He was not ready to admit he wished the same thing. She had tricked him, and he had not yet forgiven her. Despite his anger and disappointment, he had no choice but to acknowledge how much he missed her. It had been twelve hours. Who missed someone after twelve hours? It was ridiculous. The superlative fancy of romantic poets, not practical men who knew better.
And yet he paced from door to sitting room and back again. What if she didn’t come?
What if she did?
He glanced about his small flat. There was nothing to tidy. He had never liked leaving anything not as expected. His world was ordered. Everything in its place.
Everything except a heart that seemed to be trying to beat its way out of his chest.
His invitation was not for a romantic assignation, he reminded himself. He was not as stupid as that, and neither was she. This was a...
Well, what was it, then?
A business meeting, he decided. She had succeeded very prettily in taking advantage of him, and he would do the same to her. As simple as that.
He would not touch her. That much he knew for sure. She was the daughter of a lord, destined for the sort of gentleman who possessed a handful of courtesy titles behind his name.
But her clever mind worked in ways other brains could not. He would show her every number, every cipher, and every journal of accounts he possessed. She would have a plethora of ideas, and no shortage of saucy commentary.
There. What could be safer? He would not ruin her future prospects by divesting her of her purity.
If that was even something she thought about half as often as he did.
“Business meeting,” he muttered beneath his breath, pleading his wayward thoughts to stay on track. “Numbers. Stick to the plan.”
He stalked to his narrow looking-glass and glowered at his reflection.
His sister was right. The Cloven Hoof was too full of darkness and shadow for one’s choice of fabric to matter. Inky black tailcoats and smoke-gray waistcoats were perfectly acceptable in such an environment.
This was special.
Bryony had already seen one of his new waistcoats the day he met her for ices. The blue one to evoke violent storms and the unpredictability of hidden currents beneath the surface of the ocean. That day, he’d felt strong. He knew what he wanted. Life was marching right to plan.
He shrugged out of his tailcoat, shucked his familiar gray waistcoat, and reached for the green one at the rear of his armoire.
Today he was no raging storm, but a dragon nesting in his cave. Waking from a long sleep. More than capable of breathing fire. An ugly beast with sharp claws and iridescent scales covering his exposed and vulnerable underbelly.
He buttoned the waistcoat and faced the looking glass.
There it was. His armor. His shield. A thin layer of expertly sewn silk disguising the vulnerable heart hiding beneath.
It would not be enough, but it would have to do. This was all that he had.
As he shrugged his tailcoat back over his shoulders, a tentative knock rapped at the door.
He froze.
She was here.
Max was no longer certain he was ready.
He crossed his apartment and yanked open the front door as if annoyed with her for heeding his invitation. Or annoyed with himself for having sent it.
“You shouldn’t have come,” he growled.
Her bashful smile gripped his heart. “Then you shouldn’t have invited me.”
She hadn’t come as Basil, but as Bryony.
