“You never met my brother.”
“I wish I had.” She pressed her hand against his in silent comfort. “I expect I would have liked him.”
“Mm.” There was a contemplative note in his voice now, and he looked down at her with an expression in his eyes she could not identify. “There’s something more I ought to tell you.”
“Oh?”
“When my brother was a young man, before his death, he, and Lady Rivenhall… They were courting.”
Thalia frowned, piecing this together. “Is that how you know her?”
“In a way.” He took her hand and brought it to his lips. “They were in love. And Lydia was the result of that union.”
“Oh.” Thalia blinked several times.
So much for being a family friend. Lydia was hisniece. No wonder he had never harbored any romantic feelings for her. Of course, he did not. They were related!
“Your brother and Lady Rivenhall…”
“Yes. My father did not approve of the match. He refused to allow Christopher to marry her. She was forced to marry another man to protect herself and her child, and my brother was…”
He did not need to finish the sentence.
Thalia put her hand over his. “That’s why you are so sure it wasn’t an accident.”
“You ought to have seen him.” Maxwell closed his eyes. “I only discovered Lady Rivenhall and Lydia after the event and have been caring for them ever since. It’s what Christopher would have wanted.”
“Then I’m certain he is proud of you.” Thalia’s heart ached for Maxwell as she met his gaze, holding it and letting him feel the weight of her certainty. How difficult it must have been to know that the one thing his brother had wanted, their father had denied him. “He will be so happy that you are doing what’s right by Lydia and Lady Rivenhall. He would have loved them both. And you.”
Maxwell cupped the back of her neck and drew her down for another kiss. He said nothing, but she understood the intentions of his body, the movements that told her he was far from done with her.
A good thing, too: she was far from done with him.
CHAPTER 17
The journey to Marrowhurst Hall took several hours. They intended to stay two weeks, learning each other a little better, and so Thalia might accustom herself to her new life.
Maxwell had worried it might be too much of an adjustment, but to his relief—and delight—she took the grandeur of his family home in without pause.
“I hope there are no portraits of your father on the walls,” she said as he walked with her along the gallery. “If so, I will have them taken down.”
Maxwell bit back a smile as they stopped before a portrait of Christopher that had been completed on his twenty-first birthday. This was the brother he had always remembered,; the one with a small smile on his face. At this time, he had yet to meet Joyce and had not yet known the pain of a broken heart.
He was happy, and looking at him in this way made Maxwell wistful in a quiet, understated way. Hungry for a past he could never have, but was reassured to know his memories of Christopher drunk in his room were not the only way his brother had been.
“No portraits of my father,” he said. “I had them taken down when he died.”
“Good.” She slipped her hand in his. “What of your mother?”
In answer, he led her to the only surviving portrait of his mother, made when she had just married their father. Younger than Maxwell remembered her, but although she had passed away when he was ten, he only recollected bits and pieces of her.
A gentle hand in his hair, her perfume as she bent to hug him. Her quiet voice sang lullabies, so long as his father was not around.
Whenever he was, she retreated into her shell so effectively that it was as though she ceased being a person at all.
The portrait of her showed a pale, pretty woman with dark hair and a sweet smile. Thalia looked at her for a long time without comment.
“She has your eyes,” she said at last.
