Her lips pursed. “I do believe I shall call you Valentina. And you must call me Contessa. Yes, and I must say, with that head of hair, you would have made a beautiful Italian.”
Valentine flushed, recognizing the compliment but feeling somewhat awkward at the open scrutiny.
“Val, my husband, Matteo,” Eva drew her attention, and the others had by now also drawn close.
“Matteo, this is my cousin, Valentine,” Eva smiled up at her husband, who took Val’s hand and kissed her fingers.
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance at last, Miss Baker.” His English was also flawless, but beautifully accented. She very nearly sighed, and realized why her cousin had found herself smitten with the man.
“Likewise,” she said with a curtsey.
Eva then introduced the contes: David, the charming storyteller, Stefano, and Daniel. It was indeed a hereditary beauty fest, and Val found herself quite overwhelmed. Could she ever truly consider the brothers in casual terms? They were counts, after all! Lastly, Eva turned to the Englishman who stepped forward at her urging. “And this is Mr. Maxwell, who refuses to tell us his first name. We simply call him ‘Max.’”
“Miss Baker,” Mr. Maxwell clasped her fingers and kissed her hand, and Valentine noted the firm grasp, the calluses. Her first summation was likely correct—he spent time outside. And if the size of his frame were any indication, his work was largely physical. He dressed in a fine dinner ensemble in black, as did the Bellinis, but, where they resembled the sleek sophistication of exotic domesticated animals, Mr. Maxwell’s entire presence felt more primal. Rather like a jungle cat.
“Mr. Maxwell,” she managed and cleared her throat.
“Max, please.”
She nodded and was then swept along in Eva’s tide as they situated themselves around the dinner table, Matteo at its head, Evangeline at his right, and Contessa at the foot. The others filled in along the sides. As promised, Valentine found herself seated between Eva and David and across from Max.
“I do hope you will excuse our father,” Matteo said as dinner was served, “but he is occupied at the Biennales for the week. We are never quite certain when he will be in residence.”
Valentine nodded, searched for a reply, and came up with nothing. She figured her lack of response might serve her well; it might help her to appear sophisticated, rather than the gauche country girl she truly was.
“He will be further occupied in Florence after the festival,” Contessa added as she smoothed a napkin over her lap, “which is the reason for your presence, Valentine, and for Max, of course. Although Max’s involvement in Egypt shall be two-fold, no?” She glanced at the Englishman. “You see, Valentine, there is something amiss at the dig site.”
Max enjoyed the company, he genuinely did. But he was irritated in the extreme. His brother, Quincy, had sent word from Egypt, the previous month, that pieces of his dig treasures had gone missing. Because of it, his benefactress, Contessa Bellini, insisted on visiting the site and required protection through her travels. Quincy wanted Max to perform the duty, so he could investigate the site thefts upon arrival in Cairo.
Max was not an investigator. He was a pugilist. A boxer. A titled champion who had opened his own boxing salons in London and now Paris. He needed to be at home. The salon in Liverpool was nearing completion and he did not have time to play nursemaid to an Italian countess. Or her traveling companion, delectable though she may be. Max bore a ridiculously large soft spot in his heart for his brother, though, and had never been able to turn down a request from him.
Max stole a glance at the young woman seated across the table and narrowed his eyes. He focused instead on his dinner and heaved an inward sigh. Miss Baker was beautiful, and haughty, it appeared. She said very little, merely inclined her head in all the appropriate conversational pauses, and toyed with her food more than she ate it. The steamship voyage across the Mediterranean to Alexandria, and then the train ride to Cairo would take three weeks, if all went well. He didn’t imagine a countess and a spoiled English beauty would make for pleasant traveling companions.
He mentally cursed his brother for the hundredth time, and decided the routine had been a monster of his own making. Quincy had not been the sort of boy who could defend himself, but he possessed a mouth that provoked confrontation. Bright in the extreme and firm in his opinions, Quincy had raised the ire of his fellows wherever he went, and Max was left to defend him. Perhaps he had Quincy to thank for his own professional success—had he not been forced to continually protect his brother from bullies, he may have never learned to fight.
“. . . owns the popular Gentleman Maxwell Salons in England,” Matteo was telling Miss Baker. “Perhaps you have heard of them?”
Miss Baker’s face brightened. “Oh, indeed! Two of my brothers are regular patrons when they visit London. They sing your praises most highly, Mr. Maxwell.”
Perhaps the lady required reassessment. Two of her brothers must be decent enough fellows. “My thanks for the compliment, Miss Baker.”
She nodded, but said nothing further.
“I have been attempting to woo him into opening a Maxwell Salon in Florence.” Matteo smiled.
Max shook his head. “You are nothing if not persistent, Matteo.” Max knew the family from prior visits and, on this visit, had been in residence with the family for a week. Subtle, and some not-so-subtle, hints kept falling from the handsome, aristocratic mouths of all four brothers. There were plenty of funds to back the venture, Matteo and David routinely assured him. David kept flashing that infuriating grin that suggested he knew Max would someday capitulate. Max did not favor endeavors over which he did not have routine, consistent control, however, and Florence was a bit far from home for his taste. He’d suggested the Bellinis simply establish a salon of their own, but they sought the Maxwell name, which, Max had to admit, carried clout. His standards were exacting in a sport where matches were finding themselves banned in several countries because of the gambling associated with it.
David, seated to Miss Baker’s right, teased her gently about the amount of food she was not eating, which earned the Italian a light blush and a laugh. “I confess; I am a bundle of nerves strung taut.” She smiled. “I am desperately attempting to make a good impression for the sake of my cousin.”
“Valentine!” Eva elbowed her. “Never say such a foolish thing has you worried. You could never be anything but a blessing to our good name.”
“Hear, hear,” David said, raising his glass. The Bellinis laughed, and all assembled rose a glass to the cousins’ good name.
Valentine blushed, but laughed, and cast David a rueful glance. She caught Max’s eye, then, as she set her glass down and quickly looked down at her plate.
It stung, but Max knew it shouldn’t. The young lady was overcome with admiration for the aristocratic family, and it was obvious that, as far as she was concerned, a pugilist from England wasn’t worth excess attention. Dinner finished, and the group retired to the lounge for conversation and after dinner coffee. Max considered excusing himself under the pretext of needing to sleep. It was ridiculous, however, to suggest he needed more rest than a gray-haired countess and a delicate young Englishwoman.
Conversation and laughter flowed comfortably around the room while a small fire in the hearth added to the ambiance. Max took the opportunity to further study Miss Baker. He decided her earlier reserve was probably, as she’d suggested, due to a case of nerves, for she was now all things playful and charming. She mixed well with the Bellinis. She was socially adept, appropriate, yet fresh. Original. She proclaimed the identity of a girl from a small village, but her ease with Italy’s finest proved otherwise.
She still refused to hold Max’s gaze for longer than a brief moment. She did manage a smile or two for him, but her attention remained on her cousin, the countess, and the other four men—largely anywhere, but on him. Was it because she saw herself as a commoner and he was a reminder of that life? Was she so desperate to
affiliate herself with her social betters that she deemed it in her best interest to distance herself from a lowly boxer?
She wasn’t ingratiating, though. Evangeline was correct in that her cousin’s behavior was above reproach; indeed, she seemed at ease in a way that Max hadn’t allowed himself to feel in the week he’d been at the palazzo. That certainly had not been because of a lack of effort on the part of the Bellini brothers, the youngest three especially, as they dragged him about Venice, looking for fun.
Max held himself apart from most, however. He was never quite comfortable in large groups of people, and certainly did not enjoy formal dining or settings. His late mother had raised both her sons with manners befitting a prince despite their humble background, but there was always an edge Max retained as it concerned his social superiors. It protected him, he supposed. Taking a small sip of his coffee, he glanced again at the English beauty with the raven curls and dark green eyes.
Max had made money, piles of it, but he still felt the remnants of the young village boy whose father was in debtors’ prison and whose mother laundered and cleaned other people’s houses for money. The boy whose elder brother was a smart-mouthed, bookish sort who constantly required defending. No matter how much wealth he accumulated, Max would always be that child, and his nouveau riche status didn’t help.
And yet, here he sat, keeping company with a genuine family whose hearts were good and whose pure bloodlines stretched back into eternity.
Matteo joked lightly, at his brothers’ expense, and Max couldn’t help but laugh. The Italians had wormed their way into his heart after all, and he had to admit, their friendships were true.
Just as he acknowledged the warm connection, however, David, Stefano, and Daniel turned the full blast of their charm on the little English rose, and he found himself scowling at them all.
“Something troubles you, my friend.” Matteo’s face was impassive enough, but there was a glint in his eye that set Max’s teeth on edge.
“Nothing of consequence.”
“She is very charming, my wife’s cousin, yes?”
Max lifted a shoulder and took another sip of his drink. “Pretty? Yes.”
Matteo raised a brow. “Captivating, I should say.”
“Spoiled, most likely. She will demand conveniences not easily provided far away from home.”
Matteo smiled, then, and didn’t bother to hide his amusement. “I do hope you will write often and, along with updates on my mother’s situation, provide details regarding your friendship with Miss Baker. Valentine.”
Max shot a glance at Matteo, “There will hardly be time for friendship, I am certain.”
Matteo laughed out loud. “Ah, my friend,” he said, clapping Max’s shoulder, “you shall have nothing but time.”
Valentine stood on the upper deck of the steamer until the coastline disappeared completely from view and there was nothing to see but differing hues of blue. The water was brilliant, the sky cloudless, and she inhaled a deep breath. Clean sea air made its way into her lungs, and she felt a rush of anticipation, as though wonderful things were on the horizon.
She heard footsteps and glanced over her shoulder to see Mr. Maxwell approaching. Her hair whipped in her face, and she turned her head back into the wind to blow it out of her eyes. The long curls were pulling free from her pins—she felt it slipping by degrees—and she made a feeble attempt at shoving them back into place as Mr. Maxwell joined her at the railing.
He stood next to her, acting as a wind break, so she felt the benefit of the breeze without being struck full in the face with it. She sighed in relief and pinned up another curl as she smiled at the man who was so handsome she was positively struck dumb at the very sight of him. She’d managed to be friendly with the Bellini family, for heaven’s sake, and they were all as handsome as sin. Why did she find this one man so intimidating?
“Contessa said you would be up here, still,” Mr. Maxwell tilted his head slightly so that his shadow covered her face and she could see him clearly. He frowned, “You ought to wear a hat—to shade your eyes if nothing else.”
He said the one thing guaranteed to loosen her tongue. “I hate hats. And I note you do not wear one, either.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “Touché. So she does speak to lowly Englishmen, I see.”
She knit her brow. Lowly Englishmen? “I’m sorry?”
“A man finds himself at a bit of a disadvantage when held up against Italian aristocracy.”
What on earth was he talking about? “Mr. Maxwell, I am afraid you have me at a loss. I don’t understand.”
He shook his head, a self-deprecating smile flashing across his face and then disappearing as quickly as it had come, “Contessa insists she must see you immediately. She sent me to find you.”
Valentine was still caught in the fog of Mr. Maxwell’s odd musings. She blinked and tried to focus on what he’d said about Contessa. “She needs me?” Her heart thumped. It was her first day as a paid companion and already she’d earned her employer’s ire. “Oh no.” She swallowed and turned quickly from the rail. Her skirts whipped around her ankles, and she stumbled. A firm hand under her arm kept her from landing flat on her backside.
“Steady, Miss Baker,” Mr. Maxwell’s voice was low in her ear.
“Valentine,” she said absently, her worry increasing by the moment. “Not even two hours into this thing and I’m already bumbling it.”
Mr. Maxwell stopped walking, and because he still held her arm, she was forced to stop with him. “Bumbling what thing?”
She looked up at him—he stood over a full head taller—and tried to swallow back a very dramatic lump of despair. “I . . . this is so important to me, Mr. Maxwell, and I want very much to do it well. I’ve never been a companion before, and I should have asked Eva for more instruction, I suppose . . . It never dawned on me that lingering here on deck would prove a source of discomfort for Contessa. She must need something. I suppose she requires help—”
He laughed then, still holding on to her arm, and she sucked in a quick breath, forgetting whatever it was she’d been thinking. “I have spent a week with that woman, and trust me, Miss Baker—Valentine—she is as defenseless as a lion.”
“But—”
“And surely you noted the two maids and a footman who accompanied us aboard?”
Valentine nodded.
“She is not alone, nor in any danger. My supposition is she wishes your company for pleasant conversation.”
Valentine nodded, her brow pulled into a worried frown, “I hope so.”
“Come.” He pulled her hand into the crook of his arm, “I’ll escort you. You’ll see you have nothing to fear.”
She walked with Mr. Maxwell down one set of stairs to the first class staterooms, of which she and her escort were both residents, as well as the countess. Contessa had insisted Valentine’s room adjoin hers, and Mr. Maxwell had taken up residence in the suite across the hall. Valentine could only assume Contessa had insisted on his close proximity as well, and likely covered the cost. He was a boxer, after all, and more likely to take a room that would better accommodate a more limited budget. She hoped he enjoyed the novelty as much as she did. Aside from the night before at the palazzo, Valentine had never slept in such fine accommodations in her entire life.
Valentine felt her spirits lift again, and she forced herself to refrain from bouncing down the hallway. Mr. Maxwell would likely think her ridiculous, and as she’d only just found her tongue around him—for the most part—she wanted very much to maintain a good impression.
She must have inserted some sort of spring to her step, however, because Mr. Maxwell glanced down at her as they neared Contessa’s suite. “Feeling better, then?” The corner of his mouth quirked in a smile, and she flushed. Firstly, had she been skipping? And secondly, was there ever a more handsome smile in all the world? His face was rugged, not classically handsome, and she saw evidence of a broken nose in his past and a small scar on his f
orehead. These things added rather than detracted from his unique masculine beauty. She swallowed, feeling intensely self-conscious but unable to tear her gaze away. A slow heat unfurled in her midsection and she had to remind herself to draw a breath.
His smile slowly disappeared, and his eyes tightened on hers. She’d never seen them this closely—they were a deep cobalt blue, the same blue as the ocean outside. His attention shifted from her eyes to her mouth, and she drew her lower lip between her teeth, her breathing quiet but suddenly shallow.
He muttered something that sounded like a curse and pulled his gaze from her face to Contessa’s door, on which he knocked with rather more force than was necessary. Contessa wasn’t hard of hearing, after all, nor were her servants as far as Valentine knew. She dropped her hand from his arm and closed her fingers over her palm, wishing she could trap his warmth and hold it there.
Contessa herself opened the door and brightened when she saw the two of them standing in the companionway, “Ah, there you are, my girl.”
“Contessa, I apologize wholeheartedly. I hadn’t realized so much time had passed, and I won’t leave you alone so long again, I prom—”
The countess held up a hand, and Valentine cut off the stream of words that fell out of her mouth. “I am going to take my midmorning rest, and I want you to have brunch in the salon. There are many people with us bound for Cairo, and I should think you would enjoy making the acquaintance of some of the younger set, yes?”
Valentine blinked. “My lady? But I am here for your company, I hardly think—”
The hand came up again, and again, Valentine stopped talking. “I hardly need you to keep me company while I rest, and I want you to eat. You had nothing before we left the palazzo this morning—do not think I did not notice. You will do me no good if you waste away into nothing, which is entirely possible. Is it not possible?” She directed the last at Mr. Maxwell.
He glanced down at her and she looked at him, baffled. “I suppose it is,” he mumbled.
From Cairo, With Love (Timeless Romance Single Book 1) Page 2
