He finally spoke, and his voice was as rough as sand against her skin. “You’ve settled on Mackenzie, then?”
“He has been calling on me ever since Lady Chatham’s ball. It’s him or Buckston.” Or obscurity with Aunt Daphne. No, thank you.
Staring at Max’s shadowy shape, she almost hoped he would say something. That he would have a better idea. Very well. If she was completely honest with herself, a part of her wanted him to say she couldn’t marry Mackenzie or Buckston because their kiss had meant something to him, too. She wanted him to tell her that he didn’t want her to marry anyone. Except him.
Irrational laughter bubbled up inside her chest. Blast it. That kiss again. She couldn’t shake it. It had addled her thoughts. Returning to Sodom had been a disappointment . . . and a revelation. Now she knew she wouldn’t be able to find what she felt with Max so easily with anyone else.
When he spoke, his voice was even. Reasonable. “You don’t think you might not be rushing into this?”
“I’m three and twenty . . . the oldest debutante in London. At least that’s what the other debutantes call me.” Among other things. Dark-complexioned opinionated girls did not win many friends in the ton. “I’ve had several years to find someone—”
“So you’ll rush into it now?”
“I’m finally being responsible. I’m doing what girls—” She caught herself and amended her remark. “—what women do. What my family expects me to do.”
“Since when do you care what’s expected of you?”
“Yes, well, maybe I should. Why should it be a question? Maybe you should, too.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She gestured at him. “Do you intend to live this way forever? I mean . . . since Will and Dec married, what do you have, Max? I know they don’t spend nearly that much time with you anymore. So what do you have? What’s left?”
“What’s wrong with the way I live? I enjoy my life.”
“You use women, Max. You flit from one to another. You’re the last in your line. What of an heir?”
“I have a distant cousin in Wales. The title will pass to him.”
“That’s your brilliant plan? How is that better than mine?”
“We’re not talking about me.”
“And why is that? Why is it we never seem to talk about you?” At his silence, she pressed on. “Let’s talk about this grand plan of yours. Your determination to never wed. How will you have children? I’m sure your parents are looking down on you now and thinking—”
“Don’t.” The single word struck her like a slap. “I’m not discussing my parents with you or anyone.” His raspy voice reverberated into the silence of the carriage.
If she hadn’t already known how little she signified to him, there was no denying it now. There was no part of himself he was willing to share with her, and she felt foolish for thinking there might be a chance of that otherwise. She moistened her lips, on the brink of apologizing, “Max, I—”
“No.” His voice rang with such finality, and she felt the chasm yawn between them. She felt his gaze more than she could see it glittering across the darkness at her. She wiggled her bared shoulders, regretting her choice of gown, sensing the crawl of his eyes over her. “It’s none of your business, Aurelia.”
She sucked in a silent breath, suddenly glad for the near darkness. Glad that he could not see the splash of color heating her face.