To Dance until Dawn (Girls Who Dare Book 12)

by Emma V. Leech

  Arriving at the hotel, however, did not give Max the respite he’d longed for, and instead produced another frustrating situation, albeit of a different nature. The Hotel du France was ancient and higgledy-piggledy, and surprisingly busy. Which meant, although a lovely room was made available at once for the Earl of Ellisborough, there was only a bedroom, no suite of rooms, and nowhere for Max to escape to. Not that he wanted to escape… which was the reason for his growing frustration.

  “Oh, how charming it is.”

  Phoebe sounded delighted by the pretty room, with its huge bed and thick rugs. The floor pitched violently at one side, and the ceiling was low and thick, with hefty beams under which Max was forced to duck in order not to knock his brains out. In fact, he could not stand up straight in any part of the room. Phoebe turned and looked at Max as he tipped the servants who’d brought their baggage up, and closed the door behind them. She watched them go and let out a nervous breath of laughter.

  “Alone at last,” she said faintly.

  “Phoebe,” he said, not wanting her to be afraid of him. “You’re safe with me, love. I’d never… never….”

  Phoebe smiled at him, an affectionate look of amusement in her eyes. “I know that, Max.”

  Max frowned, a little indignant at her confident tone. “What do you mean by that?”

  Phoebe sat down on the bed and removed the outrageous hat, casting it aside before she eased off her shoes with a sigh of pleasure.

  “I mean that you are a gentleman to your bones. You’d never dream of—”

  “Of running away to France with a young woman I wasn’t married to?” he suggested dryly.

  Phoebe looked up, a frown pleating the space between her eyebrows. “Oh, but, Max, that was entirely my fault. You’d never do something so… so reckless if not for me. I know how much trouble I’ve brought you and I am sorry for it.”

  “I’m not.”

  She blinked, looking rather surprised. “You’re not?”

  Max sat down, having grown tired of standing with his head crooked to one side.

  “No,” he said, deciding he’d had just about enough of being thought entirely sensible and safe to be alone with. “Come here, please.”

  Phoebe tensed a little, giving him a doubtful glance, as aware as he of the tension in his voice, of the intensity of the demand.

  “Why?”

  “Because I wish to continue our conversation.”

  “Oh.” Phoebe gave him a considering look and licked her lips, and his entire body grew taut. “C-Can’t you do it from over there?”

  “No. You’re too far away.”

  “Oh.”

  “Unless you prefer to stay all the way over there, but then I can’t kiss you.”

  Colour rose on her skin like a sunrise, and Max ached with longing. He’d meant what he’d said. She was safe with him, but he didn’t want her to feel too safe. She was safe because he was a gentleman, because he would not take that which was not freely given, not because he didn’t want her. Yet he wanted her to feel she was alone in a room with a man who wished to be her lover, whom she wanted to be her lover, so no, not safe at all.

  She slipped to the floor with a soft rustle of skirts and crossed the room, hesitating close to where he sat. Max held out his hand and she took it, curling her fingers around his.

  “You said it was a nice shock,” he said, pulling her closer.

  Phoebe nodded, her breath coming fast.

  “Then I give you fair warning, love.”

  He reached for her, pulling her down onto his lap with a squeal and a flurry of skirts. They billowed around him as she sat down, her lovely behind nestled neatly in his lap.

  “Max!” she exclaimed, looking at him with wide eyes.

  “What, love?”

  “Well, I… I just didn’t expect….”

  “Do you want to get up again?”

  She stared at him and shook her head and Max grinned.

  “You needn’t look so smug,” she retorted, though laughter glimmered in her eyes.

  “Oh, need I not? After I spent the entire afternoon listening to you and Kline babble merrily about everything under the sun, when all I wanted was to have you to myself.”

  A smile curved over her lush mouth as she regarded him. “Were you jealous, Max?”

  “Of course I was jealous,” he grumbled. “I’ve been jealous of every man whose had your attention for bloody months, if you must know. I… I was beginning to despair.”

  He could not read her expression, but it seemed thoughtful, as though she was only now seeing him for the first time. Perhaps she was, he realised.

  “I’ve been very foolish,” she said softly. “And I truly don’t understand why… why I didn’t…. Oh, Max, please do kiss me.”

  Max certainly did not need asking a second time and pressed his lips to hers. Oh God, he had waited so long and wanted this so badly, and he was not disappointed. Her lips were soft and sweet and so… so… perfect. He drew back, not wanting to overwhelm her or frighten her and forcefully aware that he was trembling. Her eyes fluttered open, dark with desire, soft and hazy, and Max wanted to whoop with triumph, with joy, with such dizzying relief that he could hardly breathe. She touched her fingers to her lips, staring at him in wonder.

  “Oh, Max,” she said, his name a breathy sound that made his whole body tingle with anticipation. “Do that again.”

  And then she threw her arms about his neck and kissed him, hard, wriggling in his lap to get closer.

  For a moment, Max was too stunned to react at all, until he noticed her nimble fingers undoing the buttons on his waistcoat. He broke the kiss for long enough to say her name before her lips were on his again.

  “Phoe… Phoebe…love….”

  It was impossible. She was like quicksilver in his arms. He groaned as she moved and before he knew what had happened she was straddling his lap, tugging at his cravat.

  “Phoebe, stop, stop!”

  She stilled, breathing hard and staring down at him in consternation.

  “Stop?” she repeated, looking bewildered. “Whatever for?”

  Max gave a slightly hysterical bark of laughter. “Love, we’re not married.”

  “Oh,” she said, and then a flush of colour so intense coloured her pale skin he wondered what on earth… but before he could ask, she had scrambled from his lap. “M-Max,” she began, looking utterly mortified. “I do beg your pardon. I… I just assumed that… that you wished to marry me. I….”

  Her voice quavered and she span around with a sob, giving him her back.

  Good God. Did she actually think he didn’t want to marry her? Was she insane?

  “Phoebe!” he said, leaping to his feet. “Christ!”

  Pain lanced through his head as he cracked it on one of the low beams.

  “Max!” Phoebe ran to him, her lovely eyes filled with tears, her face the picture of concern. “Oh, Max, you poor dear. Oh, do sit down again. I’ll fetch a cold cloth and—”

  Before she could disappear and do anything of the sort, Max sat down again, tugging her with him once again.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed as she sat heavily and her skirts billowed up. “I do wish you’d stop doing that.”

  “Do you?” he growled, cupping her cheek and turning her face to look at him.

  “N-No, not really,” she admitted sheepishly.

  Max laughed. “Phoebe, you silly goose. How could you think for a moment that I don’t wish to marry you? It’s all I’ve dreamed of since…. God, since forever, it seems. Don’t you know I’m desperately, hopelessly in love with you?”

  She smiled at him, such a smile he was certain his heart trembled.

  “Truly?”

  “Truly, madly, with all my heart.”

  She blinked at him, and then frowned. “Well, then why did you make me stop kissing you?” she demanded, a little indignantly. “Really, Max. It’s no wonder I was confused. Usually if a fellow wants to speak of marriage, kissing is
all he can think of.”

  Max felt a surge of jealousy so fierce it knocked good sense out of the window.

  “And what fellows might they be?” he demanded.

  Phoebe bit her lip and gave him a sideways glance.

  “You really are jealous,” she murmured, as though this was a revelation.

  Max threw his head back against the chair and closed his eyes with a groan. “I am. I am. God forgive me.”

  She moved in his lap and he held very still as desire hummed through him. Her soft hands stroked his face, his neck and he opened his eyes again to see Phoebe staring down at him.

  “You’ve not actually asked me, Max. To marry you, I mean.”

  He smiled at her. “There never seems to be a moment when I can love, and… well, to be honest, I wasn’t sure you wanted me to ask you properly. I wasn’t sure you wanted me to ask at all.”

  “I do want you to.”

  “And when I do, what will your answer be?”

  She gave a little snort and pressed a kiss to his forehead and then his nose, and then his mouth, softer, lingering, and he would have held her there if he didn’t want to hear the answer so badly.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, please.”

  “Thank God,” he said, pulling her closer.

  ***

  Kissing Max was quite a shocking experience. Any kisses she’d had before now had been… well, pleasant enough, but unrewarding. Those kisses had been soft and wet and underwhelming.

  Kissing Max was like… like simmering over a low fire, except the fire seemed to burn hotter and hotter with every touch of his lips until she was all aflame, her insides molten and liquid and her flesh ablaze, burning with the need for him to touch her. His tongue sought and gained entry and slid alongside hers, tangling and stroking whilst his big hands stroked too, up and down her spine. She was quivering with need, with the desire for more. Thanks to Mama and Helena, she was far from ignorant of what passed between men and women, but it had never made such perfect sense to her before now. At least, she’d not quite understood how people got themselves tangled into such terrible scandals, when if they’d just stopped….

  Except the idea of stopping was impossible, and now it all became blindingly clear.

  She wanted Max, wanted to feel his skin upon hers, to feel the weight of his large body pressing her down. An ache had begun inside her, both pleasant and tormenting, a clamouring need for him, a hollow, empty sensation that begged for completion, for him to complete her—to complete them.

  “Max, oh, Max,” she whimpered, tugging her skirts out of the way and climbing over him, straddling his legs.

  “Phoebe, darling, wait… don’t… Oh, God!”

  Phoebe gasped as she sat down and discovered just how perfectly the two of them could fit together as a jolt of pure pleasure lanced through her. Though she’d trapped a layer of petticoats beneath her on top of all his clothes, she could feel quite clearly the evidence of his desire, just where she needed to feel it.

  She stared at him with a mixture of delight and shock.

  “Good heavens, Max.”

  “Don’t move,” he commanded her, his voice sounding odd and rather strangled.

  Though her ears heard the words, they did not seem to connect to her brain and Phoebe was running all on instinct now, her instinct being to press closer.

  Max groaned, his hands fastening on her hips and holding her still.

  “Don’t. Move.” He sounded rather terse now.

  “B-But I want to,” Phoebe protested. “Don’t you want me to?”

  “Holy God, yes!” he exclaimed. “But we’re not wed yet and I’m damned if I will face your father with you unmarried and… and debauched!”

  “Oh, Max,” Phoebe said, smiling at him and sighing. “You are funny.”

  “Hilarious,” he muttered, sliding her from his lap as he stood and cracked his head on the beam for a second time. “Damnation!”

  “Oh, good heavens! Max, you really must come and lie down on the bed. I think you will give yourself a concussion if you do that again.”

  She watched him cautiously as he clutched at his head. He took a deep breath and she had the strong sense he was counting to ten, or possibly a thousand.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Perfectly.”

  There was a taut silence.

  “I really do think—”

  “Phoebe, if you ask me to go to bed with you again, I shan’t be responsible for the consequences.”

  Phoebe pondered this statement.

  “Oh, don’t you dare,” he said, though he was laughing now.

  “Well,” she said, moving closer to reach for his hand. “You ought not dare me. You know that, don’t you?”

  Max made an amused sound, and she watched as he reached into his pocket and withdrew a slip of paper. It was old and crumpled and the writing very faded. He handed it to her.

  “What’s this? Do something out of character,” she read aloud. “Max?”

  “It’s a dare from that hat.”

  “The hat? Oh! You took one?” Phoebe had to admit she was shocked that he would do such a thing.

  He nodded, a slightly cautious look in his eyes. “You said I’d never do such a thing and… and I was rather hurt you thought me such a hen-hearted fellow.”

  “So you took a dare,” she said softly, her heart aching as she realised just how often she must have hurt him with her indifference. The writing blurred and she tucked it carefully back in his pocket. “That’s why you came.”

  “Only in part,” he said. “I… I just wanted you to notice me, Phoebe. I didn’t care what I had to do to achieve that.”

  Phoebe blinked hard. “I’m sorry for… for not….”

  He shook his head and pressed a finger to her lips. “Don’t be.”

  She took his hand away and put it to her cheek, kissing the palm tenderly.

  “I’ve noticed you now,” she said, a little mischievously.

  “It’s a miracle,” he replied, grinning. “And I suspect I have a concussion, and it’s likely you’re going to kill me before this is over, but I don’t care. Only, I do care that I treat you right, love. I’ve waited this long….”

  Phoebe frowned, rather miffed by this attitude. They would be married, after all. Just not today.

  He noted her frown and touched his hand to her chin, raising her face to his and brushing a tender kiss over her mouth. Phoebe sighed as he released her.

  “You have no idea how my poor ego is soothed by your displeasure, Miss Barrington,” he murmured. “Though, we could solve both of our problems, and get married at once.”

  For a moment, Phoebe’s heart leapt at the idea. They could marry in France and….

  She shook her head.

  “I can’t,” she said sadly. “I wish I could, but…. No, Max. I must be married in the Chapel at Dern, if… if you don’t mind very much. Papa and Mama would be so disappointed. Oh, and my brothers, and Pippin and—”

  “It’s all right,” he said, laughing. “I’ll wait. I’ll wait as long as you wish, but I can’t pretend I won’t be impatient to make you my own.”

  Warmth suffused her, the pleasure she took from his words making her sigh happily.

  “You are rather wonderful, aren’t you?”

  Max rolled his eyes. “I don’t like to say I told you so.”

  Phoebe laughed and then shrieked as he swept her up into his arms.

  “Mind your head!” she cried, and he ducked just in time to avoid another beam.

  Placing her carefully on the bed, he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to her mouth. “I’ll have a maid sent up to help ready you for bed.”

  “Oh, but where are you going?” she protested.

  “For a walk,” he said ruefully. “A very, very long walk.”

  Chapter 13

  Dear diary,

  I do solemnly swear that if my brother and his blasted friend steal my diary again, I shall have no choice b
ut to seek vengeance. They had better understand that my wrath is a terrible thing and best avoided.

  Cassius Cadogan—you have been warned!

  ―Excerpt of an entry by Lady Elizabeth Adolphus, to her diary.

  10th April 1827. Montreuil sur Mer, Pas-de-Calais, France.

  Despite having prepared himself for the onslaught—well understanding Phoebe’s warning that she’d chosen the most respectable of outfits the previous morning—Max still gaped like a fool when she came down to breakfast.

  “Holy Mother,” Viscount Kline said in a breathless tone of wonder for which Max rather wanted to kick him.

  He might have, if he’d been able to tear his eyes from Phoebe. As before, the rest of the hotel seemed similarly afflicted. She was coming down the stairs, this time dressed in a fanciful creation of bright cobalt blue with a green trim that put him in mind of Mediterranean seas and parrots. It was the mad hat and the overabundance of feathers that did it, he was sure. By the time she’d reached the bottom, three young dandies had spied her and were waiting for her to touch her dainty foot to the floor.

  Max braced for impact.

  The first fool rushed up to her brandishing a lace handkerchief and, though Max could neither understand nor hear what was said, he felt certain the fellow was pretending he’d found it and was asking if it was hers. Phoebe gave the young man a curious look, as aware as Max was that the handkerchief belonged to the young man himself. This ploy, having given the fellow the means by which to speak with her, was quickly taken up by the other two, and now three lace hankies were being brandished in her face.

  Max watched with amusement as Phoebe patiently produced her own, smiled, and sashayed past them. The three young men immediately fell to bickering, no doubt about which one messed up their perfectly sound plan and spoiled his chances.