“Yes.”

“I’m so very glad to hear that, my love.” I brush her bottom lip with my thumb and lean down to kiss her. I place my lips on hers, gently, but she ignites around me, her fervor taking me by surprise. Her lips and tongue are greedy, urgent, her hands are in my hair, tugging and twisting. She wants more. So much more. I groan as my body comes alive, and I deepen the kiss, taking everything she has to offer. There’s a desperate quality to her demanding mouth. She’s needy. And I want to be the one to fulfill her need. My hands move into her hair, holding her still, steadying her, slowing our pace. I want to take her, here, now, on the landing.

Alessia.

My arousal is instant.

I want her.

I need her.

I love her.

But…she’s been through hell. She winces when I run my hand down her side. And her reaction brings me to my senses.

“No…” I whisper, and she pulls back, giving me a carnal but bewildered and disappointed look.

“You’re hurt,” I explain.

“I’m okay.” She’s breathless, and she cranes her neck to kiss me again.

“Let’s just take a moment,” I whisper, and I rest my forehead on hers. “You’ve had a horrible morning.” She’s extremely emotional, and her ardor may be a direct reaction to being roughed up by those arseholes.

The thought is sobering.

Or maybe it’s because she loves me.

I like that idea better.

We stand forehead to forehead as we each catch our breath.

She strokes my cheek, then tilts her head to one side, and a hint of a smile plays on her lips. “You are the Earl of Trevethick?” she teases. “When were you going to tell me?” There’s a mischievous twinkle in her eye, and I laugh out loud, knowing that she’s echoing my question from the other night.

“I’m telling you now.”

She grins and taps her lip with her finger. I turn and wave theatrically to the portrait that dates from 1667. “May I introduce Edward, the first Earl of Trevethick. And that gentleman”—I point to the other painting with my thumb—“that’s my father, the eleventh earl. He was a farmer and a photographer, too. And he was an ardent Chelsea supporter, so I’m not sure what he would have made of your Arsenal top.”

Alessia gives me a puzzled look.

“They are rival London football teams.”

“Oh, no.” She laughs. “Where is your portrait?”

“I don’t have one. I haven’t been the earl for very long. My older brother, Kit. He was the real earl. But he never got around to having his portrait painted.”

“Your brother who died?”

“Yes. The title and everything that comes with it were his responsibility until a few weeks ago. I wasn’t meant for the role, for all…this.” I tilt my head toward the suits of armor. “Running this place—this museum—it’s all new to me.”

“Is that why you didn’t tell me?” Alessia asks.

“It’s one of the reasons. I think part of me is in denial. All this, and the other estates, it’s a lot of responsibility, and I’ve not been trained for it.”

Whereas Kit was….

This conversation is getting too deep and too close to home. I continue with a slight smile. “I’m very lucky. I’ve never really had to work before, and now all this is mine. And I have to maintain it for the next generation. It’s my duty.” I give her an apologetic shrug. “This is who I am. And now you know. And I’m glad you’ve decided to stay.”

“My lord?” Danny calls up from below.

* * *

Maxim’s shoulders sag a little. Alessia senses that he wants to be left alone. “Yes, Danny?” he answers.

“The doctor is here to see Alessia.”

Maxim turns an anxious gaze to her. “Doctor?”

“I’m okay,” Alessia says, hesitantly.

He frowns. “Send her up to the blue room.”

“It’s not Dr. Carter, it’s Dr. Conway, sir. I’ll send him up right away, my lord.”

“Thank you,” Maxim calls down to Danny, and he takes Alessia’s hand. “What did that bastard do to you?”

Alessia can’t look him in the eye. She feels ashamed, ashamed that she’s brought this horror into Maxim’s life. “He kicked me,” she whispers. “Danny wanted the doctor to see this.” She lifts the side of her Arsenal shirt to reveal a vivid red mark that’s the size of a woman’s fist.

“Fuck.” Maxim’s expression hardens, his mouth pressing into a thin line. “I should have killed that scum,” he hisses. He takes her hand, and they walk back to the blue room, where an elderly man with a large leather bag is waiting. Alessia is surprised to see that the clothes she’d left on the bed and the floor have been tidied away.

“Dr. Conway. It’s been a while.” Maxim shakes hands with him. The doctor has wild white hair, a wispy mustache, and a beard to match. His keen blue eyes are the same color as his crooked bow tie. “Have we brought you out of retirement?”

“My lord, you have. But only for today. Dr. Carter is on holiday. It’s good to see you looking so well.” He places a hand on Maxim’s shoulder, and a look passes between them.

“And you, Doctor,” Maxim answers, his voice gruff, and Alessia suspects the doctor is checking on Maxim’s well-being following the death of his brother.

“How’s your mother?”

“The same.” Maxim’s lips quirk up.

Dr. Conway’s laugh is deep and gravelly. He turns his attention to Alessia, who tightens her hold on Maxim’s hand. “Good day, my dear. Ernest Conway at your service.” He gives her a little bow.

“Dr. Conway, this is my girlfriend, Alessia Demachi.”

Maxim looks at her, his shining eyes full of pride. As he turns back to the doctor, his expression hardens. “She’s been assaulted and was kicked in the side by someone who is now in police custody. Miss Campbell thought it best that a doctor examine her.”

Miss Campbell?

“Danny,” he answers her unspoken question. He gives her hand a quick squeeze. “I’ll leave you to it,” he adds.

“No. Please don’t go,” Alessia blurts out. She does not want to be alone with this strange man.

Maxim nods in understanding. “Of course, if you’d like me to stay.” He sits down in a small blue armchair, stretching out his long legs. Reassured, Alessia turns her attention to the doctor. His expression is serious. “Assaulted?”

Alessia nods and feels her face flush with mortification.

“Would you like me to take a look?” Dr. Conway asks.

“Okay.”

“Please sit.”

The doctor is kind and patient. He runs through several questions before he asks her to lift her shirt, and keeps up a steady stream of chatter while he examines her. His kind manner helps her relax, and she learns that he brought Maxim and his siblings into the world. Alessia glances at Maxim, who gives her a comforting smile.

Her heart expands.

Mister Maxim loves her.

She smiles back at him.

And he grins.

The doctor prods Alessia around her stomach and ribs, and the spell between her and Maxim is broken. She winces at Dr. Conway’s touch.

“There’s no permanent damage. And you’re lucky not to have any cracked ribs. Just take it easy. And try some ibuprofen if it’s painful. Miss Campbell will have some.” Dr. Conway gives her a gentle pat on her arm. “You’ll live,” he says.

“Thank you,” Alessia says.

“I should just take a quick photograph of the bruise. The police might need it for their records.”

“What?” Alessia’s eyes widen.

“Good idea,” says Maxim.

“Lord Trevethick, would you mind?” He hands Maxim his phone. “Just the bruise.”

“Darling, I’ll only photograph the bruise. Nothing else.”

She nods and lifts her shirt once more, and Maxim takes a few quick snaps.

“Done.” He hands the phone back to the old man.

“Thank you,” Dr. Conway replies.

With a look of relief, Maxim says, “I’ll show you out, Doctor.”

Alessia quickly rises to her feet and takes Maxim’s hand. He smiles down at her and laces his fingers through hers. “We’ll both see you out.” Maxim gestures to the door, and they follow Dr. Conway into the corridor.

* * *

They watch as the doctor drives off in his old car. Maxim has his arm around Alessia’s shoulders, and she’s nestled into his side. It feels…natural. They are standing in the wide hallway at the front of the house. “You know, you can hold me, too,” Maxim says, his tone warm and encouraging. Shyly she snakes an arm around his waist. He grins. “See how well we fit together?” And he kisses the top of her head. “I’ll give you the tour later. Right now I want to show you something.” They turn around, but Alessia stops when she notices the large sculpture above the stone fireplace that dominates the hall. It’s the shield that Maxim has tattooed on his biceps, but it’s more decorative. There are two stags on each side, a knight’s helmet above it, and above that, in a swirl of yellow and black, a small coronet bearing a lion. Beneath the shield there’s a scrolled caption: FIDES VIGILANTIA.

“My family’s coat of arms,” Maxim explains.

“And on your arm.” She asks, “What do the words mean?”