by Ingrid Hahn
Perfect. This was her opening, and she pounced. “What about accompanying us, then? Just to see me through the first few months, until I get my bearings.” If Phoebe could persuade the woman to accompany them, she had no intention of letting her leave. Living alone at her age—it was unthinkable. She was family. She needed them as much as they needed her. But that particular point was for another day. “And it wouldn’t be so terrible for Thomas to have you around, either.”
Harriet drew back, eyes widening, head shaking. “Oh, no. No, no, no. Out of the question. Quite impossible, in fact.”
The dowager’s reply wasn’t her final answer. It was merely the opening to negotiation.
“I know, the travel might be difficult. We could take the journey slowly.”
“It’s not just that.” The older woman bit her lip, looking troubled. Her worried eyes fixed on her son, giving Phoebe a fair notion of what she might be thinking.
“Oh, pray don’t think yourself any bother. It would be the last thing on our minds.”
Harriet’s face shined with emotion. She shook her head again. “I wouldn’t want to be in the way.”
“That would be the very last thing you could ever be, to be sure. Oh, please—do think of what a help you could be to me.” It was important to make absolutely clear that Harriet wouldn’t be a burden to either of them. “It’ll all be quite new. I would benefit immeasurably from your experience.”
“Well…” Harriet took a deep breath. “Well, I suppose…I suppose, just for a while…if you earnestly believe I would be helpful—”
“Oh, you would!” Phoebe beamed at Max, whom she’d caught looking at her with a crooked smile on his face and unabashed warmth in his eyes. The expression was so tender, so ardent, her heart welled with happiness. “Did you hear that, Thomas? Your Grandmama will be coming with us!”
The boy charged his grandmother’s legs and threw himself around her. Harriet wobbled, but caught the back of a plush chair to balance. “Well, then. I suppose it’s settled.”
…
“I witnessed the entire exchange, and I’m still not entirely certain how you managed it.” Max put his arm around Phoebe, and she settled against his chest. He kissed the crown of her head, enjoying the smell of her hair. “For weeks now I’ve been trying to pry her out of London. And you managed it in naught but a few minutes.”
They were dressed for the evening, about to be off to a musicale. He’d slipped into her room as her maid had been putting the finishing touches on her hair. They had a few precious minutes together before leaving. For some reason, being alone in the carriage wasn’t quite the same thing. It was less intimate, somehow, than being in Phoebe’s chamber.
Before Phoebe, he’d scorned these so-called polite engagements. Balls were still only things to be endured when absolutely necessary. But he’d rediscovered a love of musical evenings and prodded her into going with him as often as she would tolerate.
“She wanted to come with us. I could tell. All I had to do was nudge her in the right direction. And Thomas changes the equation, I don’t doubt.”
“Thank you.” He smiled, his heart warm. Everything was going right. His life was…well, it was damned good, that’s what it was. “If I’d known how it was going to be between us—” His throat closed around itself, choking him with an unexpected avalanche of pure emotion. He fought to manage the rest of the words without revealing the true depth of his feeling.
Although, knowing his intuitive wife, it was unlikely she didn’t already know. “What I mean to say is, I couldn’t imagine…” His voice was sandy.
“Shh.” Reaching up to him, she put a finger against his lips. “I know. And it’s all right. You were scared. Nobody blames you. Least of all me.”
“It’s turning out so differently than I could have imagined.” He pulled away. “Are you ready?”
She tugged her gloves back up her arms. “I must own I’d rather stay in tonight.”
“Well, if it weren’t for Handel on the program—”
“That’s what you say every time.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Well, it’s not Handel, every time, per se, but whoever is on the program, you assure me, is absolutely not to be missed.”
“It’s always true.”
Shaking her head, she sighed. “Very well. If we must, we must.”
Before they left, they checked on Thomas. The boy had had his own dinner in the upstairs room they’d made into a nursery and had been hard at play with a set of new figures they’d given him. Miss Cooke, in her ever patient way, had given them a deferent nod. After wishing the boy a good night, Max had led Phoebe out of the room and down the stairs.
His heart was so full. He had his nephew. His mother would be coming with them to Sutterton Grange for the first time in who-knew-how-many years. And he had the best wife in the whole of the world. It was difficult not to smile…all the time—and quite stupidly, by all accounts. He’d elicited more unsolicited comments at his club than he could count.
But it was difficult not to sense foreboding dancing in shadowy patterns in the back of his mind. This sort of happiness couldn’t come without a price.
Of course it could. He couldn’t go through his entire life being suspicious of everything. He deserved this. What had started in sullied waters had turned pure and light.
He had to shake these nagging feelings.
It took no more than a step, one single step inside of Lady Millais-Munt’s elegantly appointed terrace house, and the look in his hostess’s eye sent a layer of frost over his insides.
She drew back coldly when they greeted her. Anywhere else, and she would nearly have been signaling a cut direct.
And was it his imagination, or were people giving them a wide berth?
A few ladies gave them a terrified wide-eyed stare, turned quickly when he sent them the look, and shuffled down the short arched passageway that opened to the music room.
Yes. People were eluding contact with them of any sort.
Max’s ribcage clamped down upon his lungs. If he weren’t breathing actual smoke, he would be soon. His protective instincts donned armor and prepared to do battle. Treating him thusly, well, he’d withstood worse.
But to treat Phoebe in such a manner…it might well be just the thing to drive him to the brink of madness.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The best thing about this horribly dull evening was Phoebe’s gown. Amber crepe over white sarcenet—straight out of the January La Belle Assemblee, pearl for iridescent pearl. Before they’d arrived, she’d envisioned herself swanning this way and that, to the admiration of the entire room. Indeed, she could have posed for the fashion plate herself.
But Max had driven consciousness of her gown from her mind. He’d been in a foul temper since the moment they’d set foot upon the parquet floor. He hadn’t had to say anything. She’d felt the changing winds as surely as if the mood had been her own. Strange how attuned to the man she’d become. They’d been married naught but a few weeks.
Then again, she had to admit, there’d always been a connection between them. Even when she’d not wanted any, before she’d come to know the man behind the rakish facade. It’d started before Christmas at Corbeau Park, back to November when she’d first gone to Sutterton Grange. She’d been aware of his gaze on her more than she’d wanted to admit.
And then after Grace and Corbeau’s wedding breakfast, Phoebe had dropped some sheets of music. They’d reached for them at the same time. Their hands had brushed together. He’d looked at her. She’d looked at him. His gaze had fallen to her lips, and her breath had caught. She’d been certain he was going to kiss her, and she’d gone dizzy with longing.
But whatever had set him off tonight was a mystery. He’d been so eager for the concert this evening.
The chairs had been set out in tidy rows before the instrument, but the music wasn’t set to begin for another quarter of an hour. The guests still mingled amongst themselve
s. She’d been standing with several other women since they’d arrived, but had not heard one word in twenty. Her mind wouldn’t leave the puzzle of Max.
Phoebe caught her husband’s dark gaze. If she didn’t know better, she might have been frightened of the man.
Without warning, he started coming toward her. Almost unconsciously, her body turned to him. But he didn’t make it more than halfway across the room when an elderly gentleman intercepted him. Max gave the white-haired man a tight smile and stiff bow—then cast her a longing look as the man began talking…with no chance for wheedling a word in edgewise, it seemed.
Phoebe returned every appearance of her attention back to the group to which she was a part, even if her ear couldn’t attune to the conversation. She caught one of the other ladies—a Mrs. Clayborne—wrinkling her nose at her, as if the woman had caught the odor of a box of refuse left to bake in the summer sun.
Another, a Mrs. Brimble, with a partially sunken chin and a broad forehead, looked from Mrs. Clayborne to Phoebe with an expression of deep sympathy, as if she were about to offer condolences for a death in the family. She sighed, pressed her lips into a dismal line, and shook her head.
Whatever is this about? Phoebe blinked and cast her gaze back to Max, still caught by the effusive talker. Something was going on. Something to which Phoebe had not been apprised.
Upon the realization, it was difficult to keep her face placid, her demeanor appropriate for the occasion. Being the youngest in her family came with a few decided disadvantages. Growing up, she’d been perpetually left behind or overlooked. She’d been perfectly cognizant when something had been amiss, because nobody in her family had been able to hide anything from her. But, under the guise of protecting her, they hadn’t included her in any decisions, hadn’t wanted her to know when the family experienced troubles, and hadn’t discussed anything of any importance when she was within earshot.
Her jaw set. Never again. Her place in the world was no longer defined by being the youngest sister. She was Lady Maxfeld. A countess. Married. Being entirely defined by her married status was a terrible injustice that didn’t sit well with Phoebe—she should have been defined by herself and herself alone—but she’d consider the ills of the backward world another time. As it was, she was old enough to be included. Especially when the matter concerned her, as the looks she’d received from the matrons suggested it did. She no longer needed protection.
Just as she began to think she’d be caught pretending to take part in this dreadful conversation for all eternity, a large hand caught her by the elbow and—with hasty excuses that might or might not pass for an example of reasonably good breeding, depending on the charity of the individual observer—led her away.
Max leaned close and spoke under his breath. “We’re leaving. We’ll find our hostess, and—”
A ruffled popinjay of a man stood together with a pinched-faced woman. The man spoke to the woman just loudly enough for Phoebe and Max to catch his words. “To think he’s been mixing in good Society all this time.”
The pinched face grew tight with disdain as the woman gave Phoebe a pitying look. “Poor thing. Even a Landon doesn’t deserve that. Do you think she knew before he persuaded her to marry him?”
Max’s grip on Phoebe’s arm tightened. Her heart caught speed. Whatever they were on about, it was serious.
The determined resolve that lurked ever present, ever waiting in the center of her bones, reared upward. Neither she nor Max nor anybody she loved would be treated thusly.
She extracted herself from her husband’s grasp and turned to the pair. “I believe you have something to say to us.”
“Phoebe. Don’t.” His tone glistened with the threat of the polished end of a blade.
Clutching her skirts as if Phoebe’s touch might taint her, the woman pulled away, a grimace marring her features. “It’s not something we can discuss here.”
Phoebe held her ground. “It seems you already are discussing it.”
Max gripped her elbow again, and none too lightly. But she’d caught a hint of desperation in a sidelong glance he’d sent her, and wouldn’t believe for a second he meant to hurt her. Something was wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong.
But before she knew what was happening, he was all but dragging her away.
“What are you doing? We can’t leave yet—”
“Come, Wife.” His growling voice was almost too low for even her to catch. “I have no compunction against tossing you over my shoulder.”
They made it to the entrance hall where Max sent a significant nod to the waiting footman, signaling the servant to gather their things.
“Good Lord.” She set her hand on his and came close to whisper so that she might not be overheard. “Max, are you shaking?”
The muscles of his jaw flexed. He ran his fingers through his hair. His eyes were fires of burning blue ire. “We’ll not talk about this here.”
But when they were safely shut inside the plush coach, he made no sound. He stared out the window, deep in thought.
They were almost home before he spoke, making her jump as his deep voice cracked from the shadows. “You tell me how set against scandal you are, and then you go and make that scene before God and everyone.”
Her teeth ground together. She wasn’t finished seething, not yet. The response was sharp and immediate from her tongue, launching thoughts she hadn’t known she possessed until she spoke them aloud. “There is just scandal and unjust scandal. I’ll not put on a show for anybody’s comfort. I will not.”
In the back of her mind was the knowledge that she had been doing exactly that at the beginning of her “engagement”—putting on a show.
But she had no time for logic at the moment. This was practically war. Max was being threatened.
“Max, if those blatherers think—whatever they’re on about, well, they can take their feathered turbans and their musical instruments and their stuffy noses and shove them right up—”
“You don’t know what this is about, do you?” His voice was leaden, bringing her to an abrupt halt.
With the careful deliberation of a deep breath into the bottom of her belly, she took her outrage down a few notches. “I don’t.”
“Good.”
Good? “You’re going to tell me…aren’t you?”
“It’s nothing with which you need concern yourself.”
With those words, the knowledge of the miles of perilous, uncharted terrain that still spread out endlessly between them came into sharp relief. In some ways—in some very important ways, they were still strangers to each other.
He’d said the matter was nothing. But nothing would not have driven him from the music. He had a proud streak, even if he wouldn’t have acknowledged that aspect to his character.
Nothing. She swallowed as the way he’d spat the word echoed in the chamber of her skull. Nothing. That could only mean it was something dreadful.
Horror clawed her spine as possibilities spun sticky scenarios, each worse than the last. Was he secretly illegitimate? Had the blackmail been found out? Or—her stomach turned—were there gaming debts?
Or what if it wasn’t him at all, but Isabel? What if Max had said something? Please, dear sweet Lord, let it not have been that.
But at each turn Phoebe’s mind took, a touchstone of hope stood back and dismissed the option. None of them fit the man she’d come to know.
But, what if she didn’t know him as she thought?
And then she came to the worst possibility of all. What if he had another wife? A real wife? Were they—he and Phoebe—not lawfully wed? Was not taking her to his bed the last vestige of some twisted sense of honor in an elaborate and horrible game?
That was it, wasn’t it? Cold sweat broke out over her brow. He’d orchestrated an elaborate trap, making her believe he was marrying her to finally gain possession of his nephew.
Her heart went hollow.
No. It couldn’t be. She was creeping the worst possible
scenario—living her greatest fear—from a ridiculous whirlwind of fancy born of overwrought emotions and panic.
Max let out a sigh.
Her pulse pounded harder and harder, and her head went light. “Please…” She whispered the shaky plea. “Just…just tell me. Whatever it is, I have to hear it.”
His lips parted.
Eyes falling shut, she fortified herself against hearing something truly terrible that would rip her in two.
The carriage halted before their house. There was a moment of silence. His face was in shadow, but she could all but feel the emotions churning within him.
When he spoke, his voice was raw. “We’re leaving London at first light for Sutterton Grange.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Max held the happiness of three people in his hands, and he wasn’t about to let them down. Thomas he could likely protect, so long as he kept the boy close. Phoebe, through some magic or other, had already convinced his mother to leave London, so at least he didn’t have that worry. He’d take her out of town and settle her in the country far away from the ugly rumors circulating about the suicide of her late husband.
Marching into the house, he caught the surprise on Krum’s face for returning so soon, and, as the manservant schooled his features and righted himself into the perfect posture befitting his station, Max apprised him of his intention to leave in the morning.
Then he gave a quick order for a servant to be immediately dispatched to his mother’s residence so her servants could be made aware of the plan. The footman to whom he’d spoken went serious, nodded, and strode away purposefully to see his master’s wishes fulfilled.
Then there was Phoebe. He was sharply aware of his wife’s nearness, of her careful scrutiny. He forced himself to turn to her, heart squeezing at the barrage against his conscience. They might never have married if he’d told her the truth.
Thank God he’d never known her as a husband and wife know each other. The duplicity of what it would have been—it would have ruined everything. Indeed, if their lives were not already ruined as it was.