“A practical choice,” he agreed. “Particularly if you intend to make a habit of being tossed out on your ear.”
“It’s never happened,” she admitted with a bemused smile. “You cannot imagine how surprising this evening has become.”
Max nearly choked in reply.
She was the one who could not imagine the maelstrom in his mind. He was not used to not having the upper hand. Not used to dealing with a woman like her. Not certain he’d ever metanyonelike her.
Or what to do about it, now that he had.
She was over-confident, over-familiar, unpredictable. She had disordered his orderly world from the moment she flailed into his arms. She was a distraction he absolutely could not afford.
And she was reclining on his settee.
Suddenly, she consulted a small pocket watch and leapt to her feet.
“Late to the ball, Prince Brian?” he asked.
“Something like that.” She made her way toward the exit without a backward glance.
“Don’t come back,” he called behind her.
At that, she turned around with a knowing smile. “You’d miss me.”
As he watched her disappear, he feared her words were a curse.
Chapter 3
Max was normally not the sort of gentleman to waste any percentage of his time on an activity as frivolous as shopping for a new waistcoat.
Max was normally not a gentleman at all.
He did not read Society papers or attendtonevents. The only aristocratic faces he would recognize were of the individuals who visited his club. Any lordlings unwilling to mix with other clientele weren’t worth a second thought.
Finding himself striding down the bustling St. James shopping district in the middle of the afternoon was as surprising to Max as it was to the fashionable set streaming past him.
To some, he was a ruler of the underworld, lord of a dark domain on the wrong side of respectability, a man who blossomed at night and belonged to the shadows.
To the others, he was no one.
An unrecognizable stranger not of their class, perhaps not worthy of notice at all. A certain swarthiness that bespoke time spent out in the elements. A certain burliness that came not from a gentlemen’s sparring club, but rather from manual labor of some kind.
An arrogance in his stride and pride in his carriage inexplicable to those borne from generation after generation of gentility and wealth.
“Mr. Gideon!” A gentleman in an impeccable suit much too fine for inclement weather clapped Max on the shoulder as he passed by. “Good to see you out and about for once!”
“Mr. Scott,” Max responded evenly. It was good to see the man sober for once.
Although known throughout London as the Lord of Vice, Max took great pains never to over-indulge. He preferred to rule vice, rather than be ruled by it. It was the only way to be master of his domain. And he needed to be the master.
But what had started out as a scheme to make easy money had become complicated when Max not only was good at and enjoyed his work, but also began to get to know his wealthier patrons. Many turned out to be decent men. Some even ended up becoming friends.
But then there were the others.
Despite the path he’d forged for himself, despite a lifetime of cunning and sacrifice that had culminated this close to success, his method of achieving financial security ensured his permanent position in the fringes well outside Polite Society.
Even the endlessly mocked and pitiednouveau richeenjoyed a higher level of tolerance—if not acceptance—amongst the upper classes.
Max did not care. He had no wish to make a leg to the patronesses or bow and scrape before some blithering idiot eighth in line to an earldom.
