Glancing over her shoulder, she gave him a heated look from under her lashes. “Because you will come looking for me, Your Grace. And when you do, I’ll be waiting.”
Fourteen days.
It had been fourteen days since the night in his study, the moment when Violet had turned his world upside down, and now Max worried he was losing his mind.
He couldn’t stop thinking about her, couldn’t stop remembering their night together, and somehow the girl had burrowed under his skin with her shy smiles and bawdy demands. So eager, so brave. Looking up at him as if he were a good man, one capable of solving any problem on earth.
And he most definitely had gone mad, because he was currently circulating the social event of the evening whilst searching for a blond-haired she-devil.
This is a mistake.
Yes, entirely. He could readily admit it, yet he could not stop himself.
For a week he’d held out, staying busy with his accounts and clubs. By day nine he’d begun drinking heavily, fisting his cock as he relived the memories of her kiss and the feel of her skin.
Day eleven had found him at one of the city’s high-end brothels, one he hadn’t visited in ages. He’d turned around and left before even removing his coat. How could he fuck another woman with the taste of Violet still fresh in his brain?
By the end of day twelve, he was stalking his London home like a starved dog, snarling at anyone who dared bother him. He locked himself in, convinced that Violet was a fever in his blood, one he merely needed to ride out. Then she would be out of his system forever and he could get on with his life.
It hadn’t worked.
Now he was broken, unable to concentrate. An utter mess of a human being. A man on the verge of hysteria.
Just once more, he’d promised himself earlier today. If he could touch and kiss her just once more, that would be enough to get her out of his head. Then he could set her free, where she could marry anyone she pleased.
He was doing her a favor, really. Most young women—his deceased wife included—came to the marriage bed completely ignorant and unprepared. Max would leave Violet a virgin but at least teach her about sex and her own pleasure.
God, you’re pathetic. You’re attempting to justify bedding an eighteen-year-old woman.
Yes, but he was too far gone. He’d beg if necessary. Everything about her had been too perfect, too right. It had been the most erotic night of his life, one he couldn’t help but relive every time he closed his eyes.
She was confident for her age, self-assured in ways that had surprised him. When was the last time he’d been surprised? Perhaps his liaisons had becoming boring of late, more rote than exciting, but Violet had energized his existence. She made him feel ten years younger and more randy than a university lad in a bordello.
“Ravensthorpe.”
Max froze at the sound of the familiar voice, making sure to wipe his expression clean. He’d avoided Violet’s father since the night in his study, uncertain how he could face his friend after what had occurred. The only good part about seeing Mayhew meant that Violet was likely in the room, as well.
He cleared his throat and spun around. “Mayhew.”
Charles slapped Max’s shoulder. “Haven’t seen you in ages. Where have you been keeping yourself?”
At home, dreaming of fucking your daughter.
Instead, he said, “Here and there.”
“Heard Louisa gave you the shove-off, my friend. A shame, indeed. Have you already found someone new?”
Max suppressed a wince and adopted an easy smile. “Not as of yet, no.”
Charles leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “In that case, I’ll happily show you a new place I’ve discovered. It’s in Cheapside and the women are willing to do anything for the right price. And I do mean anything.”
After spending so many nights in Charles’s company, Max had a good idea of what “anything” might include. “I believe I’m set for the moment, but I’ll let you know. Are you here with your wife and daughter?”
“Just Violet. The missus is peeved with me again. Said I came home smelling like perfume too many nights this week.”
My father hardly has a moral ground upon which to stand. You of all people probably know that better than most.
How much did Violet know about what went on between her parents?
Max frowned at his friend. “I hope you shelter your daughter from hearing such things. It could leave a damaging impression with her.”
“Come now, she’s a grown woman. I’ve got two suitors sniffing around her skirts, so best she learn how marriage works between a husband and a wife.” Charles’s brows lowered, his expression etched with disbelief. “Besides, you cannot tell me Will isn’t aware of your mistresses.”
Suitors? A dark cloud rolled through Max, his mood blackening at the thought of some repulsive masher pawing at that lovely girl. Scowling, he said, “Will is a man, not an impressionable young woman. And just who are these two suitors?”
“The young lords Wingfield and Sundridge. I had hoped Surrey would take an interest, but he seems enamored with the Gabriel chit’s dowry.”
“Wingfield undoubtedly has the pox and a bowl of porridge contains more intelligence than Sundridge. You cannot in good conscience encourage either of those fools.”
“How on earth did you come by that information?”
His son, actually, who loved to gossip more than a maiden aunt, but Max didn’t say as much. “Just know that I am right. She can do better, Charles.”
Mayhew hooked his thumbs in his vest pockets. “Might not have much of a choice. The girl isn’t exactly putting forth an effort. She stands against the wall and watches at every event. I never should have encouraged that photography habit of hers.”
Photography? Violet was one of those Kodak Girls? He could almost picture her behind a camera, studying and observing. Laboring over her prints in a developing room. He hadn’t much experience with photography himself, but he’d love to see her in action someday. “Perhaps you should put it off, let her experience this first season without pressuring her to marry. Then choose her a husband next year.”
You are going to Hell, Max. Straight to Hell.
“Can’t. I promised the missus we’d marry Violet off this year.” Charles lifted a shoulder. “No idea why my lady is in such a rush, but I won’t disappoint her—not on this.”
Because he planned to disappoint his wife in other ways.
Max shifted on his feet and stifled the urge to say more. He had no right to interfere with Violet’s future. After his own disastrous attempt at playing husband, he couldn’t marry her—or anyone else—so he should just leave off, turn on his heel, and quit this bloody ball.
Yet he wouldn’t. Because she was here, somewhere in this very room. And if he didn’t find her soon, he might tear this ballroom apart with his bare hands.
Charles tipped his chin toward the dance floor. “Ah, I see Wingfield’s claimed her for another dance. That’s the second one tonight.”
Max’s head whipped toward the dancers, and he spotted her right away, her golden hair gleaming in the gaslight overhead. The breath locked in his lungs and he had to remind himself to breathe as he examined her. She was absolutely lovely in a cream silk evening gown with intricate beaded work covering the bodice. The delicate column of her throat was bare, begging for Max’s mouth and hands.