by Ingrid Hahn
When she came to the end of the chapter, Grace stopped her. “I am so enjoying this book, and you read so beautifully, Albina, but I wonder if we might have a pause. Do you think you might see about having some tea sent up?”
The maid left. Grace, in a gown the color of port wine held up to sunshine, let her hands drop to her lap, work still in her fingertips, but forgotten. “Phoebe, this engagement… I could hardly believe it when I heard. Do you really mean to marry Lord Maxfeld?”
Phoebe sent her sister a sidelong glance. Everything about Grace embodied her name. She was everything a fine lady ought to be. The model of calm and beauty. Marriage had given her a glow. She was full of dreamy smiles and contented sighs. Day in. Day out.
Phoebe put her gaze back to her work and kept it there while speaking. “Isn’t that what’s usually done? An engagement is an agreement of intent with a particular outcome.”
“Yes, but Lord Maxfeld? I didn’t think you liked the man.”
Neither had Phoebe. But the events of last Tuesday kept playing and replaying in her mind, touching her heart with each remembrance. How kind he’d been to his mother. And the almost magical way he had with his nephew, young Thomas. The look on his face as he’d watched the boy, as if nothing in the world were dearer to him.
There was more to Lord Maxfeld than she’d supposed.
“It seems I do.”
“You haven’t been…I mean, there isn’t any…” Grace cleared her throat.
An unusual rush of blood rose to Phoebe’s face, warm, and uncomfortable, and strange. “I entered into the engagement of my own free will. There isn’t any necessity for me to do so, except the plain fact that Max and I have grown quite attached to each other.”
“Max?”
Good Lord, she had called him Max, hadn’t she? The name had fallen so easily off her tongue, too…which she would think about later.
Phoebe ignored the query—and her sister’s raised eyebrows. “Attached enough that we can’t do without each other.”
Grace stayed silent a minute, studying Phoebe carefully. “I worry about you, you know.”
If only Jane hadn’t run off to the northern wilds to become a governess. Jane had always served as a buffer between Grace and Phoebe.
Guilt sank, warm and uncomfortable, in Phoebe’s stomach. She loved Grace. Admired her. But there were so many years between them, and they were so different. Grace had grown up in affluence. Of all the sisters, their father’s disgrace had hit her the hardest. Even Isabel, who’d paid the highest price, and continued to pay to this day, had had a certain detachment.
“You needn’t, and I’ll thank you not to do so. I quite know my own mind.”
Even had she not promised Lord Maxfeld that nobody would know of their agreement, she couldn’t have confided in Grace even had she wanted. Grace knew nothing about what Isabel did. It was difficult not to believe that Grace would collapse into a little heap if she heard the truth about their sister, although it was unjust to think so, because Grace was made of sterner stuff than Phoebe often thought.
“Phoebe—”
“Do you enjoy being married, Grace?”
“That’s quite beside the point.”
“You do, don’t you?” The answer was plain enough, but Phoebe wanted to hear Grace admit it.
“My case is quite different.”
“Tell me…” Phoebe gave her sister a frank stare. “What is it you most enjoy about being married, Grace?”
There was no question as to what it was that Phoebe alluded. The marriage bed, of course. It was a little unfair, to be sure. Marriage was more than physical intimacies. But if her imagination were any guide, physical intimacies were one of the perquisites. That is, with the right person.
Like Max.
No. The thought jolted her. No, never like him. He was wrong—entirely wrong.
To Phoebe’s surprise, Grace met her stare without so much as a hint of color on her cheeks. In a way that said she knew what it was Phoebe was driving at, she smiled. “What it is I most enjoy is something you best not be thinking about.”
“Oh, and you never thought about it before you were wed.”
At that, Grace did blush, and deeply. “Come down to it, all cases are entirely different. We none of us are the exact same people. It follows we wouldn’t have the exact same relationships. What I do, I do for my own reasons.”
That sounded nothing if not defensive. “You’re sidestepping the question.”
Her sister continued, patient as ever. “I depend upon you acting sensibly. We all do.”
“You mean you think I ought to behave more like you.” The comparison rankled, not least because Grace would never have been caught in a snare like the one in which Max had trapped Phoebe.
Except there was the storeroom incident that had brought Grace and Corbeau together in the first place, which altogether might have been worse than blackmail. At least blackmail was a private arrangement.
There were going to be a great number of sad looks and quiet talks from this quarter once the engagement came to an end.
“No, that’s not what I mean. Not at all, in fact.”
Phoebe raised her brows at her sister. “Really?”
Grace shook her head. “You’re so young, dear, even you must own—”
“I’m two and twenty.”
“—and Lord Maxfeld is—”
“A perfectly suitable age for a man to be married.” She was willfully misunderstanding. It would have been too easy to believe herself if she tried to insist that she and Max would suit—exactly what she wanted to tell Grace, but didn’t.
Which was nonsense—the suiting part, that was. She hardly knew the man, discounting his capacity for blackmail. What did she understand of suitability on so little acquaintance?
“But you must own that—”
“How do Lord Corbeau and Lord Maxfeld know each other?” Avoiding any more scolding, she blurted out the first thing that sprang to mind. “They seem like opposite sorts of people. I’d more easily believe them unable to stand each other. Yet, they’re as close as friends can be.”
Grace bit her lip. After a pause, she finally ventured to speak, albeit hesitantly. “Have you heard of Catullus?”
“Is he a peer?”
“I should certainly hope not.” Grace gave a single firm nod and a little sniff, which only enlivened Phoebe’s curiosity. “He was a Latin poet, and…” She smiled, shaking her head and resuming her needlework. “Oh, you’re going to have to ask Lord Maxfeld to tell you the story himself. It’s quite funny. I’ll do it no justice, I’m sure.”
Tea arrived. Then a servant came to see the mistress of the house—who was Grace, which was still odd—and Grace had to leave to see about some household matter.
Alone, Phoebe set aside the stocking and fixed herself a cup of tea, savoring the fragrance before taking that first wonderfully hot sip. Smiling, she let her eyes fall closed. What a glorious thing tea was. Leaves were so humble, yet capable of this. How lucky she was now she could drink as much as she pleased.
One cup vanished with ill-bred speed. Before she poured a second, she went to the secretary and took out a thick sheet of hot-pressed paper, pausing briefly to inhale the scent. She dipped a pen. At the top of one half she wrote Advantages. At the top of the second half she wrote Disadvantages. Then, carefully, so as to be as even as possible, she struck a heavy black line down the center.
The door opened. Phoebe’s heart lurched. She scrambled to her feet to offer her new guest a curtsy. Odious scoundrel blackmailer of the highest order he might have been. But the way he’d been with his mother and nephew had revealed an unexpected side to the man—a side she desired to investigate further. “Lord Maxfeld, I wasn’t expecting you. Would you—er—would you care for tea?”
“Thank you.” He gave her a suspicious look but stayed silent. She took hold of herself. No need to act guilty, for she had nothing to hide.
“How was your afternoon with
your nephew? It was yesterday, wasn’t it?” Seated, she handed over the cup she prepared for him.
At the mention of Thomas, a light came into the earl’s eyes. Warmth. Love.
Phoebe dropped her gaze, applying all her attention to fixing herself another cup, which used the last of the hot water.
“He’s a fine boy. Favors his mother. I like seeing her live on in him. I know how proud she’d be of him.”
Emotion rose in Phoebe’s throat. He was a large man. So full of power and control. She’d made a mistake in believing him detached. In believing he cared for naught but rakish revelry. The rough tightness in his voice as he spoke of his sister strongly suggested he not only missed her, but missed her terribly.
Who was this man really?
One minute he was a rake, ruthlessly blackmailing her. The next he was a doting uncle.
“Young Thomas seems quite a bright and happy boy.”
Lord Maxfeld sucked his teeth. “And I aim to keep him that way. Which is why I came to talk to you.”
She tossed him an exaggeratedly haughty look. “You wound me, my lord. Here I expected you sought me out for the pleasure of my company.”
The look he gave her—so heated, so wholly improper, as if his thoughts hinged on the word pleasure, but most assuredly not in the manner she’d meant.
Phoebe’s traitorous heart leaped. The transaction between them was supposed to be so simple. Moreover, he was blackmailing her. She’d do well to remember that fact. The last thing she needed out of this parody of an engagement—after scandal, of course—was to come away liking the man.
No, that would never do.
She wet her lips. “Very well, then. What is it?”
“We need to be seen together in public.” His brow furrowed as he noticed the heap of cast-off garments in a basket beside his chair. He picked up one, dangling it between his thumb and first finger. “What’s all this?”
“I darn stockings.”
“Surely you can afford new ones.”
That he assumed they were hers made heat flood her cheeks. Her underthings out for all to see? Indeed, no. “I can. Which is why I gather old ones to mend—they are none of them mine, you see—and I send them out to be heartily laundered, and darn them. Then I give them to charity.”
“You do?”
“It was my job, you see, as a child. I mended socks for the family. I’m good at it, and I enjoy the work.” Still rattled from the look he’d given her, she was chattering on helplessly. “I like needlework in general, but there is something satisfying about making something useful instead of decorating bits of cloth to dab at one’s nose and eyes. Everyone should have a comfortable and warm stocking. It’s one of life’s little pleasures”—damn, how could she have used that word again? More heat, harder and hotter this time, radiated from her face—“don’t you think?”
“I hadn’t considered it.”
They were quiet a moment. She took a sip of tea. He took a sip of his. The wood fire crackled amiably, drawing more attention to the silence.
Phoebe lifted her gaze to him. “I believe there was something you wanted to say to me, my lord?”
“Yes. Right.” He replaced his cup in the saucer. “I’ve secured a few invitations for you, and—do you play, at all?”
“With my family’s history, what inducement might I have to cards, my lord?”
“Forgive me. I meant the pianoforte. Or the harp, even.”
“Oh. Of course.” If she were begging for a liberal interpretation of accomplishments, she could name playing the pianoforte without an injury to her conscience. “Nobody would mistake me for being adept, but I do passably well.”
“Good.”
“But I don’t want to play in front of anyone. There’s a world of difference between playing for one’s own enjoyment and for conspicuous display.”
He looked thoughtful. “That might be unavoidable, I’m afraid.”
“And what good will my playing do your cause, pray tell.”
“Conspicuous display, as you say, is part of what Society does.”
She gave him a flat look. “I’m not quite so inept as to have any misunderstandings on that count, my lord.”
“Forgive me, my lady. Of course you’re not.” Lord Maxfeld smiled. “We have to act thoroughly besotted with each other, and in front of the right people, many of whom are musical, or fancy themselves to be. You’re ready to take up the challenge?”
Besotted. Why did it seem as if that task would prove easier than she’d originally anticipated? “Are you giving me a choice?”
His expression hardened, but not, it seemed, at her. Was that self-reproach in his eyes? “We’ve started this. And now we’re going to see it through.”
Chapter Seven
“An invitation to dine this evening with Lady Delamore?” Phoebe’s mother peered over her shoulder at the elegant copperplate written upon creamy paper. On the card were two names, Phoebe’s and Grace’s, but no more. Until Phoebe was married, it wouldn’t do to go without a suitable companion. As if marriage were a magic boundary between a woman lacking sense and being awakened to a world of knowledge.
Other than carnal.
As they were in the smaller parlor and she was currently alone with her mother, she tidily boxed up that prurient train of ideas to examine later, when she was alone.
Corbeau and Grace were out for the afternoon. Grace to Bond Street with her friend, Lady Eliza; Corbeau was gone to put in an appearance at Brooks’s—something about an upcoming vote he had to secure.
Phoebe tossed the invitation aside and resumed darning the sock. “It’s a pity we’re already engaged.” Lord Maxfeld wanted her to be seen with him. However, they hadn’t agreed he had any right to claim her from previous social events. He should have been conscientious enough to make certain which evenings she was available to him.
She bit her lip. Besides, she didn’t want to see him tonight, she did not. They’d already spent the afternoon together.
Except a rebellious part of her stomped its pretty little foot, proclaiming a wholly different opinion. She did want to see him again, and soon, but that part of her was best left ignored.
“Never mind that. You must go tonight, my dear, you must. I don’t doubt Lord Maxfeld is behind this, and her ladyship has upset all her plans to accommodate you this evening. If nothing else, consider what trouble you’ll cause for the servants to upset all their work, only to have it amount to nothing when you don’t agree. Besides, one doesn’t refuse an invitation to dine at Lady Delamore’s table. One does not.”
“I can’t go about breaking engagements. What would people think?” Phoebe had spoken impulsively and immediately regretted her words for the deeper implication they carried. Thankfully, her mother was ignorant on the subject.
“Oh, never mind that. Mrs. Walsh is such a dear old friend. Practically family.”
Funny how many former friends had resumed their connection to the Landon family after Grace’s marriage. In some ways, Lady Bennington was to be envied, for she forgave them all immediately and without question, preferring to forget the past and enjoy the present. In such respect, Phoebe aspired to be more like her mother.
“Grace won’t want to go.”
“I assure you, Grace will go, my dear. She might not have a great interest in Society for her own amusement, but she’ll go for you.”
And that meant Phoebe had to be offered up to the whims of Society? “Lady Delamore wouldn’t have dreamed of inviting me before—”
“Oh, don’t bother about that. You’ve been invited now. What shall you wear? The blue suits you, but is unremarkable. Perhaps the… No, on second thought, we will choose the blue after all. As this is your first venture into such exalted company—”
Phoebe spoke pointedly. “You rank higher than a viscountess, Mother.”
“Yes, but it’s not just any viscountess. It’s Delamore.”
“If this Delamore is as important as you say, what is
the likes of Lord Maxfeld doing as one of her numbers?”
“Why shouldn’t he be? He’s the Earl of Maxfeld, after all.”
Earl of Maxfeld, indeed. Humph. “Because he’s such a…such a…”
“Such a rake?”
The word sat uncomfortably with Phoebe in a way it hadn’t only one night ago. His reputation, by all accounts, was well deserved. Why did it seem like there was more to him? Something he wasn’t telling anyone. Seeing him with his mother and nephew had spoken to what his heart, his real heart, might be.
If there was more to this man, she was determined to discover what it was. He was guarded. It wouldn’t be easy. But that was no reason not to try.
No better time than the present, was there? She resigned herself to an evening in the company of Lady Delamore and her friends. “The Lady Delamore. The Earl of Maxfeld. The Earl of Bennington. How am I supposed to understand all the secret meaning when everyone receives such emphasis?”
“All the more reason for you to go tonight, my love.”
She’d walked into that one, hadn’t she? Phoebe could have kicked herself. “I don’t suppose you’re going to be talked out of this scheme, are you, Mama?”
“No, indeed, my love.” Lady Bennington smiled with the security of one assured of having her own way. “I am not.”
Which is how Phoebe found herself amongst some of the more select members of Society that evening, studying Max. She wore the evening primrose instead of the blue, having decided at the last minute to mimic the sun instead of the sky.
The silk gown was cut with a square neckline and boasted puff sleeves, a gathered bodice, and a pleasing airiness. The change had paid off handsomely. The color caught the brilliance of the glowing tall and slender tapers in the Delamore drawing room, setting her quite apart. Being set separate seemed important, for no small bit of her wanted—no, craved—every ounce of Lord Maxfeld’s attention.
Additionally, and perhaps more importantly, she would have revealed her ineptitude about Society had she worn the blue, for the walls in the well-appointed room were a brilliant gentian color. Rather like the ocean. Or a version of which Phoebe had read about in books. She had never been to the seaside, but she had enough experience with travel accounts to know that the waters around the English Isles were not this particular shade.
