To Dance until Dawn (Girls Who Dare Book 12)

by Emma V. Leech

  He frowned a little. “Leave? I thought you were having fun.”

  She laughed at that and leaned in to kiss his cheek. “Of course I’m having fun. It’s been marvellous, every second of it, but… but I think I should like to go home, Max. Tomorrow, if you don’t mind. I wish to see my family and for us to be married, with all of them around us. And then, I should like to go home—to your home—so you might show it all to me.”

  His eyes warmed and she knew she had pleased him which made happiness bloom in her own chest. “Our home, love. It will be our home.”

  “Yes.”

  He leaned in and kissed her, and she sighed, feeling the now familiar tug of arousal. He had been careful to limit their bedtime adventures, and she admitted to feeling a gnawing sense of impatience, a desire to have everything he had promised her.

  “And what is it you want, on your last night in Paris?” he asked, his tone such that she knew he would not deny her anything she wished.

  “I wish to go back to Rouge et Noir and play Monsieur Demarteau at cards, and….” She hesitated.

  “And?”

  “And I want you to make love to me, Max.”

  He smiled, a wicked smile even though a sheepish glimmer sparkled in his eyes. “Do you want the truth, love?”

  “Always,” she said, wondering what he would say.

  “I was going to anyway,” he whispered, nuzzling the tender skin beneath her ear. “I cannot wait another night. I shall run mad.”

  Phoebe chuckled, delighted by the admission.

  “Oh, I am so glad,” she said with a sigh of relief. “But may we go to Rouge et Noir too?”

  Max snorted and pulled her close. “Yes, love. Anything. Whatever you desire. Though I beg you, do not cheat the owner. I suspect he would not take it well.”

  Phoebe tutted at him. “Of course not.”

  And then she gave a little shiver, remembering the look in Demarteau’s eyes. No, she did not think he would take it well, either.

  ***

  18th April 1827. Rouge et Noir, 7th Arrondissement, Paris.

  Max smiled at the delight in Phoebe’s eyes as he guided her back into the maelstrom and the explosion of decadent pleasure that was Rouge et Noir. Glasses chinked and champagne corks popped, the chatter of voices punctuated at intervals by shouts of triumph or dismay as large sums were wagered on cards, dice, or roulette. Ladies who were less than respectable, and occasionally daring wives, hung off the arms of noblemen, self-made men, and politicians alike, and the air simmered with expectation.

  In truth, Max was impatient for this part of the evening to be done, aching with desire for the beautiful woman at his side, but he knew the value of patience. There was spice in anticipation, though the past days had taxed his fortitude to its limits. Yet he did not wish to cut the evening short either, not when he could see the fascination in Phoebe’s expression as she looked about. He was glad to give her this, to share this evening with her and bring her to a place that ought to be forbidden to her, but was safe enough whilst he was at her side. He wanted nothing to be denied her and knew his greatest pleasure in life would always be granting the most outrageous of her wishes and enjoying them with her.

  The rich, the titled, and the scandalous all gravitated to this, the most fashionable gambling den in all of Paris. How two incredibly young men had created a business of such obvious wealth and success so quickly was a mystery, but everything about Nicolas Alexandre Demarteau and his brother, Louis César de Montluc, the Comte de Villen, was a mystery. Nicolas was only nineteen, his brother younger still, yet they ruled this elegant and sophisticated venue with an iron fist, and no one dared speak against them. From what little gossip there was to be had, their parents had escaped Le Terroir, when the nobility of France were losing their heads to the guillotine, and they had lost everything of value. They had made the choice between their lives and their fortunes and chosen to live, escaping with little more than the clothes on their backs. What happened next, no one seemed to know, except that their older siblings had died, and that Louis César, the Comte de Villen, had been born into poverty with his illegitimate half-brother standing guard over him.

  Two years ago no one knew their names, and in that short space of time they had proven themselves to be clever and resourceful, and dangerous enough that no one would speak a word about them, which only added to the air of mystery that lingered around them.

  Max looked up as Demarteau moved to greet them.

  “Lord and Lady Ellisborough,” he said bowing deeply. “It is a great pleasure to see you here again.”

  “My wife has ambitions to play you at cards,” Max said, sliding his arm about Phoebe’s waist. “And she won’t leave Paris until that ambition has been fulfilled. Might I ask if you would indulge her, so we can return home at some point soon?”

  Demarteau grinned, his even white teeth flashing in the light cast by the massive chandelier overhead.

  “It would be a great honour to play you, Lady Ellisborough,” he said, holding out his arm to Phoebe.

  Phoebe glanced back at him and Max smiled.

  “Do you play also, my lord?” Demarteau asked politely.

  “No, not tonight, but I should enjoy watching, if you please.”

  With a nod, Demarteau guided them through the crush of people to a red door, flanked by two impressively intimidating guards. They moved aside as Demarteau approached, opening the door for them. The sounds of revelry muted at once as the door closed and they were led down a long, dimly lit corridor to another door, also guarded. Phoebe met Max’s eyes as they both wondered where they were being led.

  “Our private quarters,” Demarteau said, his dark eyes amused, having read their curious expressions quite correctly.

  “We’re honoured,” Phoebe said, as Demarteau opened a door for them.

  Once again, they were surprised, for—having seen the opulence and excess of the décor that was Rouge et Noir—Max had expected more of the same. What they discovered was warmth and luxury and understated elegance, with a surprisingly homely feel to it. Thick rugs muffled their footsteps and the walls were covered with artwork. Everywhere there were haphazard piles of books and magazines, some left open as though the reader had just stepped away for a moment and would return with a drink in hand.

  Demarteau led them to a comfortable sitting room painted in shades of blue and green, where a fire blazed in the grand marble hearth and a man sprawled in a large wing-back chair. Long legs extended out before him, his booted feet set up on a footstool. In one hand he held a book, obscuring his face, and in the other he dangled a glass of wine negligently by its rim, his hold so precarious Max feared it would fall.

  “Brother, we have guests,” Demarteau said.

  The figure in the chair stiffened for a second and then relaxed, the book lowering to reveal thickly lashed eyes of such a startling blue that Max was a little taken aback. He was a very young man, little more than a boy, perhaps sixteen or seventeen, eighteen at most. It was hard to tell his age. Though his face was astonishingly beautiful, his eyes held the weight of an older soul, one who had survived. His hair was very dark, close to black like his brother’s but not quite, the candlelight burnishing it bronze. He stood in one fluid movement, almost catlike.

  “I am honoured,” he said, his voice soft as he moved towards them and bowed. “I am Louis César, and it is a pleasure to meet you.”

  ***

  Phoebe looked around the table, a little disconcerted to find herself playing cards with both brothers. She had lost two games so far and Demarteau was watching her, an amused glint in his eyes. It was the look a cat gave a mouse when it was cornered, she decided. He was wondering if she would cheat or not. She bristled a little, glaring back at him. It was one thing to cheat a wretch like Alvanly, but quite another in a game of this sort.

  “Ignore my brother, Lady Ellisborough. He likes to try to… unnerve his opponents.”

  Phoebe looked to Louis César, who had addr
essed her and who had won both hands, though he scarcely seemed to be attending the game, his attention riveted to his book which he’d set on the table.

  “Is that what he’s doing?” Phoebe said, quirking one eyebrow. Demarteau grinned at her. “Is it a good book?” she asked, a little peeved that Louis César should win so effortlessly whilst his attention was elsewhere. She had been concentrating furiously and had still lost.

  He looked up and turned wide blue eyes to his brother.

  “Yes, Louis, you are being rude,” Demarteau said dryly.

  To her surprise, the Comte closed the book and set it aside.

  “My apologies,” he said, sounding sincere.

  Phoebe looked at him with interest. In truth, it was hard to look anywhere else. She had never seen such a beautiful young man. Pretty, even. She wondered if he could pass for a girl and suspected it was possible, for now. There was the promise of broad shoulders and a strong build in his lean body. He would make an impressive figure in a few years when age had filled out his frame. His brother was ahead of him in that respect, a solid, masculine figure even now, despite his youth.

  “What were you reading?” she asked, interested.

  “The Eve of St Agnes,” he replied, playing his next card.

  “Oh, Keats,” Phoebe said in surprise. “You like English poetry?”

  Mischief danced in his blue eyes for a moment. “I like English ladies who like English poetry.”

  Max chuckled beside her. “So you seek to improve your chances with our womenfolk?”

  The comte’s lips pursed.

  “Mais non,” he replied, wide-eyed with faux innocence, which made him appear boyish indeed. “I seek only to improve my skills with the language, but… if by chance that ’elps also….”

  He shrugged, making them laugh, and Phoebe wondered at him being so flirtatious and confident already. Louis César would grow to be a dreadfully wicked man, she decided.

  “Helps,” Phoebe corrected him. “You must sound the ‘h.’”

  Louis César gave a heavy sigh and nodded. “Oui, oui, I know, but it is difficult, an ugly sound… helps.”

  Phoebe grinned at him. “Very good. You know, your English is excellent.”

  “Yes, it is,” he said nonchalantly. “Though I’m better at cards.”

  A flicker of humour in his eyes made her smile at the arrogant words as he took the next two games. When he also won the third, Demarteau threw down his hand in disgust.

  “I knew I ought not have asked you to join us.”

  “Then why did you?” Louis César asked, his expression genuinely curious.

  Demarteau scowled. “I was being polite.”

  “Ah, always so polite, Nicolas,” he said softly, his lips twitching.

  They played three more games, Demarteau winning the next—and Phoebe suspected Louis César had allowed him to—before Louis César won the next two. Phoebe set down her cards with a huff.

  “Well, I am only glad Alvanly doesn’t have your skill. You have the luck of the devil.”

  Something shifted in Louis César’s eyes.

  “Yes, le diable,” he murmured. “Well, I shall bid you a goodnight. I hope you enjoy all that Rouge et Noir has to offer. You are most welcome here. It has been a pleasure to meet you both.”

  He glanced at his brother, who gave an approving nod, before leaving them alone.

  “That was unfair of me,” Demarteau said, grinning at Phoebe. “But I felt you might enjoy the experience.”

  Phoebe snorted. “You think I enjoy losing?”

  “No, but I think you enjoyed meeting him and he you. He has little patience for most people, but tonight he was pleased.”

  She nodded. “I did enjoy meeting him. I’ve never met someone as lethal with cards, though. I shall remember if we ever cross paths again.”

  “If I may say so, Lady Ellisborough, you were most unlucky this evening, but I ’ave met no one who can… er… play the cards as you do. You ’ave an exceptional skill. Who taught you?”

  Phoebe knew he was not speaking of the game they’d just played, but the way she had floated the cards she wanted to the top to deal to herself when playing Alvanly.

  “A highwayman,” she said, knowing instinctively that this was a man who kept secrets such as those.

  He frowned, the word obviously unfamiliar.

  “Un bandit,” she corrected, amused as he gave a delighted bark of laughter.

  “Un bandit,” he repeated, shaking his head. He wagged a finger at her. “The next time, I shall let you cheat Louis César. I think it is possible even he would not catch such skilled fingers, and the experience would do him good.”

  “I should be delighted to,” she replied, meaning it. “But we return to England in the morning. However, if you are ever visiting the other side of the Channel, I should be pleased to accept the challenge. Thank you so much for this evening. It’s been fascinating.”

  Demarteau bowed and took her hand, kissing her fingers before turning to Max. “Lord Ellisborough, your wife is quite remarkable. You are a lucky man.”

  “Yes,” Max said, putting her hand firmly on his arm with a smile. “I am.”

  Chapter 20

  Dear Helena,

  Phoebe will soon be home! I am so excited to see her again.

  ―Excerpt of a letter to Lady Helena Knight from The Most Honourable Matilda Barrington, Marchioness of Montagu.

  Still the night of the 18thApril 1827. Hôtel Westminster, 2nd Arrondissement, Paris.

  “Well,” Max said, as he opened the door to their rooms. “What did you make of the enigmatic brothers?”

  “I hardly know what to think,” Phoebe said with a laugh, setting her cloak aside, though her thoughts had long since drifted from the brothers, as fascinating as they were. “The comte was a strange young man. So beautiful and so skilled with the cards, but….”

  “Yes, but….” Max agreed. “I should not want to be on the wrong side of that one, I think. For all his brother, Nicolas, looks the part of a devil. Those angelic blue eyes hide the mind of a rapier if you ask me.”

  “Hmmm,” Phoebe said, not wishing to discuss them any longer. “And what do you suppose this dress hides, Max?”

  She turned to look at him, tugging at the fingers of her gloves until she could draw one from her arm, the white silk dropping to the floor. She began on the other glove as Max stilled, watching her carefully.

  “I hardly dare presume,” he replied, his voice having lowered to that deep, wicked rumble that made her stomach flutter with excitement. “But I am hoping for… red ribbons.”

  Phoebe grinned and cast the second glove aside before reaching for the hem of her gown. It was a deep blue silk tonight, and the cool fabric slid between her fingers as she raised her skirts. Max’s eyes darkened, and he let out a little sigh of appreciation as he saw the red ribbons on her garters.

  “I knew they were your favourites,” she said, laughter in her voice.

  “They are,” he agreed, taking a step towards her. “So much that I think I shall have a closer look.”

  Phoebe dropped her skirts and returned a coquettish expression. “Oh, will you? I do not remember giving you permission.”

  A glint of appreciation lit Max’s eyes. He knew full well what she wanted of him tonight, and knew that she was playing with him, teasing him for the sheer delight of it, knowing what would come of it.

  “But you are my wife, my property, mine to do with as I please,” he countered, a devilish look on his face that made Phoebe catch her breath, even though she knew he was only playing along.

  “Indeed, I am not,” she retorted, enjoying this immensely. She put up her chin and tried to look prim and innocent, which was something of a challenge. “We are not married yet, my lord. Nor shall we be if that is your attitude.”

  “As you wish,” he said, stalking closer as Phoebe backed up. “But here you are alone with me, so I think I shall take what I want whether or not you wish to marry
me.”

  “Oh, you villain!” Phoebe cried, running from him so that the love seat was between them, pressing the back of her hand to her forehead in a dramatic gesture. “I shall die before I give myself to such a wicked man.”

  “Is that right?” he demanded, clearly struggling to keep a straight face.

  Phoebe lunged away from him, rushing towards the bedroom door with Max in pursuit. He caught her—as she had intended him to—sweeping her up into his arms and throwing her over his shoulder.

  “Oh! Put me down you horrid man. I shall never be yours, never, I say!”

  “We’ll see about that,” Max retorted, giving her backside an enthusiastic smack.

  “Ow! Max that hurt!”

  “Good,” he replied, sounding as if he was enjoying the role of villain rather too thoroughly as he flung her down upon the bed.

  Phoebe scrambled backwards, but he was on her before she could get far, pinning her hands to the mattress.

  “Now I have you.”

  Phoebe gasped as he pushed her knees apart, settling between them, the weight and warmth of his solid body making her shiver.

  “I shall never submit!” she retorted, loving the way his eyes flashed.

  “Oh, I think you will, wench.”

  “Wench?” Phoebe repeated in outrage. “You said you’d marry me.”

  Max shrugged. “Why buy the cow when I can have the milk for free?”

  Phoebe gasped at the vulgar phrase, even knowing he didn’t mean it in the least. “Oh, you….”

  “Villain,” Max supplied helpfully. “You said that already.”

  Phoebe smothered a laugh at the idea of Max saying such a dreadful thing at all. He rolled off her then, much to her disappointment, and settled back against the pillows, his arms crooked behind his head.

  “Well, wench. If you want to have a chance of me keeping my word to marry you, I suggest you please me.”

  Phoebe watched him for a long moment.

  “Please you how?” she demanded, trying her best to glower as heat pooled low in her belly.

  “Firstly, you may disrobe.” He waved a negligent hand at her and she stifled a laugh and clambered off the bed.