Alex had given her a round tongue-lashing.
It was mostly her failure to involve him and ask for his help that he’d had an issue with, and he’d reminded her repeatedly that she wasn’t immortal or magical or untouchable. That even though he was well aware she was able to look after herself, she’d put herself in a position that was unacceptable. He had even gone so far as to mutter that she’d been damn lucky Alderidge had been there, even if that statement had been followed up by a string of curses implying that that very same man had been the root of the problem to start with.
Elise had been less vocal but had hugged her tightly and promptly disappeared belowstairs. Ivory had found her later cleaning her rifle, something she did only when she was upset and agitated.
Max had seen her home that night, and every night since then. Nights that had left her gasping and pleasured, fulfilled and content beyond anything she had ever dreamed possible. And those interludes of passion had been linked by hours of conversation, by their sharing thoughts and secrets and laughter the way lovers were wont to do in the shelter of privacy.
Though they never talked about the future. What might happen in a week or a month or a year. Perhaps Ivory was too selfish to force the issue. Or maybe she was too much of a coward. Or maybe she just didn’t want to know.
Occasionally he would seek her out in the afternoon, if only so they could share a quick meal or a cup of chocolate or tea to warm themselves against the damp chill, and on these days the bizarre normalcy and tender intimacy that they embraced was enough to make her heart feel as if it might explode. Her feelings had gone far beyond physical desire and attraction. What now existed between them was something Ivory wasn’t sure how to handle.
Which was alarming for a woman who knew how to handle everything.
On the other days, when she and Max were separated by work and by distance, she would find herself staring into nothingness, wondering what he was doing. Where he was. She found herself counting down the minutes until darkness fell and he slipped into the Covent Square house, and into her bed.
Ivory sighed, closing the ledger on her desk. She felt unsettled, and no matter how busy she tried to make herself, her mind wandered.
“There is someone here to see you, Duchess,” Roddy said from the door, interrupting her trance.
Happy for the distraction, Ivory rose. “Who is it?”
“She says her name is Lady Beatrice.”
“What?” Ivory nearly tripped over her hem.
“Should I show her into—”
Ivory was already pushing past him. What was Beatrice doing here? A hundred different scenarios were running through her mind, each worse than the last. She burst into the hall to find a young woman wrapped in a plain wool cloak, her face hidden by her hood.
“My lady,” Ivory said. “What are you doing here?”
Beatrice turned, pushing the hood from her head. She looked directly at Ivory, and her eyes were bleak. “I want to hire you,” she said.
“Whatever for?” God almighty, what had Beatrice done now?
“I want you to make him stay.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Max. He’s leaving. I want you to make him stay. Do whatever you need to. Sink his ship, burn it to the waterline, have him kidnapped, I don’t care. He won’t listen to me. And he won’t stay.”
“He’s leaving?” Ivory’s heart fell to her toes.
“I thought he would have told you.”
“No. He didn’t.” Yet deep down she had known he would leave. He had never told her otherwise. “The Odyssey is ready to sail?” She was trying to work out how much time she might yet have with him.
Beatrice flung her hands in the air in helpless frustration. “My brother says she’ll be ready by the end of the week.”
That came like a slap across the face. Ivory might not know what existed between them—there was no name, no label she could give to the bond that had been knit between them. But she did know one thing. And that was that it was far from over.
Beatrice was fumbling with a reticule. “I brought money—”
“Put your money away,” Ivory snapped. The last thing she needed was Maximus Harcourt’s money to deal with Maximus Harcourt.
“If anyone could keep him from leaving, it’s you,” Beatrice said miserably. “I tried to explain. But maybe if I hadn’t done what I did, maybe if I had been—”
Ivory suddenly felt sad. “Your brother loves you very much, my lady,” she said. “Don’t ever doubt that.”
“I just want him to stay. Just once. Just so that I can get to know him. Aside from Aunt Helen, he’s the only family I have.” She was twisting the strings on her reticule. “Can you make him stay?”
“I very much doubt anyone can make your brother do something he does not wish to,” Ivory muttered.
But she would try. Because it wasn’t just Beatrice who didn’t want to lose him so soon after she had found him.
“Roddy!”
She was met with silence.
“Roddy, get in here. I know you’re listening.”
There was the sound of a very ungentlemanly curse, and the boy stepped into the hall. “There was no way you could have heard me.”
Ivory ignored his complaint. “Fetch my cloak, if you would be so kind. We’re going out.”
* * *
The sun was sinking quickly, and taking with it whatever remnants of feeble warmth it had given. The Odyssey, now moored on the other side of the basin, was a hive of activity, men laboring across the decks and down in the holds as his ship was prepared for the sea, making the most of the dying daylight.
“A miss here to see you,” one of Max’s coopers said as he passed him, rolling a barrel in front of him. “Though she’s got that set to her jaw ye don’t ever want to mess with in a female.”
“Where?” Max glanced up from the log of inventory and passenger manifests he was reviewing.
“On ’em docks. Don’t say I didn’t warn ye.” The old sailor winked at him and carried on.
His eyes slid to the expanse between the Odyssey and the warehouses, picking her out easily because she was the only one who wasn’t moving. His heart missed a beat, and his hands tightened around the papers he held. She was so beautiful it simply stole his breath.
He caught the attention of one of his quartermasters, and his papers were whisked away. He navigated his way onto the docks and headed down toward Ivory, rehearsing in his head everything that he planned to say to her. She waited patiently for him to reach her.
“Your sister wants to hire me,” she said, before he could even open his mouth.
He stopped abruptly, startled. “What? Why?”
“She wants me to make you stay in London.”
“What?”
“Are you leaving?”
Max found himself on the defensive. “Not right away. It will be the better part of the week before we leave the basin. Assuming the weather cooperates, of course.”
“Mmmm.”
Max shifted uncomfortably.
“She suggested I burn your ship to the waterline.” Ivory’s eyes traced the graceful, powerful lines of the Indiaman.
“What?”
“She also suggested that I have you kidnapped.”
“Good God.” Max rubbed his face with his hands. This was not how he’d pictured this conversation going. These were not at all the things he had wanted to say to Ivory.
“What did you tell her?” he asked wearily.
“I told her nothing. I came here to ask if you had planned to leave without saying goodbye.”
“What? No! No, of course not.” He reached for her hands and clasped her fingers tightly. “I was going to tell you tonight.”
Her expression was unreadable.
He cursed softly. He hadn’t intended to have any of this conversation here, but it seemed that Beatrice had forced his hand.
He took a deep breath. “I was also going to ask you to come with me.”
It was her turn to look startled. “I beg your pardon?”
“Leave London. Come with me to India.”
“As what?”
As mine. It was on the tip of his tongue.
“I don’t know,” he said instead. “We can think of something.”
Ivory gazed at him sadly. “I can’t.”
“Why?” he demanded.
“My work is here. My life is here.”
“Your life could be with me.”
“It could.” She twined her fingers through his. “If you stayed.”
Max felt a flood of frustration. “And do what? Pretend to be a duke?”
He saw a flash of anger, though it was quickly snuffed by sadness. “Are you even listening to yourself? You are a duke. And a brother. And a nephew. Beatrice would give away every pretty thing you have ever given her if it meant you would stay. Trade every one of her ball gowns and dancing lessons and golden baubles for time with you.”
“Beatrice wants the brother who’s in the letters I wrote. In the adventures I spun. She’d be disappointed to discover that’s not me.”
“That’s not fair. To either one of you.”
“I think I’m the better judge of that.” He was aware he was scowling. “I can’t stay.”
“You won’t stay,” Ivory corrected. “You won’t try.”
Max stepped away from her, her fingers slipping from his and an impotent fury rising. She sounded exactly like Helen now. But Ivory knew better. She understood that he did not fit in here. He never would. “You’re a fine one to talk.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why won’t you leave this Mr. Chegarre?” he demanded. “What does he hold over you?”
Ivory closed her eyes.
They had never discussed him after that night at King’s. His name had never once come up. Max now wondered why. “Do you love him?” The thought cut fast and deep and hard.
Slowly she opened her eyes. “You don’t understand.”
She didn’t deny it. Max felt something die inside. “You’re right. I don’t.”
“I’ve built a life here for myself by myself. I don’t belong to anyone anymore. I can’t be dependent on you for my existence. I can’t rely on others to live. I won’t give that up.”
None of that made any sense, but what did make sense was that she was choosing Chegarre over him. After everything, after what he’d thought they had, what he’d thought might be possible, she was choosing another.
“Then you should go. For it seems I can’t give you what you want. I can’t give you what Chegarre can give you.” Max had never felt as wretched in his life as he had uttering those words.
“Max, you don’t understand—”
“I want you to be happy. So go. Please.” A weight settled in his chest, compressing his heart. “You have made your choice. And I have made mine.”
Ivory watched him, her skin almost luminescent in the fiery glow of the setting sun. Her hands dropped from his, and she stepped back. The loss of her touch was a physical pain.
She was searching his eyes. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
“Me too.” God, he didn’t want to draw this out any longer. “Goodbye, Ivory.”
“Goodbye, Max.”
She turned away, pulling the hood of her cloak up over her head, and in a minute she was lost in the crowd and confusion.
And Max felt…nothing. He felt utterly, completely empty. As if everything that had defined him had drained away, leaving nothing but an outer shell that could still walk and talk and give orders to a crew. He boarded the Odyssey, though somehow the ship didn’t seem to welcome him as it once had. As if the very timbers were judging him and the choices he had made.
He shoved his hands deep into his pockets against the cold air, not knowing if he would ever truly be warm again. His fingers found the edge of a small card, long forgotten. He drew it out, smoothing the paper with his thumb, running his finger over the neatly printed words. Chegarre & Associates. When she had given this to him a lifetime ago, he had told her he hoped that he would never see her again. And now he was getting his wish. He had lost her to a man he had never even met.
But she was never really yours, was she?
He made a sound of anguish, and his fingers twisted, tearing the card. The last rays of golden light caught the edges of the small paper pieces as they fluttered to the deck at his feet, the printed letters swirling into an untidy pile. Max stared down at them, a strange sensation crawling through him.
Unfeelingly he bent, rearranging the pieces where they had fallen, turning over the few that had landed facedown.
Chegarre & Associates.
There was an H. And an E. And an R.
Max thumped to his knees. He rearranged the rest of the letters and sat back hard, burying his face in his hands. A dizzying array of emotions was crashing through him, leaving him disoriented and unsteady. He tried desperately to identify everything that was filling his chest and pressing into the back of his throat. Admiration and wonder for the woman who had slipped into his life. Relief and regret, aimed at himself; though they were selfish emotions, they were no less powerful for it.
There had never been a Mr. Chegarre. The only one who had ever spoken of Mr. Chegarre had been Max, because for some insane reason he had made an insane assumption based on…nothing. There had never been another man competing for Ivory. She hadn’t chosen another man.
She had chosen herself. When Max had forced her hand, had acted like every man who simply wanted to own her, to possess her on his own terms, Ivory had chosen Ivory.
Chegarre was not a man. Chegarre was nothing but an anagram.
Chegarre & Associates.
Her Grace & Associates.