“I know what I saw,” Max snarled and shook Sundridge once. “I ought to punch you in the mouth for lying.”
Sundridge’s face started to turn purple and Violet panicked. She’d never seen Max this enraged, this out of control. Would he honestly harm Sundridge in the midst of a ball?
Rushing forward, she put her hand on Max’s arm. “Max, stop. Let him go!”
Max released Sundridge’s throat and the younger man began to cough in an effort to breathe. Not quite finished, Max jerked Sundridge by a lapel and tossed him in the direction of the terrace steps. “Go home, Sundridge. And if I ever see you near her again I’ll make certain you regret it.”
Sundridge didn’t look back. He hurried down the stone steps and disappeared into the gardens, likely headed to the mews. Max smoothed his jacket and pulled on his cuffs. She frowned at him, shocked by his display of irrational behavior. “Have you lost your—”
“What in the bloody hell, Ravensthorpe?”
Spinning, she saw her father near the French doors—and he appeared livid.
The rage-induced fog began to recede from Max’s brain, only to be replaced by dread. Violet’s father stood on the terrace, his mouth flattened into a furious line. Just how much had Charles seen and heard?
Max decided to go with the easiest reaction, which was righteous imperviousness. “I was returning from the gardens, Mayhew, when I happened along Sundridge manhandling your daughter. I assumed you’d appreciate my lending her my protection to avoid a nasty scene.”
Charles stalked forward, his dress shoes slapping on the wet stone. “You were not in the gardens, Ravensthorpe, because I saw you slip out the terrace doors a few moments ago. I followed because I wished to talk to you—and then I catch you nearly strangling a man to death and my daughter calling you Max.” He pointed in Max’s face. “So I’ll ask again, what in the bloody hell is going on?”
Shit. Charles had seen and heard most all of it, apparently. Though his chest burned with regret, Max forced out a lie. “I am saving your daughter’s reputation, obviously.”
“Violet, return inside,” Charles barked, not taking his eyes off Max.
“But Papa—”
“Now, Violet.”
Max raised a brow, using calm logic to diffuse this disastrous situation. “She’s soaked to the bone, Mayhew. You cannot order her inside the ballroom in her current state.”
Charles’s gaze, full of fury and resentment, narrowed on Max before shifting to his daughter. “Go around the side of the house and find our carriage. Now.”
Max had to bite his tongue to keep from admonishing his friend for the way he spoke to Violet, who had done absolutely nothing wrong in this instance. Instead, he clasped his hands behind his back and tried to wipe any trace of emotion off his face.
“No, Papa. If you are going to discuss me, then I have a right to stay.”
“Absolutely not. Get to the carriage this instant, daughter.” Charles did not waver and Violet licked her lips, uncertainty creeping into in her expression.
Finally, she addressed Max. “Thank you for coming when you did, Your Grace.” Her voice wavered slightly, making him long to pick her up and hold her, but he merely nodded instead. In a swirl of wet silk, she disappeared down the terrace steps.
“I want to know what is going on between you and Violet,” Charles snarled. “You will tell me this instant.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Max drawled. “There is nothing going on.”
Charles’s lips twisted. “She called you Max. She put her hand on your arm. I saw the way she looked at you, unafraid and adoring. There is a familiarity there, one that hasn’t existed before, and I want to know why, goddamn it.”
Max clenched his jaw, his mind spinning on a plausible response . . . but came up empty.
“My God.” With both hands, Charles shoved Max into the stone balustrade. Anger hardened his features into a mask of rage. “You bastard. Have you compromised my daughter?”
There was no hope for it. Charles had seen too much and they knew each other too well. Max braced himself. “Yell a little louder, Mayhew. I don’t think they heard you in Cheapside.”
“How could you? My daughter.”
Charles stripped off his right glove and pulled his arm back. Max knew it was coming, so he waited, holding perfectly still, aware that he deserved it. The fist connected with his jaw, driving him into the stone railing once more. Bloody hell, that hurt. Max bent over and dragged in a breath, struggling through the pain. “That’s the only one you’ll get, Mayhew.”
“You goddamn arsehole. My only child and you had to defile her. What, are there not enough women in London already for you? No doubt you’ve given Violet the clap, you prick—”
Max grabbed Mayhew and reversed their positions, shoving the other man against the stone before leaning in. “I do not have the clap—and watch your mouth.”
“She’s not much older than your son. You’ve known her since she was a baby.”
Stepping back, Max swept the water off his face. “She is not a child anymore. She is a grown woman. Nevertheless, I did not plan this. It just happened.”
“I never thought . . .” Charles shook his head. “You’ve never gone for the young ones before. I thought she was safe with you around.”
“She is safe with me around,” Max growled. “I would never hurt her.”
“She was an innocent, Ravensthorpe. By touching her, you’ve harmed her.”
“I am discreet. No one knows of our association.”
“Except for Sundridge. And now me.” Charles raked Max with a look full of disgust. “All these years you’ve been coming to my home, eating dinner with my family, and you’ve been lusting after her. I ought to put a bullet in your rotten heart.”
Anger swept through Max at the indecent implication. He pointed a finger in Charles’s face. “I never lusted after her until recently. This all happened within the last month.”
“Christ.” For a moment, Charles appeared like he might cry. Then he drew himself up. “Is she carrying your child?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Are you entirely certain?”
Max paused, because how could one ever be entirely certain? “I am fairly certain.”
He’d taken precautions over the years never to subject another woman to childbirth. The possibility of death was too great a risk, and the idea of Violet writhing in agony, bleeding to death because of his lust, sent a bolt of cold fear through his veins.
Charles slapped the stone with his palm. “Goddamn you, Ravensthorpe.”
“Even still, I won’t marry her.”
Charles’s jaw fell. “You think I want my daughter married to you?” He gave a bitter laugh. “You killed your first wife. Do you actually believe I’d give my sweet and trusting daughter over to the likes of you?”
Max folded his arms across his chest and worked to remain calm. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t told himself, but it stung to hear it out of his friend’s mouth. “No, I suppose not. Fortunately, no one knows of my association with her. Sundridge will assume my friendship with you to be the reason I intervened tonight. Her reputation remains pristine.”