by Ingrid Hahn
That wouldn’t do. What sort of woman even thought of melting into the arms of the man who was blackmailing her? Lord Maxfeld was nothing but a cur with a lump of misshapen coal where his heart should have been.
“Are we agreed, my lord? The only thing we’ll be doing is playing on a stage. Nothing more.”
“Agreed.”
And just like that, she was engaged. At least, so far as the world was concerned.
Keeping her focus on the earl, Phoebe waited for a sensation to overtake her. She repeated the word engaged over and over again in her mind, trying to elicit a feeling. Any feeling. Engaged, engaged, engaged.
Nothing. It wasn’t real.
She took a breath. “Well, good, then. I suppose. Now.” She gave a decisive nod. “I absolutely can’t marry without my mother’s permission. You must ask her.”
Another voice sounded at the back of the room. “Ask my permission for what?”
…
Rising, Max turned. Lady Bennington stood in the doorway. Any pleasure she had in beholding him she kept well hidden.
Instead of triumph, he had only the unfortunate sensation of having blundered. Worse—somehow he’d cost himself something. Something important.
No. This would work. The most important person in the equation was Thomas. Lady Phoebe would come to understand the matter as he did. He’d make sure of it.
Ignoring the ache of guilt, he smiled, focusing on the matter at hand. What he could do to a female with his smile alone provided no end of satisfaction, even all these years after first discovering its power. And, true to the established pattern, her ladyship gratified his pride by relaxing into her own small smile.
Excellent. This boded well. “A pleasure to see you again so soon, my lady.”
She swanned into the room, speaking with a hint of playfulness. “Don’t try to charm the likes of me, my lord. I’m much, much older than you, and wise to the ways of your kind.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
Lady Bennington settled in, arranging her lilac skirts before helping herself to tea and a sweet morsel. She was well into her middle years, with silvery hair and lines on her well-featured face. There was, however, an energy to her—the sort that gave the impression that she’d considered old age carefully and judged it best left to others.
Phoebe took her seat. Max followed suit.
“What’s this you are to ask me? I daresay a marriage proposal would be quite out of the question.” She laughed as if having made a good joke.
When both Max and Phoebe remained serious, Lady Bennington’s mirth wilted. She looked between them, eyes like full moons in her angular face. “Tell me you haven’t come to the foolish notion you should marry.”
“Mama—”
“My lady—”
“Oh! I can’t—” Lady Bennington began to choke. When she was set to rights, she tried again, voice hoarse and blinking tears away. “No, please. I can’t—I can’t sanction such a thing. Why I…” Cough. “You foolish children, you hardly know each other.”
“Grace didn’t know Corbeau well at all before they became engaged, Mama.”
Her mother gave her a sour look as if she wasn’t about to put up with such nonsense. “That’s not entirely true. And besides, heaven help me, my child, you’re but little like Grace.”
Thank all that was holy for that. Phoebe loved Grace terribly, but she did not understand her. Although since her marriage, Grace did smile a great deal more, so maybe there was some hope for her, after all. “What does that signify? I’m well of age. And you’re wrong, by the way. We were together a great deal at Christmastime.”
Lady Bennington narrowed her eyes. “You two haven’t gotten up to some mischief that requires a hasty marriage now, have you?”
“Mama!” Phoebe rose—forcing Max to his feet—and went to the fireplace, putting herself in a three-quarter view to them both, and fanned herself missishly. “That’s not at all what I meant when I said we were together a great deal.”
The performance wouldn’t have won her a career on the stage, that was certain. Max winced, bracing himself for Lady Bennington to catch on to the whole business then and there, ending it before it’d started. Instead she seemed to believe her daughter’s fabricated shock. “Oh, come now, I am sorry, but you must own the question was necessary.”
“Of course it wasn’t.” Lady Phoebe turned, expression hurt. “I would never—never—do such a thing.”
So long as the woman didn’t burst into tears, she might have a chance at convincing her mother.
Max tried not to smile. Admiration for Phoebe made him swell with pride he had no right to feel, given the engagement was utterly false. It was too late, though. He did admire her, more with every minute spent in her company.
Lady Bennington glanced suspiciously between them. “But where would you have picked up such a foolish notion as this?”
“We know each other better than you think, Mama. We saw quite a lot of each other at the end of last year, first when we stayed at Sutterton Grange, and then later when we were guests of Lord Corbeau at Christmas.”
“This is what I get for having four grown girls and nobody to help me mind them.” She put her hand to her brow as if she had the sorest head in all England.
At this, Lady Phoebe bristled, and the reaction seemed genuine. “I daresay I have no need of minding.”
“Forgive me, my love, but this quite proves that you do.” Lady Bennington continued rubbing her head.
Max said nothing. If he attempted petitioning on Phoebe’s behalf, he would undermine the appearance of her being quite old enough to know her own mind.
Lady Phoebe came to take Max’s arm, casting him a look of pining adoration. She smelled faintly unusual and alluring, unlike any woman he’d ever known. The scent was a bit like…like almonds.
Having her close was nicer than it had any right to be. It wasn’t like last night at the ball. He’d been too conscious of himself as the luckiest man in the room. So much so, he’d almost been distracted from his true aim.
Now his sense of self almost…fell away. But not as if he’d lost himself. As if there were something down deeper, something as yet undiscovered, if only he would peer over the ledge to see what it might be.
“But Mama, we are so very much in love.”
Her mother pursed her lips at them. “I suppose all that business last night about being reticent to dance with him was some sort of playacting to hide your attachment, was it?”
“I apologize for the secrecy, Mama. We were going to give it more time, but we know we want to marry, so what is gained by putting it off?”
“Seeing if your ardor will cool, for one.” Lady Bennington spoke flatly.
Phoebe returned her mother’s tone with a sweetly pleading look, her eyes wide, as she assumed an expression of perfect innocence. “But it didn’t while we were separated, and that was one of the reasons that convinced us to become engaged.”
“So this is really love then, is it?”
“It is, Mama.” Phoebe’s voice broke.
The admission—false though it might have been—caused an inner shudder. Love.
No. Never that.
And that’s when the ache of guilt became too strong to push aside.
Never had Max’s conscience been so overburdened. Downstairs it had all seemed logical, perfectly so. Why couldn’t the business have been as easy as he’d envisioned? Why hadn’t he done something sensible, say, found a respectable woman in need of funds and pay her outright to mire herself in his dirty work?
Because part of him, the selfish blackguard that he was, wanted to be near Lady Phoebe. They hadn’t spent a good deal of time together. Really hardly any, come to think on it. But she’d never been far from his mind since they had parted after Corbeau and Lady Grace married. She pulled on him in a way he was almost helpless to resist.
There. He’d admitted it to himself. And once was enough on that score. He needn’t trouble hi
mself with the recognition of his feelings again. Now he was less worthy of her than ever.
It didn’t matter if Max liked her or not. Come down to it, it didn’t matter if he were worthy or not. He could have been the most upstanding scion all of England over and it wouldn’t have mattered. He would never pursue her. Could never. It was one rule he must never, ever break.
He’d gotten her to do his bidding—but in a manner which he could feel naught but shame. That had been bad enough. When Lady Phoebe had started lying to her mother on his behalf—that was when the real unpleasantness had begun.
Max and Phoebe shared a secret look. Her expression said, we shall have my mother’s sanction yet. The look was entirely for her mother’s benefit and brilliantly done.
She knelt at Lady Bennington’s feet. “Mama, surely you must remember what it is to be in love. And isn’t this what you want for your daughters? To be able to marry where our hearts have taken hold?”
He held his breath. Perhaps Lady Bennington would find a way of putting a swift end to what he’d so recklessly started.
“Oh my dear.” She took her daughter’s hand within her own. “When you put it that way, of course. Of course you have my blessing. And most heartily, too.”
Lady Phoebe rose to stand by Max, taking his elbow and gazing at him admiringly.
If only there were anything left within him to admire.
“Lord Maxfeld?” Lady Bennington arched her brows.
“Yes, my lady?”
“I look forward to having you as my son. Now, children.” She straightened. “Tell me. When is it you were thinking the wedding ought to be?”
There is no reconsidering my plan. His insides were tight. Constrained. As if he’d bound them in ropes of nettle.
What was done was done, and all that was left was to see it through to the end. To gain what he sought—the most important thing of all. Thomas.
Despite that, one thing became instantly clear. Max was going to have to atone for this sin. Somehow, some way. He would have to atone.
Chapter Five
“Is she going to be terribly shocked?” Phoebe leaned to the window for a better look at the house.
“I expect so.” Lord Maxfeld sat opposite Phoebe and her new maid, Albina, who acted as chaperone.
It was one of those gray London days common to springtime, the kind that made one all the more appreciative of clear skies and sunshine.
Lord Maxfeld helped Phoebe out of the carriage, the air about them sodden from the morning’s mizzle.
“How do I look?” She’d dressed with the utmost care. Cognizant of the role she was playing, she’d selected a sensible blue spencer to go over a simple ivory muslin gown. She needed to present an image of keen judgment and even-tempered practicality. Fashionable, but not too fashionable, lest she be thought to be prey to whims. Or worse, the arbitrary rules handed down from on high from an obscure set of people.
It was a lot to ask of clothing, but subtle cues were not to be underestimated.
He gave her a careful perusal, his head going side to side as his eyes scanned first down and then slowly back up her body.
A bit of warmth spread through her belly as she stood as the subject of his intense blue gaze. Does he have to be so…well, him?
“You’ll do, I suppose.” A small smile touched either side of his lips.
He might have said she’d do, but the undercurrent of wicked warmth in his voice revealed he thought so much more than what he’d claimed.
“You really think she’s going to accept me?”
Phoebe had met Lady Maxfeld before, of course. They’d stayed at Sutterton Grange—the Maxwell family seat—at the end of last year. The lady had been pleasant enough. A little reserved or disinterested, perhaps, at least where Phoebe and her sisters had been concerned. And it was no great secret that Lady Maxfeld had spent the last few years conniving to get her son married.
The Landon girls, however, thanks to their father’s infamous downfall, were unlikely to have been considered suitable candidates for the post of wife to the earl. No matter how rakish said earl’s ways might be.
Or so Phoebe had always assumed…
They took the steps together, leaving her maid behind to wait in the carriage.
“She wants me married more than anything. And what do you suppose she’ll do if she’s distressed—abuse you to your face?”
“Mightn’t she?”
Lord Maxfeld gave her an odd look. “Of course not. You don’t really think that, do you?”
“People have done more on lesser provocation. My father is not exactly remembered fondly, I think you’ll find.”
“My mother will be all politeness. She hasn’t a single bone in her body that could bear to cause the least offense, even if she did not hold your mother in high esteem. Furthermore, she’s wanted me married for so long that I think any objections she might have about your family will be gotten over with stunning rapidity.”
Inside, the entrance was spacious, with parquet flooring, rich rugs, and vases of fresh flowers arranged beautifully on every surface.
Phoebe had never been more self-conscious in her life. Until she’d come up against Lord Maxfeld, she’d been nothing but indifferent to a man’s notice. Concerning herself with whether or not she drew admiring glances from the opposite sex had seemed a vapid pursuit.
His attention, however, was an unexpected exception to a long-held assumption that life was so much more than male judgment. Which wasn’t to say that Phoebe didn’t esteem men. On the contrary. Some could be surprisingly clever.
Lord Maxfeld was different. He’d undertaken a wicked pursuit, forcing her to be complicit. Perhaps his duplicity made him, in some odd way, more trustworthy. Honor among thieves and all that.
No, that couldn’t be right. Thieves had no more honor than rakish blackmailers. What an absurd thought.
He was a cad in every way. She couldn’t forget.
Phoebe assumed the persona of a woman besotted with the earl. She had a role to play, and she would play it to the height of her powers. Isabel didn’t know it yet, but she was depending on Phoebe to do as the earl asked.
Knowing the whole business was naught but a farce didn’t make it any less jarring to her nerves, however. It was difficult enough without Isabel never being far from her thoughts. Phoebe would have to pay her sister a call. And soon.
But not now. Her pulse might beat, and her stomach might flutter, but she was an accomplice to a particular aim. She needed to succeed and succeed she would.
They were shown in and brought up to the drawing room, a refined and feminine space done in pearly shades of cream and gray. A fire burned in the fireplace. The room was overly warm, but the person they’d come to see wore a heavy shawl about her shoulders, partially obscuring a lavender day dress.
Phoebe kept control over her features. It wouldn’t do for Lord Maxfeld’s mother to see the shock on her face. In the space of a few months, the woman had grown thin and frail.
“Lady Phoebe. What a surprise.” The woman blinked rapidly, as if puzzling her out. She possessed an air of what could only be described as foreignness about her, as if she were misplaced, but not sure how or why.
This was not the same person Phoebe had met at Sutterton Grange. Was Lady Maxfeld ill?
Phoebe took her seat, her notice catching on the miniature portrait clutched in the countess’s hands. It appeared to depict a beautiful young woman.
Oh, no. Phoebe went stricken with realization. Max’s mother still mourned her daughter. She was being consumed by grief.
Before Phoebe could try to subtly take another glance, Lord Maxfeld’s mother hid the item in the folds of her lap rugs.
The three of them peddled through a few niceties. Refreshments were offered and called for. Phoebe’s stomach was too knotted to eat. But a sip or two of tea would be welcome in her dry mouth.
“Something tells me my son has brought you here today for more than a pleasant visit.�
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Phoebe and Lord Maxfeld exchanged glances. She looked down to her tea modestly, then shyly back up at him again. “You haven’t told her?”
“Told me what?” Eyes wide, her ladyship pitched slightly forward in her chair.
The earl drew himself up as if proud. “Mother, I would like you to know that Lady Phoebe has agreed to be my bride.”
Silence.
A long, painful, horrible, excruciating silence. Phoebe’s ears were about to bleed from the prolonged razor-sharp interlude, when finally, her ladyship rested against the back of her chair. Giving a weary sigh, she shook her head. “Oh, at last. At last.” Remembering herself, she raised a hand toward Phoebe. Phoebe took it, the other woman’s skin cool through her glove. “Are you certain, my dear?”
Phoebe gave the earl a look she hoped shone with love. “I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.”
Words that would come to haunt her when the engagement ended.
She prepared herself for the backlash.
“When will you be wed? Quickly, I hope. Max, have you been to see the archbishop for a special license yet?” She turned to Phoebe. “Now that he’s won you, my dear, we can’t have you regaining your senses and crying off now, can we?”
All the certainties in Phoebe’s world quaked. That was it? His mother was going to accept her? Her? The daughter of that reckless old wastrel, the late Earl of Bennington?
Lord Maxfeld had warned her that his mother was terribly eager for him to marry. But this eager?
Phoebe kept hold of herself to maintain a cool outward appearance. “I don’t think we’re in any terrible rush, my lady, are we…” Oh, no. In all the fuss over the rules, they’d neglected certain crucial details, such as what they would call each other. My lord? Lord Maxfeld? Maxfeld? Did he use his Christian name? And what was it, if he did? His mother had called him Max. Corbeau called him Max, too.
Her ladyship didn’t seem to notice Phoebe’s hesitation. “You might not be, but I am.”
“But remember, Mother, it’s our wedding.” He spoke with gentle care—more than Phoebe could have guessed of the man, actually.
“It’s partially mine, too. I’ve prayed for this to come for more years than I can count. I’ve been begging you for so long to give my poor old knees a rest, and at last they shall have it.”
