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

by Ingrid Hahn

  They’d shared a brief happiness together. He’d known it couldn’t last.

  In that instant, he vowed to himself—for as long as he could possibly keep the truth from her, she wouldn’t know. He couldn’t face the look in her eyes, once she knew. He certainly couldn’t face her any more tonight. After what she’d done for him earlier…

  “You’d best be going to bed. We’ll be on the road before the sun is up.”

  Her lips parted. “Bother that. I can’t go to bed now.”

  Not without knowing what this was all about, she meant.

  He brushed past her on his way to the library. “Very well. But that doesn’t alter our plans.”

  Phoebe skittered to catch up to him. “We need to talk.”

  “We need nothing of the sort.”

  She caught his arm. “Max.”

  He shook her off.

  She followed him into the dim room. He turned on her, bitter regret poisoning his insides. “I can’t. Don’t you see I can’t?”

  The words had come out harsher than he’d intended, but she didn’t flinch. His vehemence only seemed to make her stronger. She held up her hands, still gloved, of course, a jeweled Maxfeld bracelet catching the light when it fell partway up her arm.

  She was an apparition in the scantly lit room. “All right.” Phoebe gave a slow nod. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t push when you’re clearly not ready.”

  He’d never be ready. Not for this.

  Her words from long ago whispered out from the past. You have a great many nevers in your life, don’t you, Max? And in that moment—where had they been, the park?—he’d loved her calling him Max. The nickname had originally come from Corbeau, of all people, around the time of the Catullus incident.

  Max ran his fingers through his hair, gripping the short strands and pulling—hard—so the physical pain might help him forget the mental pain. “I’m making a muddle of this.”

  “What?”

  His hands dropped to his sides. “I’m sorry.”

  Her expression a mix of concern and compassion, she stepped close, reaching up to stroke a gloved finger down the side of his face. “You have nothing for which to apologize.”

  He did. He’d married her without disclosing the truth. She’d known his father had been mad, but she knew only half the story. She hadn’t known how his life had ended. “If only you knew.”

  “Shh.” She put a finger to his lips, shaking her head. “Don’t tell me.”

  “Phoebe—” He took her hand in his and pressed it against his heart.

  “Just…” Her mouth opened and shut. She swallowed. Her eyes were huge with vulnerability. For all the strength and determination this woman showed, she was far from incapable of being hurt—terribly hurt. She felt things with such intensity. If he were ever to cause her suffering…which wasn’t a matter of if, but when. “Just tell me it isn’t another woman.”

  “My God, is that what you think?”

  “That’s not a no. I need to hear it.”

  He took his wife into his arms. There was only her. There would only ever be her. “No, my sweet.”

  But the magnitude of his secret would forever keep them apart.

  …

  Much, much too early in the morning, Phoebe was dragged from bed by Albina, who wasn’t faring much better than her mistress, judging by the dark circles under her eyes. How strange it was to wake alone, without Max. Until last night, they’d spent every night together, touching, exploring, kissing—bringing each other to pleasure again and again, until, at last, curled in his arms, head on his bare chest, she would drift off to sleep tucked against him.

  Phoebe sighed and let Albina be about her duties.

  Not being able to task the woman with packing for them both while she sought the comfort of bed—not that she would have slept—Phoebe had stayed awake to help the maid ready for the journey.

  Unaccountably, after the trunks were full, Phoebe had fallen asleep. Eventually. Though it had felt as though she never would, not in a hundred years…precisely the opposite of the poor sleeping princess, whom she currently envied. She’d found slumber only after promising herself that she would do nothing to seek any information about what had driven Max from the musicale and put him in a state. Whatever it was, he would have to tell her himself.

  Not knowing when they’d be making their first stop, Phoebe made an effort at the breakfast tray before allowing herself to be dressed in a fine traveling costume.

  “Oh, before I forget.” Phoebe took a sealed letter from her escritoire and handed it to Albina. “See this is delivered to my mother’s house immediately.” She’d scrawled an explanatory note that they’d needed to leave town quite suddenly and not to believe any talk they heard about Max.

  She descended through the house studying each picture, each vase, each piece of the pattern on the rugs, each swirl carved into the woodwork—everything with great care. How long would it be before they returned? She’d been happy here. She’d felt as though she belonged. Would it be the same at Sutterton Grange when she was so far from everything and everyone she knew? In some ways, the answer was already a roaring “no.” For whatever stood between herself and Max had altered everything.

  Until the events of last night had unfolded, it’d seemed like they might have been on the cusp of falling in love.

  Had that been an utterly foolish notion? Had she been a simpleton to entertain such a fantasy?

  Absently, she brought her hand to rest over her heart. What if he didn’t feel the same about her? Could she tolerate being the only one in the pair with whom the entire force of feeling rested?

  True, he wasn’t indifferent to her. That was plain enough. But perhaps indifference would be preferable to his pushing her away.

  For the first time since Max had slipped his ring on her finger, there was a pang of longing for one of her sisters. A pang of loneliness. Before, her head had been full of Max and starting her new life. She hadn’t had a spare moment to be lonely.

  It still was, in most ways, but now she needed somebody with whom to talk. A friend. If only Isabel could break free of her obligation, as she termed it, to join them at Max’s estate. Or if Jane hadn’t all but disappeared into the freezing wilds of Northumberland. Oh, Jane wrote, to be sure, and Isabel did, too, but a letter was no substitute for companionship.

  Phoebe let Max help her into the carriage. The evidence of his inner turmoil wrote itself on his face. The lines of his features were harder today. His mouth was grim, his complexion gray.

  Until Thomas appeared, a yawning nursemaid in tow, and he softened.

  Phoebe bit her lip. The child was traveling with them? She hadn’t considered that.

  It seemed they wouldn’t be doing much talking between departing London and arriving at Sutterton Grange.

  Oh well. Perhaps time, as well as distance, would act as a tonic and help her husband with whatever was driving him out of London.

  Last night had made him wary of the world. Including her. Or perhaps, especially her?

  She was his wife. She’d stand by him. She wouldn’t waver. She wouldn’t.

  But that’s as much as she could do. She could reach out her hand to him, but she couldn’t make him take hold. So much rested with him. And, in the end, everything between them came down to one thing.

  Trust.

  He cared for her, but he didn’t yet trust her enough to unburden his soul.

  And if anyone needed his soul unburdened, it was Max. Pray someday he would realize that he didn’t have to endure the suffering all alone.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  A shadow lurked over Max’s heart. And though it grew fainter and fainter the farther they went from London, it never fully abated.

  The truth was out there. If he didn’t tell her himself, she’d hear it elsewhere. That would be far, far worse.

  Despite all this, despite the reason for their hasty departure, despite the circulating rumors, a cautious sort of excitement had s
tarted building in Max.

  Right then and there, he made a solemn vow that he would make the next few days wondrous for her. Until he could protect her no longer.

  Thomas slept tucked under Phoebe’s arm. Miss Cooke was asleep against the cushioned wall of the carriage on the other side of them, leaving Max with the bench opposite, to himself. Against his wishes, his mother traveled on her own, but under the care of some of the most devoted servants England had to offer. Without her, however, they’d been able to maintain a good pace. She’d be traveling slower and would arrive a day or two after them.

  “We’re only a few miles off.” He spoke softly. “We’ll be there ere long.”

  With a contented snuffle, Thomas relaxed deep enough into sleep for his hand to go lax around the wooden toy he clutched. It clattered to the floor of the carriage.

  Phoebe smiled.

  What sweet angel in heaven could have allowed her to be bestowed upon him? She wasn’t only his wife. She liked him, and so much so that she’d thought nothing of standing up against those horrible gossips. And all he’d wanted to do was flee.

  Then again, maybe fleeing was precisely the right thing to do, even if undertaken for the wrong reasons. Maybe being here with her would be exactly what he needed…

  Except there could be no escape from the inevitable disclosure.

  The thought made his gut twist with anguish. The last thing she wanted was scandal. They’d not been married more than a few weeks and he was already bringing one down upon her unwitting head.

  She’d been so patient this entire way, giving him space, being gentle with him. Thomas, too. The boy had taken to her warmth and patience, though ultimately it’d been the interest she’d shown in the boy’s fascination with insects that had won him over.

  They came through roads Max had known intimately as a boy, having spent long summer days exploring the woods and fields and wild spaces of the countryside. Sometimes with Juliet, sometimes alone.

  Wouldn’t be long before Thomas would have the same freedom. The land all around Sutterton Grange had been a magical part of Max’s childhood. His nephew deserved the same.

  With bated breath, he watched Phoebe’s face closely as they approached the house. If she liked the place, if she could come to feel the estate was as much hers as his, if she could think of it as home—maybe it would begin to atone for his manifold deficiencies as a husband. She’d seen it before, of course, but as a guest. Not as Lady Maxfeld. The distinction meant everything.

  She caught him staring, and her expression warmed, settling back into silence as the scenery went by the open window. “You want to know what I think, don’t you?” She kept her voice low.

  He responded with a single nod.

  She glanced out the window into the distance. “I think it must be one of the most beautiful sights in the whole world.”

  And yet there she was, beautiful and motherly, with Thomas sleeping against her. “That’s only because you can’t see what I can see.”

  At his words, her face turned the same pink as when she was about to come. With a hot rush of blood, his prick thickened and lengthened.

  Would she never cease to tempt him?

  Staring at her, the answer was clear enough. Physically, she was the most perfect woman he’d ever seen. But her looks and her figure would have been nothing but a pretty shell had the occupant within the flesh and bone been anything less than what she was.

  Which, of course, wasn’t the least bit logical, because the same could be said for any of them, but he knew no other way of describing what he felt.

  As they took the turn up the drive to the house, she leaned out the window to stare up at the place, her neck long and slender as she stretched, the wind whipping the ribbons of her bonnet.

  “It’s so strange to think that I lived not fifteen miles from here for so long. Yet I never saw it until late last year.”

  The memory tugged a smile on his face. Thank goodness for his mother orchestrating that house party. She’d intended to throw eligible women in his way to tempt him into marriage. And only think—she had thought she’d failed. Truthfully, the Landons hadn’t been invited for their eligibility. Young single girls though they were, they had been penniless creatures tainted by their late father’s scandal. They’d been invited to Sutterton Grange last November because Lady Bennington had begged help from his mother when their last relation had forced them to leave. They’d had no place else to go.

  And it’d all led to Phoebe.

  She gave a wry smile. “And now that Grace is Lady Corbeau, my cousins who wanted nothing to do with us last year are desperately scrambling to make reparations.”

  “You can visit them, if you like. Fifteen miles isn’t so far.”

  “We are family, whatever their faults, and whatever the past might have been, I would like to start anew with them.” She went wistful. “And there was a fine old clergyman—I miss him. Mr. Mallory. He had some shocking ideas. I’m surprised the bishop didn’t descend to have words with him more often than he did.”

  In front of the house, she held her skirts as he helped her down from the carriage.

  Thomas followed, spilling out in a tumble of skinny, childish limbs. His eyes widened at the sight of the structure before him. “I’m going to live here?”

  Phoebe smiled. “We all are.”

  They all were. God in heaven, they were, weren’t they?

  Max swallowed, trying to ignore the horrifying size of his fear. How was this going to work? It seemed all well and good now. Of course it did. But it was nothing more than an illusion. How many days did they have? Two? Three? A sennight?

  Thomas ran away in a squeal of delight, flailing his arms and shouting. His nursemaid tried to call him back, but Max stayed her objection. “The boy’s been impeccably well behaved throughout the journey. I must commend you, Miss Cooke.”

  The nursemaid colored. “A finer boy I’ve never met, my lord, and that’s God’s honest truth.”

  Partway down the drive, where low flowering bushes met the side of the stone house, he came to a halt, Thomas’s attention caught on something. He looked back and shouted to them, pointing excitedly. “I’ve never seen a spider like this before!”

  Phoebe’s grip on Max’s arm tightened. “Oh, please tell him to let it alone. Beetles and grasshoppers and ants—even frogs and toads and snakes, if his interest in naturalism grows to reptiles and amphibians—those I don’t mind. But please, please don’t let him try to show me a spider.”

  Max smiled. “Let the creature alone, Thomas.”

  “But—”

  “Come along now, we’ll take some food and refresh ourselves after our journey.”

  “I’m not taking a bath.”

  “That’s all right, you only have to splash water on your face and change your clothing. I’m sure there will be some cakes for you, too.”

  Behind him came an audible tsk from the nursemaid, no doubt vexed by Max’s indulgence of the boy. Let her disapprove. The way he intended to raise Thomas was as Juliet would have wanted. That was, to allow the child to be as wild as he pleased out of doors, while gently guiding him into being the perfect gentleman indoors.

  The wild was innate. The gentleman part might take a decade or two. “Then this afternoon I’ll take you out and we’ll see if we can find any new specimens for your collection.”

  Miss Cooke took care of her charge, herding him into the house. The carriage and horses had already been taken away to where the trunks would be efficiently unloaded and brought into the house. The servants from London traveling in the old coach were likely still a few hours behind.

  Max licked his lips.

  Standing before Sutterton Grange with Phoebe on his arm was forcing the reality of having a wife into his brain. Yet, conversely, leading her up the shallow steps to the door was the most dreamlike moment of his life. There were bad memories of the place, to be sure. But upon the death of his father, he’d promised his mother to set those
aside and focus on all the happy times they’d experienced here, instead.

  At the time, he hadn’t wanted to promise any such thing. Now, of course, he saw his mother’s wisdom and had only gratitude for her insight. By abandoning the horrors of the past and claiming all the good, he’d been able to cultivate a sense of Sutterton Grange being his own. To feel pride of ownership and, if not a strict personal honor in his forebears, a strong sense of respect for the traditions of his bloodline. And leave the shade of his father as locked away as Max could force him to be.

  Inside, Phoebe stopped to survey the grand entry hall, several stories high and big enough to swallow two tenant cottages whole—a fact with which Max was not always comfortable. But witnessing her take it all in, he couldn’t help but indulge in a swell of pride. It was something, Sutterton Grange—old and damp in places, but always majestic.

  Her gaze swept up the wide, sweeping stair, dark wood polished to gleaming; the collection of landscapes and portraits arranged on the walls with regular precision in ornately gilded frames; the priceless porcelain vases which held freshly cut hothouse flowers—yellow, for her.

  Her chin went up and, with a nod, a small smile touched her mouth. “I think I’ll be happy here.”

  Happy? Phoebe’s unexpected words jolted his insides, leaving him momentarily without a proper sense of himself or place—like a compass unable to find direction in a lightning storm. Max’s first reaction was pride and pleasure. But then came fear, regret, disgust, and shame.

  She rested her head upon his shoulder, all but plunging a knife into the most tender part of his guilty conscience, making it writhe in agony.

  His mind returned to a previous conversation when she’d admonished him for all the “nevers” he had in his life. He had yet to invent a rule of what he would do instead of what he wouldn’t do.

  The most senior footman, acting in the stead of butler until Krum arrived—and by all evidence taking his responsibility with utmost seriousness—informed them that baths had been readied for them in their respective bedchambers.

  Phoebe gave Max a surprised look.

  “I sent word ahead that we’d be arriving about now.”