Page 22 of The Legionary Seduction (Roman Heirs #2)
A fter Max left, Volusia requested dinner for her and Lucius to be brought to her room. She didn’t want to see her stepfather after how he had treated Max. Instead, she ate with Lucius, listening to him spout facts about the reigns of ancient kings and the battles they’d fought. He was such an intelligent boy, with a vast ability to understand and retain information from his tutors’ lessons and the books he devoured. He had a particular aptitude for numbers, and loved nothing more than to work out complicated sums on his abacus. Great things awaited him, if she could give him the right opportunities.
Once they finished eating, she put Lucius to bed and returned to her room. She sat at her dressing table, painstakingly removing the threads that secured her hairstyle. She could have summoned a maid to do it, but without Iris she preferred to be alone.
A knock disturbed her as she brushed out her hair. “Who is it?”
A throat cleared. “Your father.”
Volusia set down her brush. Usually, when Rufus wanted to see someone, they were summoned to him—even his wife and stepdaughter. “Come in.”
The door swung open, and Rufus entered, hands clasped before him. “Your absence at dinner impressed upon me that I may have upset you earlier. Your mother suggested I may owe you an apology.”
Volusia turned toward him but didn’t rise from her chair. “You were extremely rude to Max.”
Rufus’s lips tightened. “He is insolent and coarse.”
“He saved my life. Even if he hadn’t, you had no right to try to dictate whom I may or may not speak to. I’m my own woman now, Father.” Thanks to Avitus’s will, she was emancipated from guardianship and in control of his entire estate, to keep in trust for Lucius until he came of age.
“Yes,” he admitted. “But might I still have the privilege of advising you?”
“Let me guess. You want me never to speak to Max again and pretend he doesn’t exist.” Rufus would never see the loyal, brave, fearless man Max had become. It pained her for Max to be so misunderstood.
Rufus fixed her with a steady gaze. “I would be pleased if you came to that decision, I won’t lie. Setting aside my vehement dislike, I know you were fond of him once. And now, after he has so gallantly saved your life, and with the time that you spent together on the road, it would not surprise me if that fondness had resurfaced.” He watched her face carefully.
Volusia suddenly found the carvings on her ivory comb fascinating. She said nothing. Anything she could say would only confirm his suspicions.
“And now that you are your own woman, as you say, you might think there can be no harm in pursuing that fondness,” he continued. “I certainly can’t stop you, so I wish only to caution you against destroying Lucius’s prospects and throwing your life away.”
Her throat grew tight. “You think it would be throwing my life away to spend it with Max?”
“He is a disgraced solider without influence or prospects. He can do nothing for you, or for our family.”
To hear it said so plainly made her chest ache. Max was not right for her. But that didn’t stop her from wanting him so much it hurt. Even today, she’d been only a breath away from letting him take her in the alley, an arm’s length from her family’s house. Only the most tenuous grasp on propriety had saved her.
She could write off their couplings on the journey as a need for comfort. Now that she was back in Rome, back to her real life, she had to put Max behind her.
She gave a shaky nod. “I understand.”
His gaze softened. “Good. I’ll leave you to rest.” He turned for the door, then hesitated. He crossed the room to her, brushed a soft kiss onto her forehead. She closed her eyes. Max had kissed her forehead today, too, and the memory of it overwhelmed her for a moment. When she opened her eyes, Rufus was gone.
In the morning, Volusia found papyrus and a pen, and drafted a letter. She had taken Max’s advice to heart, and planned to go over her stepfather’s head to reach out to the consuls directly. She had only a passing acquaintance with one of the two consuls, Titus Annius Ligur. The other consul, Aulus Licinius Hortensius, had been a contender for her hand before she’d married Avitus. She recalled him as a kind, patient man with a shrewd mind. He’d been quite taken with her back then, and she hoped she could use that old fondness to her advantage.
Rufus would be furious if he found out what she’d done. Depending on how far word spread, it had the potential to damage his plans to campaign for reelection. Every politician was an army veteran, and a candidate’s daughter accusing a high-ranking commander of murder and corruption would not be taken kindly. But she would deal with him at the appropriate time. For now, she had to make her voice heard.
Volusia hoped the papyrus would show the seriousness of her words, rather than using an everyday wax tablet. She opened the letter with some niceties, then laid out the events that had taken place in Narbo and on the road to Rome. She closed with a request for an audience to discuss further and determine the correct actions. She sealed the letter with a glob of wax, and gave it to a trusted messenger with instructions to deliver it into Hortensius’s hands only. Writing everything out so plainly was a risk, but it was better to give him all the information she had and let him think about it, rather than chance him cutting her off or her forgetting something crucial when they spoke. Now, she had only to wait for a response.