Her bow-shaped lips firmed in a disgruntled frown. “Unacceptable to some, perhaps.”

Her fierce tone reminded him once again of Boadicea—this time about to take on the unfairness of societal rules—but then she sighed as well.

“But, yes. My family would not approve.” Determination glinted in her eyes. “That won’t stop me from bringing Duke here every morning.”

Max nodded, understanding.

His young lady was enjoying her own bit of in-betweenness. If she truly had been ordered to ‘land a duke’ by her parents, he might be her tiny secret rebellion.

Oh, the irony.

Of the double-edged variety. If he didn’t become the duke, he’d have no chance with someone like her.

He also had the distinct feeling that she could make him wish for a dukedom he didn’t otherwise want.

He should run far and fast and not venture near Hyde Park again.

Yet even the thought kicked off his own tiny rebellion inside his chest.

“If we’re going to continue to meet, I must call you something,” he said. “Thinking of you as ‘the brave enchantress who so charmed me that I leapt into the Serpentine for her’ might be nice, but it’s rather cumbersome.”

The combination of blush and utterly feminine smile that crossed her face shot heat straight through him.

Duke trotted back toward them then, giving him an idea.

“Shall I call you Duchess? After all, you are Duke’s mistress.”

Her smile pursed, and she gave a quick shake of her head. “Never Duchess.”

Max wanted to kick himself. Of course not Duchess. The reminder would intrude on her in-betweenness. His as well.

Yet it fit her perfectly—her regal beauty, her strength of spirit. If he were to become the duke, wouldn’t she be exactly the type of duchess he would wish for?

“Boadicea, then?” he offered.

Her face squinched adorably. “Also cumbersome. Not to mention undeserved.”

“I disagree,” he said. “With the undeserved part, leastways. As for the other, I could call you Bodie for short.”

She actually stuck her tongue out at him. He laughed aloud—mostly to cover the fact that her gesture now had him thinking of kissing her even more than he had been before, if that were possible.

“And what would I call you?” she asked.

That sobered him. He couldn’t very well give her his true name either.

But she didn’t seem to notice his discomfort. “‘My-knight-in-shining-armor-and-my-little-dog’s-too’ is quite cumbersome as well, no matter how accurate.”

Her words touched a place inside Max that he’d long closed off. Did she really see him thus?

For years, he’d striven to be thought of as a man who helps those in need. It’s why he’d become a barrister in the first place, and why he now fought to change the law so that those accused of crimes could be represented fairly in court. But his views were unpopular, and had earned him the scorn of many who thought him too soft on those who didn’t deserve mercy. Many thought him disreputable at best for his stance.

He preferred the way this woman looked at him.

“I wouldn’t say shining armor exactly,” he jested, unused to such praise. “Not after the Serpentine anyway.”

“True,” she agreed. “But ‘knight-in-reeking-armor’ doesn’t have the same ring.”

He scowled in mock outrage.

“I could call you Galahad, I suppose,” she mused. “After all, he was the purest of knights and renowned for his gallantry. I’m sure he saved a few dogs in his day, as well.”

It was his turn to wince. He didn’t feel pure when he was with her. Not when he remembered the feel of his arms around her yesterday, however innocent. Not when the alluring feminine scent of her, all warm vanilla and something spicy (cinnamon, perhaps?) had been driving him mad all morning. Not when flashes of the two of them entwined in his dreams last night still seared through his memory. “That might be a bit much.”

“I could call you Gal, for short,” she offered, oblivious to the prurient turn his thoughts had taken. She cocked a brow. “Or Haddie?”

“I give,” he said, throwing his hands up in surrender. “Please. Not Haddie.”

She grinned. “Then not Bodie, either.”

They tossed out other options, teasing one another and laughing more than he had in weeks. By the time they parted, they hadn’t settled on a nom de guerre for either other them, but there’d been much fun in the attempt.

And as Maxwell said his farewells—already anticipating seeing her again on the morrow—he thought of one thing he wished he could call her…

Mine.




CHAPTER 4




NEARLY A FORTNIGHT LATER, that little four letter word still dominated Maxwell’s thoughts.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

Perhaps it was the clandestine nature of their daily rendezvous—secret, forbidden encounters in broad daylight. Completely innocent, yet not.

Perhaps it was still simply the allure of their mutual in-betweenness.

But he didn’t think so.

It was her.

She.

The girl who remained nameless.

The Helen to his Paris? She’d just shaken her head when he’d declared that her face could launch a million ships, not merely a thousand.

Needless to say, those names did not stick.

Cleopatra to his Marc Antony, then? “Much too volatile a pair,” she’d protested. “Besides, I have no wish to die by poisonous snake bite.”

Those names didn’t take, either.

Perhaps Beatrice to his Dante? “That, at least, is closer to reality,” she’d said when she’d suggested it. “After all, they only ever met a few times. Strange, don’t you think, that he remained devoted to her for the rest of his life when he’d never even kissed her?”

Once she’d pointed out that sad fact, he was the one who refused to adopt those monikers.

He didn’t want this…whatever was growing between them…to be so fleeting. Or so tragic.

Yet how could it be otherwise?

Unless…

Unless he became the duke.

And convinced her to become his duchess.

The idea whispered through his mind, enticing.

He played a dangerous game with his heart. He had no control over whether or not he’d inherit, but as he’d suspected, the possibility of having her for his wife made it much more appealing.

He couldn’t pursue her in earnest yet. It wouldn’t be fair to her. But he could determine whether she wished to be pursued…

By him. By a duke? By both? By neither?

It was all so confusing. The only thing he knew for certain was that the more time he spent with her, the more he needed to know.

He wanted to know everything about her—which was deuced difficult when they conversationally danced upon the surface of their lives.

Lovely dance though it was, he wanted more.

More than knowing whether she preferred cats or dogs (“Cats, though Duke here may change my mind yet.”), tea or coffee, (“Coffee. I know! You’re asking yourself now if I’m even English.”), or Milton or Shakespeare (“Milton, of course. While Shakespeare was arguably the keenest observer of humanity we’ll ever see, Milton wrote about free will, and liberty and the threats to everything that makes us human.”).

With every word from her delectable, intelligent, spirited lips, he’d fallen deeper under her spell.

Yes, he definitely wanted more.

Today, he was determined to discover if she wanted more, too.

He rounded the corner near the bridge, his heart picking up in anticipation of seeing her, of laughing with her, of simply being together.

His eyes sought her out on the bank where they’d rescued Duke—their spot.

She wasn’t there.

Max frowned, scanning about. Perhaps Duke had led her on a merry chase around the lake?

But no. No sign of her, the pup, or the young maid who always trailed after them.

Three quarters of an hour later, he still stood at the shoreline, alone. Anticipation had turned to disappointment, a sharp ache that hollowed his chest and left him feeling…empty.

Unsettled.

Unhappy.

He didn’t like the sensation one bit. When had his daily dose of her become so vital to his well-being, damn it all?

It couldn’t be possible for one person’s absence to affect his spirits so. And yet, the prospect of facing his day unbolstered by her smiles was unthinkable.

As unthinkable as the reasons why she mightn’t have come.

Potential excuses plagued Max, each one worse than the last: A distracted jarvey had crashed into her carriage on her way to the park. She’d fallen ill and lay in a feverish delirium in her sickbed. Or…or she’d grown bored of toying with the commoner and had gone back to the business of landing a duke.

No. Not her. She wasn’t unkind. After thirteen magnificent mornings together, she wouldn’t disappear without a word of farewell.

He tunneled a hand through his hair and blew out a breath that puffed white in the chilly November air. He couldn’t stand here all day. He’d come back tomorrow, and hope that she greeted him with a sheepish grin and a good explanation. If not tomorrow…well, he did like the park. Perhaps he’d come the day after, too.

And if she never returned?

Then if he didn’t inherit the dukedom, he’d never see her again.

And if he did, it would make for an awkward reunion when she was paraded before him as a potential bride next season.

He could never choose her then, as he would always wonder if it was him or ‘the duke’ she wanted.

On that awful thought, he turned away from the lake and started off toward Knightsbridge.


THE COLD AIR burned in her lungs as Emmaline burst onto the main footpath from the tributary she’d taken at the Grosvenor Gate.

He was still here! Thank the Lord…

But he was walking away, and she was on the wrong side of the lake. She ground her teeth in frustration. The footpath she was now on went entirely the opposite direction, and she could hardly jump in and swim across.

She had to get his attention. If she didn’t, she might never see him again.

Panic squeezed her chest.

“Duke,” she cried to the pup who trotted along beside her. She pointed at the man, who’d almost reached Rotten Row. The pup could skirt the lake through the grass faster than she could. “There he is. See him? Now, fetch!”

Duke cocked his head at her. All right, so she’d not taught him to fetch yet, and he likely didn’t understand any other word she’d said. But desperate times… She made a shooing motion toward the man, hoping the dog understood that. “Go get him, boy! Go get our knight!”

But he just danced at her feet, his tail wagging in happy confusion.

Drat it all! Emmaline looked back toward the man. A few more steps and he’d be on the far side of the King’s Private Road, and beyond her reach…perhaps forever.

There was nothing for it.

She hooked her pinkies in the corners of her mouth and blew the shrill whistle her male cousins had taught her years ago, much to the chagrin of her mother. The sharp sound set Duke to barking. His yips echoed off the surface of the water, too. Emmaline prayed the sounds carried.

The man stopped.

Her heart kicked in triumph.

He turned and she barely restrained herself from throwing her arms up in the air and waving madly so that he saw her.

Duke, bless him, must have finally picked up his friend’s scent, as the little dog bounded off toward him.

Emmaline exhaled a long sigh of relief, then began picking her way around the far side of the lake.

The whole while she watched him. He bent low to greet Duke, then rose more gracefully than a man ought to be able to. The morning sun limned his long frame, and Emmaline’s breath caught in her throat. Then he crossed Rotten Row and took the footpath that would eventually meet up with hers.

As he advanced, Emmaline’s relief gave way to nervous excitement, and a strange angst settled in her chest. It felt vaguely like the anxiety she’d experienced this morning when she’d realized she’d never make it to the park in time—a scare that only now opened her eyes to how very much she looked forward to seeing him every day.

And yet, it was different, too. Warmer and…and more achy. A desire to be with him that was unsettling and stirring and…imperative.

His long legged strides were twice her own, so she’d barely made halfway to the bridge when he and Duke reached her.

“I’m so sorry I wasn’t here—” she began.

“Is everything all right?” he asked at the same moment.

His handsome face creased with concern as his eyes searched her face and form.

She brought her hands up to her flushed cheeks, only now imagining how she must look. A fright, she’d wager, having practically run across half of Mayfair. Her hair had likely slipped her coiffure and she’d be shocked if her skin hadn’t gone blotchy.