Her cheeks burned and she faced forward. Mama urged Buckston to play for them. Everyone else chimed in, clapping encouragingly. Buckston sank behind the pianoforte, flipping out his coattails. “Forgive my blunders,” he declared. “I’m no Chopin.” He then began to play with relish. He might not be Chopin but he played a near second.
She took advantage of the reprieve and moved to stand beside her mother. “Mama? What’s Camden doing here?”
Mama did not tear her gaze from Buckston at the pianoforte while saying, “Oh, I invited him, dear. It’s been a while since he last dined with us.” Then, as if a thought occurred to her, she cast a quick frown at Aurelia. “I do hope you won’t be a beast, dear. It won’t do at all to behave that way in front of Buckston.”
“Of course not, Mama,” she replied dutifully, sighing as Buckston slid into another song. As well as he played, the loud music beat at her temples. “If you’ll pardon me,” she murmured. Mama did not spare her a glance, her smiling gaze fixed on Buckston.
Aurelia slipped from the room without a backward glance. She quickly made her way down the corridor, leaving the sounds of the pianoforte behind. For a moment she debated taking refuge in her bedchamber, but Cecily was probably there.
Desperate for a moment’s solitude, she slipped inside her brother’s study.
Chapter 17
She sank down in an overstuffed armchair beside his desk and gazed unseeingly into the dying embers of the fireplace. Sighing, she rubbed the bridge of her nose, squeezing it between her fingers.
The sudden opening of the door followed by it clicking shut had her sitting upright in her chair, an explanation on her lips. She expected Mama to stand there, ready to chastise her for abandoning their guests . . . especially the favored Buckston. She had not bothered to hide her joy at Aurelia’s renewed interest in claiming a suitor.
But it was not her mother. Max stood there, his imposing figure framed against the door. The flickering shadows cast his face into sharp lines and hollows.
She shot to her feet, fisting the fabric of her skirts in both hands. They stared at one another for one long moment against the distant trill of the pianoforte.
“What are you doing in here?” she finally asked. “We shouldn’t be alone.” Although she knew no one in her family would think askance of the two of them alone in a room together. Mama, Will . . . neither would ever suspect either one of them would behave in a manner that would require supervision.
“What are you doing with that fop Buckston?” he asked, his voice a low rumble in the dark warm space.
“What does it look like?” She lifted her chin defensively. “I’m being properly courted.”
Why she emphasized the word proper, she had no idea. Perhaps because she and Max were only ever improper with each other and she wanted to fling that at him. She wanted him to know that there existed gentlemen who thought her deserving of courtship. Not a great many, but some.
“Properly courted by that fool dandy? You can’t possibly think the two of you will suit?”
And why did that question suddenly make her remember what it felt like to be caught up in Max’s arms? The hard sensation of his body against her? The way his lips devoured her mouth? There was more to compatibility than physical attraction.
She flushed hotly. “What concern is it of yours?” Her speech stalled as he started toward her, his strides long and predatory. She swallowed, then resumed speaking. “First you objected to Mr. Mackenzie . . .” She snorted. “You’ll be relieved to know that he has ceased to call on me.” Something in Max’s expression gave her pause. It was as though a veil dropped over his face. He also halted his advance.