by Ingrid Hahn
Despite her inner upset, her mother’s comment tugged a little smile on her lips. Phoebe began putting away her sewing notions, letting her mother talk.
“Then Jane running away to be a governess. Really, have you ever heard of anything so absurd? And you and Lord Maxfeld’s secret engagement. And then there’s Isabel, remaining as companion to her aunt well after the time she doesn’t need to be. Oh, I admire her loyalty, to be sure. That said, for myself I should so like to have her about again.”
Isabel could never be discussed without the full weight of her sister’s secret pressing upon Phoebe’s conscience. She wouldn’t break her sister’s confidence, but sometimes she wished Isabel had kept her secret to herself. Which was nothing but despicably selfish—but it was hard, knowing what she knew and being unable to speak.
Lady Bennington went on. “Her aunt claims to need her, but I think she’s grown accustomed to Isabel, and we none of us like change, goodness knows. But soon she’ll be married and—”
Phoebe started. “Isabel? Married?” When had this happened? And why hadn’t anybody told her?
“Don’t mistake me. There is no engagement, nor any presumption of one, either. At least, not that I know of.” She gave her daughter a sour look, no doubt referring to Phoebe’s proclaimed history with Lord Maxfeld. “What I mean is, it’s only a matter of time.”
“I’m sorry we originally became engaged secretly, Mama. We should never have kept our intentions from you, not even at the outset. It was wrong.” And so was apologizing for that of which she was not guilty. However, knowing she wasn’t guilty and feeling as if she weren’t guilty were two entirely different matters.
It was starting to seem like she was in well over her head.
“I won’t pretend I wouldn’t have preferred there was no secrecy, but I know why you felt you had to act as you did.”
“You do?”
“I do.” Her mother gave one sharp nod. “But you’re wrong. I think better of Lord Maxfeld than you believe, my girl. I observed him carefully when we stayed at Sutterton Grange late last fall, and he’s too much his mother’s son for me to believe everything that’s said about him. Some things, yes.” Her mouth turned down at the corners. “Unfortunately, I know all too well that what is said about people isn’t always true.”
Phoebe bit her tongue as Grace entered the drawing room, precluding Phoebe from asking what her mother meant about Max being his mother’s son.
A whole new flush of guilt twisted her belly at the sight of her sister.
Grace was shaking her head. “You’ll never guess who we’ve been trapped into inviting for dinner next week.”
“Lady Rushworth?” Phoebe blinked when Grace and her mother both gave her the same horrified expression, looking very much alike. “Well, she’s the worst person I can imagine.”
“In some ways, I’d almost rather have Lady Rushworth.” Grace took the seat beside Lady Bennington. “I came upon Cousin Bickham and his wife coming out of—well, never mind that, but somehow he managed to twist my words all around—I meant only to be polite—and the next thing I knew, I felt obliged to invite them. I tried to hedge by saying sometime, but you know Serena, she pressed me. I had no choice.”
“If they want to repair the damage they caused after revoking their welcome, let them.” Phoebe inhaled and continued. “Besides, if they hadn’t, we never would have gone to Sutterton Grange, and Grace and Lord Corbeau never would have been locked together in that storeroom and become engaged. Really, one meal and the right to boast of being at the Corbeau table is something to which they’re entitled.”
There was a silence. Lady Bennington opened her mouth, but Grace spoke first. “You’re right, Phoebe. It’s just one dinner. And the Fairleighs are in town, so I suppose the same principle must be applied to them.”
Phoebe omitted mention of having seen Cecelia Fairleigh at the bookshop.
All this hateful lying. All this hateful deception. And yet she was bound to silence.
Too conflicted to remain any longer with her mother and sister, she rose. “I think it’s time I practice my instrument.”
Lady Bennington raised her brow and gave her daughter a suspicious look. “You’re awfully given to practicing these days, my dear. Any particular reason why?”
Because I want Max to be proud of me.
Her mind in disarray at the stunning realization, Phoebe tried to affect an air of disregard. She tossed one shoulder and tucked her sewing box beside the chair, not trusting herself to answer.
…
I would choose you…
His words haunted him. What savage ghost had taken hold of his soul and wrenched the horrific admission from his lips?
Max stumbled down from the conveyance, blinking his eyes as if they might help him anchor in the present. Before him was his mother’s terrace house. The late afternoon sun soaked the pale facade in lemony light.
His hand went to his brow, and he rubbed the hard plane. It must already be happening. He must be going mad. For he swore he could smell crushed almonds.
Phoebe.
But they’d been parted for upward of an hour. It was far too long for her scent to be clinging to him.
If only he could reach inside his skull and tear out the foul disease that would claim his reason as it had claimed his father before him.
His stomach turned. With the last vestiges of his remaining integrity, he would put an end to this charade.
He stumbled into the house and was greeted by Crawford, the white-haired, ruddy-faced butler with a regrettably extensive flap of loose skin below his chin. Crawford’s work for the family predated Max by three decades. “Is she resting?”
Until his mother was ready for him, he could wait in the library with a decanter of sherry for company while he contemplated making amends for his duplicity.
The servant took Max’s things. “Your mother is in the upstairs drawing room with young Master Thomas.”
No time to agonize over his sins, then. It was probably for the best.
The door was open when Max drew close. He paused outside, watching the scene before him. Thomas lay on his stomach, propped up on his elbows, a large wooden horse in one hand, a small tin soldier in the other, with several of the toy’s brethren scattered close by. Small legs kicked in the air.
This child had taken root in the pure part of him—the part Max would never have guessed existed until the boy’s birth. The day young Thomas had come into the world, Max had received word via messenger. Though it’d been two in the morning, he’d gone to visit the new arrival, utterly unaware of what was in store for him.
The boy’s father had been holding the tiny sleeping bundle. Truthfully, at first glance, the babe hadn’t been much to look at. Red. Wrinkled. Puffy. Recognizable as human, but only just.
There had been a light shining from Thomas’s father’s eyes when he’d gazed upon his offspring. Lady Maxfeld, still healthy and robust in those days, had swept in from Juliet’s room to report how well the new mother fared, tears of joy welling in her eyes when she leaned to place a gentle kiss on her grandson’s tiny forehead.
Then the newborn child had been placed in Max’s arms. And something had happened. Something enormous and entirely indescribable.
But it had changed his world. Forever. The memory would live with him always, each second etched in exquisite detail.
The babe in his arms had been light and small. Yet the child had redefined everything that was truly important in the world. Moreover, with Thomas’s birth, they’d been reborn as a family. They’d been reborn in hope.
Now the boy was an orphan.
Juliet and her husband might be gone, but hope remained in the child. Furthermore, Max couldn’t let Thomas forget he’d been so loved.
Unseen, Max turned and pressed his back against the wall. Without quite realizing he’d done so, he found the handkerchief Phoebe had embroidered for him and brought the fabric to his nose. The sweet smell of her drew her
instantly to mind, invoking all the feelings that had sent him spinning out of control after the kiss.
But it wasn’t powerful enough to override the force of his feeling for Thomas. He had to have the boy. He must do this.
Was it too late?
Chapter Fourteen
Phoebe was by the fire dressed for bed, finishing her tea as she raced through the pages to the end of her book, when a maid came into her chamber.
Scrambling to right herself from the sprawling position she’d taken over two chairs, bottom on one, feet on the other, she crammed the book into the cushion lest Lady Bennington be searching for her novel and the servant be duty bound to report where she’d seen it.
“Yes?” Phoebe’s throat squeaked the word. She swallowed and tried again, lower this time—and hopefully sounding normal. “Yes?”
The girl shut the door gently and stepped forward—Fanny, she was called. She had a narrow face, close-set eyes, and a shy demeanor. “A message for you, my lady.”
Anticipation, equal parts eager and alarmed, leaped within her. Max. It had to be from him.
Phoebe steadied her internal agitation with a deep breath and took the sealed paper from the tray.
“Will there be anything else, my lady?”
“Wait a moment, will you? In case I need to send a reply.”
Phoebe went to stand beside the branch of candles set on the mantelpiece, less for the light—she’d been reading well enough by the glow of the fire—and more to shield her face from view. It wouldn’t do for an unschooled expression to inadvertently reveal her inner thoughts to Fanny.
If you haven’t said anything yet, don’t. Meet me tomorrow morning at eight in the garden in Brunswick Square. We need to talk.
Your servant et cetera, M.
Phoebe reread the scant lines, searching for any hints to what the writer’s internal feeling must have been at the time he’d penned the note.
Oh, what did she care for any of this? She hadn’t wanted to be drawn into his web in the first place. Had it not been for Isabel, she wouldn’t have had any part of his nonsense.
But there had been Isabel. And Phoebe had been drawn in…far enough not to want out again.
Her eyes fell back to the note. He’d rejected her so ruthlessly. Was he going to repent?
Folding the paper, she nodded at Fanny. “No reply. Thank you, that will do for now. Oh…forgive me, just one thing, if you please.”
Fanny halted.
“Please tell Albina she and I will need to leave the house no later than seven tomorrow morning.”
“Very good, my lady.” The maid curtsied and left.
Phoebe sunk back on the chair. If there wasn’t anything to be taken from the words, maybe there would be something she could see in the handwriting. She took the sheet in both hands, tilting it to the firelight, searching for even the faintest insight. Not having seen any previous sample of Max’s writing made the exercise impossible.
Eight in the morning. Who was up and about at such an hour? She wrinkled her nose. Apparently she would be.
What tomorrow would bring at Brunswick Square, it would bring. Lost in thought, she wandered to the fire and dropped the paper into the flames.
Birds. They were the ones up at such an ungodly portion of the day. And apparently, London boasted quite a few more than Phoebe would have guessed. Whistles and calls and trills of all varieties rang out in the still, dewy morning, where gauzy clouds sauntered lazily in the brilliant blue sky.
She and her maid had elected to walk—the better to be properly awakened from a truncated night’s sleep.
Although she needn’t have worried. Even having woken an hour prior to the time she’d wanted, she wasn’t the least fatigued. Quite the contrary.
Going through the streets of Mayfair in the early light made Phoebe feel nothing if not conspicuous. Perhaps she ought to have called for the carriage.
No, that would have disrupted the household far too much. She’d never have slipped out unnoticed. As it was, there would be far too many questions upon her return, which wouldn’t be for quite some time, for she still had to see Isabel. Better to field them then, however, than be stopped from going at all.
Rounding the corner into the square, she caught sight of the garden. A black wrought iron fence encircled a small park of newly leafed greenery. They came to the gate. Albina, in her ever-silent way, kept a respectful distance, and Phoebe pulled the passageway open. The metal let out a jarring high-pitched squeak.
A few steps through an archway twined with vines, and the space opened to reveal a microcosm of Eden. Bushes and trees of all varieties stood on the brink of bursting into violent bloom. Had there been a few frolicking animals and a smattering of fruit trees, the picture would have been perfect.
And, of course, no Eden would be complete without temptation.
Phoebe’s stomach dropped when he turned and caught sight of her. An expression flashed over his features, at once harsh and determined, and not a small measure possessive.
A wave of longing went over her, and time slowed.
How much had changed. And in such a slim span of time. How was it possible? Was she deceived? Was there some wicked part of her controlling her better sense—the part of her that wanted to find herself in this man’s bed?
She might never know.
But what if she were being controlled by a heretofore unknown wickedness lurking in her soul? It didn’t feel bad. But that’s what wickedness was, wasn’t it? Doing what felt good, felt right, while knowing it was wholly wrong.
Everything about Max was wrong.
And so unbearably right.
Part god, part warrior king, part demon.
Raking together the scattered scraps of her courage, Phoebe, her lips slightly parted, willed her legs to move toward him, this towering man with his unblinking gaze locked upon her.
A light breeze fluttered through the trees, toying with the long locks of his shining hair.
His voice rumbled through the morning. “We’re going to see this through.”
There was a silence. “And?”
“That’s all. We’re going to see this through. I have no choice.”
“By ‘see this through’ I presume you mean the false engagement—not that you mean to marry me.”
“I will marry nobody.”
Her brows arched. “That’s what you brought me here to say?”
Max stole a glance behind her—presumably at Albina. “Yes.”
Phoebe frowned and angled her head down, sending him a challenging glower. “You couldn’t have written it in a note?”
“What if someone other than you had read the note?”
“And letters aren’t inflammable?” She crossed her arms. “I think you wanted to see me.”
A beat passed in tense silence. Then he tossed his hands in the air. “Of course I wanted to see you. You don’t know what it is to be near you.” Though his expression twisted into pain, the texture of his voice turned to velvet. “I’m never near enough, not to you.”
Never near enough?
Yes, that’s how it was. Exactly. In a few simple words, he’d captured everything she felt.
Phoebe was going all in. “There’s a remedy.”
Anguish marred his face. “You know I can’t.”
“We’re going to see this through, my lord. This is no longer a false engagement, but a real one. We will marry.”
“We don’t know each other. Feelings, even feelings this strong, fade.”
“Not true. I have been a guest at Sutterton Grange, and we spent more time together at Corbeau Park last Christmas.”
“You disliked me rather intensely then.”
“But now I understand what I was seeing. I have the bigger picture.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying. Whatever it is you think you see, you’re wrong.”
“Max, pay me the compliment of believing that I am capable of using my eyes and my mind. I do darn socks,
after all.”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow.”
“What I mean is, I can see your soul needs darning.”
“Sorry?”
She narrowed her eyes upon him. “I think you know what I mean.”
“I’m not a fallen angel you can redeem, my lady.”
“I’m glad to know it. In my experience, people can’t be redeemed by others. Helped, maybe. If they want help. They can redeem themselves only if and when they so choose. But I don’t think you need redemption, my lord.”
“No?”
“No.”
“All right.” He inclined his head. “What is it you think I need?”
“Me.”
“I can’t.”
“Give me one good reason.”
“You’ll have to trust me.”
“Trust a blackmailer?”
His eyes assumed a steely glow, as if he thought he had the winning hand. “You’re willing to marry one.”
Unfortunately for him, Phoebe had already considered the obvious. “That’s entirely different.”
“Funny, I thought—”
“And what happens when you take your nephew from your mother and break the engagement? What then? What if she sees through your ploy and demands him back?”
“She’s not fit to care for the boy. He has his nursery maid, but—”
“Your mother loves him.”
“Of course she does.” His voice was rife with stress. He appeared to be holding himself in careful control lest he snap. “We all do. He’s everything we have left of Juliet.”
“Then you’re willing to break with your mother over your nephew? I don’t want that. When we marry—”
“You think you’re doing this for my mother, then?”
“Well, somebody ought to do for your mother, if you won’t.” Phoebe drew upon her inner strength, speaking with more tenderness than she wanted to at this particular juncture. “You stand to lose a lot from this scheme. You might lose your friendship with Lord Corbeau. Your mother. And your self-respect is at some risk as well, I don’t doubt, though I’m sure you’d deny it now. Why are you doing this?”
“I’m doing it for Thomas.”