“That is wonderful news, Your Grace.” Countess Whitington smiled. “They are dear friends of ours. I simply cannot wait to see them again.”
“I myself have met them a few times,” Augusta declared. “However, the Duchess Beatrice always seems so perpetually sad. Poor thing.”
Countess Whitington opened her mouth to speak yet was interrupted by her husband. “I say, Your Grace,” he said gruffly, “perhaps an investigation into this shooting matter is called for.”
“Of course, it should not,” Augusta replied before Maximilian could even swallow his food before answering. “Earl Whitington, your concern for my stepson’s safety is perfectly laudable, but there is nothing to investigate.”
Maximilian controlled his own eye roll with an effort but managed a small grin for the still baffled Earl. “My thanks for your concern, but I think this is the end of it. Would you care to go hunting this afternoon? My gamekeeper tells me the red deer herd is in close proximity.”
Earl Whitington nodded. “What a capital idea, Your Grace.”
“Perhaps my dear Wilmot should also go with you,” Augusta gazed fondly at her son.
Wilmot only glanced up briefly at the mention of his name, then continued his single-minded devotion to his meal, not meeting anyone’s eyes. He slumped in his chair, and Maximilian watched Augusta’s eyes narrow while she gazed at him. No doubt she bit down on her tongue to stop it from demanding he straighten up at the table. He bit his own to halt the snort of laughter from bursting forth.
“If Wilmot wishes to join us,” he glanced at his brother, “he is welcome to do so.”
Wilmot shook his head. “No. Thank you, brother, but I wish to remain inside.”
“Wilmot,” Augusta declared. “You will go hunting with Maximilian and Earl Whitington. Now about the upcoming ball –”
* * *
He saw her sitting on a stone bench in the garden, a cloak around her shoulders to repel the damp. As promised, she waited for him after supper in the darkness of the garden, the drizzling rain now in the past. She stood up and smiled as he walked toward her, but he caught her hand before she could curtsey.
“None of that.” He grinned “In public, yes, in private, please do not.”
Miss Betham peeped up at him and let her hand remain in his. “If that is your wish, Your Grace.”
“It is. It is also my wish that in private, when none are around, you call me Maximilian. Or even Max.”
“Max.” She rolled the name around on her tongue as she might when tasting fine wine. “I like that. Max.”
“May I call you Eugenia?”
“I certainly hope so. Max.”
“If I may continue to hold your hand,” he asked, “how about we stroll around the garden?”
“I would love to.”
Her hand felt sorightwithin his, small and warm, utterly delightful. Maximilian breathed in the scent of her hair, an odor of lilac and perhaps a dash of lavender. She had let it down out of its usual braid, and it fell around her back and shoulders like a dark shroud. He wanted so much to bury his hands in it, tilt her face up to his and kiss her sweet lips. Yet he dared not. Not yet.
“How is it your mistress does not need you this evening?” he asked as they walked amid the shrubs and the still blooming flowers.
“She wished to spend time alone with her mother, the Countess,” Eugenia replied. “Her father is in the library.” She chuckled, and Maximilian fell in love with the sound. “He cannot get enough of your books.”
“I do have a rather extensive library.”
“One day I would like to visit it.”
“Then I shall see to it you do.”
As though the evening was too precious for mere words, the two of them fell silent. With no one else could Maximilian feel so comfortable, so alive to the night, than with this girl. She made no demands, asked nothing of him except only what he offered to give, and gave back to him the affection he so wanted to bestow on her. Eugenia made it so very easy for him to love. To fall in love again.
“What was Sophia like?” Eugenia asked.
“A bit like you, I suppose,” he replied thoughtfully. “Warm, caring, but without your amazing sense of humor, however.”
