To Covet a Lady's Heart (The Landon Sisters)

by Ingrid Hahn

  Phoebe leaned close to speak in a whisper—or, close to a whisper. The general din and the music only allowed so much by way of dropping one’s voice. “He’s the sort one avoids.”

  “Lord in heavens, Phoebe.” Lady Bennington wrinkled her nose. “This isn’t all serious business, you know. Have a bit of fun and allow me to be concerned on your behalf. You’re too young for such sentiment. Enjoy yourself, and leave the fretting to me.”

  Phoebe frowned. One would think her mother would be more cautious, considering the family disgrace.

  Lord Maxfeld was making his way through the crush. And still coming toward them.

  “Balls aren’t the place where one can have fun, Mama.”

  Her mother only raised her gaze to heaven and shook her head.

  “Besides—”

  Lady Bennington held up a hand. “Enough. I’m only suggesting you dance—not marry the man, my dear.”

  “And if it were love”—thanks to her sister’s marriage, Phoebe had been giving far too much thought to love lately, and the question spilled out of its own accord—“as it was in the case of you and Father?”

  Her mother returned a perplexed look, but said nothing. Lord Maxfeld was too close.

  The earl was a sizable presence in the company, like a victorious warrior king towering among his peasant folk.

  Phoebe wet her lips.

  There would be no avoiding him.

  Chapter Two

  “My dear ladies.” Max bowed before Lady Bennington and Lady Phoebe, rattling off a flattering nicety. First, he paid consequence to the mother. Then to the daughter. “I’m so pleased to see you both here tonight and looking so well, too. London must agree with you.”

  Whichever blind clod had suggested Lady Phoebe was the plainest of the Landon girls had eminently poor taste in women. She shone from the rest—from all the other women around her. Max had no time or patience for delicate beauties, and Lady Phoebe was no delicate beauty.

  But she was a beauty, no mistake. There would be no fits or fainting from this one, oh no. She was bright and lovely, her hair a dark shade, earthy and rich. She had coffee-colored eyes, a decisive nose, and lips that could curl into the most devious smile—the sort that set him instantly adrift into deliciously sinful thoughts.

  Quite without meaning to, he’d stopped attending to what Lady Bennington was saying. He returned to the conversation.

  “…and make no mistake, my lord, my daughter is so eager to dance this evening.”

  “Is she now?”

  Lady Phoebe wore the sort of set expression indicative of one who’d rather be anywhere but where she was.

  Poor pretty maid. She didn’t much care for him, did she? Why she didn’t was of no consequence. She was the means to an end, no more.

  Given the shocking bit of information he’d discovered about Lady Phoebe’s sister, Isabel, she was the most convenient of his acquaintance.

  Lady Isabel was said to be a companion to her aunt, but apparently that was nothing but fiction. She was the notorious Beauty of Faro, a game mistress working in the biggest, most exclusive, most dangerous gaming hell in all of London. Never having moved in Society before her father’s demise, she was as good as unrecognizable to the wealthy and titled men who found themselves in the establishment where she reigned.

  How Lady Isabel had come to this pass, he didn’t know. Likely her decision to move in the underworld was connected in some way to her late father’s substantial debts. The only thing that mattered was, armed with this knowledge, Lady Phoebe would have no choice but to do exactly as he wanted.

  He had to connive to get her alone. Given he kept himself in good practice at culling lovely females from the herd, so to speak, this shouldn’t pose a problem.

  Max smiled. Whether she danced with him or not, they were going to be spending a good deal more time together. And soon.

  There would be no escape. The truth about her sister Isabel was his trump card. “How fortuitous. For dancing is just the thing I was most hoping to do.” Without troubling to ask, he held out his arm to her. “My lady? Shall we?”

  …

  As the sole object of Lord Maxfeld’s attention, Phoebe could almost become the sort of woman who blushed. The cad was all too appealing, and in all the worst ways. His hair was dark as sin, his startling bright blue eyes were a shaft of sunlight through ice, and he smiled the smile of the very devil himself.

  Her gaze lingered significantly on the proffered arm. She made no move to take it. “Oh, I do thank you for your consideration, my lord. And I do so wish to dance, just as my mother says,”—her mind spun for an irrefutable reason that she might extricate herself…but found nothing—“but I’m afraid it’s just not going to be possible.”

  Lord Maxfeld put his arm down. “Not possible?”

  Her mother echoed the same words. “Not possible?”

  “No, you see…” Phoebe drew a breath, as if she had all the time in the world, while in truth, giving herself a moment to think. Unfortunately, she found no obvious answer.

  She ought to have gone with her instinct and stayed home this evening. Nine times out of ten she could convince her mother to agree to what she wanted.

  At least, she had been able to in the days before their imperfect return to Society. Her mother was proving more stubborn on the point of these accursed balls.

  “You see…” Phoebe sighed, relenting. There were expectations, after all. Come to it, her mother wouldn’t contradict her, but Lady Bennington did expect her to dance. Did she really think she could avoid the obligation to accept him? “Very well, my lord. If it’s a dance you want, it’s a dance you shall have.”

  His expression turned pleased. But not the way a normal person was pleased, say, by fine weather, or a pretty new trinket. Pleased the way Lucifer must have been the first time he’d taken his throne.

  A premonition washed through her—he wanted something, this man. He wanted it from her. Something more than a dance.

  It was too late to run, even if she were the sort to cede her ground in fear. This time when Lord Maxfeld offered his arm, she took it.

  He’d won the right to take her to the floor, to partner with her for an interval of music, but there was an undercurrent of…what was it? Strategy? Like he was playing a game. Or setting a trap. And she was waltzing blindly into an invisible snare.

  Usually she relied on intuition to guide her, but this couldn’t have been right. After all, what on earth could he possibly want—from her?

  “This won’t be so bad as all that.” He smiled at her in that dashing way of his. “I promise not to tread on your toes.”

  Isn’t it enough that he looks as he does? Can’t he have a slightly repulsive odor to him?

  No, he has to smell appealing, too. Like a wood fire—radiating welcome heat on a frigid day.

  Being escorted by him over the polished wooden floor brought a flush of self-awareness through her body. The room held far too many people—far too many pairs of eyes, and it felt as though every last one was trained upon her.

  No doubt the whiff of scandal Lord Maxfeld carried affected her far more than it ought. She was so sensitive to the suggestion of impropriety that the slightest hint of anything untoward appeared far, far greater than it was.

  They took their positions in the line. The music began. It was a country dance, nothing too taxing.

  She’d always considered the force of his presence as the reason why he gave an impression of largeness. But no. He really was quite a tall man—the wide span of his shoulders straight and proud, a tapering waist, and long, muscular legs.

  How horrid that she was noticing. And now, of all the inconvenient times. They’d spent enough time together—or, at least, in the same general company—that it shouldn’t have been a revelation.

  Then again, they’d never been so close before. So close, the little lines on the skin of his lips were visible.

  The nearness affected her—did something unexpected a
nd new to her, something she’d never before experienced. Something at once seductive and entirely forbidden—a strange dichotomy, to be sure.

  The sooner she could rid herself of him, the better. She wasn’t used to the sensation of being on uncertain ground. And she did not like it.

  Lord Maxfeld moved just as he ought. Which was to say, beautifully. If Phoebe weren’t partnering him, she’d be watching him. She wouldn’t be able to help herself, although she wouldn’t enjoy being unable to look away.

  The less she noticed his sensuous appeal, the better. Even her marriage-minded mother didn’t think him suitable for her.

  They found themselves as the last couple in the line. It was their turn to stand out, waiting for the steps to bring them back. They stood all the way at the back of the room, against the French doors leading to the terraced gardens.

  And then Lord Maxfeld caught her eye. With a devious gleam in his own, he opened one of the doors, and, before Phoebe knew what was happening, he whisked her out into the night.

  This only confirmed every rumor she’d ever heard of him. Only a true rake would do such a thing.

  “I knew it.” She stood before him, arms crossed. The cool air was full and round with the scent of a damp night in early spring. Goose flesh erupted over her arms. “I knew it, I knew it, I knew it.”

  “What’s this now?”

  The way his brilliant eyes shone from his face in the dim glow coming through the wavy glass of the doors would have made a lesser woman’s knees weak.

  “I knew you wanted something more from me than a dance. Well? What is it? I can’t be more than a minute or two. After my sister’s debacle, I refuse to be caught in anything resembling a compromising position.”

  Lord Maxfeld laughed. It was rich and low, and so full of good humor that it was all she could do to keep herself from smiling in turn.

  “You’re quite perceptive, aren’t you, my lady?”

  The warm and luxuriant way he said my lady…as if she really were his lady…

  Phoebe had spent nearly three-and-twenty years in this world without losing her head. She wasn’t about to begin here. “Well?”

  “I have something I would like you to do for me.”

  “No.” The only thing she needed to do was return to the ballroom.

  “No?”

  “No. And I don’t owe you anything. Not even an explanation.”

  He smiled a dangerous smile. “Be careful, Lady Phoebe. Saying such things might put me in danger of coming to like you.”

  She went warm, the chill in the air forgotten. Oh, he was good. Masterful, even.

  Phoebe set herself against his machinations. He was a vile seducer, and she wasn’t going to be caught by the likes of him. “If it concerns you, it can’t be anything I’d want to become involved in.”

  “Isn’t that a little unfair? Assuming such a thing before hearing me out?”

  “I won’t have you manipulating me for your own ends, my lord.”

  “You’re curious, though. Aren’t you.” It hadn’t been a question, and that dangerous smile of his hadn’t changed. It did nothing to detract from the man’s wretched allure.

  “Very well.” They were the sole occupants upon the stone terrace. Alone, which was at present safe, but as likely to turn dangerous as a lighted match tossed to a pile of black powder. “Only because I am curious. But quickly, mind. I don’t wish to be missed, least of all with the likes of you.”

  “Least of all with the likes of me?” He didn’t sound surprised, only vaguely amused.

  “No lady’s reputation is safe with you, and I intend to guard my own with all the tender care of…never mind.” She waved. “Tell me what you want.”

  “I need to become engaged…”

  “No.”

  “Only for a short while…”

  “My lord, I don’t want to marry.” Even before she’d come to the middle of the sentence, guilt stabbed her heart. The sentiment wasn’t as true as she might have believed even five minutes previously. Oh, why hadn’t she taken the time to decide her own mind sooner? To be caught unawares like this was dreadfully uncomfortable.

  “That makes two of us.”

  “What?”

  “Exactly as I said.”

  “But…” Phoebe shook her head. “Are you mad?”

  He tensed—it was so slight, yet so powerful at the same time. Her pulse picked up. Not because she was afraid, but rather because she’d said something wrong.

  Something terribly, terribly wrong. A curse upon her reckless tongue.

  Gossip couldn’t be trusted, and given her own family’s wretched history with scandal, Phoebe avoided on-dits like the pox. However, along the way she had caught an unfortunate whisper or two that Lord Maxfeld’s father had been mad.

  She rallied. “I have a rule about falsehoods, my lord.”

  “And that is?”

  “Don’t tell them.”

  “Good rule. However, you’re forgetting that every good rule was meant to be broken.”

  Phoebe shook her head. She wasn’t giving in, not to him, not about this. Not ever. “Forgive me, my lord, but I won’t be able to…” To what? Join him in his idea of a good joke? To help him? “Well, I won’t be able to do whatever it is you need done.”

  She had herself to think of—herself and her family. The Landons’ position was tenuous at best, and the stink of old scandal followed them wherever they went. It wouldn’t do to be caught out in any fresh scandal, least of all with one such as Lord Maxfeld. He was the very definition of a man who could cause a lady any number of troubles.

  She’d meant what she’d said about returning before she was missed. And without a backward glance, she slipped back into the ball, leaving him alone in the night.

  Chapter Three

  A maidservant dressed in light blue muslin came down the stairs. A few pale curls had been strategically arranged under a cap, and she wore a purposeful expression.

  Max wasn’t usually up to see noon. Midnight, however, was an entirely different matter. Those were prime gaming hours. But today he had business to attend to.

  He stood on the gleaming floor in the entrance of the London residence of his old friend, the Earl of Corbeau. After his marriage, Corbeau had given Phoebe and Lady Bennington use of the place for the Season. For himself, now that he had a wife, Corbeau had elected, unsurprisingly, to avoid the whirl and bustle of London. The pair was devoted to each other. They might even love each other, which was a strange notion.

  A love match could not have been further from Max’s own expectation for himself in life. He couldn’t marry, thanks to his father and the accursed madness that ran through his veins, always lurking, always threatening. And pining for the impossible was not for the likes of him. Others might choose to squander their time. He did not.

  “I’m terribly sorry, but it seems Lady Phoebe is not at home today, my lord. Shall you be leaving your card?”

  Not at home, indeed.

  Having not been saved the trouble of the call after all, Max wouldn’t leave without seeing his object achieved.

  He withdrew a card, and along with it, a pencil. He scrawled two words on the back of the stiff paper. Lady Isabel. Folding the rectangle in half, he held it out. “Pray give this to Lady Phoebe immediately. I’ll wait.”

  “I’m sorry, my lord, but—”

  Long ago he’d mastered the art of the look and had no compunction against wielding it now.

  The maid went silent. She pressed her lips together, and her gaze dropped to the white marble floor. With a curtsy, she turned to do as bidden.

  Fewer than five minutes later, the maid returned to take his greatcoat, hat, and gloves before escorting him to the upper drawing room.

  One well-spent sovereign across a footman’s palm had bought him the knowledge that Lady Bennington was out paying calls, so Max already knew he’d find Lady Phoebe alone.

  Indeed, she was. She turned from her position at the window as he ent
ered. Normally, he visited Corbeau in the library, so it had been a number of years since he’d seen the parlor.

  The room, to his untrained eye, was not entirely modern, the decoration being too ornate for true elegance. It had been a generation or two since it had been redone. The drapery was heavy, the brocade furniture abundant, and the carved stone fireplace a monstrosity.

  Still, the color could not have been more perfectly suited to the occupant. The pale gray silk walls set her off in every particular, from heightening the pink of her cheeks, to making her the focal point of the space.

  She was stately and statuesque, cool and level. The sight of her elicited a pinch of regret for what he was about to do. It almost made him want to call it off.

  Almost. But not quite.

  He, on the other hand, had dressed somberly, emulating the height of fashion set by that dandy popinjay Beau Brummell. He’d told his valet, Digsby, what impression he’d wanted to convey—serious and upstanding—and allowed the servant to delight in the assignment. Max wore a stiff black jacket, tight at the armholes, a blindingly white cravat knotted to perfection, flawless fawn breeches, and tasseled boots of gleaming leather that men sported about London these days.

  “Perhaps you’d better start at the beginning, my lord.”

  “Won’t you offer me refreshment?”

  The way her mouth pursed slightly left the none-too-subtle impression that kissing this woman wouldn’t be so terrible a trial. “May I offer you tea, my lord?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  She rang for a servant and settled on the sofa before the cold fireplace, arranging the fine muslin of her skirts, just so.

  Max took the chair opposite, giving himself an order to keep his thoughts fixed on the matter at hand. He could not be distracted by her ineffable allure. To think about kissing. To think about the things he could not, under any circumstances, ever have from her.

  What he was about to do would put those warm intimacies forever beyond his reach. Good. All the better for him. “I’m not here to trifle with you, no matter what you’re thinking, my lady.”