
Her fingers were tracing the edges of his jaw.
“And is this what you’re doing now? Manipulating me?”
Her touch stalled. “No,” she whispered. “You undo me, Maximus Harcourt.”
He caught her shoulders then, moving one hand to caress her neck, with the other tracing her collarbone and the slope of her breast to the edge of her bodice. Beneath his fingers he could feel the rapid rise and fall of her chest.
“I will always come for you, Ivory Moore,” he said, and bent his head, his mouth a breath from her own. She shivered, yet made no move to draw away. He brushed her lips with his, his restraint razed the second he felt her open up eagerly beneath him. He devoured her, unable to help himself, slanting his mouth over hers, his tongue exploring her heat. A reckless desire, unlike anything he had ever experienced, flooded through him, and any control he’d had left was eroding at a frightening speed. He slid his hands down her back, pulling her onto his lap so that she straddled him, shoving her skirts up over her thighs and hips. He pressed himself hard against her, letting her feel just how badly she undid him as well.
She had a hand between them and was yanking at the buttons to his trousers. He shifted back, allowing her more access, and in an instant she had her hand inside, stroking him as his erection sprang free from its confines. He ran his hands up the outsides of her thighs, pulling her up, feeling himself poised at her entrance. She was panting, and very slowly she guided him into her wet heat, accommodating him in a slow, torturous descent. They stayed frozen like that for a long moment, their breath harsh in the darkened carriage.
And then she moved, rocking her hips ever so slightly, and he claimed her mouth again, as much to muffle his groan of pleasure as hers. She was setting the pace, and it was deliberate and tormenting and unbearable and the most staggering ecstasy he had ever experienced. She suffused every one of his senses, and with this woman he couldn’t think, could only feel. Feel the pleasure that she gave to his body. Feel the emotion that filled his heart every time he was with her.
She whimpered, losing her rhythm, her body trembling. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close, thrusting up into her, taking control where she had lost it. She wrapped her arms around his neck, her head buried against his shoulder, and he felt her tense as her body began to reach for release. He could feel the moment she came apart, her inner muscles convulsing, her arms tightening around him, her mouth pressed against the side of his neck. Letting himself loose to the mercy of his own pleasure, which was roaring through him, he drove into her, his muscles clenching as he pulsed and claimed her as his own.
She made a move to slide from him, but he caught her, unwilling to release the physical connection between them. Remembering what had happened the last time they had made love and she had withdrawn. “Don’t go yet,” he whispered in her ear. “I would have you with me.”
She stilled in his arms and then leaned forward, kissing him unhurriedly. “I am with you, Max.”
I would have you with me for always, he had wanted to say. Wanting the impossible.