Chapter Twenty-Three
“Maximilian, you must stop Highchester.” The words were perilously close to a wail, being rather high-pitched and drawn out. They were also accompanied by the wringing of arthritic hands.
“Mother, he won’t listen to me any more than he listens to you.” His brother never had, unless Maximilian had pounded the words into him with fists, and Maximilian didn’t believe fisticuffs solved anything. “Moreover, I haven’t the slightest inkling what you are talking about.”
Nor did he want to know. The document in his hand needed translating, and he wanted his bed. It was late, and he’d lost sleep the night before while dealing with the Flower, her mission, and a nose that was bruised but thankfully not broken. Also thankfully, it bore little residual damage beyond a vague ache and slight bruising under one eye.
“I would suggest an intervention of some type is necessary, Maximilian.” The brisk words issued from the downturned mouth of Bishop Carlisle. The very moral, very distinguished friend of the family who had witnessed Maximilian pretending to be intoxicated. “Assuming you are capable of such responsibility, of course.”
Maximilian almost ducked his head as he would have done as a boy. As a man, however, he simply held the bishop’s gaze steadily. The bishop’s countenance was grave, the dignified planes of his face sober and full of import, which was why, instead of working, Maximilian was standing in his drawing room facing his almost hysterical mother and a stoic bishop at some time in the evening. Not that his mother was ever anything but almost hysterical.
On the other hand, she rarely visited his bachelor quarters. Nor did Bishop Carlisle, come to think of it. Something truly was amiss, then.
The Dowager Lady Highchester continued to wring her hands together, twisting them in the strings of her reticule. Little frilly things bobbed at the hem of her ball gown, and feathers poked out of her hair. They were drooping, as though exhausted after an evening of standing up straight between white curls.
How late was it? He was certain he’d eaten luncheon not long ago. Reaching into his waistcoat for his pocket watch, he flipped open the plain gold lid to study the hands. Not yet midnight, but well past dinner. Well, that explained the gnawing hunger in his stomach.
“I don’t know what to do!” His mother’s shoulders slumped, mirroring the drooping feathers. “Highchester will surely ruin the girl if he is not stopped.”
Maximilian’s head snapped up, and he studied his mother’s harried face. “A girl?”
“You should have seen him this evening.” She shook her head, nearly dislodging one of the feathers. “Strutting about the ballroom with that young chit on his arm. I don’t know what her parents are thinking.”
Not that kind of girl, then. If she was in a ballroom, Highchester would be a bit more circumspect. Less chance of bastards and rumors, he though distastefully. Still, Maximilian did begin to pay attention now that he knew the subject matter.
“Calm yourself, Agatha. We will sort this out.” Bishop Carlisle set his hand over the strings of the reticule, restricting her fingers’ harried movements. “His lordship can be brought to heel.”
Maximilian wasn’t so sure, but the bishop’s low, steady voice seemed to help his mother. Her brows smoothed out and she smiled tremulously. “Yes, of course. You are right.”
“Sit down, Mother, and tell me what has happened.” He gestured toward a delicate chair that had come from her attic. She perched restlessly on the edge, and the bishop came to stand behind her, leaning on the back of her chair. His chest puffed out as it did right before he delivered a thundering sermon.
Maximilian sighed and sat down on the lumpy settee facing his guests in preparation for the sermon. Only it was his mother who delivered the sermon instead of the bishop.
“The girl was considered the debutante of the Season this spring. Six proposals, Maximilian! Though her father is holding out for a better offer next Season. But your brother is married,” his mother continued in a voice a few registers below a wail. “She should not be seen in his company so often. It’s just not done.”
“Who?” Maximilian knew few people in polite society, so this seemed a silly question. He wouldn’t recognize her name.
“The Lawrence chit.”
Well. Perhaps he would. “The Duke of Lawrence?”
The wrinkles in his mother’s soft face deepened as she nodded. “The girl is an heiress and utterly lovely—which is why she’s caught Highchester’s eye. He’s making a cake of himself pursuing her, and she’s flattered enough to enjoy it, but he’ll ruin her marriage chances if he continues.”
“Let the duke manage the girl,” Maximilian suggested. “I’m sure he’ll bring her to heel and then Highchester will follow suit.” Probably.
“The duke has tried, but he’s in his dotage.” The bishop frowned, his mustache turning down as fiercely as his lips.
“The duke married a girl less than half his age for an heir and ended up with naught but a daughter,” his dowager said, amid more wringing of hands. “He coddles her, and his wife is too busy with her own peccadilloes to notice. Maximilian, it is up to us. We must warn Highchester away from her.”
Maximilian was certain that by us, his mother meant you. God’s teeth. He wanted to go to bed, not worry about some chit without enough sense to stay away from his brother.
“It won’t do any good, Mother.” Maximilian sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. It was rough with stubble he’d forgotten to shave that morning. “He’ll go his own way.”
“Maximilian.” The bishop stepped forward, expression as severe as the cut of the jacket and tight cravat he wore. “Highchester never obeyed your mother and barely obeyed your father. I have little authority, despite our long association and my position with the church.”
“Highchester doesn’t attend church, my lord.” Maximilian couldn’t help the vaguely dry tone of his voice. Highchester hadn’t attended church since he was old enough to visit a willing barmaid instead.
“Please.” The dowager’s eyes welled with tears, and Maximilian barely refrained from cursing aloud. “Please. He must not be allowed to ruin the family, or the girl. Society would cast us all out.”
Maximilian didn’t care a whit about the ton, but his mother did, and she was crying. It was the one weapon he couldn’t defend against. He supposed no gentleman could.
“I shall speak with him tomorrow.” After he finished his latest translations and was able to sleep. Perhaps he’d even shave.
“Tonight, please. I know it is late, but she was discussing Gunter’s and that she wanted to go tomorrow afternoon, and he offered to—” She pressed her lips together, breathed through her nose, then started again. “I told him it was improper. He’s married, she’s a young debutante. But he doesn’t care. It must be tonight, before any additional damage is done.”
“Very well.” Maximilian pushed up from the settee and strode to the door. “I’ll go now.”
“Good man,” the bishop said, as though Maximilian had redeemed himself from the previous evening’s mishap.
“Mmm.” Redemption only meant Maximilian had to leave his house when he’d rather stay home.
“Maximilian.” The bishop’s soft tone made him stop and turn. “Thank you. You’re the only one he ever listens to.”
“Even then, it rarely happens, Bishop.”
“Highchester is at his town house,” his mother said, waving her hand in the air as if to remind Maximilian what direction his brother lived in. “I heard him make plans with a couple of other lords.”
Oh, hell. If Highchester was with his friends, there was no telling what debauched scene Maximilian was about to witness.
It wasn’t as bad as he’d thought it would be.
It was worse.
The gentlemen had brought their mistresses—or at least their women of choice for the night. He could hear feminine laughter echoing down the hall as Highchester’s butler led him to the salon.
When Maximilian opened the salon door, he realized half of the crowd was undressed—or mostly so. He was practically struck blind by a man prancing past, wearing nothing but his coat. A laughing woman trailed behind, breasts exposed over the man’s trousers. Beyond them was a sea of petticoats, unbound hair, and bared chests.
“A word with you, Highchester,” Maximilian said to the room in general, raising his voice to be heard over the laughter. He had no idea where Highchester was among the bodies sprawled on the floor, surrounded by brandy glasses and recently shed clothing.
“Why, little brother! What brings you to my party?”
Maximilian wheeled in the direction of the voice. Highchester lounged in a chair, cravat dangling around his neck. The woman on his lap wore nothing but a corset and a ruffled skirt rucked up to her knees. His brother’s hand sneaked beneath her skirt, and she giggled.
“A word, Highchester. In the hallway, please.”
“I think I’ll stay here.” A masculine chuckle followed the words, then another feminine giggle. “I’m quite comfortable.”
“Do you want our business aired in front of your…companions?” The amount of perfume in this room made his nose itch. Did they all wear a different scent? It was a battle of sweet versus sweeter.
“I don’t think any of your business would shock my companions,” Highchester drawled.
The room erupted in laughter—not the friendly sort. Maximilian let it wash over him as he met Highchester’s amused and maliciously satisfied eyes. “The Duke of Lawrence’s daughter,” Maximilian said brusquely. “Leave her be.”
“She’s a sweet little morsel.” No apology from his brother. No pretending he didn’t understand. “And spoiled enough to want some adventure. I thought to provide it for her.”
The girl on his lap pursed her lips into a pout. “My lord, aren’t I enough to play with?” She circled her arms about his neck and leaned in for a kiss.
“Indeed.” Highchester’s hand slid down her thigh, squeezed. “But one does like variety.”
“Let the Lawrence girl be.” Maximilian knew his words were hard and sharp, but he was finished with this display of debauchery.
Finished with his brother.
If Highchester wanted to betray his marriage vows and tup every willing woman he met, so be it. Young ladies of good family were out of the question.
“Leave her be.”
Highchester’s lashes flickered as his gaze roved over Maximilian’s face. What was he thinking? With his brother it could be anything. It was his actions one had to wait for.
Highchester’s eyes met Maximilian’s, held, then he broke the connection and glanced away.
Maximilian had his answer. Highchester would obey.
He hadn’t anticipated the next words from Highchester’s mouth.
“Have you noticed your new acquaintance over there in the corner? Mademoiselle La Fleur?”
Maximilian could not quite hear over the sudden roaring in his ears. Shock coursed through him, twining with bitter cynicism that she should be here. He turned in the direction Highchester gestured and saw her.
The Flower. She lay on a chaise longue, draped over it, her body as fluid as silk. A riot of dark curls fell about her face. Her gown slipped from her shoulders as though unlaced or unbuttoned, its skirt a mound of froth and silk and ruffles. He could not tell, exactly, where dress ended and petticoat began. But he could tell where that stunning face began. Strength showed in her pointed chin, red mouth curved in greeting, the widow’s peak raised over cheekbones and jaw and eyes.
Her eyes.
For a moment, all he saw were her eyes. The rest of her smiled, flirted. Her mouth was a complicated mixture of delight and amusement and humor, but her eyes were pleading. Those lovely, dark eyes held him. One moment. Two. Begging him not to reveal more than the public knew.
She was bound by the role she played, there in that room full of debauchery. As was he.
“Mademoiselle, it is good to see you again.” He bowed to the proper depth, as if they were meeting in the ballroom.
One corner of her lips tipped up. She inclined her head, just as properly. “Enchanté, Monsieur Westwood.” She shifted, and his gaze was drawn toward the ridiculously impractical lace stockings covering her dancer’s legs.
His mouth went dry.
The entire world became that sweep of leg. The curve of her calf, the way the muscle moved as she flexed her foot. Did all dancers have the slight indentation of lean muscle running the length of the thigh when candlelight played over their skin? Or did that only belong to a spy turned dancer?
His gaze traced the shape, then the froth of her gown, the tapered torso, her breasts and back to her face. Dark eyes no longer begged him. He could not quite read the emotion, but there was no pleading now. A slow, banked fired burned in their depths. Pupils dilated, the whites bright against the deep brown of her irises.
Were his own pupils as dilated? Was that slow, burning heat reflected in his own eyes? Because it was not slow in his body. It was a roaring fire starting deep in his belly and threatening to engulf him.
Maximilian did not notice her companion until the man stepped in front of her, blocking the Flower from Maximilian’s view.
Her protector.
Cold fury doused the desire blazing in him. The Flower had an arrangement with this man, and Maximilian was no better than his brother lusting after her.
“Mr. Westwood.” Lord Wycomb’s voice was smooth and cultured, and a little irritated. “We have not met.”
No enchanté from this man. He was as tall as Maximilian, with cold, cold eyes. His cravat was untied, his jacket and vest removed. He was otherwise dressed. And older, judging by the silver at his temples. Perhaps old enough to be the Flower’s father—though he was handsome and fit, Maximilian thought sourly.
What did a gentleman say to the protector of the woman he lusted after?