Loving Lady Dervish - A Veiled Seduction Novella

by Heather Snow

  Spinning. Spinning. Spinning.

  “Just drive,” she said, ignoring the coachman’s odd look. “And keep driving.”

  And she started on her third glass of champagne.

  “Excuse me, m’lord.”

  Malcolm turned from his valet, with some alarm, to find his butler standing in the door of the master’s chambers. Lewis was typically as implacable as they come, but he sounded downright flustered, which meant something was wrong. One glance at the man’s ruddy cheeks confirmed Malcolm’s assessment.

  “What is it?”

  “There is a lady at the door, sir, insisting to see you. She appears to be rather, ah…” Lewis cleared his throat. “…indisposed.”

  Malcolm frowned, even as his heart tripped. There was no reason for Phoebe to visit him. She’d made her thoughts clear last night. But who else could it be? “Did she give a name?”

  Lewis’s nod wobbled with uncertainty. “Of a sort. She said Mrs. Jones was as good a name as any. Kept mentioning that it was her war name now, whatever that means.”

  Mrs. Jones? It had to be Phoebe. Suddenly, Malcolm’s intricately tied cravat squeezed too tightly on his neck. What had happened? Was she all right? “When you say indisposed, Lewis, you mean…?”

  “Drunk as a broken wheelbarrow, m’lord. And about as tippy.”

  Malcolm was out the door before the butler had even finished the word wheelbarrow. “Send hot tea and plain biscuits to the upstairs parlor,” Malcolm called over his shoulder. That would be more private. “Or better yet, coffee.” He didn’t usually care for the stuff, but it had helped him through an overindulgent night or two.

  He found her in his foyer, twirling slowly and quite unsteadily, her head back and her eyes closed. Two footmen watched her warily, no doubt charged by Lewis to guard her until Malcolm decided what to do with her.

  “Spinning, spinning, spinning,” she murmured, mostly to herself. “Unravelling. All of it. Even me.”

  He gently approached her, careful to be in a place where he could catch her before he spoke, in case she was startled. “Come with me, Pheebs,” he said, low enough so that only she could hear.

  Her eyes fluttered open, rimmed red and glassy with a despair that struck his heart. But she stopped her slow rotation and simply nodded, not protesting when he put an arm behind her and another securely on her shoulder as he led her toward the stairs.

  A thousand questions flooded his mind on that long trek up the flight of stairs and then through the drawing room to where the back parlor was situated. He held silent, however, even after he gently settled Phoebe into the wingback nearest the fire. He’d quickly chosen it over the chaise, figuring she could use the extra support to stay upright.

  “Tell me what’s happened,” he said. It must be something awful. He knew as well as he knew his own name that Phoebe wasn’t one for the bottle.

  “I’m sorry, Malcolm,” she said, swaying in the chair a bit. She blinked up at him, her eyes squinting, seeming to focus—as well as she could in her inebriated state—on his eveningwear. “I’ve interrupted your plans. Off to begin your bride hunt in earnest, I imagine,” she said, nodding even as her eyes closed.

  He had been, though in truth his heart had not been in it. An evening in a ballroom dancing attendance on young debutantes while wishing they each were Phoebe didn’t really appeal.

  “Don’t worry about that,” he said, nudging an ottoman closer to the chair and settling himself onto it, facing her. “Why have you come?”

  The eyes that opened and fixed on him were wet with tears. “I was wrong,” she said, her voice catching.

  And just like that, hope flared back to life in his chest. Had she had a change of heart, then? He ached to see her so upset—didn’t understand why she should be so. But he would do his level best to soothe away her pain, for the rest of their lives.

  “You were right,” she went on before he could speak. “It just isn’t done after all. Silly me.”

  “What?” he said. Certainly Phoebe was in her cups, but she was making no sense. It also didn’t sound as if she’d come to accept his proposal. Damn. Still, he reached out and took her hands in his.

  At his touch, Phoebe started to sob. He listened with a breaking heart—and not a small bit of anger on her behalf—as she shared with him all that had happened to her this night.

  After long minutes, the flow of words and tears ebbed. “So you see? I was wrong. Wrong to think that I could ever be free. Wrong to think that as a nobly bred woman I could pursue my dreams.” A brittle laugh escaped her. “Isn’t it funny? Were I the daughter of a vicar or such, I likely could have convinced him, but as I’m not—well, it’s just as you said. That’s just the way of things.”

  They sat in silence, her hands warm in his, firelight flickering gently over them. He waited for her to say that she’d been wrong about turning down his proposal, too, but she never did.

  After a time Phoebe heaved a great sigh. “I’m sorry to burden you with this, Malcolm. I know I have no right. I—” She sniffled indelicately. “I just didn’t know where else to go.”

  “Shhh.” He squeezed her hands reassuringly. “I’m glad you came to me.” And he was. God help her if she’d gone somewhere else in this state. That last bit of emotional turmoil seemed to have combined with the effects of alcohol to exhaust her. “What do you plan to do?”

  She tugged her hands from his and brought one to press against the bridge of her nose. “I don’t know.” Her voice held a desolation that hurt to hear. “I suppose I shall marry Mr. Jones. Perhaps I can negotiate some small freedoms, as it shall strictly be a business arrangement between us.” A great yawn overtook her. “Although my father doesn’t think so, Mr. Jones needs me more than I need him. That should give me some leverage, I think.”

  Her words left him with the dull ache of a man who’d been punched in the gut a day earlier. “Phoebe, you could still choose me.”

  Her eyes drooped, lids staying open less and less time with each blink. “No, Malcolm.”

  Damn, but her continued refusal hurt. What was so wrong with him? He didn’t wish to be Phoebe’s consolation prize, to be certain, but surely he was better than a lifetime of “negotiated freedoms” with someone she didn’t even like.

  “You shouldn’t have to martyr yourself just to rescue me…” she murmured, eyes not even trying to open anymore.

  Malcolm huffed. “Last night, I shouldn’t have to martyr myself to the viscountcy. Tonight, I shouldn’t have to martyr myself for you.” He looked at Phoebe, the golden light of the fire playing over her skin. She looked so beautiful, fragile and strong at the same time, even in intoxicated repose. “Have you ever stopped to think it would be no sacrifice at all? That I want you in my life?”

  A delicate snore was all the answer she had for him.

  A light scratch on the door sounded, and Lewis slipped into the room with a tray. The aromatic warm scent of coffee followed the butler into the room. Malcolm nodded at the sideboard, but decided not to wake Phoebe.

  He’d let her sleep off the worst of the champagne she’d drunk. He glanced at the clock. It was quite early yet for London hours. Her father likely wouldn’t expect her home for some time yet.

  As for him, he poured himself a cup of the bracing rich brew. He had much thinking to do tonight.

  Chapter 11

  Phoebe’s first thought upon awakening the next morning was that someone had taken a hammer to the inside of her head. Was such a thing possible? It certainly felt so.

  She opened her eyes, squinting immediately as sunlight assaulted her. The familiar furnishings of her bedchamber greeted her. Well, at least she knew where she was.

  Her tongue lay dry in her mouth. Indeed, it was as if her entire body was parched, leaving her as listless as a bloom in the midst of a drought.

  The evening before came back to her in a rush of muted despair—Mr. Updike, Mr. Barlow, the champagne. She strained to remember more. It got a bit fuzzy after th
at but…

  But she’d gone to Malcolm.

  Mortification swamped her. What had she said to him? What must he think of her? And how had she come to be here in her own bed, from his townhouse?

  An hour later, she sat quietly in her parlor. She still felt the very devil, but at least she could now sit up straight and open her eyes without feeling as if the light were shards of glass stabbing into her retinae. Keeping anything in her stomach apart from water didn’t seem likely anytime soon, but thanks to some vile concoction forced upon her by her maid, her head no longer pounded.

  She also had a few answers as to how she’d gotten here. It seemed Malcolm had brought her in his carriage, sending a footman ahead to inform Wells of her indisposition. Wells had then very discreetly met Malcolm at the servants’ entrance and the two of them secreted her into her room, with her father none the wiser.

  Steadfast, responsible, stalwart Malcolm. Weren’t those the qualities he’d said he hoped to be remembered for? He was all of those things and more.

  She should beg him to renew his proposal, if she hadn’t already. Last night’s conversation with him was still a bit of a blur. But she wouldn’t. Malcolm deserved someone better than she. Someone he chose, not just because she needed rescue, but because he loved her. Someone who had not foolishly tossed his proposal aside for her stubborn pride’s sake.

  “A note for you, Miss,” Wells’s voice sounded from her doorway. She managed a tremulous smile for the butler—he’d modulated his voice in deference to her sorry condition.

  “Thank you,” she said, lifting a heavy square of vellum from the salver. She recognized Malcolm’s signet in the wax. Taking a breath, she broke the seal and read.

  Phoebe,

  It is my fervent hope that you are, if not well, mostly recovered.

  I would be most honored if you would be at the conservatory bench where you first showed me your paintings, at four of the clock this afternoon.

  Yours,

  Malcolm

  Curse the champagne she’d drunk last night, not only for the ache it caused her poor head, but for the holes in her memory. Malcolm was apparently still on speaking terms with her, so perhaps she hadn’t said anything to offend him overmuch. She breathed a little easier at that.

  Why did he wish to meet her at the conservatory, rather than calling on her here?

  It didn’t matter. After the many kindnesses he’d done her over the past days, she owed it to him to meet him anywhere he wished.

  Phoebe pulled the rope to call her maid. They would need every minute between now and four o’clock if she hoped to be presentable.

  She arrived at the conservatory five minutes before the appointed hour. As she entered the glass space, warm air blasted her chilled skin. She stamped her kid boots on the floor near the door, ridding them of snow. With the snarled congestion of carriages on the icy roads, she’d had to debark and walk from nearly two streets away. But the brisk air had done wonders for her constitution, and her wind-chafed cheeks gave her some color, which was a good thing. Even after her maid’s ministrations, she’d left home looking much as she imagined the walking dead would.

  Her eyes trained upon the bench where she expected to meet Malcolm, but another man sat there, his back to her. She tamped down her disappointment and looked about. Not seeing Malcolm anywhere, she resolved instead to wait for him by the entrance so she could greet him when he arrived.

  By ten minutes past four, her sanguinity had fled. Where was he?

  Her eyes strayed to the bench. The gentleman who’d been there when she’d arrived remained. He fidgeted about, craning his neck as if he, too, were looking for someone. She focused on his outline—wasn’t there something familiar about him?

  As she tried to place him, the man turned. She nearly gasped. Mr. Updike! The botanist saw her at the same time she recognized him, and came to his feet. He raised his hand, a timid smile touching his lips.

  She swiveled her head around, looking for Malcolm once more, but he wasn’t in the large greenhouse. Whereas Mr. Updike was still looking at her, his face alight with expectation. She made her way to the bench.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Anson,” the man said in greeting. “I am much relieved you agreed to meet me after the unpleasantness of last night. I cannot apologize enough.”

  Had Malcolm arranged this meeting?

  I would be most honored if you would be at the conservatory bench where you first showed me your paintings, his note had said. She’d been the one to assume he’d meant for her to meet him.

  Phoebe greeted the botanist warmly, as if she’d known it was he who’d be waiting for her, then asked, “Why did you wish to see me?”

  “I was hoping you might still consider being my illustrator,” he said. He raised both hands in a placating gesture. “I know what Barlow said, but it seems he’s had a change of heart.”

  Cautious hope kindled inside of Phoebe. “Why?”

  Mr. Updike flashed a surprisingly wolfish grin. “Let’s just say that you, my dear, have a powerful new patron. He paid a visit to Barlow and Burke this morning, and Barlow decided he was more concerned about earning a viscount’s enmity than a baron’s.” He winked at her.

  This was Malcolm’s doing, she realized. Her heart quickened in her chest as she imagined what he must have done and said to make this possible.

  “Patron?” she asked weakly.

  “Indeed. Lord Coverdale. He has committed to financing our entire expedition. He made it possible for me to hire any illustrator I wanted, and take my book to another publisher if I could not have my choice—you. Faced with that, Barlow caved.

  “Lord Coverdale has also set aside a generous stipend for you so that you needn’t worry about anything through this expedition, and likely several others. He seems to be a great admirer of your work.”

  Phoebe gaped at Mr. Updike in stunned disbelief. Why had Malcolm done such a thing?

  But surely, you must know. I did it for you. Only for you.

  That’s what he’d said to her when he’d given Chester Harvey the cut direct, and then restored her reputation within the ton with a strategic waltz and a few well-placed introductions.

  “The only thing he asked for in return was a painting,” Mr. Updike continued. “The painting, actually, with the marred iris that you used to convince me that no one else but you would do as my illustrator. He insisted he be allowed to keep it.”

  The one she’d painted right here on this very bench, that Malcolm had startled her into spoiling.

  That’s more than just talent, Phoebe. That’s something special. You’re something special.

  And suddenly, moments and memories from the past few days swirled together like watercolors and brushstrokes to create a beautiful portrait…of love.

  Phoebe gasped, both hands flying up to cover her mouth.

  Malcolm loved her. And dear God, she loved him, too.

  Euphoria bubbled through her, unable to be contained. Though she was sure to regret it, given her fragile day-after-champagne constitution, Phoebe threw her hands out and her head back and twirled for joy.

  Mr. Updike let out a startled laugh. “I take it you are pleased, Miss Anson. Then you’ll join me?”

  She slowed to a halt, a bit dizzy but beyond caring. “I am pleased.” She grinned. “As to whether I will join you? That I can’t answer yet. There’s something very important I must do, and I’m afraid it can’t wait.”

  Phoebe didn’t even wait for a response before she turned and ran for the conservatory exit.

  She had to find Malcolm and hope it wasn’t too late to answer his proposal as she should have the moment he’d asked her.

  Chapter 12

  From his place behind the conservatory pillar where he’d first hidden to spy upon Phoebe, Malcolm watched as she gasped with shock and then twirled with happiness at Updike’s news.

  A bittersweet joy of his own tugged at his heart. At once he was both fiercely glad to have made it possible f
or Phoebe to follow her dream and profoundly sad that it would lead her away from him.

  Malcolm turned away, pulling the collar of his greatcoat up against the chill he knew would engulf him as he departed. He’d seen what he’d come to see, however—that look of beatific joy restored to Phoebe’s face that he’d once thought his marriage proposal would put there.

  And now it was time to move on with his life and let her move on with hers.

  He pushed out of the conservatory doors and into the biting wind.

  He’d realized several things in the dark hours of the night before. First, he loved Phoebe with an absolute devotion. But he couldn’t be a consolation prize, nor could he allow her to be married against her will. That had left him only one choice he could live with—he had to set her free, from himself and anyone else.

  It had been the right thing to do.

  It also hurt like hell.

  “Malcolm!”

  His name carried on the frigid breeze.

  He glanced back to see Phoebe fighting against the flow of walkers to hurry after him.

  Malcolm clenched his jaw, debating whether to stop. He wasn’t ready to accept her thanks right now. He’d only just ripped out his heart. The wound was still too raw and bleeding.

  He could pretend he hadn’t heard her and keep walking.

  “Malcolm Gray!” she persisted.

  There was no hope for it. He stopped walking and moved over to the side of the boot-beaten path to wait for her to catch up to him, stepping mid-calf into a mound of wet snow. If Phoebe wasn’t the death of him, she sure as hell was the death of his boots.

  When she came abreast of him, she stopped. “I left the conservatory in a rush to find you. Imagine my surprise to see you less than half a street away,” she said, a question in her voice. She was also struggling to catch her breath and held up a finger in supplication. Poor Pheebs. Running after someone on a freezing day was difficult enough, much less when one was worse for the wear after a night of spirits.