After an attendant brought Max a cup, they were alone again. Max came right to the point. “You will cease your pursuit of Lady Violet.”
The young man’s mouth fell open. “You have no right to—”
“I have every right,” Max said icily. “I am a close family friend and have known the girl since she was born. You are not good enough for her.”
“Not good enough for her?” Wingfield’s voice rose several octaves. “The girl is the unequivocal flop of the season. I am doing her a favor by paying her attention.”
His little mouse, a flop? Outrage roared through Max’s veins like cannon fire, yet he tamped it down, hiding his emotions behind a bored expression. “You are a drunk and a spendthrift. Also, I have it on good authority that you’ve had mercury treatments—multiple times, in fact. You are not marrying Lady Violet.”
Twin spots of scarlet dotted Wingfield’s cheeks. “How dare you? My father—”
Max sighed loudly. “Your father is in debt to the West London Bank for hundreds of thousands of pounds. Would you care to guess the identity of that bank’s largest shareholder?”
Wingfield sputtered. “Are you . . . Is this a threat?”
Christ Almighty, how was the world to survive with men this stupid?
“Yes,” Max admitted, and then downed the rest of his coffee. “I am threatening you in order to keep you away from Lady Violet. Is that clear enough for you, Wingfield? Shall I put it in writing so there are no misunderstandings?”
Wingfield swallowed hard. “No, I understand. I’ll stay away from her.”
“Good.” He rose. “See that you do.”
Wingfield mumbled, “She’s a stupid cow, anyway.”
Max’s entire body clenched and he leaned close to the younger man’s face. “What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
Max’s hand shot out and he jerked Wingfield up by his collar, lifting the younger man until his feet barely touched the floor. Conversation in the room died, every eye turned their way. No one would dare say a word to stop Max, one of the most powerful men in Britain, from doing whatever he liked with this piece of filth.
“How dare you insult her.” He tightened his fist, cutting off Wingfield’s air supply. “If I hear of you talking about her, I will feed you to the pigs on my estate. Are we clear? You don’t breathe her name ever again. If you see her on the street, don’t even offer a polite greeting. She no longer exists for you.”
Wingfield gasped, his eyes bulging, but Max didn’t let up until the other man nodded. He let Wingfield go and straightened his cuffs. “Glad we understand each other.”
With that, Max collected his things and strolled onto St. James Street. Instead of taking a hansom home, he decided to walk and clear his head. Rage from the encounter with Wingfield continued to burn through him, and he still had no idea what to do about Violet.
Two days had passed since the night of the ball . . . and he was already weakening. The craving for her lurked his blood, always present and growing stronger every minute.
I don’t believe you’ll even last fourteen days this time.
How had she known?
She was so certain about him, about them. The folly of youth, he supposed, not to understand the whole picture. He was bad for her, too old and too . . . rough. She deserved better. Someone sweet and kind, closer in age. Hell, Max would be lucky to live another twenty years. She needed a man who could marry her, give her children, and make her laugh into her old age.
Max was not that man.
Yet he wasn’t certain he could stay away from her. He thought of her nearly all the time, his cock currently chafed thanks to his hand and his memories. Like a teenaged boy, he’d stolen a small jar of oil from the larder to protect his skin while pleasuring himself.
It would be funny if it weren’t so mortifying.
As he crossed Piccadilly, he spotted a camera shop in the middle of the block. He recalled Charles mentioning Violet’s interest in photography. Did she frequent this establishment?
She’d always been a clever and curious child, asking him questions about Will, the ducal estates, and anything else that crossed her mind during the Mayhew dinner parties. Math and history had been her favorite subjects, as he recalled, but they’d even debated philosophy at one point. Those qualities, along with her current voyeuristic tendencies, likely made her a stellar photographer.
Charles hadn’t seemed appreciative of Violet’s photography habit, but it was important to nurture hobbies, even for women. Perhaps especially for women, as they were told so often what they could not do, rather than be allowed to express themselves. Max would hate to see any of Violet’s creativity stifled.
He was walking toward the shop before he could think better of it.
A bell chimed over the door as he entered. A middle-aged man emerged from the back and his eyes widened at the sight of Max. “Good morning. How may I help your lordship?”
Max didn’t bother to correct the form of address. “I am interested in purchasing some photography equipment for a friend. Is there anything new or something you’d recommend?”
“I’d be honored. Has your lordship an idea of this gentleman’s level of experience with photography?”
“It is a she, and no.”
“I see. Then allow me to recommend this latest Kodak box model, the number one. Most women find it lighter and much easier to operate. It also comes pre-loaded with a flexible roll of film.” The clerk pointed to a camera in the glass case. “It is our best seller.”
“I’ll take that, then.”
“Excellent.” The clerk withdrew a box from a locked drawer under the case. “Shall I wrap it for your lordship?”
Max considered this while he studied the other items in the case.
Have them deliver the camera with a note saying you cannot see her again.
The black heart in his chest instantly rejected the idea. He needed to watch Violet’s face as she unwrapped his gift, see the youthful exuberance that hadn’t yet been snuffed out by this harsh life. Drink in her happiness as if it were his own.
He wasn’t ready to give her up.
You’ll regret this.
Pushing aside his conscience, he handed the clerk his card. “If you would, yes. Have it delivered here.”
The man’s brows shot up. “Your Grace. Forgive me, I hadn’t known. I shall see to it personally.”
“Thank you.” Max placed his bowler atop his head and left the shop, feeling lighter than he had in two days.
Soon, my little mouse. Soon.
Chapter Seven
Violet was in her dark room, developing photographs. She loved swirling the paper in the chemicals, watching the still image slowly take shape before her eyes, preserved forever. Memories that no one could take away, indisputable proof that someone had put their mark on this earth.
It required patience, which Violet had in abundance. After all, hadn’t she waited years for Max to finally notice her? And now that he had, she’d never been happier.
What if I cannot change Max’s mind about a relationship?
Then life would march forward. Women were more independent nowadays, at least outside of the ton. Perhaps she could convince her parents to let her live over her favorite camera shop in Chelsea in a set of small apartments. She could sell her photographs for money and support herself. Unless she could marry Max, there was no pressing need to find a husband.