Max bowed then raised his head to look directly at her. “You are by far the loveliest maid I have chanced to meet this side of the great Rocky Mountains, Miss O’Brien.” He spoke in the slow, southern drawl of a plantation gentleman.
Abby looked like she wasn’t sure how to take him. He felt certain she didn’t recognize him, though, and that was the most important thing.
She smiled at his compliment and he felt a tightening in his groin that he so often experienced in her company.
He cleared his throat. “Had I known Mrs. Gentry was keeping such beauteous company, I would have found the opportunity to visit before now.”
Libby laughed. “Beauteous? Do you think that is even a proper English word, Mr. Markham?” She continued laughing, dabbing at her eyes.
Abby stood and moved closer. “Are you all right, Libby?” She looked at Max, who had begun laughing along with his aunt. “I didn’t think your jest quite so funny, Mr. Markham.”
At her reprimand, he and his aunt laughed harder. Abby stood very straight, her cheeks now dusted with color brought on by anger rather than modesty.
“I’m sorry, lass, ’tis not you exactly at which we laugh.”
Abby’s eyes narrowed. Libby stopped laughing, her mouth dropped open for an instant, and then she burst into giggles yet again.
Max hadn’t realized he had slipped into O’Flagherty’s Irish brogue until Abby stepped right in front of him, scrutinizing him with snapping green eyes. She sniffed, then went on tiptoes to look him in the eyes.
“I might have known.” She dropped back to her heels and placed her hands on her hips. “Exactly who are you this time?”
“Papa would have laughed to see you, Max. You may use his name and you do his roguish behavior justice, but you certainly don’t have his stature.”
Abby glanced at Libby then back to Max. “Do you mean to say there really is a Jeffery Markham III?”
Max was quite pleased that he’d passed muster and poured himself a brandy while Libby explained.
“Jeffery Alexander Markham III, after whom both Max and Montgomery take their middle names, was my dear papa. That would make him Max’s grandfather on his mother’s side.”
Max leaned an elbow on the fireplace mantel, one ankle crossed in front of the other as his aunt spoke. He watched her eyes twinkle with humor when she explained Papa Jeff, as he and Monty used to call their grandfather.
“Papa was a most robust sea captain before he settled landward to build merchant ships. It would take two of Max to fill out the real Jeffery Markham’s waistcoat.”
At Libby’s words, Abby’s gaze went straight to Max. He wore a gold embroidered waistcoat snugged against his broad chest and flat stomach. The contrast between that and his snowy white shirt and cravat and the jet black of his suit was striking. She should have recognized him, even with the accent. However, his blond wig and muttonchops so completely changed his appearance that she still stared, trying to find the Max she knew. Even his eyebrows were lighter in color so to more closely match the lightness of the wig he wore.
Her gaze slid to his hands where he held a crystal snifter. It wasn’t that Max didn’t have manners, but disguised as Markham, he became the suave southern gentleman whose very existence focused on making just the right impression. She’d seen her share of this type of man when her father entertained business clients. For the most part, they seemed rather shallow and false. Since Max wasn’t like that at all, it was fascinating to watch him don the entire persona along with the disguise.
“I presume that in addition to being quite old family, you are also old money?” she commented, noting the diamond and gold ring he wore on his little finger, the gold nugget watch fob and the diamond stickpin in his cravat.
He wiggled his little finger and winked at her. “Of course, sweetling. Did you expect anything less?” He brought the drawl back into his voice, and she wondered if the use of the endearment was only because he was pretending to be someone other than himself.
“So tell me why you’re dressed in disguise. You haven’t done that since our arrival.” Revelation hit her. “You’ve found him, haven’t you?” Her heart beat faster at the thought that their chase halfway across the country might be close to an end. If Max captured the man who killed his father’s bookkeeper, he wouldn’t need her anymore. She would have no excuse to stay in Denver. Her heart sank.
“He has been spotted in several saloons over the past week, always involved in a game. I’ve had my eye on him, but he doesn’t seem to be cheating, nor does he run out of money. If he played against Monty…” He paused then pushed off from the mantel.
“Anyway, tonight I’ll endeavor to engage him in a game. If all goes well, I’ll take enough from him that he’ll want the chance to win it back. Then I’ll suggest a high stakes game at the InterOcean Hotel. I know the proprietor, Howard Chapin, and he’ll allow us a private suite. Chapin will also allow you, my dear partner, to deal, and it will give you the chance to see if Dillon is our man.”
She sucked in her breath. “I’ll actually get to help you?”
He scowled at her eagerness. “Only under the strictest conditions. All the men in the game, save Dillon, will be associates of mine. That will give us the control we need in case things get nasty.”
Max collected his overcoat from a chair by the parlor door. Abby realized he was going out for the night. She hurried over to him.
“Max?” She didn’t know exactly what she wanted to say. She took his hand when he reached for his top hat, brushing her fingers over his knuckles. His disguise was so complete he had even lightened the hair there.
“Perhaps I should ask Cook what you used on your hair and try it. Some days I do not care for my red hair.” She meant the comment in jest, but when she looked up, she found his gaze intense.
“Don’t even think it. Why would you want to change the color of the sunset?” His voice was gruff, and he reached to take a curl of her hair, lifting it to his lips. His simple gesture warmed her heart.
“Be careful, Max. If this man killed once, he won’t hesitate to do so again if he feels cornered.”
He didn’t utter a word, but gave her a look of such longing that her stomach clinched and her mouth went dry. He’d been affecting her like that almost from the day she met him, even more so after the magic she’d experienced in his arms.
“Abby, I…” He shook his head, turned and left.
Libby had watched the exchange from her chair by the fire and smiled when Abby came back across the room. “It has always troubled me that Max and his father have never gotten along. I’m sure that’s shaped Max’s personality to this day. Why, my own papa loved my twin sister, Ernestine, and me with a devotion that lasted well past the time we’d grown and left home.”
Libby looked directly at her, and Abby wondered what she saw.
“Max has his grandfather’s love of adventure,” she continued. “When he and Monty were little they were forever getting in trouble. Max is so like Papa in other ways as well. He’s passionate about living. When he decides to love, he will care deeply and give freely. He only needs to find a woman to love him as he is and not for what his father thinks he should be.”
Abby wasn’t at all surprised by Libby’s comments. It was what she had also come to know about Max. Still… “Sometimes I think Max doesn’t feel he’s worthy of love.” She felt an incredible sadness.
Libby reached over and patted her hand. “It will take a strong and generous heart to win Max over.” She rang a bell for tea. “Let’s get this party planned so we can set the stage for his downfall.”
* * *
He should never have agreed to attend this ball, if that was still what they called such social gatherings, Max fumed as he twisted his cravat into an intricate knot. He scowled at his reflection in the mirror. It had been ages since he’d found the need to attend any formal kind of gathering. As it was, he had to send Hickory to the train rails to fetch his clothes from the Pullma
n.
His aunt, of course, was truly in her element when hosting such extravagant entertainments. She’d said it would be the perfect chance to see if John Dillon moved in polite circles. If so, Abby would be able to identify him in the safety of Garland House where both Max and Hickory would be on their guard. Libby had patiently explained, as though he didn’t understand the basics of investigative work, that having Abby elsewhere in the midst of a poker game was not in her best interests at all.
There wasn’t any way of talking Libby out of something once she’d made up her mind. Besides, in the past few nights when he’d played against Dillon, the man showed no evidence of any real wrongdoing. He bet heavily, drank too much and wasn’t very polite to the women who waited on the poker tables at the saloon. Max had won all the cash the man had last night, which had angered him. It had been easy enough for him to arrange a private game two nights hence, for Dillon wanted to recoup his losses.
He slid his arms into his jacket, tucked his watch into his vest pocket and took one last look in the mirror. He hoped Dillon didn’t frequent the more elite circles since he wasn’t in disguise tonight. His hair was its usual dark color and he would easily be mistaken for his twin. If Dillon had only won Monty’s watch in the usual card game, he probably wouldn’t even remember him. However, if there were more to their meeting, such as involvement in Jerome Smith’s murder or the robbery of his father’s fortune, then no doubt Dillon would recall the looks of the man he’d fleeced.
Max whistled a tune under his breath as he went downstairs, hoping to find Abby alone before the rush of guests. It was not to be.
“Max, dear, we’re in here.” His aunt called to him from the parlor, where a few of her guests were talking in casual groups. A number of servants carrying trays of champagne passed wordlessly around the room.
“Good evening, Aunt Elizabeth. You look luscious tonight.” Max bent to kiss her cheek.
“Dear boy, I knew there was a reason I so enjoyed your visits.” His aunt blushed at his compliment, her cheeks matching the red feathers in her hair and the boa wrapped around her neck, both in sharp contrast to her black silk dress. “Do you remember the Jacobs and the Andersons from your last trip to Denver?” She waved a ringed hand toward two couples standing nearby.
He didn’t recall meeting either pair before, but nodded politely when they were introduced. “Where’s Abby?” he asked at a break in the conversation.
Libby gave him a smile. “Why, I believe she’s already in the ballroom. I didn’t want to have a receiving line since this is an informal gathering, so I’ve been greeting guests here before sending them upstairs.” Libby held out a hand, and Max helped her stand.
She tucked her hand into his elbow. “It’s time to begin the real entertainment. Shall we?”
A huge ballroom made up over half of the second floor of Garland House. Libby called it the Rose Room. She had named most of the rooms in her house after flowers, but in this case, it seemed appropriate. Vases of roses in every color were scattered everywhere. Pastel ball gowns added to the illusion of an enchanted garden and Max thought a swarm of bumblebees would feel right at home.
The room wasn’t overly crowded, yet Max didn’t see Abby among the clusters of ladies and gentlemen. He walked his aunt toward the orchestra that sat in an alcove, his gaze darting from one area to another.
“Would you do an old woman a favor and start the first dance? Then everyone will join in and you will be freed from duty for the rest of the evening.” His aunt smiled at him, and Max wondered if she knew he’d been looking for Abby.
“I see no old ladies, but I would be honored to dance with you.” Max bowed formally over her hand and led her onto the dance floor. The orchestra began and he stepped forward and back to the count, his aunt easily following his steps. He moved automatically, not really thinking about the dance. He listened to his aunt chat about the various people in attendance.
“Of course, with the legislature in session, it seemed an opportune time to invite Harold Franklin and his wife, Eleanor, along with the Pattersons. Though they do tend to oppose me every time I suggest alternatives to the mining laws they would like to see passed.”
Max laughed. “Are you still bent on reforming everyone?”
She tapped him on the shoulder with her fan. “You know the mining conditions are deplorable. Every new shaft creates the possibility of a cave-in or explosion.”
He swept her into a wide circle then bent low over her hand when the music ended. “I know you only want what’s best.”
He finally spied Abby being led off the dance floor by none other than Christopher Stanwick. He moved with his aunt to where some of her contemporaries were seated, but he never took his eyes off Abby.
She was a vision in a pale turquoise gown of satin. In profile, the material molded to her form, curving over her breasts then falling straight over her stomach. The style flattered her and her creamy skin glowed in the soft light.
His gaze shifted to Stanwick, who was staring—no, ogling—Abby’s breasts. Abby pulled her cashmere shawl higher on her bare shoulders. He excused himself and began to make his way toward her.
This time he didn’t try to fool himself into thinking he was saving Abby from a disreputable character. First, he hadn’t yet determined if Christopher Stanwick was disreputable, though his ardent gaze told a different story. For this evening, the man’s background was neither here nor there. The plain and simple truth was, Max was jealous.
Stanwick left her and headed for the refreshment table. Max circled around the giant shrubs his aunt had placed strategically around the room to give the appearance of an indoor garden.
“I believe you owe me a dance.” He spoke close to her ear. He delighted in her immediate smile when she turned to greet him.
“Hmmm, I’m not sure I have space for you on my dance card.” She paused before adding, “I don’t believe I recognize your disguise, sir.”
Max didn’t bother to answer. He circled her waist and spun her into the flow of dancers as another waltz began. It didn’t surprise him that she never faltered, but gracefully followed the rhythm. Though she would claim independence and supported suffragist views, she was still trained in the feminine arts and, in fact, excelled in portraying the young society miss.
He inhaled her scent, tightening his arm around her when they moved into a turn. She felt so right in his arms, so dainty, yet he knew the strength that lay beneath the layers of silk. She had proven herself time and again. She stood up to him, and stood up for him. She ignited his passion like no other, and she didn’t seem the least concerned about the propriety of kissing him like there was no tomorrow. She’d infiltrated his heart and mind, and there was no getting rid of her.
With that thought in his head, he maneuvered them toward the edge of the dance floor. At just the right moment, he turned and whisked her through the open doors onto the balcony. He thought briefly about taking her down the outside stairs into the garden. Instead, he continued their dance, gradually moving into the shadows at one end of the balcony. The music was muted, though the beat still coursed through his veins.
“We seem to have lost the rhythm,” Abby murmured. He’d slowed his steps until they simply rocked back and forth, their feet still.
“Perhaps only that of the music,” he returned, moving his hand up her bare arm to the pulse point at the base of her neck. His finger lightly caressed her skin and he felt the beat quicken. “I seem to have found a different cadence.” He placed a kiss where his finger had been.
She wrapped her arms around him. Her shawl dropped to the ground, leaving her shoulders and the tops of her breasts uncovered. Max groaned. His hands moved to her back to pull her tightly against him. He kissed a path to the cleft of her bosom where he was soon lost in the smell and taste of her.
Abby burrowed closer, feeling his heat through the thin silk of her gown. She wanted to crawl into his skin. “I have missed you these last days,” she whispered into hi
s hair. She loved what he was doing to her breasts, but she longed for his kiss. She tugged gently on his ears. “Kiss me.”
He obliged with a hunger she felt clear to her toes. Hot, firm lips clung to hers, his tongue seeking entrance. She soon found herself fighting for air, and it didn’t seem to matter. She returned his kisses, hugging him tight.
“God, woman, what have you done to me?” Max breathed raggedly, nipping and licking the sensitive skin of her neck.
“I think I was going to ask the very same question.” She turned her head to nibble on his earlobe. She ached deep inside, an ache she knew Max could appease.
“Max, could we—”
“Abby,” he interrupted with a groan, “you don’t know what you’re asking.” He quit kissing her neck and rested his forehead on her shoulder. Her hands were beneath his coat, caressing his back, feeling the muscles tighten.
“Are we doing something wrong?” she whispered into the night.
Max snorted. “Not yet.”
“Something that feels so right can’t be wrong.”
She felt him shudder then take a deep breath. He raised his head, his hands moving to frame her face. His eyes had turned midnight blue, their depths smoldering with passion.
“Abby, I am deeply honored by what you are offering me—”
“But?”
“Shh, let me finish. Someday you’ll find the man who’s right for you, someone who will hold you without keeping you back. He’ll let you fly and be there to cushion your falls.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “And when you find this someone, you’ll have a gift for him that you can give no other.”
He was right, and she had found that someone. She just had to find a way to make him accept what she was offering.
* * *
Max spent the rest of the evening watching Abby from a distance, alternating between remorse, self-pity and jealousy. A month ago he wouldn’t have thought he had any of those emotions, much less all of them vying for attention inside his head.
Song of My Heart Page 16
