Chapter 18
Max hurried down the stairs, shoving at his darker demons, willing them back to whence they’d come. Usually, he controlled them quite well. Dwelling in darkness didn’t help a man. No, it hindered him. He’d only allowed himself to simmer in agony once before and he wouldn’t make that mistake again.
No, one had to pick oneself up and keep moving forward. Otherwise one would be consumed.
Still, Ardore’s tragedy had been undeniable and his sympathy for his friend was strong. It had. . . struck him. How easy it was in this life for things to go terribly, terribly wrong.
He narrowed his eyes and stared at the foyer.
There was a man there in the shadows.
Which was deuced odd. They were not in the habit of having fellows linger in the hallway of Number 79.
If it was a friend of Yvette’s, it was doubtful she’d have left him alone in such a place.
He slowed his step, quiet, careful now as he assessed the danger.
But the moment he reached the bottom step, the man swung around and their gazes met.
That penetrating blue stare was unmistakable. “O’Malley?” Max asked, struggling to believe his eyes and his wits. “What the devil are you doing here?”
“Well now, Your Grace, to say it without dancing about, I’m waiting on the Duchess of Raventon.”
Max stared, understanding overtaking him. “My wife?”
“Indeed.”
Max nearly groaned. “She’s here?”
O’Malley quirked a brow then pointed to Yvette’s salon.
Max threw back his head and sighed. If his wife and his dearest female friend were in a tête-à-tête, he was possibly in for very murky waters.
What in the blazes might Yvette reveal about him?
As he considered the many and varied things Yvette was a party to, the possibilities were endless and potentially torturous. Surely, she wouldn’t. . . she wouldn’t reveal it all?
Some of it wasn’t a secret. Not truly. Not his work in France. Too many years had passed to bother with keeping many of those secrets.
But the present ones?
Very few knew those. Only his closest friends, the other dukes, and Yvette knew of them and they’d only known for a very short time the work he did for the government.
Still, he doubted Yvette would risk exposing him entirely. Surely.
He found himself flummoxed. For wasn’t, in a way, this what he had wished? For Yvette and Diana to be friends? Yes, of course he wished it. . .
So, he took himself in hand and knocked on the salon door lightly then stepped inside.
Yvette and Diana sat on the sapphire silk settee, heads close together, champagne glasses in hand, laughing.
When Diana turned towards him and their gazes met, his breath froze in his chest. Her eyes sparkled with amusement, her cheeks glowed with good humor, and her mouth seemed poised to say something terribly witty.
At the sight of him, she beamed. “Ye’ve joined us.”
“You knew I was here?” he asked rather stupidly.
She nodded. “Oh, yes. I smelled yer cologne.”
He laughed a sound that was a half-moan of acceptance. “Of course.”
Hadn’t he thought she would have made an ideal recruit for his Paris days? Even now. . . she was a woman of heightened intelligence and consideration. He doubted that Diana missed much.
“It was kind of you to wait for me,” he said.
“To be truthful,” she replied quite honestly, “I wasn’t truly waiting for ye. Yvette and I were swept away by our conversation.”
He hesitated. “About?”
“You, mon cher!” Yvette announced. “And Monsieur Sheridan.”
“I am longing to see School for Scandal. And I’d like to see Congreve’s Country Wife, too,” chimed in Diana, charmingly inebriated as she declared her passion for the theater. “I’ve read them, of course, but then plays are no’ written to be read, are they? They’re written to be seen.”
“Very true,” Max said, a bit blown over by the turn of the conversation. He’d been slightly unsettled about how she’d react to the things Yvette might tell her. Yet, here she was eager to discuss the theater.
“Och, Shakespeare is the same, I think,” Diana said with all seriousness. “But I should hardly ken, having seen only a terribly dreary country house party presentation of Much Ado About Nothing. The reading of it was definitely better than that rather sad performance.”
“We should all go see Twelfth Night! It’s on in Drury Lane!” Yvette said lifting her glass.
“Oh, yes!” Diana all but bounced upon the settee with her uncurbed enthusiasm. “It would be wonderful to go out in the evening. Will ye escort us, Max?”
At that rather sad remark, Max realized how terribly remiss he’d been. He’d left her alone. My God. No wonder she’d sought out Yvette.
She was likely wondering if she’d married a total boor.
He hadn’t taken her to dinners, or balls, or card parties, or the opera, or the theater, convincing himself it was better to be safe at present. But that was absolutely absurd because he made no attempt to stop her endeavors in the East End with O’Malley’s protection.
No, plain and simple, he had been avoiding his wife’s company. Because, quite simply, he was afraid of liking it too well. He, who had faced the hordes of Paris mobs at their worst. He, who had laid subterfuge to Robespierre. And he, who had marched across the battlefields of Europe to face the cannon, columns, and cavalry of Napoleon’s army, was afraid to become too close to his wife.
The realization hit him with a powerful blow. He’d abandoned her. All because he was afraid.
He swallowed. His fear was reasonable. The agony he’d suffered after his last loss. . . it had nearly driven him mad. Still, he was being an arse.
Yet even knowing this, he felt a hesitation in immediately saying, of course, they should all go to the theater.
For, he’d lost so much over the years. He wasn’t certain he could bear to become attached to her.
After all, it was that lack of attachment, that fooling the world into thinking he was a pleasant, jovial man, that made him so skilled at his job.
But he took one look at his glorious, new wife and knew that if he failed her in this, though he might save her in many endeavors, he would be securing a distance between them that would be most difficult to repair. It would grow their entire lives, leaving each of them cold and alone.
So, he braced himself. “Of course, I shall.”
Her dazzling smile nearly knocked the air out of his lungs. Good God, it was as if he were but a mere boy again, bowled over by his first glance of a remarkable woman.
How the devil did she do that? For there was nothing supposedly tantalizing about Diana. . . and yet, she was. She was utterly tantalizing.
And somehow, he had to keep his good sense, despite a desire deep within to give way to it all. But he couldn’t give way. Not if he was going to keep her safe.