But he sounded resigned, as though Mr. Keith’s attempts to cheer him up were something to be borne for the sake of their friendship.
“Max,” Mr. Keith said reprovingly, “Miss Greentree is probably the only lovely young lady in London who is ignorant of your situation. You should make the most of the moment, my friend.”
“Thank you, Ian,” Max said gravely, and turned his face away so that only his profile showed against the pale blue sky. Handsome, wounded, brooding—the words were descriptive of the perfect Byronic hero. If she was Francesca, she would paint a picture of him standing grimly alone on the moors, or write a poem in honor of his moody good looks. But she was not dark and dramatic Francesca; she was generous and impulsive Marietta. And despite her decision not to bother with him, her mind was already seeking for ways in which to tackle the fates and make his life better.
“Mr. Keith,” she said quietly, turning again to the aeronaught. “Has Max anything left at all? Of course,” with a glance at Max, “you do not need to tell me if it is personal.”
“But everyone knows, Miss Greentree. And yes, Max has a few odds and ends remaining.” There was a dry note in Mr. Keith’s voice that Marietta did not understand but she let it pass. “The thing is, Max loves his boyhood home, and of course he now has to deal with the shame of his birth, and the despoiling of his mother’s memory in the eyes of the world. He’s feeling a little lost.”
“It seems cruel and unnecessary of his father to let everyone know. Such a scandal is normally hushed up. In my own family my uncle has gone to great lengths to hide the slightest whiff of disgrace.” That was true enough, Uncle William Tremaine had been appalled when he learned of Gerard Jones and how gleefully the London gossips had taken to the story. He hadn’t spoken to her since, but she had heard that he’d declared her “her mother’s daughter well and trul
y.”
Marietta edged closer to Max, and he looked at her as if he would much rather she stayed away. But Marietta didn’t let that stop her, and in a moment she was sitting beside him in the basket, her arm bumping against him as a stronger gust shook them. He stared down with that haughty lift of his eyebrows, but she had never been easily intimidated and she wasn’t now. Clearly Max was in need of some good advice, and Marietta knew she was just the person to give it.
“Can your real father help you?” she asked him candidly. “Perhaps he is not even aware yet that he has been blessed with a son.”
Max gave a nasty laugh. “Perhaps he took to his heels and left my mother with no choice but to marry another man to cover her shame.”
Marietta sighed. “I am so sorry…Max. I am in a similar situation myself, you know, so I understand a little of what you must feel. I do not know who my father is either.”
Max stared at her as if he had wandered into a nightmare and could not find his way out. Marietta felt her face color. She hadn’t meant to tell him that, and her words had sounded odd, but she had been trying to comfort him. And anyway it was the truth; she didn’t know who her father was. Her mother, the courtesan Aphrodite, knew, but she hadn’t spoken of it, and besides, Marietta wasn’t sure she wanted to meet him. More than likely her father would want to avoid her, just like everyone else.
“I think,” Max said at last, in a weary voice, “that you are trying to be kind. I beg you not to be. I do not want your kindness. Despite what Ian believes, I just want to be left alone.”
“To wallow in your bad fortune?” Marietta asked, and had the satisfaction of seeing that angry sparkle return to his eyes. “Max, don’t you know that we make our own fortune, good and bad? That is what I intend to do—”
The wind had been growing stronger, and now there was a violent gust. Beneath them treetops swayed, and a herd of cows mooed and tried to flee from the balloon. Mr. Keith had been going about the important work of controlling his balloon, but Marietta had been aware of him listening to their conversation with interest. Now he glanced at her and nodded his head, as if keen to egg her on. But Marietta had said all she had to say. If Max wanted to revel in his bad fortune, then she was content to let him.
There was another sharp gust—the basket swayed. “I’m going to start our descent,” Mr. Keith said. “The wind is stronger than I anticipated, so be warned: our landing may not be a gentle one.”
Max frowned at him, and Marietta sensed the unspoken anxiety in their exchanged looks. She swallowed, and peering over the side, knew she had no desire to tumble to earth from this height.
“You must brace yourself, Miss Greentree.” Mr. Keith was brisk. “The basket may well fall over when we land, but if you hang on tightly you will not be cast out of it. Max?”
Marietta turned blindly toward her brooding companion and saw him nod. Whatever Mr. Keith had asked of his friend had been agreed upon. And then they were descending, and rather quickly.
The silk flapped overhead, and the basket swayed alarmingly. The wind was even stronger down here, and the aeronaught cast a worried glance at the farmer’s field below—what had looked green and softly undulating now appeared less and less inviting. Marietta gave a cry as the basket struck ground and bumped roughly once and then again. They were dragged along, bouncing, as the quickly emptying envelope flapped wildly. And then they began to tip over.
A strong arm clamped about Marietta’s waist, anchoring her, and her face was pressed into a broad chest. She was enveloped, swallowed up by her companion. And safe. Despite the seemingly endless journey along the ground, Marietta felt remarkably safe in the shelter of Max’s arms.
That was why she clung to him, she told herself later, her nose deep in the folds of his necktie above the buttons of his waistcoat, her head full of the clean, masculine scent of him. A particularly nasty bump flung her upwards but he hung on to her, swearing under his breath, calling out to Mr. Keith to “Get on with it!”
And then, at last, they came to a standstill. They were down, and the cacophony of sound gave way to an eerie silence. Marietta lay still, aware of the large body beneath hers, of each breath gently lifting and lowering her. She raised her head and looked about, her fair hair tangled and falling down, her bonnet nowhere to be seen.
The basket was on its side in the farmer’s field, its contents scattered, and the silk envelope flapping gently. A horse was standing some paces away, tail twitching, keeping a suspicious eye on them. And then Mr. Keith was on the move, checking his equipment, frowning as he worked.
And Max…
Max was lying on his back, looking up at her, an expression of long suffering on his handsome face. Just at that moment, a thick strand of her hair slipped out of its pins and tumbled across his cheek and into his eye. He sighed as if he’d just about had as much as he could take.
Marietta felt the heat suffuse her face—the man was insufferable. “Excuse me,” she said in the chilliest tone she could manage in the circumstances, and proceeded to clamber off him. It was awkward, and her skirts and petticoats seemed to have become tangled up with his long legs. She folded her knees up, the better to crawl, but she had hardly begun when he grabbed her against him, cursing, and rolled to one side with her still clasped in his arms. With a gasp, she wound her arms about his neck and held on, his hair like rough curled silk against her fingers.
“Careful, Miss Greentree, I may need to father a son and heir one day.” His voice, with its slight mocking drawl, tickled her ear. “But then again, who would want my child?” he added, and she realized the mockery was for himself.
“Oh, Max, I’m sure someone would!” she said, before she could consider her words. “Not me, of course, I-I am not…but someone…”
Her clumsy attempts to make him feel better touched him. He smiled. A slow smile that lifted the corners of his unhappy mouth and made his brooding face come alive with humor.