To Dance until Dawn (Girls Who Dare Book 12)

by Emma V. Leech

  Never again, though. Never again would he suffer years of loneliness because of vows that tied him to a woman who could not bear to have him touch her, who found the act of lovemaking not only distasteful but abhorrent. Phoebe moved closer to him, seeking more, pressing herself against him, hiding nothing of her desire for him, wanting him so blatantly that he wondered how to keep a hold on the situation when he was mad with wanting her too. He did not, however, wish for an interruption from Jack, which would likely see him dead in a ditch if the old rogue believed he had laid hands on his princess.

  “Max,” she whimpered against his mouth. “Max, please….”

  He hushed her, kissing her deeper, crooning love words as his hand slid over the warm silk of her thigh and brushed the curls that marked the sweet centre of her.

  She gasped and he chuckled. “This is what you want, darling.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, clinging to his neck, her eyes drifting shut as he slid his fingers through the curls to the delicate skin beneath.

  It was his turn to gasp, to hold his breath against the tortured moan that built in his chest as he found what he sought, hot and slick with desire.

  “Oh, God,” he whispered, the words ragged with need. “I want to kiss you here, to put my mouth upon you and taste you.”

  For a moment, he wondered if he had gone too far, if even Phoebe had her limits. She was innocent, after all. She might believe herself otherwise, but he knew Montagu had guarded her as well as anyone could guard Phoebe…

  “Yes. Yes, please.”

  She was staring at him, her eyes dark, cheeks flushed, and Max laughed at his own foolishness, imagining he could shock Phoebe of all people.

  “Please, Max,” she whispered.

  Max swallowed, his mouth watering with the desire to do as she wished, but he could not, not here.

  “No,” he rasped. “Not enough time. We’ll be at the hotel in ten minutes, and I’m damned if I’ll rush such a thing.”

  “Oh, but….”

  “Hush,” he soothed her. “Let me touch you.”

  He shifted her across his lap to lean into the corner of the carriage, kissing her slow and deep while his fingers caressed the soft place between her thighs. His heart thudded too hard, too fast, his body aching with need, but he was focused on nothing but her pleasure. Max slid a finger inside her, his breath catching as hers hitched too.

  “Oh,” she said, her hands clutched in his hair, tugging his mouth back to hers as his questing finger slid deeper into her tight heat.

  For, a moment he imagined himself there, imagined the pleasure of it, slick and warm and welcoming, and the tide of desire almost drowned him. He fought against it, fought for control as he coaxed and tempted Phoebe into losing hers. Finally she gasped, her head tipping back, exposing the elegant line of her neck. Max leaned in, nipping at her tender throat gently, and she fractured in his arms. She trembled and gave a soft, shuddering cry that made his heart soar with happiness as she took the pleasure he gave her, without shame or apology. When she came back to herself, she stared at him with quiet delight, without a trace of regret.

  “How beautiful you are,” he said. “And how I love you.”

  “I love you too, Max.”

  Max stared at her, hardly daring to breathe, to believe she had said the words he had ached for. He knew Phoebe desired him, knew that she liked him—most of the time—and that had been more than he’d dared dream of. He’d hoped love would come, in time, but he had not expected….

  “Did you not know, Max?” she asked, a little shy now as he shook his head, too overwhelmed to speak. She chuckled and snuggled into him and he heard her smother a yawn. “Well, I do. I love you, very much. Lord, I’m sleepy.”

  She let out a soft sigh and closed her eyes, asleep within moments.

  Max stared at her, beguiled and amused that she should fall asleep at such a moment.

  “Oh, my love,” he said, unable to hold back his laughter, his joy. “Thank you. Thank you for reminding me what it is to be alive.”

  Max carried her into the hotel as the sun rose over Paris, uncaring of the scandalous glances they received. He would not have woken her for the world. She stirred as he laid her gently on the bed and tried to unwind her arms from his neck.

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “Stay. Stay with me.”

  He knew he ought not. Though they had signed in as man and wife, they were not, and he ought not court disaster, but he did not wish to leave her alone.

  It was not impossible to sleep chastely by her side. Difficult, but not impossible. If he rose before she woke, all would be well. So he went with her, down to the bed, holding her to him, her head on his chest as she sighed and fell back to sleep.

  Chapter 19

  My dear friend,

  I have the greatest joy in telling you that Phoebe has agreed to marry me. Although it seems still to be some extraordinary dream, she does not do so only to protect her reputation. Indeed, if that were the only consideration, I know she would refuse me. By some miracle she returns my feelings, and I believe I need not explain to you how happy I am. I flatter myself that this news will not be unwelcome, but I give you my word of honour that I shall do all in my power to be everything she needs, to give her everything she desires, and never to cage her free spirit.

  She wishes to marry at Dern, upon our return to England. To my dismay, she is also holding me to my promise to allow her to enjoy Paris. We will return as soon as I can persuade her to leave such delights behind. I beg you will make the necessary arrangements so we might be married at once.

  ―Excerpt of a letter to The Most Honourable Lucian Barrington, Marquess of Montagu, from The Right Hon’ble Maximillian Carmichael, Earl of Ellisborough.

  12th April 1827. Hôtel Westminster, 2nd Arrondissement, Paris.

  Phoebe sighed, blinking a little as sunlight slanted through a crack in the curtains. Little by little, the events of last night returned to her: besting Alvanly at cards, and Max standing at her side, trusting her to do as she wished. Dancing until dawn, and then the wicked pleasure Max had given her on the journey back to the hotel. A smile curved her mouth as she remembered him in the carriage, the way he had kissed her, touched her, the sinful thing he’d said he wanted to do. She had never realised he had such a side to him. How had she always thought him so very proper, such a perfect gentleman—which he was, without a doubt—but he was also….

  “What are you thinking about, you dreadful girl?”

  She jolted and turned, the smile growing wider as she discovered him lying beside her, his head propped on one hand as he stared down with a lazy, somewhat predatory glint in his eyes.

  “About what you said to me last night,” she replied, aware that her heart was racing.

  Lord, but he was big. Broad shoulders and strong arms, the scent of him wrapping about her, something clean and citrusy, and another scent beneath that, musky and male. It made her want to snatch at his shirt and lick his skin, as if he was strawberry ice. The thought made her blush.

  “That I loved you?” he suggested, smiling.

  “No,” she admitted, biting her lip as he raised an eyebrow at her. “Not that. Though that was lovely, too, but I knew already.”

  He gave a bark of laughter and lay back on the bed, chuckling to himself. “Oh, Lord. I ought to have left before you woke, but I couldn’t make myself do it.”

  “Why should you leave?” she demanded, sitting up with a rustle of her scarlet skirts, gazing down at him. He was rumpled, his immaculate evening clothes all creased and his hair mussed, one thick dark lock tumbling over his forehead. She reached out and pushed it back, delighted that she could, that she had the right to touch him so.

  “You know why,” he said letting out a heavy sigh. “I have to look your father in the eye when we go home, and I’d rather he not feel the need to slice me into tiny pieces.”

  “Pffft,” she said, shaking her head. “He’s not such a hypocrite as that, and we s
hall write and tell him we are going home to be married, though not yet. You promised to show me Paris, remember?”

  Max groaned. “Let’s go home and get married, and then come back to Paris for our honeymoon.”

  Phoebe rolled her eyes. “We’re here now, Max, and I have no desire to repeat that awful sea crossing again so soon. Going home will be horrid enough.”

  He flung an arm over his eyes and muttered a curse. “Phoebe, love. I’m not sure I can wait that long for you.”

  “Then don’t.” Phoebe hitched up her skirts and climbed over him, catching hold of his wrists as he moved to shift her away. “Be still,” she said firmly.

  Max subsided, something wary and hot shifting in his eyes that made her stomach tighten.

  “You ought to be innocent when you walk down the aisle.” The protestation was almost sulky, and Phoebe gave a hoot of laughter.

  “Oh, Max, you are adorable.”

  He scowled at her and she leaned down and pressed a kiss to his mouth.

  “Your wedding night….” he persisted, and she kissed him again, cutting off his indignant words.

  “Max,” she said softly as she moved her lips away. “When I say my vows I ought to be committed to them, to believe them with my whole heart, and mean them to the depths of my soul, and I will. That is what is important, that we love each other and mean the promises we make. Whether or not we have… anticipated our vows by a few days is neither here nor there. Papa cares only for my happiness, and you make me happy. I am safe with you, safe to be myself, as dreadful as that may be, and I want this. I want you. All of you, with no holding back, no politeness, no distance.”

  “Phoebe,” he whispered, reaching out and touching her face.

  She turned into his caress, kissing his palm.

  “You know how horribly spoilt I am, Max. If I want something, I must have it. I will have it.”

  To her dismay, Max shook his head. “No. Not now,” he said, his voice low and rough with desire. “But… soon. If you’re certain.”

  Phoebe grinned at him, delighted by his capitulation. Soon did not mean after they were wed. “I am. I am certain of you.”

  “Then we shall take things slowly and, when you are ready, you shall have all that you desire, but for now….”

  The shimmer of something wicked shifted behind his eyes again and Phoebe shivered with anticipation.

  “You never told me.” His words were low and caressing now and her breath caught. “You never explained what it was you were thinking about.”

  Despite everything, she blushed a little. His words had scandalised her, but only because she had not known he would want such a thing. Mama had told her much of what to expect, but that detail she had left out. His words had caught her skin aflame, though, and the desire in his expression only made her burn hotter.

  He moved suddenly and Phoebe squealed as she landed flat on her back, with Max pinning her wrists to the mattress.

  “Tell me,” he said urgently.

  She stared up at this new vision of Max, one she had only glimpsed before. There was something wild in his eyes. The quiet calm she had always associated with him burned away to leave something far more primitive in its place, something that made her shiver with pleasure and anticipation. He was so strong, strong enough to overpower her, yet strong enough that he would never try to.

  Phoebe gathered her courage, determined not to be missish and coy when he clearly wanted her to say the words. “You said you wanted to k-kiss me.”

  “I did.” He stared at her, hunger in his expression. “And you want that? You want my mouth on you?”

  “Yes,” she could hardly get the words out now. Her breathing was shallow, coming too fast. “Very much.”

  “Where? Where do you want my mouth?”

  He released her wrists and, with hands that were not entirely steady, Phoebe reached for the silken hem of her skirts and the lace of her petticoats, all of them crumpled and in disarray. Max moved back, sitting on his heels as she drew them up over her legs, over her knees.

  Impossibly, his eyes darkened further as she revealed her garters and the little black ribbons, and then the first glimmer of her skin at her stocking tops.

  Max swallowed, his gaze following the fabric as it rose. She thought perhaps he was holding his breath.

  “More,” he said, sounding as though his throat was parched, as if he had been wandering a desert for days and she was his oasis.

  She did as he asked, until he could glimpse the dark gold curls at the apex of her thighs. He let out a shaky breath, his chest rising and falling as though he’d been running. Suddenly he moved, stripping off his coat and flinging it away from him before prowling up the mattress towards her.

  “M-Max?” she said, a little uncertain now at the predatory glint in his eyes.

  “Your wish is my command, Phoebe,” he murmured, sliding his hands up the backs of her ankles, her calves, and then tugging so she fell back against the pillows with a gasp.

  He rubbed his cheek against the soft skin of her inner thigh, his breath fluttering against her so intimately she couldn’t speak. Perhaps sensing her tension, he looked up, and the pure lust in his expression made her quiver, made a hot liquid rush fill her as though that look had melted her from the inside out.

  “You can say no. You can tell me to stop.”

  Phoebe licked her lips, hesitating for a moment. “Don’t stop.”

  He smiled then, a purely masculine smile of triumph that made her want to laugh, except that at that moment he did just as he’d promised and covered her with his mouth. The laughter died in her throat as a combination of shock and wonder rippled through her. Good heavens, that was… that… that was….

  “Oh, Max. Oh, that’s… wicked.”

  He chuckled against her skin. “You like it?”

  “It’s utterly sinful,” she breathed the words, gasping as his tongue slid over her in one, long, sinuous lick. “Of course I like it.”

  “Good, because I like you. I like you very much, especially the way you taste, sweet and tart and delicious.”

  Phoebe blushed, astonished that Max would say such things to her, that he would be so… so different from how he had always seemed. To think, she had once believed him staid and boring and… dull. What a little simpleton she’d been.

  She could not think at all after that, as he returned to his sensual attack on her person, leaving her giddy and dazed as he made her cry out, louder and with greater abandon, seeming to revel in the wanton sounds she made. Finally, she shattered, the sensation one of flying, of being flung into some high, bright place that sparkled through her as pleasure rippled through her body. Through all of it Max stayed with her, easing every last shudder of bliss from her sensitive flesh until she was wrung out and boneless in the afterglow. Then he lay down beside her and praised her, told her she was beautiful, wonderful, utterly perfect… which made her giggle and turn in to his chest, laughing uncontrollably.

  “P-Perfect,” she stammered helplessly, clutching at his shirt.

  “You are,” he insisted. “Perfect for me. I had forgotten what living felt like, what joy felt like. It has been so long since I felt it I believed I had outgrown it, that it was for children and fools, those who had not seen the truth of life.” He cupped her face within his hands, his eyes so full of adoration that her throat grew tight. “I thought I might marry someone who would be a friend, who would keep me company as the years passed, but I never expected… I never thought for a moment…. You made me remember who I once was, Phoebe. Who I want to be again.”

  “I love who you are right now, Max,” she said and kissed him.

  ***

  The rest of their time in Paris was perfect. To begin with, Max took her shopping, insisting she buy an entire new wardrobe for their return to England.

  “I do not propose to marry a prettily behaved little wallflower, love,” he said, his eyes alight with mischief. “I want my wife to turn heads, and make all th
e old tabbies gasp and murmur behind their fans. So we had best buy you everything that is the height of fashion, had we not?”

  “Oh, well, if you insist, Max,” Phoebe said demurely, struggling to keep her countenance. “For I do want to be a good wife to you, and if that is what you wish….”

  “It is,” he insisted, and was endlessly patient and good-humoured as she was measured and pinned, and chose a wardrobe of outrageously vivid colours and styles, precisely calculated to do just as he had asked.

  It was marvellous.

  They visited Place Louis XVI—where that monarch and his Queen, Marie Antoinette, had lost their heads to Madame La Guillotine—the Louvre, the gardens of the Tuileries, Place Vendome, and the Pont Neuf. The cemetery of Père Lachaise was perhaps a morbid destination, but Max indulged her, happy to take her anywhere, apparently delighted by her delight in everything they saw, every memory they made together. They met up with Nina and Charlie, who looked to be enjoying Paris—and each other—very thoroughly, and most days they went out together. They shopped and danced, and visited the theatre and the opera house, and at night Max took her to bed and taught her a little more of all that they could have together—all they could be together—but always he stopped short of making her his, of taking his own pleasure.

  Phoebe did not insist or complain, sensing that this slow seduction was the only way he felt at peace with not waiting for the night of their marriage. She sensed too that he was eager to return home, to begin their lives together, but not once did he voice his wishes. Never did he do anything to diminish the pleasure she took in discovering all that Paris had to offer them.

  They were returning from a trip to Place de Vosges, having left Nina and Charlie to find their own entertainment, when she decided they had both been patient enough.

  “Max,” she said, turning to look at him. “I have one last thing I wish to do before we leave Paris.”