Having scraped her bowl clean for a second time, Phoebe let out a breath and leaned forward, trying to ease the pressure of her corset from squeezing her stomach too fiercely. Perhaps that second helping hadn’t been a good idea.
“It was worth it.”
Phoebe looked to her left to find Ellisborough’s amused gaze upon her.
“What was?”
“The roulade. I believe it was worth the discomfort you’re in. I’ll bet that corset is laced too tightly to accommodate it, though.”
Phoebe blushed.
“Gentlemen do not refer to a lady’s undergarments,” she said, sounding uncharacteristically prim, but there was something about Max that always made her feel like a naughty child.
He was effortlessly sophisticated, always said the right thing—except to her—and was universally adored. Characteristics guaranteed to make her appear like an absolute hoyden—which she was—but still. Even Papa liked and admired him. It was nauseating, and she acknowledged the sensation of being out of sorts. Max made her cross and jittery, and she did not understand why that was.
The earl chuckled beside her. “And ladies don’t hike up their skirts and climb into parties via a window, but….”
“That was an accident,” she hissed, irritated with him for bringing the subject up again. “I just went out for a breath of fresh air and some fool locked the door behind me.”
“You went out with Beecham,” he said, a disapproving note slipping into his voice.
“For some air,” she insisted, annoyed now. She glanced up at him despite her better judgement and huffed at the pained expression of patent disbelief he returned. “Well, I trusted him, which I agree—with hindsight—was idiotic of me, but I thought he was my friend. I didn’t know he would go all love-struck and stupid the moment he got me alone, nor that he would be so ungentlemanly as not to take no for an answer. I had thought better of him than that.”
“So had I,” Max said darkly. “Though he’ll not make such a mistake again, I’ll wager.”
Phoebe smothered a grin, remembering how Mr Beecham had curled in on himself with a cry of agony as she’d introduced her knee to his soft parts with enthusiasm. Max still did not look happy about it and, at the time, she’d struggled to stop him challenging Beecham to meet him at dawn. His anger had rather shocked her. Max never got angry.
“I was foolish,” she said, hoping to placate him. “But I dealt with him quite well on my own. I just… I just wasn’t expecting it of him.”
Max shook his head at her, incredulity shining in his dark eyes. “I do not understand why. All men leave their brains behind and turn into mindless idiots when they get near you. Is it your perfume, I wonder? Do you drug them with Eau de Opium?”
Phoebe batted her eyelashes at him.
“No, it’s my winning personality,” she said in a breathless singsong voice.
His lips twitched. “Hmmm. Well, whatever it was, you were lucky I noticed and let you in again, or you’d be married to the fool by now.”
Phoebe grimaced, still wondering how it was that Max had noticed her predicament. “I would not. I’d rather be ruined.”
“Keep on with pranks like those and you will be,” he said mildly.
With difficulty, she repressed the urge to stick her tongue out at him. She might not be a well-behaved young lady, but she was not a child. The wretched fellow seemed to insist on rescuing her, even on the occasions when she didn’t need it. He always seemed to be witness to her most embarrassing moments, forcing her to take whatever hand he offered to haul her out of difficulty. So, yes, sometimes he rescued her when she needed rescuing, too. She looked around as he chuckled.
“What?” she asked. Did she have chocolate on her chin?
“I was just wondering if you wanted to stick your tongue out at me or stab me with your fork. Going on your expression, it could be either.”
Phoebe rolled her eyes at him.
“Ah, yes,” he murmured. “That was my third option.”
***
The next morning, Phoebe led the children on a treasure hunt she had laid out around the garden. The prize was a lovely picture book with dragons and knights and tales of derring-do, and she was looking forward to reading to them later. It was early yet and most of the adults still abed, though Phoebe thought this quite the nicest time of the day. Their breath blew steamy clouds on the frigid air, the sunlight sparkling on a landscape white with hoar frost as the frozen grass crunched under their boots.
“Where’s the next clue?” her eight-year-old brother Thomas demanded, tugging at her sleeve. His cheeks were flushed with cold, his blue eyes bright with excitement.
“Pip has it,” she said, sending him merrily chasing after his big brother, who was striding ahead with Harriet and Jasper’s son, Cassius.
Cassius and Pip were both eleven years old, and the closest of friends. Bonnie’s twin girls, Elspeth and Greer, were hurrying behind them, determined the boys should not get to the next clue first. Their little sister, Alana, had missed the fun, as had Helena’s youngest daughter, Evie, both having been too sleepy to be roused from bed. The elder girl, Florence, had been striding beside Phoebe, holding her hand, but now ran after the rest of the children, determined not to be left out.
“Good morning.”
Phoebe turned, squinting into the sunshine to see Max striding towards her.
“What are you doing up?” she asked, surprised. “I thought fashionable people were always abed until noon.”
“I’m relieved to discover you believe me fashionable,” he replied. “And whilst I admit I sometimes I allow my indolent nature to get the better of me, I am not blind to the allure of a lovely winter’s morning.”
“That’s nice. Well, if you want someone to talk to, Papa is likely at breakfast now. Oh, Pip, do help Greer, she’s slipped on the ice. Greer… Greer, darling, are you hurt?”
***
Lucian sighed as he saw Phoebe rush off to see to Greer, leaving Max alone without a backwards glance. Matilda had hopes of Max and Phoebe making a match, but she was a romantic soul and always wanted everyone to be perfectly happy. She believed Max was just the kind of steadying influence that Phoebe needed, someone who would keep her safe whilst allowing her rather wild spirit to remain free. Lucian agreed and would approve the match happily, only Phoebe simply did not see the man as anything other than a family friend. Lucian had made this point to Matilda, and it was why he now found himself up at some ungodly hour of the morning. He smiled, remembering his wife and the contented tangle of warm limbs he had left sated in his bed. If not for her insistence, he’d still be there, but she had been adamant that he have a word with Max and give him some advice. How the devil he was supposed to do that, he wasn’t certain, nor did he have a clue what advice to give.
“Max.” Lucian hailed him, but the fellow did not turn, his gaze trained on the children and Phoebe as she led them off into the distance, like some beautiful pied piper. “Max!”
That time he was heard, and Max raised a hand in greeting.
“Have you eaten?” Lucian asked, rubbing his gloved hands together try to get the circulation back to his fingers.
“Not yet.”
“Thank God. Come inside out of this perishing cold.”
Max hesitated, watching Phoebe disappear into the woodland.
“I believe that is the last clue they’re after,” Lucian said, his tone dry. “They’ll descend on the breakfast parlour with the appetites of ravening beasts within the half hour, I promise you.”
There was a soft huff of laughter as Max turned back to him. “Ah, do you think I’ll have more appeal at the breakfast table?”
“Well, if you look like a rasher of bacon, you’ll certainly grab her attention.”
Max returned a rueful smile. “I’m almost desperate enough to try it.”
Lucian laughed as he was supposed to, but heard the bleak edge to the words, light-hearted though they were.
“
She has turned down ten marriage proposals to date, Max. Believe me, you are not alone.” He hesitated as they fell into step, retracing the path back to the house. “Do you still mean to offer for her?”
There was a long, heavy silence before Max answered.
“No.”
Lucian looked at him, and Max shrugged.
“She doesn’t know I exist, at least not as a suitor. I’ve no wish to make her uncomfortable and, to be honest, I’m not certain my ego could stand the blow of her astonishment at being asked. No. The truth is, I’m too old for her. We both know it.”
“You’re eight and twenty,” Lucian retorted, laughing. “And believe me, I’m in no hurry to see her married off. If you were to give her time—”
“Of course I would,” Max replied at once. “I’d wait as long as she wished. Only I don’t think it will make the slightest difference. I’m simply not what she is looking for. Sooner or later she’ll fall head over ears for some handsome young poet, or an artist, and that’s how it should be. I’m far too sensible a catch to appeal to her adventurous spirit.”
Lucian glowered at the idea and Max laughed.
“You only approve of me begrudgingly, Lucian. No one will ever be good enough for her.”
“Not true. It’s not the least bit begrudging. It’s only that I don’t want to see her go too quickly. You are a good man, a kind one, and one whose values are aligned with my own. You’d move heaven and earth to make her happy and, what’s more, you have seen enough of life to understand what is important and what is not, and to recognise when you have something precious in your hands.”
“Oh, I recognise it,” Max replied, his tone wistful. “But it is far from in my grasp. I may as well be staring at the moon.”
Lucian frowned, but could add nothing further. He was not about to push Phoebe into a marriage she did not want. Her happiness was the only thing he had ever desired, but he did fear her reckless nature would lead her down a path there was no coming back from, and the idea made his chest tight with worry. A man like Max would protect her, keep her safe, and Lucian knew that, above all, he’d do anything to make her happy.
It was painful to see the way the fellow’s eyes lit up whenever Phoebe came into the room, but there was nothing to be done about it. Ultimately, Phoebe would make her choice, and all they could do was pray she would be happy with it.
***
Max watched as Phoebe organised everyone into playing parlour games. The children were rummaging through drawers, trying to find enough counters to play with. God, but she was lovely. Dressed in a pale blue silk gown that hugged her lithe figure, he was hard pressed to look anywhere else. He wasn’t entirely certain what she’d done to her hair tonight. It was some mad complication of braids and ringlets, and part of it had somehow even been wrangled into a bow. It was utterly bizarre, though Max found a great deal about lady’s fashion bizarre, and yet somehow she made it appear perfectly charming. To him, she was a breath of fresh air in a life that had been far too stultifying.
Max’s father had died when he was a young man, leaving his estate close to ruins and his family in jeopardy. Max had done his duty, he’d worked all hours to save what he could, and he’d married well at the tender age of twenty. The same age that Phoebe was now. It had not been a happy marriage, though he’d tried his best. When his wife had died, three years later, along with the child she’d been trying to bring into the world, he’d been numb with too many emotions, chief among them guilt at having failed on all counts. His wife had been a stranger to him, despite his best efforts, and he’d lost both her and the son he’d hoped for. So, he had buried himself in the business of bringing the estate back to what it had once been. Now everything was flourishing once more and, with good management in place, it needed less of his attention than it had. An estate must have an heir, though, and so he had returned to society, with the notion that he might find a woman he could be friends with, one who would be a companion to him as well as a mother to their children, if they were to be so blessed. He had not been so foolish to consider that he would fall in love.
Though he had become friends with Lucian over five years ago, through St Clair, and often spent time at Dern, he had never considered Phoebe as anything other than Lucian and Matilda’s daughter. Then, quite by chance, he had seen her again, only to discover the rather gauche young woman he’d last seen had blossomed into something… quite spectacular.
He’d not been able to keep away since.
She had stolen his breath and his heart, and he could do nothing but curse his own stupidity, for she would never dream of considering him a suitor. As far as Phoebe was concerned, he was old and dull, and she never turned her gaze his way. It did not matter that he was one of the most eligible bachelors on the marriage mart. It did not matter that he was besieged with female admirers, many of whom were her friends, all wishing to capture an earl for a husband. Not to mention those beautiful widows, wanting a sophisticated lover to amuse them, who cast their lures his way. Phoebe simply did not notice. He was her father’s friend, and he had unwittingly got himself lumped in with those far older than he. It was the grey hair, he reflected bitterly. Though he’d fared better than his father, who had been completely grey by his mid-twenties, the scattering of that colour at his temples made him look distinguished, and gave him the appearance of more seniority than was his due. He had even considered dyeing it before telling himself not to be such a blasted fool. He’d had one wife who could barely tolerate the sight of him, and he’d not have another. With time, he would get over this ridiculous infatuation and find someone who at least enjoyed his company. It wasn’t too much to ask, after all. Many women did. That he felt compelled to remind himself of the fact, despite plenty of evidence, only showed how far he had fallen.
“What’s this?” asked a small voice.
“Oh, do be careful, love,” Phoebe said, hurrying to the sideboard where little Evie was flourishing a battered-looking top hat. “That’s rather precious.”
“Oh, it’s our hat!” Bonnie Cadogan cried in delight. “You’ve still got it.”
“Of course,” Matilda said, laughing. “It’s an heirloom for our children.”
All of those gathered knew the story of the Peculiar Ladies, the intrepid band of female friends who had caused such a stir among the ton, more than a decade ago now. Phoebe rescued the hat before the children could dive into it and open all the paper slips, each one of which had a dare written upon it. According to the stories, those dares had been instrumental in cementing their friendships, and had played no small part in how they’d met their respective husbands.
“Oh, Max, do hold this for me, please,” Phoebe said, holding the hat out to him as she tried to untangle little Alana, who had discovered that one of the boys had tied the ribbons on her shoes together. The poor girl was sitting on the floor with a face like thunder that promised retribution to whichever boy had been foolish enough to do such a thing.
“Should I take a dare while I’m about it?” he asked, peering down into the hat at the dozens of slips of paper.
Phoebe laughed and looked over her shoulder with a quizzical expression. “Of course not. You’d never do it.”
Max winced. Well, there it was. Phoebe had been banned from taking a dare by Matilda, who was adamant that the girl needed no encouragement. Yet she believed him too hen-hearted, too dull to even consider it. He stared down into the hat, a heavy sensation of inevitability in his chest. Phoebe was not meant for him, and it was about time he resigned himself to that fact. A little burst of indignation and anger flared in his heart, even though he knew it was for the best. Whatever it was that possessed him, he did not know, but he looked around to see if he was being watched, and then tugged a slip of paper from the hat and stuffed it in his pocket.
Chapter 2
Dearest Phoebe,
I’m so disappointed your parents cannot attend my ball this year. It seems a pity that you be left out, however. Do come and stay
with us. I believe I may be able to persuade your father that I am a suitable chaperone.
Eliza, Lottie, and Jules will be thrilled to see you too.
―Excerpt of a letter to Miss Phoebe Barrington from Her Grace, The Duchess of Bedwin.
5th March 1827. Beverwyck, London.
Phoebe gasped and leaned back against the wall of the ballroom, fanning herself vigorously. Prue’s balls were always well attended, but this one was an absolute crush. She had danced every dance, her feet hurt, and she was far too hot. With regret, she looked down at her dance card to see she had given the next one to Mr Jameson. He was a big, jovial man, and she liked him very much, but he was a terrible dancer and would likely stomp all over her toes. She winced at the idea.
“Is it so bad?”
Looking up she discovered a face she’d not seen before. He was handsome—and he knew it—and he was smiling at her. He was tall, blond, and supremely elegant, his blue eyes bright and just a little wicked.
“Is what so bad?” she asked, aware she ought not speak to the fellow. They’d not been introduced. Another of those stupid rules she so despised.
If someone seemed interesting, why not talk to them? But no, you had to find someone else who knew them, and you, and would vouch for you both before they would deign to introduce one to the other. As if they had exchanged an unwritten contract guaranteeing the good behaviour of all parties. Almost as if the giving of your own name had some mystical power. It was ridiculous.
To Dance until Dawn (Girls Who Dare Book 12) Page 2