His Lady in Breeches

XVII. Simply Maxine

Surprising her from behind might not have been the best idea for the moment she whirled around and faced him, Maxwell felt as though he was the one attacked.

Her pale grey eyes were wide with horror, but the rest of her face was nearly stunningly astounding.

Whoever this bloody woman was, she was beautiful, Maxwell thought in his mind. Why would he lie to himself when the fact was laid bare in front of him? He was not one to deny a fact when it was presented before his own senses.

His brow twitched. A reaction he failed to control.

She was no longer the valet with her hair tightly tied behind her nape. She had let it down and it was brushing over her shoulders.

Here, in the Macy ball, she was naught but what she truly was: a woman.

Just as Maxwell was reorganizing his thoughts, taking all pieces back together, she turned and quickly sauntered away from him.

That would not do, of course, for he had many things to discuss with her and his patience was running empty.

With merely three steps, he managed to catch her hand and pull her back.

"Let me go—"

"Care to dance?" he nearly growled as he dragged her to the dance floor, surprising a couple who was just about to make a turn as the waltz continued. He pulled her toward him and heard her gasp of surprise. "If you could dress as anyone you wish, I assume you also know how to dance."

She tried to pull her hand free but Maxwell would have none of it. He tightened his hold, wounding his other arm around her waist and twirled with the other dancers. Her feet stumbled but he caught her, pressing her against his length.

He bent his head. "You are doing quite well, my dear," he whispered beside her ear. She tried to pull away from him once more but he persisted. "Dance or you shall find yourself on the front page of the Herald on the morrow."

She turned away from him but he saw the light of anger in her eyes.

"Now you pretend to be a gentry and I hate to believe you did this as a pathetic excuse to experience a ball."

"You very well know why I am in Willowfair," she hissed. He forced her to turn and her feet stumbled once again.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Someone you do not know."

From the corner of his eye he could see a few guests staring at their direction. Maxwell Everard had never danced with any lady not his family in as big a ball as Macy's, after all.

"That is why I am asking, woman. I do not know you. Who are you?"

She turned her head and pale grey globes met his emerald green ones.

"A woman searching for her mother."

His brow arched with suspicion. "And she is here?"

"Yes."

He let the silence linger for a while as he continued to dance with her. They must leave the dance floor soon for they were drawing more attention.

"If that is your only motive, then why have you been specifically hiding from Ysabella?"

She stiffened in his arms. A corner of his lips quirked in response.

"I wonder why? Would you wish me to fetch her? Surely she would love to meet you?"

Her eyes rapidly blinked as she thought of a reply. Maxwell waited until she said, "Your sister unnerves me in a way."

"A lie."