by Ingrid Hahn
Chapter Ten
“I need to make a stop before you return me home.” Phoebe allowed Max to hand her into the barouche. The quantity of food she’d consumed should have pushed her into the sort of post-meal somnolence that required an extended nap.
But having passed such an afternoon with the earl, her mind was spinning. Once again, he’d proven himself so wholly different from every last expectation she’d had of him. Going home in her current state was far too dangerous. If her mother guessed at one one-hundredth of Phoebe’s thoughts and feelings, she’d be mortified—utterly mortified. They were too private.
“And where is it you need to stop, my lady…Phoebe?” He climbed into the conveyance and settled on the bench beside her.
Albina was silent and serene, her eyes respectfully elsewhere, her hands resting in her lap.
It would have been easy to discount her as not giving either her mistress or the earl the slightest attention. Phoebe, however, couldn’t run the risk. Oh, she trusted the girl—to an extent. If only Phoebe could revert back to being Lady Phoebe, the disgraced daughter of Lord Bennington, when it would have been convenient to be overlooked and to have one’s actions not so scrupulously guarded.
Although to hear Grace tell it, being little more than a disgraced and penniless daughter of their late father had placed her under greater scrutiny.
Phoebe wasn’t certain she believed it. Being newly sanctioned as minimally acceptable was infinitely more difficult than living under disgrace. The number of balls they attended and Albina’s constant presence were proof enough of that.
“Phoebe?”
“Yes? Oh.” She blinked. She hadn’t thought her suggestion through well enough, and blurted the first place that sprang to mind. “I need to go to Dove & Sweeting.”
“The booksellers?”
As good a place as any. There was still plenty of time left before reasonably well-bred ladies—among which Phoebe might now qualify, if only as a courtesy to Corbeau—could not be seen out and about the town.
“Yes.”
With a gracious nod, he gave instructions to the coachman. “Of course I would be honored to escort you.”
Which is how they found themselves in Finsbury Square, walking past all manner of shops, Phoebe on Max’s arm, Albina’s ever-constant presence trailing behind them.
Still. Phoebe would take what she could get. Being near Max felt so good.
Before they went to Dove & Sweeting, Phoebe made a quick stop down the street where she bought brilliantly colored silk thread for Grace.
Then they went to the bookshop. The shopkeeper, the second Mr. Edwin Dove, a young man with a flat nose and the appearance of being given more to corpulence each day, stood behind a counter. He greeted them each by name as they entered. “You’re here for the order, no doubt.”
The order? Oh. Her mother must have ordered some books.
But Mr. Dove had already given her a congenial bow and was shuffling away in a manner far greater than his years.
Books were piled floor to ceiling in the shop. Phoebe drifted deeper among the shelves. The light was dim. The wooden floor beneath her feet creaked with the slightest shift of position. The air was thick with the scent of old paper and dust and candle wax. All the best things in the world.
She glanced over her shoulder to stare at Max a long moment, then turned back to browsing.
There was another patron in the back. A woman with a long neck and a classical profile all too familiar…
The woman turned and Phoebe practically leaped to hide herself from view behind a set of shelves. Of course the profile was familiar. The woman was her cousin—a very distant cousin, practically no relation except that the family wouldn’t drop the association. Cecelia Fairleigh.
Oh no. The Fairleighs are in Town?
Phoebe winced. Had she been seen? It wasn’t fair, considering her own history, but the last thing she needed was Max knowing the Fairleighs, those Fairleighs, claimed relation to the Landons. One would have thought they’d have had the good sense to disavow any connection in the aftermath of Lord Bennington’s scandal.
The Fairleighs claimed kinship with the Landons while the Landons had, to hear Lady Bennington tell it, demurred and tried to quietly forget the association. Up until the late earl’s demise, the Fairleighs had been far, far more scandalous than any Landon could ever think of being.
Max was staring at Phoebe with an odd look. She smiled, forced herself to relax, and pretended to carefully peruse the titles.
Mr. Dove bustled back and hefted a tower of books onto the counter.
Her eyes went wide, her mouth dropped open, and her heart lifted in delight. Oh, Lord. Her mother had ordered all those? Her fingers curled in anticipation of holding each one in her hands as lovingly as a newborn.
How was she going to pay for them? She had money enough for one, but no more. But she had to have them all. She simply had to. Maybe he’d extend her credit. If not, maybe she could return home, borrow money from Grace, then be brought back… She’d bring them into the house, hiding a few for good measure by simply omitting the fact that they’d been in the shop, which wouldn’t precisely be lying, and—
Just as her joy reached a crescendo, Mr. Dove cocked his head to Max and spoke. “For your mother again, my lord?”
It was like a mountain crumbling to dust and falling in drifts all around her.
They weren’t for her mother. They were for his.
Rife with bitter disappointment, Phoebe turned away to hide her face from Max lest he see through her.
Mr. Dove addressed her next. “And if you would be so good as to inform your mother, my lady, I have some new selections it would be my pleasure to share with her.”
Phoebe’s hopes once again rose. But before she could speak, Max did.
“Mr. Dove, if you wouldn’t mind, I don’t doubt my mother and her ladyship have similar taste in reading material. If you might allow me to review the selection?”
Phoebe shot Max a what-are-you-doing? look. He avoided her gaze.
Mr. Dove took a small stack of uncovered bound folios from the shelf behind him. “I don’t doubt your mother would enjoy these, my lord.”
Max, pressing his lips into a line and drawing his brows into a deep V, studiously examined each in turn. He took his time.
Phoebe tried to occupy herself by running a gloved finger along the lines of wood on the polished countertop. If she allowed herself a glance, she might accidentally read the title. And if she read the title, she’d have an idea of what she would be missing.
Oh, well. It wouldn’t be too long before her mother would come here herself to purchase books. Then Phoebe could do as she always did. It wasn’t as exciting as having a secret pile, but she’d managed well enough in this way, so what difference did it really make?
She cast a wary look back to her cousin, Cecelia, who remained engrossed in her own literary explorations.
“Mr. Dove, I wouldn’t dream of inconveniencing you, but I would very much like to purchase these for my mother.” Max spoke with decided authority. “I think they’re just the thing she requires.”
The bookseller bowed. “You wouldn’t be inconveniencing me in the slightest, my lord. I can make another selection for Lady Bennington until I restock these particular titles.”
Phoebe made do with selecting one slim volume of poetry.
Purchases under one of his arms, Phoebe on the other, they left the shop. Albina, the ever-present silent shadow, trailed behind them.
The street teemed with life. Ironclad wheels rattled over the worn streets. People bustled, darted, and exclaimed. Horses clopped along, and cats surveyed the goings-on with keen eyes, the creatures certain of their right of possession over this domain.
“Here.” He withdrew his arm, shifted the pile, and took off the top four—the ones Mr. Dove had selected for her mother. “I believe you want these.”
She stood frozen in indecision. Finally, she shook her head.
Painfully. For refusing the books was no easy task.
Five minutes ago she’d been scheming madly to get them. But she had to be rational—she had to be. Involving Max shed too much light on her would-be sins. “I’ll tell my mother he’s put aside some books for her and—”
“No, I mean these are for you.”
“What?” She met his gaze…all too penetrating for such a pedestrian moment. “I…I don’t know what you mean.”
“My dear Phoebe—”
The address hadn’t been meant as an endearment, so why did her heart leap?
“You surprise me. I’ve never seen you so skittish. You clearly want these books for yourself. Why pretend you don’t want them when you do?”
Staring at his fiercely masculine face, another question echoed in her mind—one that made her throat close up on itself and her lungs unable to expel the vast quantity of air she’d mistakenly inhaled. Why pretend I don’t want him when I do?
An idea germinated in her mind and began extending threads of delicate roots. Something about how she might orchestrate an occasion for him to take her into his arms and…
“I…I don’t read novels.” She clutched the book of poetry as hard as she could to stop herself from reaching out, not wanting to think. Not wanting to be in the street any longer. Not wanting to lie. Not wanting to be so exposed before him, stripped so bare.
They were only books.
Only books, indeed. They were far more to her than only books. They were one of her greatest pleasures. Everything about them was heaven. The vanilla perfume that rose from the contents. The look of the dark print upon white paper in candlelight. The pages that were never cut perfectly, no matter how carefully she managed the knife.
Best of all, the stories that made her a thousand different people in a thousand different places and in a thousand different lifetimes, all without leaving the comfort of her bedchamber. Or even needing attire more formal than a tatty old shift.
The way his mouth quirked suggested he was containing laughter. “Of all the things to lie to me about.”
Considering their entire relationship was a lie, she didn’t have a ready response to that statement. Finally, she let out a breath. “My mother says I’m to read histories. Sensible things.”
“Do you like histories?”
“Yes, of course.” After a terse moment, she shook her head. “No. Well, not really. Sometimes. Well, that is to say, I used to be fonder of them than perhaps I am now.” And then one day, quite by accident, she’d gone to fetch something—she forgot what—from her mother’s bedside table and had found a book. Having happened upon the joys of the novel, there had been no looking back.
He held out the books to her. Again, she could only shake her head. As good as admitting the truth of her predilection had been, she didn’t know how to take the books from him.
“You’re being absurd, my lady. I bought them for you.”
“Don’t say that, please.”
“But whyever not? I did.”
Because she was already in far too much danger with this man. She’d witnessed his kindness to his mother, his pure devotion to his nephew. She felt herself drawn to him physically—and suffered nightly visions of what being intimate with him might be like.
Liking him, this wretched blackmailer with the power to bring another shower of burning scandal down upon all their heads, could not be tolerated.
“I promised my mother.” A weak excuse, indeed, considering her thoughts and actions.
“That you wouldn’t read?”
“That I wouldn’t buy any novels or take any from a lending library.”
“Yet she reads them herself.”
“She says that’s the prerogative of a married woman.”
“And you listen to her on this matter?”
She frowned, uncomfortable. No, she didn’t. “You needn’t sound so incredulous. She is my mother, after all.”
“What does that explain?”
“Everything, of course.” Obstinate man. Why wouldn’t he let this drop?
“No, nothing. You’re dodging the question.”
“I do try to be a good daughter, my lord.” Which wasn’t untrue.
“I don’t doubt it. How well do you succeed?”
“Mostly very well, on this matter, and upon others.” It wasn’t a lie. She neither bought novels nor took them from any lending library.
The way he smiled dispelled any notion that she might be fooling him. “Good. Here.” He held them out to her again. “You neither bought them, nor let them from a library.”
“I can’t.”
“Surely you must have some prerogative yourself now, as an engaged woman.”
Phoebe glanced back to Albina to ensure she and Max had sufficient privacy. Then she spoke slowly, with poisonous calm dripping from each word. “And you expect me to take advantage of what she believes when you and I both know the engagement is false?”
His entire countenance went stormy. The line of his mouth went hard—almost cruel—and the devil’s own cursed self-awareness shone from the sharp glint of his eyes.
He gave a stiff bow, exaggerated in its formality. “As it pleases you, of course, my lady, I withdraw the offer of my gift.”
Chapter Eleven
The chilly interaction outside the bookshop should have obliterated the notion that had begun to grow in Phoebe’s mind. They rode together in tense silence, neither making any attempt to lighten the mood.
But her idea would not die, no matter how she tried to quell it. Unexpectedly, Max was as full of promise as the sights and smells of springtime around them. There was one thing Phoebe wanted to discover—no, needed to discover.
If she tarried, she might lose her nerve, and if she lost her nerve, she’d never forgive herself. She wasn’t given to being craven, so why were her fingers so difficult to prevent from trembling?
They were coming around the corner to the square…almost home. The sun had hit its zenith and had begun its slow slide to the west, to the end of its journey. It was still perfectly lovely out. In this part of London, the air wasn’t so bad, smelling of stone and horses and the occasional burst of sweetness from trees or other greenery along the way. The sort of day one should spend almost entirely out of doors, if possible.
Which it wasn’t, because she had to entice Max inside. If she could only think of a plausible reason to do so.
But by the time they were before the terrace house, she was no closer to thinking of a legitimate reason than when they’d left the park.
Still scowling, he descended, then held out his hand to help her down, his mouth tight with displeasure. Their hands came together, such an innocent thing, an everyday experience. It wasn’t as if they weren’t each wearing gloves. Two layers of fabric rested between them, protecting them from the unthinkable—skin to skin contact.
She stepped down and raised her gaze to him, heat burning between them. “You must come inside.”
For a moment, it appeared he would refuse. His mouth opened, then shut again, and a hint of a forced smile touched his lips as he acknowledged her command with an inclination of his head. “As my lady wishes, of course.”
Her heart pattered behind her ribs, a jumble of nerves that would not stop jostling, no matter how deeply she inhaled into her belly.
Why be preemptively unsettled? It wasn’t as if she knew she would have the chance to attempt what she’d plotted. And, if she did, there was no guarantee Max would be the least bit receptive.
Only, everything inside her told her he would be. Which was ridiculous, considering her paucity of experience in these matters.
They came into the entrance hall and gave their things over to the waiting servant. Phoebe swallowed, her voice coming out what seemed like a full octave above what it should have been. “Is there anybody at home, Matthews?”
The footman, a tall lad with sandy hair and marks on his face from boyhood spots, nodded.
All Phoebe’s hopes crashed
.
“Your mother is lying down with a headache, my lady. The master is in his study. The other ladies are out paying morning calls.”
Then they were going to have the moment alone for which she’d schemed. “Albina, please go belowstairs and see about having hot water and refreshments sent up.” She turned to Max. “Shall we?”
He gestured for her to lead the way.
Her knees didn’t want to comply. Her legs didn’t want to support her. And since when had the staircase to the first floor become so very interminable?
Her thoughts were a scattered mess, as if a thousand dancing pieces of sunlight were reflecting off a shattered mirror.
But the climb was over too soon. Much too soon.
If she’d ever had a stomach, she’d lost it somewhere on her journey from one story to the other. It’d probably defected—run away under the barrage of terror.
Steady. She had to be steady. Men and women did this all the time. And though the engagement was false, they were technically bound to each other. At least in the eyes of the world…which might not matter, considering this was between them, but…
Oh, dash it all, if only she’d had time to weigh advantages and disadvantages. Lists always calmed her.
But this was her opportunity. She had to take it. She would take it.
No sooner had they arrived in the parlor than she quickly shut the doors behind them. Her heart struck blows against her ribcage, and her hands shook. Before Max could so much as comment, she flung herself into his arms.
And mashed her lips against his.
They stayed together like that unmoving. This was a kiss? No, surely not. She had to be doing something wrong—something terribly wrong. It was…odd.
And then it wasn’t.
Max’s arms wrapped around her. His lips softened. Their bodies gave in at the same moment, relaxing against each other and sending shivers of thrill through all the tangled fibers of her being.
Which was better, the way he smelled, or the way he felt? It was impossible to say. Both sensations invaded her fully, overwhelming her with a flood of—of something that could have only been described as want.
When his mouth opened, hers echoed his movement. Their tongues came together, tentatively at first, Phoebe alert to the all-consuming awareness of testing something entirely new with this man. With Max.