His wife. His.
That thought brought a great deal of satisfaction with it.
Perhaps this had never been the plan, but he couldn’t deny howrightit all felt.
Thalia’s father had, naturally, not wanted to pay for the wedding breakfast, so Maxwell had volunteered to host. Thalia and Anna had been the ones to plan it; however, during late-night talks where Thalia did not disclose how secretly thrilled she was to marry Maxwell.
And nervous.
And confused.
Mostly confused, if she was honest, because the way in which he had offered for her was—well, it was confounding, and she hadn’t quite decided how to feel about the proposal. They would be husband and wife, giving him hitherto inaccessible control over her, and she knew enough about him to know that he would want to have some authority over parts of her life.
Such as which events she attended on behalf of Rossini. Not going to gentlemen’s clubs again.
There was a lot to discuss.
But, as she glanced at the gentle smile he produced as he looked down at Lydia, she felt a burst of optimism that they would find a way of working together.
“I hope you’re happy,” her father said from her other side. The only reason he was attending at all was that people would talk if he didn’t—and good appearances mattered to him almost as much as money.
Thalia raised her glass. “He is a far better man than any I have been thrust at this year, Father. So yes, I am happy.” Perhaps she was giving her tongue too much leave, but her father no longer had any claim on her. “And frankly, I am relieved to be in the care of a man who does not see me as a commodity.”
Her father snorted. “Is that what you believe?”
Across the room, Maxwell leaned in a little further to hear what Lydia said, an indulgent smile on his face. How could she ever have suspected he might have atendrefor the young lady? Lydia was so obviously a daughter figure to him, a younger sister that he viewed as such.
And Thalia could see that Maxwell cared deeply for the girl, even from this distance. The sweet thought made her heart squeeze.
What would love look like on his face if it were directed at her? She could imagine it, alarmingly enough: softness in his gray eyes, that same brand of warm smile, except tinged with a different kind of heat when directed at her.
“Yes,” Thalia said. “I do believe that. He is a good man, and he cares about me. He will give me a certain level of freedom. I am a duchess now.”
The words tasted delicious as she said them. The Duchess of Marrowhurst; it hadn’t quite sunk in yet.
“Well, you seem very sure of yourself, my girl, but don’t be so certain that this confidence will last.” He tipped his glass at her, somewhat mockingly, and moved around the table, making his slow way to the door.
Elliot slid into the seat he vacated and slanted Thalia a wink. “Relieved to be rid of him.”
Thalia let out a long breath. “You have no idea.”
“What do you think of your new husband?”
Husband. She was delighted at the sound. “More to the point, what doyouthink of him?”
“I think he is still young, handsome, and rich. What more could a young lady ask for?” He leaned in a little more closely. “Anordinaryyoung lady, that is.”
“He knows everything,” Thalia said quietly.
Elliot leaned back in his seat, blinking in surprise. “He does?”
“He discovered it when I was representing Rossi at an event, and he has kept my secret.” She kept everything else he had done to herself. “I think he will support me.”
“Well then, thisisa turn up for the books. I thought he would be handsome and brooding and lock you in his gleaming tower.”
“We haven’t had a chance to speak of the practicalities, but I rather hope he will allow me to sculpt in an entirely more easily accessible way,” she whispered.
“Lord, let us hope so. Does that mean I will be able to open my studio up for new students again?”
