To Dance until Dawn (Girls Who Dare Book 12)

by Emma V. Leech

  “I-I didn’t think you liked it.”

  “I like it,” he managed gruffly, forcing himself to stare out of the window and think about crop rotation and grain yields per acre.

  “Thank goodness, for if you think this frivolous, I dare not consider how you might react to the rest of what was sent.”

  Though he knew it was foolish, Max returned his attention to her.

  “Is it dreadfully scandalous?” he asked with interest, unable to exorcise visions of lace-edged corsets and garters trimmed with scarlet ribbons from his wicked mind.

  Phoebe bit her lip, which made his gaze fall to her mouth.

  She nodded. “It is, rather.”

  “Then this should be a fascinating trip,” he said lightly, somehow sounding amused when he felt as if he was being subjected to torture by a dizzying vision of red satin bows that still danced in his imagination.

  “You weren’t angry, then?” she asked, staring at him in confusion.

  Max shook his head.

  “You were when I mentioned the corset,” she said flatly.

  He could not tell her she was wrong without explaining the real reason.

  “Which is quite unfair, Max, really, as you mentioned my corset when you came to my birthday. You told me I had it laced too tightly.”

  “So I did,” he said, aching to move, to sit beside her, to take her into his arms, disarrange those artful curls and send the mad hat tumbling to the floor with a flurry of ribbons and plumes.

  “You were right, of course,” she added with a sigh, which made him smile. “Max?” she said a moment later, her voice quiet. “Is… is something wrong?”

  Max jolted as he realised he’d been staring at her with the intensity of a starving dog outside a butcher’s shop. He cleared his throat and shook his head, reminding himself sternly he was a gentleman and he had no business thinking such things unless she agreed to marry him.

  “No,” he said firmly. “Not a thing.”

  Chapter 10

  Dear Prue,

  I am so sorry, but I must refuse your delightful invitation to dine tomorrow night. I would have so liked to have seen you and caught up, but we are returning to Dern tomorrow and to be honest we have been thrown into quite a panic. You will never believe what Phoebe has done this time….

  ―Excerpt of a letter to Her Grace, Prunella Adolphus, the Duchess of Bedwin, from The Most Honourable Matilda Barrington, Marchioness of Montagu.

  9th April 1827. Palais Impérial, Boulogne sur Mer, France.

  “Really, Max, do be sensible. It’s the only way we will pick up the trail. It’s all very well believing Alvanly is going to Paris, but if he gets there before us, we shall have the very devil of a time tracking him down. Asking a few innocent questions will not put me beyond the pale, especially as I am travelling with m-my… my husband.”

  Phoebe cursed herself for stammering, but the idea of Max as her husband had become something as rare and magical as a unicorn—the kind of thing she’d love to see but had no expectation of, for it was impossible. She did not know how to interpret his behaviour. Half the time he stared at her as if he was trying to read her mind, and the other half he acted as though she did not exist. She’d been certain he was ashamed of her and the stir she’d caused at the hotel, but then he’d said she looked like a princess. One minute he was kind and affectionate, even a little flirtatious, and the next she felt he was annoyed with her. If only Mama were here, she lamented. She would know what to make of it.

  Usually if a man liked her, he would write her poetry, or bring her flowers, or try to kiss her. Max had done none of those things in all the time she’d known him. He had bought her some exceptionally fine books, which she’d liked far more than poems, and for her birthday the most exquisite tortoiseshell bird box. It had a small enamelled lid on top, which popped up to display a tiny feathered automaton of a bird which flapped its wings and hopped about, singing the most delightful song. It was one of her most treasured possessions, and it had utterly charmed her. How foolish she had been not to have been charmed by the giver as quickly. She had been blind. Surely, he would not have given her such a beautiful and expensive gift just because of her father’s friendship… would he?

  Confused, she returned her attention to the ongoing argument. They had stopped to change horses at Boulogne sur Mer, and Max had acceded to her wish to explore the town a little and see if they could discover news of Alvanly. So, they had come to the Palais Impérial—so named as Napoleon had once been a visitor—to eat and do a little discreet investigation. Except that Max’s French was excruciating, and he seemed loath to allow Phoebe to exercise hers.

  “We ought to keep a low profile,” he said, frowning, and she wondered why he would worry about that if he intended to marry her.

  Unless he was hoping she would refuse him. The thought plunged her into gloom, but she shook it off. At the very least, she would get that blasted painting back and ring a peal over Alvanly he’d not forget in a hurry. In her current frame of mind, she felt tempted to shoot the blaggard for all the trouble he’d caused.

  “Well, it’s a bit late for that,” she retorted. “You’re the one who suggested we travel as man and wife. The Countess of Ellisborough is not a discreet name to carry about.” She regretted her lapse in manners at once and turned back to him. “Forgive me, Max, I—”

  “Oh, damnation, do stop apologising,” he said, sounding exasperated, as he took her by the hand and dragged her inside the hotel. “I’ll tie the manager to a chair, and you can interrogate him to your heart’s content.”

  Phoebe hurried in his wake, bewildered once again by Max’s sudden changes in temper. She had always believed him to be such a quiet, well-mannered fellow and, yes, dull if she was being perfectly honest, but it was clear she hadn’t known him at all. He was nothing of the sort. By now she was so uncertain of his feelings or his moods she hardly knew what to think.

  They entered the elegant hotel and were quickly recognised as being of the quality. They were given a private dining area, where they were feted, and feasted upon moules marinières—mussels in a white wine sauce—and a huge dish overflowing with seafood, from lobster claws to langoustines, followed by sole meunière—fried sole, served with braised chicory—a dish with potatoes cooked in cream, another of mushrooms and herbs, and several other side dishes Phoebe could not identify. The wine was excellent and plentiful, and they finished with a superb dish of apples cooked in an apple liquor and served with a flavoured cream which Phoebe did not even pretend not to want second helpings of.

  All of this seemed to restore Max’s good humour, and he did not look the least bit stern when she conversed with the waiter, but only watched her with a strange gleam in his eyes. She liked it when he watched her, Phoebe decided, only it was rather distracting. Trying hard to ignore him, she concentrated on speaking to the waiter. He was a handsome young fellow with curling black hair, and he obviously admired her, which was not an unpleasant situation. She hoped Max had noticed too. Once the man had given her voluble and rather too flattering felicitations upon her marvellous French and her charming accent, he had asked if the meal had been to their satisfaction. Phoebe had been happy to wax lyrical for some time before she concluded.

  “Oh, indeed, it was the most wonderful meal, so do send our compliments to your chef, but of course, I knew it would be excellent as an acquaintance of ours recommended it. A Baron Alvanly, do you remember him perhaps? I believe he may be a day or two ahead of us.”

  The man’s face darkened at once.

  “Yes,” he said, looking very much like he would spit on the floor if a lady wasn’t present. “I know him.”

  “Oh dear,” Phoebe said, as it appeared the waiter was not pleased to admit knowing Baron Alvanly. She gave him her most sympathetic expression. “I am aware the baron is a shocking loose screw, though very charming when he wishes to be. Am I to take it he did not act honourably?”

  At this question, Phoebe really did
think he would spit in response, but the waiter just stood a little taller and replied with disgust that Baron Alvanly had left that very morning and not paid his bill.

  ***

  Max watched the exchange between Phoebe and the young waiter with fascination. How was it that a woman who already held him utterly spellbound only grew more enticing when speaking a foreign language? He had only the vaguest notion of what they were talking about and, once they’d finished discussing the meal, he’d been quite lost. It didn’t matter. She could have been discussing the state of the drains for all he knew, and he’d still have been captivated.

  Oh, please God, let her agree to marry me. Please. Please.

  That the waiter and his entire staff were also halfway in love with her was also obvious. He and a dozen other ingratiating fellows had fallen over themselves to serve La Comtesse and ensure she had the best of everything. They had kept her wine glass full, too, and now she looked flushed and excited. Something the fellow had said had clearly pleased her. Max only prayed he hadn’t been flirting with her. He didn’t think his ego could stand competition from a waiter at this point.

  “Oh, Max,” she said, turning to him and reaching across the table to clasp his hand.

  They had both removed their gloves to eat and, for a moment, he was so distracted by the feel of her skin upon his he did not attend to her words.

  “Max, did you hear what I said?”

  Max tore his eyes away from her hand and cleared his throat.

  “N-No,” he stammered. “Wool gathering.”

  The waiter sent him a glance which was half pitying understanding, and half envy.

  “Alvanly was here. He left this morning, but he didn’t pay his bill. I hope you don’t mind, but I… I said you would. After all, if not for me, he’d never be here and….”

  “Of course,” Max said easily, happy to do anything she wished if it would soften her opinion of him. “Tell them to add it to our bill.”

  “Oh, thank you, Max. I will pay you back once we get home.”

  She beamed at him and turned back to the waiter. He had no intention of letting her pay him back, but her hand was still resting upon his and Max did not dare move or speak for fear she would remember and take it away.

  Once the fellow had gone, she returned to look at him.

  “We are only hours behind him,” she said with excitement glittering in her eyes. “And thank you so much for paying his bill, Max. I shall pay you back, I promise, though I know it was a dreadful imposition of me to offer without asking, and I am sorry—”

  “Don’t be,” he said, aware there was too much unspoken, too much emotion in the words, but he couldn’t help it. “Please. Don’t be sorry.”

  She stared at him a little uncertainly and gave a hesitant smile. “All right, then.”

  Max settled their bill and Alvanly’s and they walked back to the carriage.

  “Do you think he’ll stop at Abbeville?”

  Max shrugged, feeling a burst of hope as he noticed how happy she sounded.

  “I don’t know,” he said, wanting to say, I don’t care. He didn’t give a damn for Alvanly or the blessed painting, he only wanted Phoebe with him, for her to want to be here with him on this ridiculous adventure. “There’s only one way to find out, I suppose.”

  “Yes,” she said as Jack opened the door for them. “Was your meal good, Jack?”

  “Not bad,” he said, shrugging. “I’d rather an ale pie than mussels to be truthful, but that… what was it called, Fred?”

  “Lapin à la moutarde,” Fred replied grinning, his accent surprisingly good.

  “Ah, yeah. Now, that was tasty,” Jack said appreciatively, smacking his lips.

  Phoebe laughed and climbed into the carriage and then groaned as she sat down.

  “I’ve eaten too much again,” she said with a rueful sigh. “I ought never to have taken that second helping.”

  In an instant, Max’s thoughts returned to her corset and he had to fight the desire to offer to unlace it for her.

  “It was worth it,” he said, unable to help himself from recalling their conversation at her birthday dinner.

  She chuckled, a surprisingly throaty sound which made his heart beat faster.

  “Yes, and my corset is laced too tightly.”

  Her face fell as she looked at him and he wondered what she saw in his eyes.

  “Are you going to scold me again for speaking of my undergarments?” she asked warily.

  Max shook his head. He felt he sat on a precipice. She was so beautiful, and he wanted her so badly, and he’d drunk just enough wine to feel a trifle reckless.

  “No,” he said, aware that his voice was deeper than usual, breathless. “But if you mention it again, I give you fair warning, I will go in search of those scarlet ribbons.”

  Her eyes widened in shock and he waited for her to give him a sharp set down, or turn away in disgust and pretend he’d never spoken. She did neither, only stared at him.

  “Do you… do you w-want to see them, Max?”

  “Of course I want to see them!” he retorted, beyond frustrated. “I’ve thought of nothing else ever since you mentioned them. I’m going out of my mind thinking about them. My every thought is consumed with the desire to see those blasted ribbons. I’ve a pulse, Phoebe, not that you seem to realise it. I’m a living man, not yet thirty, not some old fogram as you seem to think. How can you know every waiter in that blasted hotel wanted to throw themselves at your feet, and not… and not know …?”

  “Know what?” she demanded, sounding flustered and truly startled.

  No doubt he’d shocked her to her bones. Max shook his head and turned to look out of the window. He was an idiot, and he’d likely just made this entire journey into some hellish enterprise where she’d be uncomfortable to spend another moment alone with him.

  “Know what, Max?” she asked again, her voice softer now.

  He ignored it. She wasn’t that naïve. She’d figure it out.

  “Max.”

  He sighed and forced himself to turn and look at her, and his heart leapt to his throat and jammed there.

  Christ.

  “I can’t reach the ones on my corset without help,” she said, blushing furiously as she held up her skirts to reveal one shapely stocking-clad leg, and the red silk ribbon on the garter.

  ***

  Phoebe felt as though she might burst into flames, she was so hot. It was an odd kind of heat, too, a combination of mortification and intense excitement as she saw Max’s eyes darken, heard his sharp intake of breath. That was not disgust she saw in his eyes, she knew, though perhaps her behaviour still disgusted him. She was acting like a trollop and she knew it. Suddenly ashamed, she pushed her skirts back down and looked away from him. Oh, good Lord. Would she never learn not to be so stupidly rash and impulsive? She was breathing hard, the urge to cry making her throat tight. Had she just ruined everything? Not that there had been anything to ruin, but….

  She gasped as Max took her hand and discovered him sitting beside her. She had been so consumed by her own dreadful behaviour that she’d not noticed him move.

  “Are you trying to drive me mad, love?” he asked, his voice soft and yet rough at the same time.

  Phoebe shook her head and then, being scrupulously honest, she nodded.

  “Well, yes. Perhaps a little bit,” she admitted, for after all she did want him mad for her. She could hardly deny it.

  He laughed, the sound low and rather thrilling. “It’s working.”

  “It is?” she said doubtfully, frowning as she noticed him turn her hand and undo the row of tiny buttons.

  “It is,” he agreed, his voice brooking no argument.

  She watched, still puzzled, as he worked each button in turn. “You’ll never manage without a button hook,” she said.

  He looked up at her, such a fierce expression in his eyes her breath caught. “Do wish to wager upon that, my lady?”

  “I’m n-not yo
ur lady,” she protested weakly, as it appeared he was making short work of the buttons, hook or no.

  “I wouldn’t wager on that either, if I were you, angel,” he murmured, the endearment sending a thrill of astonished pleasure through her.

  Angel?

  Her?

  Was he mad?

  Perhaps she had addled his brain.

  Now the buttons were undone, he had exposed a triangle of skin over the inside of her wrist. Max stared at it for a moment and Phoebe held her breath, wondering what on earth came next. Everything stilled; even the carriage jolting over the dreadful road they were on did not register in her mind. Slowly, he lifted her hand and pressed his lips to the small area. Phoebe gasped, startled by the intensity of sensation that jolted through her. His lips were warm and soft, and she could feel his breath flutter against her wrist. He looked up at her then, and she wondered why he seemed so nervous. Surely it was only her heart jumping around like a landed fish? He was an experienced man, sophisticated and worldly, and… quite obviously anxious.

  “Phoebe?”

  Her name was spoken like a question, and Phoebe groped about for an appropriate answer.

  “Y-Yes?” she stammered.

  “Have I shocked you?”

  “Y-Yes.”

  His expression fell, and he set her hand free. “I beg your pardon, Phoebe, I ought not—”

  “What? Oh, no, Max, don’t….” She grabbed hold of his hand again in both of hers and held on tight. “Don’t think… I didn’t mean….”

  “Didn’t mean what?” he whispered, staring at the way she clutched at his hand.

  “I didn’t mean it wasn’t a nice shock,” she said, wishing she wasn’t so wretchedly clumsy. Perhaps she should have paid more attention when men had tried to romance her. “Only that it was a shock. You see, I thought….”

  He lifted his gaze to hers and she couldn’t think of anything at all, lost in the soft darkness of his eyes, like brown velvet flecked with gold and bronze and copper.

  “What did you think?”