Natural?
But it wasn’t. It shouldn’t be.
Maxwell stiffened. “It’s not the same. You belong as much as any of those other debutantes. If not for…”
“Oh, I know,” she said, her confidence surprising him. “But do I want to belong?”
Maxwell kept silent. She seemed to be working this out for herself and he didn’t want to prevent that. God knew, he’d never succeeded at reconciling his own issues.
“Why don’t you feel you belong at… Hell House?” she asked.
The moment he’d learned the truth about his father—his father’s true identity—Maxwell had felt a peculiar fear enter him. That fear never left.
He never discussed this—not with his mother or anyone else. It was too big of a secret.
“I just…” Maxwell exhaled. “No man requires such abundance. Living at Hell House, doing nothing but consulting with my estate manager in between weeks of leisure… doesn’t feel… right. The paper keeps me busy. It gives me purpose.”
Allowing himself to revisit certain memories made his gut clench. He swallowed hard. Would he feel the same if he’d never learned of his father’s deception?
“I think I understand. Back home, in the village near Breaker’s Cottage, everyone knew me. I had friends. People depended on me. Ever since Reed inherited and brought all of us to London, I’ve struggled to replace them. In between worrying and so much unnecessary shopping, I’ve not been myself.”
“You don’t like shopping?” Maxwell feigned shock. As for her worrying… best to leave that alone for now.
“Apparently, you don’t know me at all.” But she smiled. They both chuckled and then fell silent as they moved along the shadowed pavement.
“Here?” They’d arrived at Wellington Street.
She nodded, and they turned north.
Her admission explained quite a lot, actually. Why she had spent so much time documenting the Gazette’s errors—why she went to such lengths to protect her brother.
And he understood it—that need for purpose.
He’d come to London hoping to forget the past—hoping to forget the truth. Unfortunately, no amount of liquor had been enough.
After a few years of carousing, the Duke of Malum had thrown him a lifeline, asking him to join a small team he’d gathered as vigilantes of a sort. Working to put an end to the trading of opium and tea, a tangible and worthwhile goal, had been precisely what Maxwell needed.
Purchasing the paper, well, that had served multiple purposes. It provided the group with a powerful tool in their endeavors, kept Maxwell’s coffers filled, and allowed him to exercise his need to uncover secrets.
“This is me.” They’d arrived at the center of a long row of townhouses—not too run-down, but not nearly as exclusive as the ones a few blocks farther west.
She dropped his arm, but when she went to step away, Maxwell halted her. And yet he was at a loss for words.
“Thank you.” She had to tilt her head back to look up at him. Dim candlelight glowed in various windows, and he could just make out her expression, a small knot forming between her eyes.
“I’m sorry about the door.” Maxwell raised his hands and grazed his fingertips just around the bruise. He didn’t stop to think before touching her. She was right here, in front of him, looking prettier than his society writer had a right to.
“It was my fault.” Her voice came out little more than a whisper, drawing his gaze to her mouth. “I’ll be more careful in the future.” A few inches and he could taste her.
Pink. Plump. She wasn’t flirting with him. In fact, unlike other debutantes, she’d not once flirted with him.
He wouldn’t count the afternoon he’d met her in the park—because neither had known the other’s identity. It had been meaningless. Friendly.
But now…
It would not be meaningless. She was his employee, but she was also Standish’s sister. Spending time alone with this woman was dangerous.
Maxwell dropped his hand and took a very deliberate step back.
