As he said it, another gentleman approached Thalia, a smile already on his mouth, leaning in to address her far more intimately than Maxwell would ever have permitted. He also wore a shirt, no cravat, and lightweight buckskins, and Maxwell caught Thalia noting his attire with something more than disgust.
Irritation flared in Maxwell’s chest, and before Plainchett could say anything else, he strode back to where Thalia stood. Catherine’s attention had been distracted elsewhere, and Thalia was directing the full force of her pretty smile on the hopeful gentleman.
Maxwell only had to spare the man a single glance before he left with his metaphorical tail between his legs. Thalia turned to him, a frown already growing in her eyes. Her lips gathered.
“What was that for?” she demanded in a whisper, moving to one side.
Jealous anger burned in Maxwell’s veins. This was a far more prestigious event than the one she had attended before, but men were still men, and in a soft peach gown, the silk gleaming in the light, she looked like a fruit plenty would like to take a bite of.
“I’m doing what I promised I would,” he said, his voice low.
“We were merely exchanging pleasantries!”
“It wasn’t so much the things he said but the way he looked at you. I know precisely what he wanted, Thalia.”
Her chin rose defiantly. “And what was that?”
Maxwell felt his hold on control slipping. “The same thing I do,” he growled, and her eyes went round. “Only half as intensely.”
CHAPTER 13
Thalia stared into Maxwell’s face. Her heart pounded, her cheeks flushed and a strange heat started in her belly. His words rebounded off the sides of her head, and she listened to them, her pulse fluttering in her fingertips.
Theintensityin his eyes.
What were the things he wanted?
If she asked, he might tell her. He mightshowher. But?—
They were in a crowd of people. And much as she was curious about what kissing him again would feel like, she did not want to disgrace herself.
And not in front of Catherine Andras, someone approaching a hero of hers. The distraction had meant Catherine was now speaking to someone else, but even so.
She stepped back. “We should explore,” she said abruptly.
A small smile, perhaps of resignation, touched his face.
“Lead the way.”
It felt odd to be the one leading. Mr. Plainchett had so many countless artifacts, it felt as though she could spend a lifetime in the house and not see them all. Paintings, miniatures, portraits, landscapes, and still-lifes. Sculptures. Some were from Italy, some from France.
He had collected thosebeforethe Unfortunate Events, he told them.
There was a bull made from brass, carved in exquisite detail. The great Horse of Troy in miniature, made from what appeared to be matchsticks.
She even found caricatures in a room designed solely for the viewing of them. Thalia marveled at them all, and Maxwell followed in her wake, seemingly content to breathe in her enthusiasm.
She stopped in a large saloon where a woman stood by a pianoforte, a cigar in her mouth, wearing what appeared to be pantaloons. When she saw them, she nodded her head the way a gruff old man might.
“I believe she composes,” Maxwell said, one hand at the small of her back.
Despite the overt glory of the room, that hand was the only thing Thalia could think about.
“There is so much talent here,” she said in disbelief as another woman came to the composer by the piano and took her hand, turning to glance at Thalia in a way that spoke of defiance, as though daring her to judge. “And…” she said, more under her breath this time, “everyone is so free here.”
“This is a safe space for them to be as they truly choose.”
She inhaled, feeling as though she could sense the paintings on the wall. The pianoforte in the center of the room dominated the space as though it could absorb the talent merely from being around it.
