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

by Ingrid Hahn

  Max frowned at the elegant hand in which his name was penned on the outside of the note. He ran his finger under the wax seal and unfolded the paper.

  Tomorrow I’ll be paying a call upon your mother. P.

  …

  A rabble of thorn-tipped butterflies fought to escape the bounds of Phoebe’s belly as she was admitted into Lady Maxfeld’s terrace house. The flowers in the entranceway were fresh again, the arrangements in similar collections of pinks and whites that the vases had boasted upon Phoebe’s first visit. Lady Maxfeld must like those colors.

  Phoebe had come on foot this time, the carriage being required to convey Grace and some of her friends to a picnic just southeast of town, in Richmond.

  “Is her ladyship expecting you?” The servant asking gave Phoebe the wary look of one who knew that she was to be Lady Maxfeld—the long-awaited daughter-in-law, and the countess’s successor—but who also didn’t wish to disturb his mistress unnecessarily.

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  The servant, a young man with sparrow-brown hair, a narrow chin, and worry lines worn into his face, had no choice. He went off to announce her.

  Phoebe, fussing with brushing out her skirts, turned to Albina. “Is anything amiss with my apparel?”

  “Not so much as a single stitch, my lady.” Albina’s plain features warmed as she gave Phoebe a reassuring smile. If the maid were annoyed at having been asked for the fifth or sixth time since having set out this morning, she didn’t show it.

  Phoebe had only changed her mind about what she’d wear for the morning’s interview a dozen times. Nothing seemed right for the news she brought to Lady Maxfeld. Yellow, too cheery. Blue, too austere. Greens…well, she was feeling indifferent to greens these days, perhaps because Grace wore pomona so well. Whites and creams were wholly inappropriate. Shades of pink, utterly absurd. Flower prints were out of the question.

  Which left only drab shades of brown and gray.

  Those hadn’t seemed right, either.

  In the end, she’d gone back around to the yellows, her starting point, but found her least cheerful shade. It was the same color as butter turns when going into the summer season, and one of her finest afternoon gowns. This was her first time donning the garment, and would likely be her last. If she accomplished what she’d set out to do, forever after, the dress would be ugly to her.

  Phoebe swallowed. Was she about to make a horrific mistake? Drive a wedge between a mother and her son for the rest of their lives?

  The servant returned to show her up to Lady Maxfeld. Albina went belowstairs as Phoebe went up.

  And the minute Phoebe walked into the countess’s room, her resolve fled and an ocean of remorse rushed to fill the cold void.

  Lady Maxfeld’s face was soft and welcoming. If she’d had her daughter’s miniature with her today, she’d tucked the portrait out of sight before Phoebe arrived.

  “My dear. How well you look today.”

  Phoebe’s cheeks went hot. She didn’t deserve such praise. Lady Maxfeld was all too tender, all too kind to withstand the iniquity Phoebe had planned. If she had to see the older woman’s face fall, for the light to fade from her eyes…she’d never forgive herself. “Good morning, my lady.”

  “Ah. Good. You’ve arrived.” An unexpected masculine voice broke into the conversation. “Anything amiss, my sweet?”

  As Max sauntered into the room, cool and confident, Phoebe leaped to her feet, her mouth falling open. What was he doing here? She’d warned him of her intention, but she hadn’t seriously considered he might join her.

  Which, in retrospect, might have been shortsighted.

  Behind the earl trailed a squat man in distinctive somber garments. A…a clergyman? And behind him came her mother, Lady Bennington, who burst into tears the moment she caught sight of Phoebe and held out her arms to her daughter.

  Phoebe shot Max a pleading look. What was going on? She let her mother gather her into her arms. Silently she mouthed to Max, What are you doing?

  He mouthed back, Am I too late?

  She darted her eyes to Lady Maxfeld then back to Max and shook her head to indicate she’d not said anything.

  Tiny lines vanished from around his eyes, and he gave a crisp nod. Then he proceeded to ignore her. “Mother, I’m pleased to say we’ve orchestrated a surprise for you.”

  “What do you mean? Max, what is this about?” Lady Maxfeld’s words were stark, but her tone held baited hope.

  Lady Bennington released Phoebe to dab at her swollen eyes. “I don’t know when I’ve been so happy.”

  It was exactly what she’d said the day Corbeau took Grace to wife.

  Wife?

  Married!

  Surprise lurched in Phoebe.

  Into her hands, Max, still treating her with cold reserve, shoved a nosegay of yellow and purple flowers he’d been holding.

  She caught his arm and spoke in a whisper. “You don’t have to do this. I wasn’t going to tell her.”

  He met her eyes. Their gazes locked. It was only for a fraction of a second, but long enough for the hostile chill in his stare to penetrate to her insides.

  As he walked away, she only just caught what he muttered at her under his breath. “If this is what you want, my lady, this is what you shall have.”

  Mentally, Phoebe stomped her foot. He would not make her tremble and quake, he would not. She knew Max too well to be afraid of him—and if he was going to try to punish her, he was going to find himself with more trouble than he could handle.

  There would be time enough for heated words later. For now, she turned sweetly to the clergyman. “Thank you for coming today on such short notice, Mr.…?”

  “Allen, my lady.” He made a show of formal deference. “Theodore Allen.”

  Phoebe nodded as if she’d not been taken off guard by his appearance. Theodore was the name of one of the characters in the novel she was currently reading. At the reminder, she had to pause to consider the fact of how she would manage to finish the book. She wasn’t going to return to Corbeau’s terrace house after this, was she? Phoebe blinked. What was she going to do after the ceremony?

  A swift lascivious thought replaced any notion of spending the evening reading.

  She was going to be a married woman. She’d be free of her promise to her mother and free to march into any bookshop to choose what she pleased. Which is exactly what she’d do. Tomorrow. After Max had thoroughly bedded her.

  “George Tiberius, you tell me what is going on this instant.”

  Max turned to his mother. “I think you know, Mother.” He cast Phoebe a look full of such glowing affection, her own heart skipped a beat. Wretched thing that it was, it should have known better. The man was acting. Nothing more. He possessed no real feelings for her. “I couldn’t wait any longer to claim my bride.”

  At that, Lady Maxfeld melted, her lip trembling. Lady Bennington came to stand beside her old school friend and hooked her arm together with the other woman’s. “Can you believe this, Harriet?”

  Lady Maxfeld only shook her head, her mouth pressed together into a crooked line, her eyes huge and wet.

  Side by side, the contrast between Lady Maxfeld and Lady Bennington was sharp. They were the same age, and yet one appeared frail and elderly, while the other boasted youthful spirits and radiated robust health.

  Lady Maxfeld came up close to her son to whisper in his ear—quietly, though not so much so that Phoebe didn’t overhear. “Max, you’re about to be wed to a fine young lady. You needn’t look as though you’ve swallowed a bad oyster.”

  He only gave his mother a look. She leveled one right back.

  “Come.” Max held out his hand to Phoebe. “I have a special license.”

  Stepping forward, she slipped her fingers into his.

  Mr. Allen asked to see it. “Everything must be in proper order, you know.” And he gave a nasally laugh, no hint that he understood he’d indirectly impugned the earl’s word.

  Max
reached into his jacket pocket and presented the paper to the clergyman. Mr. Allen unfolded it and rocked up on his toes once while reading it. “Yes.” He nodded. “All well and good.”

  This was it. She was about to have everything for which she’d asked. Would it be worth it? There was no remedy for the marriage state. That is, no plausible remedy. Once wed, they would be knotted together for eternity.

  She sent a sly glance sideways to study his strong profile.

  The ceremony proceeded. It sped by in a blur—but for a single part. As Max slipped the cold gold band on her finger, his low voice recited his vow. “With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.”

  Their eyes locked. Phoebe’s heart slipped into a happy niche. He was the right person. Everything in her yearned to call him hers and hear him call her his in return.

  But afterward, he turned away, his features hard. The newfound joy quickly dissipated, and her hopes sunk into a dark abyss. Threats and blackmail and fear were no way to begin a marriage.

  Maybe it was too late.

  Maybe it was over before it had ever begun.

  Her bones went heavy. All the things that had brought them here today might well have poisoned what could have grown between them.

  Chapter Seventeen

  A persistent ringing in Max’s ears made hearing difficult, especially over the hard beat of his pulse.

  Devil take him, he’d done it. Gotten himself married. Gone against everything he’d ever sworn. His mother and hers had cried. The clergyman had intoned. The ceremony had lasted forever—dragged on and on and on. Until suddenly it hadn’t and it was over and it’d lasted no time at all.

  Married. It didn’t seem real.

  Yet, here he was, handing Phoebe into the barouche. She still clutched the flowers he’d brought her—and looked at least as dazed as he felt.

  They settled next to each other on the bench seat.

  It was partially overcast and a bit cool, with a bit of a breeze fluttering off and on down the streets with lazy carelessness—much as it had been before he’d entered his mother’s house. Odd. Shouldn’t the world somehow reflect that everything was different?

  “Oh!” Phoebe stood and made as if to climb down again. “We forgot Albina. I must—”

  He caught her by the hand.

  Damn him if his prick wasn’t demanding attention. Not the usual attention, either. After nearly a lifetime under his right hand, it was rallying a rebellion. It wanted a new master. It wanted her.

  Insurrectionist bastard thing it was, his cursed cock.

  “Your maid will come later. It’s been arranged. She will return to Corbeau’s house and pack your things.”

  Phoebe sank slowly back down. With some regret?

  The idea plunged a sliver of glass into his heart. “You wanted this.” His voice rumbled. He told the coachman to get them underway.

  “You say that as if making good on a threat.” She didn’t look up, just brushed at her pale skirts idly, head partially bent.

  “There’s no going back.” Holy hell, why did she have to smell so nice?

  “Are you saying that for my benefit, my lord, or your own?”

  His, really. “You’re going to regret this.”

  “Another threat?”

  “A stark reality, I’m afraid.”

  Was his cockstand ever going to subside? He’d withstood plenty of other afternoons in her presence without such boiling hot lust burning through his veins.

  Because then she’d not been his.

  The back of his mind wouldn’t relent. Wife, wife, wife, came the voice, faint but persistent. With the word came a whole host of lurid visions. Stripping her bare and gently pushing her back on his bed and feasting on every last inch of her exposed skin. Touching her. Being touched. And then…

  His erection pulsed. If he allowed his thoughts to overrun him, he might be in need of new breeches by the time he reached home. Wouldn’t want to have to explain that one to Digsby.

  “Have you so little faith in me?” Her words came out with the slight pressure of strain.

  “Were you really going to tell my mother that I’d blackmailed you into a false engagement?”

  “Were you really going to tell the world about Isabel?”

  No. “I don’t know.”

  “When will Thomas come to stay with us?”

  “Next week. It’s been arranged.”

  “It’s been arranged, it’s been arranged, it’s been arranged. I suppose by that you mean you’ve made the arrangements, no?”

  He said nothing. He wanted to claim no credit. No involvement that would show how he’d danced to her tune.

  She nodded. “I thought so. You’ve been busy for these past, oh, twenty-four hours or so, haven’t you?”

  They rode the rest of the way in silence. When they came to his terrace house, he couldn’t help himself. He allowed himself a surreptitious glance. What was her first impression of the place? Did she think she would be happy here?

  Happy, perhaps, with a strange sort of half-life under the terms he would set between them. They had much to speak about. How would he ever broach the subject? It’d been out of his command prior to marrying her. Maybe if he’d explained she wouldn’t have…

  But it was too late now, wasn’t it?

  Why hadn’t he spoken? Did some perverse part of him want this? Her misery would be on his head.

  The sting of the reminder was so sharp, he couldn’t meet her eye as he helped her down from the carriage.

  Before setting out with the clergyman to collect Lady Bennington, he’d arranged for the servants to greet their new mistress upon their return.

  Despite the short notice, they appeared their best. Eagerness and curiosity were written upon all the faces. Max walked Phoebe down the line, introducing each in turn.

  Before he’d reached the end, a small measure of gratification had wormed its way into his emotional landscape.

  Pride, really, if he were honest. Damn everything else. At the root of this, she was his, now and ever after.

  “The state of these floors can’t be helped, I’m afraid. The workmen have assured me that they’ll be finished by the end of this week. That is exactly what I was told last week, though.”

  “It’s the nature of undertaking improvements, I’m told.” Phoebe smiled. “I’m sure it will be lovely once it’s completed.”

  “Mrs. Bryant.” Max turned his attention to the housekeeper. “Won’t you show Lady Maxwell the house?”

  Krum dismissed the rest of the servants.

  Phoebe touched Max’s arm. “Why don’t you show me the house?”

  “I have business that cannot wait, I’m afraid.” By which he meant the business of getting himself as far from her as possible. There was a nice long bout of fencing in his future. Anything to wear him to the bone. He couldn’t return home until he was far, far too weary to do anything but collapse into bed.

  Alone.

  …

  Phoebe sat at the dressing table in the mistress’s chamber while Albina brushed her hair. It was a fine room, if a trifle old-fashioned. When the floors were completed, she would decorate it in a way more suited to her tastes.

  Max still hadn’t returned from whatever business had called him away this afternoon. Thankfully, she’d had plenty to occupy her. Mrs. Bryant had brought the household accounts for her to review, she’d discussed the next month’s menu with the cook in excruciating detail, and Albina had come with trunks to unpack. All her clothes being so new, she’d sidestepped the insinuation that she should have a bridal trousseau. Corbeau would have paid, even if her mother was the one offering, and he’d already done so much—and so goodheartedly, too.

  Normally, Phoebe would have left the task of unpacking to the maid so as not to encroach on her territory or be in her way. But going through her clothing proved a soothing remedy to her jumbled nerves.

  The strangest part of the day was
dining alone. Never once in her entire life had she ever—ever—sat to a meal by herself. Occasionally, she’d appear in the breakfast room before the rest of the house joined her, but that had happened rarely.

  Which wasn’t to say this whole business hadn’t been strange. To be without her mother or sisters…

  Truthfully, though, she’d always believed that when she married she’d miss them terribly. That she’d mourn her old life and pine to return to the way things had been. If those feelings were to surface, however, they were still too deeply hidden away to know they were rising.

  “I think that will do for this evening, Albina.”

  “Will there be anything else, my lady?”

  “I think not.” She paused. Would there be anything to read in the library? She’d caught sight of the books the house boasted during the tour. Mrs. Bryant had proudly brought her to each room, closet, spotless nook, and dustless cranny, but, in the library, she hadn’t had time to glance over titles.

  It would feel strange wandering downstairs when the house was abed.

  Then again, she was mistress of the place. She held out her hand to admire the gold ring gleaming from her left hand. Why shouldn’t she go about when and as she pleased?

  “On second thought…” Phoebe turned in her seat. Albina took a step back from the door to attend. “On second thought, I think I will have my tea this evening, as per usual.”

  When the maid was gone, Phoebe studied her reflection in the mirror. She bit her lips to draw out color and pinched her cheeks, then turned her head from side to side. In the dim light, the shadows changed her facial characteristics. What did Max see when he looked upon her face?

  She pushed away from the dressing table and wandered to the other side of the room to poke at the fire, floorboards creaking as she went.

  If her husband thought he could avoid her, he was going to be surprised.

  Phoebe came near to the bed, casting a suspicious glance upon layers of linen and feathers and wool, as if they might hold the secrets to everything she longed to know about the married state.

  There was a small pile of books on the little table adjacent the bed. She swallowed. They’d been tied in a yellow ribbon and left with a small pink rosebud atop the stack. She slipped the note out from under the tie.