by Ingrid Hahn
One boldness gave way to another. She mirrored the way his tongue played with hers, rolling and twining, the silken sensation drawing forth a previously unknown intensity of longing between her legs. Longing to touch and be touched. Was that something a man and woman did together? Touch each other in those places they concealed from the world? The thought was rousing.
As if answering her question, his hand went down the length of her body. He moaned, breaking the kiss to whisper her name. “Phoebe.”
“Max.”
“We shouldn’t be doing this.” His voice was gruff, and his lips ran the length of her neck, breath warming her skin.
“I know.” She stroked her fingers down the back of his neck.
“We have to stop.”
“Yes.”
Their lips met again. This time, his hands went down her back until they came all the way to the swell of her backside. His fingers clutched her. They were close. Unbelievably close. Her breasts crushed against his chest. He was warm. Big. Male. And hard, too—one particular part rather more obviously so than the rest of his firm physique.
A rush of power shot straight to her head. To have an effect such as this on a man like Max was cause for no small measure of pride.
Finally, he wrenched away. Both of them were breathing deeply. Phoebe stared up at him, searching his eyes for any hint of regret and not too certain she didn’t find any.
He moved to open the doors again. She went to the other side of the room, stroking her skirts as if smoothing the fabric might help her regain control. She ran the tips of her fingers over her lips. She’d wanted to discover what it would be like to kiss him. All that charged banter in the park had planted the notion in her brain until she wasn’t able to help herself.
Now she knew. And she’d never be the same. There was no going back, no way to unlearn what she now knew…thank heavens.
How could people continue in their ordinary lives? How did they contain themselves once they’d stumbled upon the forbidden fruits of their desires?
Assuming other people had desires.
Oh, they must. She couldn’t be singular in what she’d done or how she felt. If she had been, Max wouldn’t have responded as he had.
And he had responded.
“Are you all right, my lady?”
She turned to him, back straight, alive with a dual awareness of his proximity and this new, strange, and exciting part of herself. “I’m sorry?”
“I didn’t…” Max ran his fingers through his hair. No, there wasn’t regret in his face. But there was guilt. “I didn’t frighten you, did I?”
Phoebe started. “Frighten me?”
A maid arrived with hot water, the girl’s linear face placid and without the least hint of curiosity. Fortunately, Phoebe and Max’s interlude had escaped notice.
They were silent until she left.
“Forgive me, my lady, but I don’t think I can stay.”
“Of course you can.” She would keep her composure, she would. Her whole life might have burst open into glorious bloom with that kiss, but that didn’t mean she’d go soft in the head. If he left now, she might not have the courage to face him later—too much time for her mind to spin the scenario out of control. “Sit down. And don’t fall back to the ‘my lady’ business after that.”
“Phoebe, forgive me.” He sounded tortured. Indeed, his expression suggested he suffered some measure of pain. “I shouldn’t have allowed that to happen.”
Why should the man be in pain over what had happened? It’d been perfectly lovely.
“What a fine compliment you pay me with your contrition.” She fixed the tea and set him an icy sidelong glance. “‘Allowed’ is one of those words best applied carefully. You are not responsible for me. I was a willing participant. In fact, I remember instigating the…entanglement.”
“Entanglement.” He let out a single laugh. “Yes, well…” His humor fading, he took the cup and saucer, wisps of steam curling up from the clear reddish-brown surface. “You don’t understand. I pride myself on control. It never should have happened.”
That could only mean he’d lost control. And if control was good and losing control was bad—no, that couldn’t be right. To her mind there was nothing to be said for control if it meant abstaining from kisses. She would have smiled for the pleasure that knowledge brought—for it was gratifying—except in the wake of his distress, it wouldn’t have been appropriate.
She remained silent, considering his words as best she could while still spinning from the kiss. “There are many ‘nevers’ in your life.”
“What do you mean?”
“You will never do this, you will never do that. I’m tired of hearing about them. Make up a rule of something you’re going to do—a good one.”
He scowled. “That’s ridiculous.”
“No, it’s not. It’s to keep balance, you see. The best advantages versus disadvantages lists carry equal weight in each column.”
“I doubt that there are an equal number of advantages as there are disadvantages to any one given consideration.”
She shrugged. “I think you’re terribly behind on balancing out your rules. You have some for what you must never do. Well then, it follows you must have an equal number about those things you must do.”
“That carries a certain amount of logic, I suppose.”
“You suppose? Well. Thank you for your confidence, my lord, I’m sure.”
“Phoebe—”
“If you think I’m going to relent, you’re much mistaken.”
He pressed his lips together, saying nothing.
“Try it. And don’t make it something like, ‘I must always have a cup of tea before bed.’ That’s not in the spirit of the task.”
“I don’t drink tea before bed. Who drinks tea before bed?”
“Tea and a book…” She waved. Books were still a sore subject, and apparently Max had yet to discover the pleasure in such a ritual. “Never mind. This is about you. Go on, try it.”
“All right.”
There was a pause.
“Well?”
“I must have a moment to think.”
She stared at him, struck by a sudden thought.
He’d raised his cup halfway to his lips, caught her eye, and set it back down in the saucer. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Am I looking at you in a particular way?” Her gaze went to his mouth. That beautiful, wicked mouth. If it had entertained with so much delight for naught more than a few minutes, imagine what it’d be capable of had they more time.
“Like you’ve just discovered a puzzle you’re determined to figure out.”
She looked back up into his eyes, taking a moment to consider before speaking. Should she admit her idea to him? Or should she give herself more time to think on the matter? It wasn’t the sort of thing into which one rushed. No, indeed. She ought to weigh both advantages and disadvantages carefully before uttering so much as the most obscure hint.
However, she did not. “I have rather a puzzle, come to think of it.”
“Care to share with me?”
“I was thinking of scandal. Specifically, I was thinking about how I’d like to avoid it at all costs.”
His forehead creased. “And how does what happened between us fall into line with wanting to avoid scandal?”
It was her turn to raise her brows at him. “You don’t know? You can’t think of one very simple, very easy way for us to avoid the scandal of a broken engagement?”
Was she going to say it?
“Do enlighten me, I beg of you.” His tone was dry, but he spoke almost offhandedly, as if nothing she could say would surprise him.
“Well…” Oh, she had no doubts she was about to cause him a good shock. Was she going to say it? Yes. Yes, I am. Phoebe took a shaky breath into her tight lungs. “We could marry.”
Chapter Twelve
Max’s skin stung, prickling and itching, as if he were about to break ou
t into a million tiny painful red welts. His ribs suddenly became a locked cage.
He was a convict hearing his sentence of transportation and not being able to comprehend his fate. His voice came out raspy. “You jest, of course, my lady.”
“In fact, I don’t…Max.”
“Phoebe.” He searched her face—those features that would be burned into his mind until his dying day, now that he’d tasted her, felt her, been tempted beyond anything he’d ever experienced. “You don’t understand.”
“Are you already married?”
“No.”
“Were you ever?”
“Of course not.” Why did she have to remain so calm, so composed? “A woman like you ought to marry for love. And only for love.”
“Oh, no. I’d far rather marry for rational reasons. Did you make a promise to someone that you would never marry?”
“No. Yes.”
“Which is it?” She sipped her tea, her eyes never leaving him, unruffled as could be. She probably would have discussed the most tedious details of the previous night’s stuffy musicale with more intensity than she was displaying now.
“I made a promise…to myself.” Overwrought, Max pushed to his feet and went to the other side of the room.
This is what being an animal snared in a trap must feel like. Twisting and writhing to escape with absolutely no hope of ever doing so.
“For good reason?”
“The best of reasons.” He was making a far bigger deal of this than the situation merited. Taking a deep breath—she’d made little more than a suggestion, after all, she couldn’t force his hand, so to speak—he faced her. “If only you could see…you would understand.”
“Make me see.”
The words threatened to tear from his throat. If he started, he wouldn’t be able to stop. If he exposed himself, he’d be entirely at her mercy. And when she knew—knew about the true depths of his father’s madness—she’d hate him.
“I…can’t.”
“You can’t marry?” She looked incredulous.
“I can’t.” And he couldn’t. It was one of the sacred tenants of his existence. The first was don’t marry. The next two were don’t bed a woman and don’t, under any circumstances, beget a child.
His nephew was his chance to be a father—the closest he could endeavor to come. That said, even if the boy hadn’t been his one opportunity, Max would have been just as relentless in his pursuit of taking guardianship of his nephew. Thomas was his one last link to Juliet. “Why the devil would you suggest such nonsense?”
“I’m an excellent judge of character. And in the eyes of the world…” She gave him a significant look.
Of course she meant that in the eyes of the world they were already engaged.
“That doesn’t seem like a good enough reason to me.”
“Any reason to keep scandal at bay is a good enough reason for me.”
“And what’s this excellent judge of character nonsense? You don’t even like me.”
“That’s entirely false. I do like you. And I think we’d get on well together.”
His heart gave a pang. For he liked her, as well. Far too much.
Blast it all.
“A week ago you didn’t.”
She rose. “Max, a week ago, I saw only what the rest of the world saw. Which, I have no doubt, is what you wanted them to see. Then you blackmailed me—not your finest moment, I’ll grant you. But having been close to you, I’ve begun to see who you are. That is, who you really are. The real you that you keep hidden away under a layer of armor.”
The armor she was wrong about. He didn’t live under metal plating. He’d built a whole bloody stronghold.
Never in all of his adult years had his private turmoil been more acute. His inner fortress was under siege. For the first time ever, the barred, guarded, and defended door was in danger of being breached.
He who’d prided himself on keeping perfect control in the face of his worst temptations could so easily crumble—if it meant having her.
Lord save him.
Max looked away and when his head came up again, she’d moved close. The crushed almond perfume of her brought his inner torment to a boiling rage.
Why did she have to be so beautiful? Who in their right mind could call this woman plain? Couldn’t they see what he saw? The fearlessness. The intelligence. This was a woman who wouldn’t be set down by life—by anybody—no matter what happened to her.
And he was going to drench her in another scandal by insisting upon breaking the engagement.
Oh, what the devil was he thinking? There was no engagement, not between them, which is where it mattered. That was the lifeline that would keep him from drowning.
All the same… How could he refuse her request? How could he be the cause of subjecting her once again to rumor and censure?
Because he was who he was, and that’s the way it had to be. If his father hadn’t been mad, if there wasn’t the danger of passing on the ailments—or worse, a risk that he might one day fall mad himself—it might have been different.
He could never put Phoebe through what his father had put his mother through. He would never risk putting a child through what his father had put him and Juliet through.
As for Thomas, Max had extracted a promise from Corbeau. If Max ever went mad, his friend would take the boy and raise him as his own. There was nobody Max trusted more than Corbeau, and if he—Max—ever began exhibiting symptoms, his friend wouldn’t hesitate to step in on the boy’s behalf.
“Please believe me…” Staring into the dark depths of her eyes, he could barely whisper the words. They came out gravely, as if being torn from his throat. “Phoebe, please believe me when I say that if I could marry, and I can’t, I would choose you.”
Wrong.
No sooner had he spoken than her face mirrored what his admission must have done to her insides. Never had her eyes been wider. Her lips parted, but if she could have spoken, she didn’t.
When he made to take her hands, she stepped beyond his reach, her head bowed. He’d hurt her.
In that moment, whatever was left of his black old heart was forever ruined.
“This was a mistake.” Somehow he was able to speak through the cloud of self-hatred radiating from his skin, poisoning the very air around him. “My lady, how can you ever forgive me for what I have done?”
She gave him a sidelong glance. “You know my feelings, my lord. If you care to atone, you know what I want.”
“Ask anything of me—anything. Anything but that.”
“But you said you would choose me.” Phoebe faced him, vulnerability in her eyes that could not be anything but rare. “I ask you why we can’t, and all you do is hedge. You say, if I knew, I would understand.”
“Can’t you take me at my word?”
Thrusting up her chin, she didn’t hesitate with her retort. “No, it seems I cannot.”
“You have one favor from me. Is this going to be your wish?” His insides were hollow.
For a long moment, it seemed she would say yes.
In the end, however, she looked away with a sigh. “I want to. But no. No, I won’t.”
“Then I can only hope one day you’ll thank me.” He stormed to the door but stopped at the threshold to glance back over his shoulder. “It’s over—all of it. I was a fool. I can only beg your forgiveness that I ever conceived of such a preposterous notion.”
Chapter Thirteen
I would choose you… I would choose you… For hours, Max’s low voice echoed again and again within the chambers of her mind. What did it mean? But Phoebe was no closer to understanding than she’d been when he’d left.
“What’s wrong, my dear?”
Phoebe looked up from her darning. Her mother approached. The hour had grown late. “Wrong, Mama?”
“It’s not like you to be so glum, my girl.”
“The servants have been talking, haven’t they?” It was as much a deflection as anything el
se. The engagement might have ended, but nobody needed to know. Not yet. As it was, all would be revealed much too soon.
Never do today what could be put off until tomorrow. It was the opposite of Phoebe’s natural inclinations, but she remained too raw to endure the questioning and pity that would fall upon her after the announcement.
As to that, thank goodness her mother had come. Phoebe was in dire need of a diversion.
“Well.” Lady Bennington seated herself next to the soft glow of the fire, arranging her skirts as she always did. She always said it never hurt to appear to an advantage, no matter where, no matter when.
It was probably a piece of pride clung to during those long years of relying on charity. They hadn’t been easy for her. In retrospect, Phoebe could see what a lot of time and energy her mother devoted to always putting on her bravest face and reframing every situation to see the good instead of the bad.
“I might have heard that Lord Maxfeld appeared to be in something of a state when he left this afternoon, yes. And I won’t pry, really I won’t, my dear, but if perhaps there might have been a lover’s quarrel…”
Setting down her stitching, Phoebe stretched her fingers. When had they grown so stiff? From the vicinity of her belly came a rude noise. “Why do we eat so late in London?”
“You haven’t misplaced your appetite.” Lady Bennington relaxed into the back of her chair, but her gaze remained curious. “That’s something. Are you still going to see Isabel tomorrow?”
“Of course.”
“If the topic arises, pray tell her again that she’s welcome to stay with us anytime she pleases.”
With a small degree of melancholy edging in upon her mood, Phoebe glanced away. “She knows that, Mama.”
“How in the world did I raise four such stubborn girls? Grace was a horse led to water—a thirsty horse at that—where Corbeau was concerned, but she steadfastly refused to drink.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial tone, although what she said was no secret. She proclaimed as much minimally once per day. “I thank our Lord every day for making her come to her senses.”