A wild ray of hope wriggled into his brain.
Lambley’s masquerades.
Open invitation.
Max, too, had never been. Never previously had a reason to attend. That reason might be standing right in front of them right now. His heart sped faster at the thought.
He took her hands. “What if neither of us were here? What if we were masked revelers on a candlelit dance floor instead?”
Bryony gazed back at him, speechless.
Frances backed away toward the door. “And... what if I found a hackney to remove me as far as possible from this intimate moment?”
Bryony laughed and let go of Max’s hands. “I have to get my Stradivarius home, anyway. Not only is it the most expensive item I own, I half expect it’s the only reason my mother still keeps me around.”
She slipped on her greatcoat and top hat, then wrapped up her case and moved toward the door.
He stared after her in disbelief. Was she going to leave him once more without so much as goodbye?
Shewas.
Max dashed outside to stop her, not bothering with a coat or hat. Wet weather didn’t matter. Onlyshedid.
He caught her between the silver moon and the falling raindrops. This might be his last chance to change her mind. He pressed his lips to hers in a kiss so desperate and so deep he hoped she would remember the taste forevermore, whenever she thought of this night.
“The masquerade is a week from tonight,” he said between kisses. “Please think about joining me.”
She rescued her fallen top hat and rose to give him another kiss. “The only thing I ever think about is... joining you.”
When she sauntered off, it was Max who was left to remember her parting words again and again for the rest of the night.
Chapter 15
For the first time in her life, Bryony was having difficulty focusing on numbers.
Possibly because she was sharing the desk with Max, and no matter how hard she squinted at the neat columns of numbers in the journal, all of her senses were tuned to him.
The way his dark hair fell over his forehead as he bent over some piece of documentation in concentration. The way his lips tightened in concentration. The quiet strength in his hands, whose familiar fingers had once been in her hair, and stroking her cheek.
“You are a terrible influence on my sister,” he said presently.
She grinned. “Frances needed a fault.”
Bryony was not at all surprised to discover his sister just as competent, confident, and marvelous as Max. Their parents must have been extraordinary individuals. She wished she could have known them. The seamstress mother, who instilled her daughter with a love of books and learning. The father who...
She swung her head toward Max. She had no idea who or how his father had been. Max had never said.
“Your mother was a seamstress,” she began, leaning toward him in interest.
“Mm,” he responded without glancing up from his document.
She pressed on, undaunted. “And your father?”
“Not a seamstress.”
No further explanation.
She should not have asked. The air between them had filled with awkwardness.
