To Dance until Dawn (Girls Who Dare Book 12)

by Emma V. Leech

  “You looked as if you were considering something unpleasant,” he said, tilting his head a little to one side.

  “Like eating a slug,” she said, the words out before she could consider them. Oh, how terribly gauche. What a nitwit he would think her now, and he the only interesting man she’d met all night. She met lots of nice men, charming men, a good many fools too, but this was the only interesting one so far.

  Far from being revolted by her answer, he gave a bark of laughter.

  “Exactly like that,” he said.

  Phoebe returned a sheepish smile. “Actually, it isn’t so bad at all. Only my feet hurt, and I’d like to sit down for a while, but I promised the next dance.”

  Rather shockingly, he reached out and took hold of the dance card dangling from her wrist, his gloved fingers brushing hers as he lifted it.

  “Mr Jameson,” he said, returning a sympathetic smile. “Oh dear. Just like eating a slug.”

  Phoebe smothered a laugh, a little outraged, but amused too. “Oh, no. Not in the least. You are too harsh, sir.”

  “Perhaps,” he said softly. “But I am a wretched fellow and horribly jealous. How am I to stand watching that big oaf lumber about the floor with you, when I know you would prefer to stay and talk with me?”

  She stared at him, eyes wide.

  “That’s rather unkind,” she said, not liking him speaking about Mr Jameson so. “And dreadfully conceited.”

  “True, though,” he said. There was a glint of challenge in his handsome face, his gaze trained intently upon her. Daring her.

  “Miss Barrington?”

  With a little relief, she looked up to see Mr Jameson had come to collect her.

  “My dance, I believe,” the fellow said, beaming at her.

  Phoebe took his hand.

  “Indeed it is,” she said, turning to glare at the blond man even as she felt a little pang of regret for leaving his company. She turned her gaze resolutely back to Mr Jameson and smiled. “I have been so looking forward to it.”

  ***

  Max winced as he saw Jameson step on Phoebe’s toes for a second time. The poor girl. She did not complain, though, only laughed good-naturedly as Jameson coloured and stammered another apology. She was dressed in a pale gold silk this evening, and the candlelight set her aflame, the warm glow shimmering on her hair, her skin, and the gown as she moved about the floor. He was by far from the only poor fool who could not keep his eyes from her. Longing flared to life, a burning desire to be the man who held her in his arms. He stamped on it, trying to snuff it out, even though nothing had worked to date.

  He’d kept away for the last month, trying his best to enjoy the endless parties and social whirl, yet finding himself bored to tears. His fault, of course. If a man could not find satisfaction in the company of others, he must surely look to himself for the problem. Not everyone could be counted upon for scintillating conversation, but there was pleasure to be found in a polite exchange, a well-worn story, if you were willing to be pleased by it. As much as he wanted to be, as much as he remembered how these exchanges were supposed to proceed, he felt always as if he was telling a joke, only to realise he’d forgotten the punchline.

  Unwillingly, his eyes were drawn back to the dance floor, and to Phoebe. He slid his hand into his pocket, feeling the rustle of a small piece of paper there. Fool. Turning away, he fought his way to the refreshment room, knowing that word fitted him only too perfectly, but unable to do a thing about it.

  ***

  Phoebe thanked Mr Jameson for the dance and gave an inward sigh of relief. Moving quickly, she hurried out of the ballroom, hoping to find a quiet corner to catch her breath and ease her poor toes. She headed for the long gallery where many people were strolling and enjoying the cooler temperature whilst admiring the paintings. Seeking out one of many deep set alcoves, she spied an ornate padded bench, unoccupied, and sat down with a sigh of relief. It was a shadowy nook, too public to be scandalous but still reasonably private, and so she took a moment to slip off her shoes. Glancing up to be certain she was not observed, she reached down and massaged her toes with a little sigh of pleasure.

  “Did you lose any?”

  Phoebe started and looked up.

  “Oh, it’s you,” she said, relieved it was no one she need worry about as she saw Max standing over her.

  “In the flesh,” he agreed, moving forward and holding out a glass to her. “I thought you might need fortification after your ordeal.”

  “Is it champagne?” she asked, perking up.

  He hesitated and she sighed, knowing it was only orgeat. Of course Max would not bring her champagne.

  “I assumed you’d be thirsty,” he said, sounding rather apologetic.

  She was, and she supposed it wouldn’t do to down a glass of champagne. It would make her burp.

  “Thank you,” she said, politely, taking the glass from him. “That was thoughtful of you.”

  “Are they very sore?” he asked, staring down at her toes.

  “Just a little bruised. Nothing terminal.”

  Max sat down beside her and was silent for a moment.

  “It was good of you to dance with Jameson,” he said at length. “He’s a nice chap.”

  “He is,” she agreed, taking a large swallow of her drink. “I just wish he weren’t so heavy.”

  They sat in silence again, watching some of the other guests stroll up and down the gallery. Phoebe sat up a little straighter as the blond man she’d seen earlier passed by. He glanced into the alcove and caught her eye. His lips twitched and he winked at her, before moving on. Phoebe felt a smile tug at her lips.

  “Who introduced you to Alvanly?”

  Phoebe looked up, a little startled by the sharp edge to Max’s voice. “I’m sorry?”

  “What blithering idiot introduced you to Baron Alvanly?”

  “No one,” she said, a little indignant at his tone. No doubt he meant the handsome man who’d winked at her. “I don’t know him at all.”

  “Keep it that way,” he said tersely. “He’s not the sort of man you should be associating with. Don’t speak with him.”

  She was aware that Max was now thrumming with tension, but was too angry to pay it much mind. “Forgive me, Lord Ellisborough. I was unaware that you had been appointed my guardian. Oh, wait… you haven’t, nor have you been asked to act the part of my father.”

  “I don’t want to be your blasted father,” he snapped back, and Phoebe was so shocked at the anger in his words—and at being sworn at by him—that she could only stare.

  Max was always so polite and charming. No one ever put him out of countenance. Except her, it appeared. He coloured a little and seemed to gather himself.

  “Forgive me,” he said, his jaw rigid, his usually amiable face a blank. “That is… I humbly beg your pardon, Miss Barrington. That was unforgivably rude. I ought not have spoken so. Only, Baron Alvanly… please, stay away from him. If I can say nothing else right this evening, I do know that your father would echo my words.”

  “Thank you for your warning,” she said tightly, pushing her slippers back on and ignoring the pain in her toes as she did so. “I shall tell Papa how well you play your role of guard dog. I’m sure you’ll be well rewarded. Would it be all right if I go and speak to the duchess now?”

  He said nothing, knowing he was being taunted, but he got to his feet as she stood.

  “Good evening,” she said, before turning and walking away from him.

  Drat the man. How dare he presume to tell her how to behave and who to talk to? Perhaps he was right about Alvanly, but there had been no need to act as though she might be fool enough to elope with the man. What kind of ninny did he think she was? Fuming, Phoebe stalked back to the ballroom, fully determined to dance with Baron Alvanly before the night was out.

  ***

  15th March 1827. Drury Lane Theatre, London.

  “Goodness,” Bonnie said, looking to her husband, Jerome, who pulled a face a
s they walked out of the St Clair’s private theatre box.

  “What a load of hysterical drivel,” he said, deadpan, at which Bonnie went off in peals of laughter. “Well it was,” Jerome insisted, shaking his head. “I’d much rather have seen a comedy than that mawkish display. I felt like opening a vein myself by the end of it.”

  Phoebe frowned a little, having been rather disturbed by the story of unrequited love. The young hero of the piece had fallen madly in love with a woman who was, in turn, married to an older man. Eventually, aware he could never have her and would bring her nothing but disgrace, he shot himself in the head. It did seem rather overblown and mawkish, and yet, she had heard stories of people dying for love. Was such a fierce emotion attainable? Was that the kind of helpless passion she wanted? It certainly did not seem advisable. How uncomfortable to feel such desire for someone you could never have. Phoebe could feel nothing but pity for the poor soul.

  Waiting patiently, she tried to keep out of the way of those leaving the theatre as Bonnie and Jasper chatted to some acquaintance of theirs.

  “The man was a fool,” whispered a voice in her ear, the flutter of warm breath against her neck making her shiver.

  “Baron Alvanly,” she said, as she turned to discover he was standing rather too close. She attempted a step back, only to discover there was not one to be had. There was a dreadful crush of people milling about still, so she supposed he had little choice but to stand so near. “In what way was he foolish?”

  The baron took her hand, eyes twinkling as he held her gaze. “Not to take more decisive action, of course. Surely a woman does not want a man who sits on the sidelines and does nothing but sigh with melancholy that he cannot be with his beloved?”

  Phoebe frowned, pondering the question as she removed her hand from his grasp. “No, but he did not wish to bring her disgrace or cause problems in her marriage. He was trying to consider her feelings.”

  Alvanly snorted. “By blowing his brains out on her account. I’m sure she was touched.”

  Phoebe bit her lip, trying not to laugh.

  “You say the most dreadful things,” she said, once she had mastered her voice enough not to snigger.

  “If what I hear is true, we are well suited.”

  There was such a gleam of amusement in his eyes she could not take the comment as a slight. Besides which, it was true.

  “What should you have done, then?” she asked, curious now.

  “Me? Why, I should have been her lover. Nothing and no one would have kept me from my beloved, but then I’m wicked to the bone, Miss Barrington. Surely you know that. Has no one warned you off yet?”

  “Yes,” she replied, as delighted by his honesty as she was scandalised by his words. “Of course they have.”

  “They’re right,” he said with a sigh. “Which is why you are dying to get to know me better.”

  “You conceited beast!” Phoebe slapped a hand over her mouth, but she could not take the words back. Far from being annoyed, however, Alvanly’s eyes lit with delight.

  Slowly, he leaned forward and whispered in her ear again—too close, too intimate.

  “Guilty as charged.” He straightened, and this time his gaze was more serious. “We’re alike, you know. You and I. Both of us are infuriated by rules and the opinions of others. The only difference is, I have ceased to care, or to heed them. I do as I please, and the world can whisper and gossip to its heart’s content. I don’t care. I’m not sure you’re brave enough to break free of your bonds, though, are you?”

  Phoebe stared at the baron, uncertain of what to say. She felt just as he’d described, frustrated that society thought women ought to be quiet and well-behaved, and do as they were told. She did not enjoy the idea that he thought her craven, though.

  “I don’t care for the gossips, which you’ll know if you’ve heard the slightest thing about me.”

  Alvanly shrugged. “Oh, you say that, but I doubt it’s true. It’s one thing to be a little outspoken, to play mad games that make the old ladies shriek and dance with too much enthusiasm. It’s another to live life freely. What would you do this week, for example? If you did not have to consider your reputation?”

  Phoebe did not have to consider that too long.

  “There’s a boxing match,” she said wistfully.

  Alvanly grinned.

  ***

  Jack set his battered tricorn hat down on the table. Phoebe was almost certain it was the same one he’d worn when she was a child. He folded his massive arms and glared at her. “You’re up to no good, ain’t ’cha?”

  Jack Green, who once travelled under the notorious sobriquet of ‘Flash Jack’ had retired from life on the high toby when Phoebe had been a girl. They had met when he’d accepted a job, the object of which had been to put a period to the life of the Marquess of Montagu, Phoebe’s father. That her father’s uncle had given him the job said all that was needed about the life her poor papa had lived as a boy. That the once notorious highwayman would now lay down his life for said marquess, illustrated anything else that might be necessary. As with any poacher turned gamekeeper, Jack took his job very seriously indeed. He was not adverse, however, to sharing his knowledge, especially if one waited until he was just a little foxed. Which he only ever was on his evening off. Never, ever, did he imbibe when he was working, aware that would mean instant dismissal.

  They had established an odd friendship over the years, where Jack watched over Phoebe like the little princess he seemed determined to view her as—despite plenty of evidence to the contrary—and Jack seemed to her to be some burly guardian angel. He had taught her to pick a lock, cheat at cards, and do many things that a young lady ought not even to know about, but which might get her out of trouble if she fell into it… or into trouble if she weren’t trying hard enough to avoid it. Either was equally likely where Phoebe was concerned, and she did like to be prepared for all eventualities.

  “What makes you think I’m up to no good?” Phoebe asked, striving for an air of innocence.

  Judging on the snorting noise Jack made, she needed to work on that.

  “’Cause you are always up to some mischief or t’other, Princess. You got an itch that seeks trouble and adventure, excitement. I know ’cause I had it too, once upon a time. And if you were goin’ somewhere what your Pa knew about, you’d not be out here asking like it were some great secret.”

  Phoebe sighed and mirrored Jack’s stance, folding her arms. “I just want to go to a boxing match, Jack.”

  Jack’s eyes grew round. “I gave up risking getting my neck stretched some years ago. I ain’t about to get meself all cut up into little bitty pieces by your papa for doing something as addlebrained as that. A boxing match, indeed. Reckon ye need Pippin to lay some of her magicking on me afore ye’d get me to dance to that tune.”

  Phoebe huffed with impatience. “Oh, it’s not fair. Why do men get to do all the interesting things, and I’m supposed to sit at home and look ornamental?”

  “Ah, come now,” Jack wheedled. “T’ain’t like you don’t get to do all sorts as other young ladies don’t. Lord is a fair man. Taught ye to fence and to shoot and do all manner o’ things you ain’t supposed to.”

  Phoebe made a disgruntled sound. “That’s true, I know it is, but I’m not allowed to tell anyone I can do those things, Jack, let alone show them, so what’s the point?”

  Jack nodded his understanding and stepped forward, chucking her gently under the chin with a hand like a ham hock. “Reckon we all chafe against what we oughta be and want to be at times, Princess. It’s what we do with what we can that sets us apart, I reckon.”

  Phoebe sighed gloomily. “I suppose so.”

  “Cheer up. Come on, I’ll let you cheat me at cards.”

  “I don’t cheat you, Jack,” she retorted.

  “Then you’re a little fool,” he said amiably, winking at her as he went to fetch his cards.

  Chapter 3

  Jasper,

  Mu
ch as I appreciate the thought, do keep your nose out of my romantic affairs. I agree Miss Rochester is lovely and amiable, but I do not need you to arrange a dozen events to throw us together at every opportunity. And no, I am not still mooning about like a lovesick schoolboy. I am quite cured of my ailment, I assure you. The lady has made her position plain and I have no desire to shoot myself or throw myself in the Thames, so there is no need to trouble yourself.

  That being said, I should be delighted to attend your blasted dinner party.

  ―Excerpt of a letter to The Right Hon’ble Jasper Cadogan, The Earl of St Clair, from The Right Hon’ble Maximillian Carmichael, The Earl of Ellisborough.

  18th March 1827.

  Phoebe tugged the hood of her cloak forward so she was better hidden beneath the voluminous fabric. In one pocket she held a small pearl-handled pistol—a present from her father—and there was a knife in her boot. She might have been idiot enough to risk her reputation for the thrill of doing something forbidden, but risk her neck she would not.

  Why was she here?

  She asked herself the question but could not deny the shiver of excitement that rippled down her spine. There was a large gathering at Moulsey Hurst now, as the hour for the boxing match drew near. All around there were the shouts of hawkers and costermongers who gathered wherever there was the chance of a good turnout. The scent of food, mingled with the jostling enthusiasm of a crowd out for fun, was ripe on the air. The rich perfume filled her nose, alongside the less enjoyable tang of those who still had not taken Brummel’s counsel to wash daily to heart.

  Scanning her surroundings, Phoebe grinned as she saw Baron Alvanly standing in the spot they had arranged to meet. His gaze fell upon her, and his eyes grew wide. That would show him not to underestimate her, even if she was not fool enough to believe his taunt had no other side to it. Alvanly was in the market for a rich heiress, having pockets to let, and Phoebe did not doubt he’d manoeuvre her into ruination if he could. It was all a part of the game, though, besting these men who thought her a sweet little mouse with whom they could toy like some big, lazy cat. He would not be the first to discover that Phoebe had been taught to use her own claws, and that she would, if provoked.