by Ingrid Hahn
All the same, it would have been in good fun to decorate the walls with depictions of fish and other ocean-dwelling creatures. The room could have then been a mermaid’s cavern.
Phoebe smiled at the whimsy.
“Wouldn’t you care to, Lady Phoebe?”
Not having heard a syllable of what was being said around her, she blinked at her hostess. Lady Delamore was a small woman with an enormous presence. She might have been all of five and a half stones, including the weight of clothing and jewels, but one of her famous looks could have put the fear of God into the Archbishop of Canterbury. Displeasing this woman would have earned no comments on a list under the Advantages heading.
She sent a sidelong glance to Grace, who sat next to her. Grace gave a small nod of encouragement.
“I would, indeed, my lady.” Phoebe assumed her most gracious expression…and found herself tumbling into a foolhardy blunder.
Lady Delamore nodded. “We’re so pleased you’ll honor us, my dear.” She gestured to the instrument.
To the instrument.
Only then realizing that the music had stopped, Phoebe’s stomach fell. Every last head in the room was turned in her direction, the company silent with expectation.
Oh hell.
How many times growing up had she been admonished to stop gathering wool and give her attention to the goings-on around her?
Rising, Phoebe made two silent vows. One, she would thank her mother for her relentless instruction and insistence that Phoebe stay in practice, no matter how long and arduously Phoebe argued that she didn’t need to play. Two, she would never again let a day pass without sitting down at the keyboard for at least a half an hour, excepting only extensive travel and significant illness.
She took her place before the pianoforte, pulling away her gloves a finger at a time, lingering over each tug to allow herself more time to think. There was music somewhere in her mind.
Glancing up, she smiled. Every last set of eyes in the room were upon her, and she’d have wagered a princely sum that none of them were blinking. It was as if they didn’t dare risk missing the moment she’d flounder.
Lord Maxfeld caught her gaze. And held it. The intensity of his stare could have pierced far more brittle a soul than hers.
Flooding with heat, she swallowed. How was she going to survive under the radiance of his eyes? What was the man? Some sort of conjurer?
She took a breath, the sound of the inhalation seeming to echo through the room. Music. She needed to play something. Anything. Dear Lord, save her. What was a note? What was a chord? How did her fingers work together to produce a pleasingly melodic whole?
Her fingers settled over the keys. Clementi began ringing through the room—as unexpected to Phoebe as the selection must have been to anyone else.
As suddenly as the music started, it finished. She rose, replacing her gloves, searching her recent memory to prove that she might have hit a sour note without noticing.
The applause was conspicuously polite. On the whole, however, there seemed no doubt she might yet find a measure of social success.
“Delightful.” Despite Lady Delamore’s dire appearance, her tone held a hint of warmth. She sat perched like a queen, the feathers of her turban trembling in an unseen draft, her diamonds sparkling in the warm candle glow. “Surely you won’t retreat so quickly as that, Lady Phoebe.”
This time, Phoebe was prepared. “I wouldn’t dream of remaining at the instrument for a moment longer among such company, not when there are so many here in possession of far greater talent than I.”
But Lady Delamore was not to be put off. “Come, my lady, you’re dissembling. We simply must have more music from you. You’re quite proficient.”
“Proficient, perhaps, my lady, but little more. Let someone with more feeling and passion for music have her turn.”
Lady Delamore turned to the earl. “Lord Maxfeld, surely you’re not going to allow your fiancée to disappoint my guests, now, are you?”
“It’s quite out of my hands, I assure you, my lady. I’d sooner try to halt the sun on its journey across the sky than force my will on Lady Phoebe.” The fondness in his voice drew a swirl of warmth low and dangerous in Phoebe’s belly. “She quite knows her own mind, this one.”
This drew a mix of admiring looks and outright disapproval from the ladies in the room. Interestingly, there were no expressions in between. Less scrutiny came from the men upon the earl’s assessment.
Acutely aware that while Lady Delamore called on another musician to grace the room with a performance, attention remained on her, Phoebe took her seat. She arranged her skirts with the utmost care and settled her hands in her lap, one atop the other. She kept still, eyes focused ahead. The picture of the perfect lady, no doubt.
The music continued for some time, during which Phoebe paid the strictest attention. Absolutely no wool gathering. And no thinking about Lord Maxfeld. Unfortunately, the latter required strictest vigilance.
Dinner was called and the company filed two by two into the dining room, Phoebe going in on Lord Maxfeld’s arm. They said little to each other during the meal, but she never lost the acute awareness of having the earl’s attention. All of it. Even when he was conversing with others. She hadn’t needed a radiant color to set her apart. In his eyes, she was apart—that was apparent enough in the heat of his gaze upon her. He spared that look for no one else.
They were so close. Together. And yet, excruciatingly far apart. They were drowning in a sea of social expectation. One could speak only on certain subjects in certain tones of voice and express tired old opinions that hadn’t been original for at least a decade.
Worst of all, she and Lord Maxfeld couldn’t talk, not truly—not about anything that mattered. That was the one thing she wanted above all, more time alone with him to talk.
But why did she have the earl’s attention? Oh, there was a certain energy between them, sure enough. It couldn’t have been only her who felt the…oh dear…attraction. That’s what it was. Attraction, plain and simple.
Only it wasn’t simple at all. He might appear perfectly at home among Lady Delamore’s guests this evening, but he was still a rake. Scandal followed him wherever he went. Scandal into which Phoebe would rather eat worms three times a day for a week than ever, ever enmesh herself.
When had this turned so complicated?
…
Thus far the evening hadn’t proven as successful as he’d imagined. How could they act besotted with each other when they couldn’t devise a way to become close enough to speak?
It was infuriating—it made Max’s blood run hot. He wanted to be near her. She was so close. And yet it was as if the other guests contrived to keep them apart.
Max had a thousand things to say, none of them to the well-meaning lady to his right who kept trying to ensnare him in a conversation about drainage ditches. Prattling nervously more like, but he didn’t feel like being so unkind as to allow himself to dwell on the fact. He couldn’t fault her, with her air of skittishness and those perpetually pinched brows that never once relaxed—she was clearly trying her best to do as she ought.
But the subject did wear on him. Maintaining a show of as much interest in her talk as he could dredge up, he gave a weary mental sigh.
At least the woman was making an effort. Many wouldn’t—not for a rake like him.
And that was exactly why it was necessary he be here tonight. To step beyond his old reputation—the Max whom everyone would believe the worst when they heard a story about him being seen with a parlormaid and a goat. Lady Delamore and her set symbolized the respectable Society that he had to impress with his new and upstanding ways. Just as important was being seen with Lady Phoebe.
If only he could have foreseen how difficult being around her was going to be.
All about him were displays of the highest affluence. The gleaming silver at the fingertips of each guest. The china, candlebranches, and linen. The food itself, of course, an ele
gant display of edible wealth, pleasure that would last no more than a few fleeting moments upon the tongue.
None of the items mattered. The only thing in the room worth admiring was Lady Phoebe. She conducted herself beautifully. Her neck long, her chin high, her every movement the personification of grace itself.
From what he could tell, she captivated the men on either side of her with whom she conversed. Damn both the old goats if they didn’t know exactly how lucky they were to be seated beside her.
Max’s teeth set, his jaw aching from all the clenching he’d done this evening.
The vision she presented made his heart weak with longing—longing to let himself pretend, for a moment, that he wasn’t Lord Maxfeld. That his father hadn’t been mad. That he himself wasn’t destined to share the same fate.
That this engagement wasn’t false.
Absurdity. His grip on his fork tightened and he took a bite, chewing with resolute fortitude against his own foolish fancy. The last thing he wanted was a wife. Even one as wholly bewitching as Lady Phoebe.
Their eyes met, her gaze strong enough to make him forget to breathe. She gave him a small smile, pretty and almost shy.
Then, seeming to remember herself, she looked away, leaving him cold and bereft.
What devil had sat upon his shoulder whispering in his ear that she was the one to select for his designs? One that wanted to lead him straight to the deepest, darkest, coldest depths of hell.
Chapter Eight
“When I sent you to Lady Delamore’s the other evening, my dear, it was not to make a spectacle of yourself. You might be new to Society, but I brought you up far better than that.”
Phoebe, seated at her dressing table where Albina was arranging her hair, looked up from the note she’d been reading—sentiments of congratulations from Isabel. The room was filled with late morning light containing the promise of a beautiful spring day. Her mother, wearing a dove gray muslin, crossed the bedchamber.
Spectacle of herself? “My playing was better than that, I assure you, Mama—on my honor.”
“I’m not talking about music, my dear.” Lady Bennington’s color was high. “The spectacle you made of yourself with Lord Maxfeld.”
What? Phoebe searched her memory. She shook her head, folding the thick sheet of paper and slipping it into a drawer. “You’ve been misinformed. The earl and I didn’t exchange more than six words the whole of the evening through. We were kept quite occupied by other people.”
“Some things don’t need words, my girl.”
What is that supposed to mean?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. The night of the Huntsford ball, you seemed lighthearted on the subject of my entertaining myself with Lord Maxfeld.”
“But not conspicuously, my dear.”
“Conspicuously? I did nothing conspicuous last night. Except play. And that was at Lady Delamore’s request.” Phoebe twisted in her chair. She refused to believe there were groundless rumors circulating about her and Lord Maxfeld at half eleven the next morning. “On whose authority have you received such intelligence as would lead you to believe that I behaved like anything less than the perfect lady?”
Finished setting every ironed curl just so, Albina quietly retreated to the other side of the room.
“I met Lady Selby in the street, and she told me there were looks between the two of you the like of which she’d never before witnessed in all her years.”
Looks? Well, that was the sort of story a two-penny press would want, surely.
Phoebe’s gaze dropped to the surface of the dressing table where she fiddled with a stray hairpin. To be denounced for nothing more than a few stray glances the gossips decided to willfully misinterpret was a new and not entirely comfortable experience.
Scowling, she sniffed. “Well, those hundred and ten years Lady Selby has lived must have been awfully dull.”
“That is exactly the sort of response apt to get you into trouble.” Closing her eyes, Lady Bennington’s hand went to her brow, and she shook her head. “You must mind your tongue. You must.”
Phoebe rose. “It’s only you and I, Mama. And Albina isn’t going to say anything to anyone.” The maid stood ready for her mistress’s next command. “Speaking of which, Albina, would you mind meeting me downstairs? I think the light cloak will be enough for today, and be sure to get the bonnet with the pink ribbon, not the blue. I want to pick up the roses on the print.” She brushed her muslin skirts.
The maid curtsied and left.
Lady Bennington ran her gaze over Phoebe. “You’re going out? At this hour?”
“Certainly. This respite from the rain will be over in a trice. I wouldn’t want to miss a brief interlude of pleasant weather.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Only for a drive, Mama. And Albina is coming, of course, so you needn’t worry.”
“You’re going out with Lord Maxfeld?”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
Her mother’s mouth pinched. “I should have been consulted before you made any commitments.”
“I looked for you, but apparently you were in the street listening all too attentively to Lady Selby. Please ask Grace about last night. She was there. She’ll tell you nothing untoward happened. We’re engaged. Why shouldn’t Lord Maxfeld and I look at each other?”
“If it were simply a matter of looking, my dear…”
“Well, what was it then?”
“There are looks and then there are looks.”
“You say that as if I’m meant to understand. Do you think if I were of any other family anyone would have noticed?”
“But you are of this family.” Lady Bennington put a hand on Phoebe’s arm, head tilting to one side. Her face shone with care. “Remember who we are. Remember Society has a memory carved in stone.”
Guilt weighted Phoebe’s conscience. What her mother said was true. And she would never forgive herself for inciting scandal. Scandal didn’t affect only the one person involved. Reproach fell upon all. The Landons had learned that lesson thoroughly enough.
“I will take care, Mama. I promise you, I will take care.” She bowed her head, horribly aware that the engagement was fraudulent. How miserable it would be when she had to disappoint her mother and sisters—not to mention Corbeau.
Isabel. Phoebe had to protect Isabel. If anybody discovered what it was she did and where, it would be a scandal miles past what a mere broken engagement could render.
But that was part of the trouble, wasn’t it? Isabel had been discovered. Phoebe had to meet with her sister to warn her. If Lord Maxfeld had found her out, others might, too. She could be in danger.
Phoebe took the last step down to the entrance hall just as a servant was opening the door to Lord Maxfeld. She’d caught glimpses of two diametrically opposite sides to the man. At last she had the opportunity to begin teasing out the truth of his character.
Catching sight of her, he paused, mouth pulling ever so slightly at each corner, face warming. Was it her imagination, or was that admiration in his expression?
Before she could scrutinize any deeper, he looked away. The moment evaporated.
Albina was waiting with Phoebe’s things. Phoebe addressed the maid. “The gust that blew in with the open door was cooler than I anticipated. I think perhaps I should have my heavier cloak, after all.”
“Very good, my lady.”
The maid vanished, leaving Phoebe and the earl as alone as two people could be in a fully staffed house.
She scowled, speaking in low tones lest anyone be nearby. “You’re making things difficult between me and my family. Apparently, last night at Lady Delamore’s we were being scrutinized, and there are rumors circulating about us.”
He shook his head as if taken aback. “What sort of rumors?”
If she told him about the shared looks—or looks, as her mother had said, with that horribly knowing emphasis—that were being reported, he’d say something to make the g
lances between them innocuous. That she could not bear.
So she sidestepped. “I have to take care. I cannot rouse scandal. It’s going to be bad enough when…” She pressed her lips together, not daring to finish the thought.
Albina returned with the requested cloak, wrapping Phoebe in the thick layer of wooly warmth.
A barouche waited outside, the vehicle gleaming in polished perfection. The body was a lovely azure blue, the trim golden yellow. The driver, an older fellow with a weathered face and sagging jowls, stood with the horses, two magnificent creatures with shining chestnut coats.
Phoebe and Lord Maxfeld faced forward, Albina took a seat on the bench opposite, traveling backward. The maid folded her hands into her lap, plain face placid. Phoebe relaxed her features, assuming—she hoped—an appearance far more content and serene than the jumble of rattling parts contained in her interior.
After an initial floundering silence, they stumbled into stilted conversation about the weather.
The point of the excursion was to be seen together. Which is why it was a bit of a surprise when they came around to a secluded part of the park. It was far from the fashionable hour; there’d be no hope of parading about.
“What are we doing here?”
“See over there?” He pointed to a shady spot by the river. “I thought we might have a picnic.”
Lord Maxfeld handed her down from the conveyance and took a basket that had been on the bench beside the coachman. Albina took sewing from her reticule to work on, staying seated in the barouche. Phoebe and the earl would be left to enjoy their meal in supervised privacy. The coachman took out a newspaper.
Across the lawn, a small flock of sheep were grazing under the supervision of a hunched man with a staff in his hand and a dog at his feet. The animals let out the occasional bleat.
Phoebe kept silent until she and Lord Maxfeld were out of earshot of the servants, settling under a tall elm near the riverbank. “I thought you wanted us to be seen together.”