To Covet a Lady's Heart (The Landon Sisters)

by Ingrid Hahn

  From under the basket’s lid, he took a blanket and spread it over the ground. “And we will be.”

  “There’s nobody about.”

  Slipping his hand around hers, he helped her take a seat. Phoebe arranged her skirts about her, covering her ankles with special care.

  It was a beautiful day to be in the park—green and sunny and bright. Not too warm, not too cool. In the air was the distinctive smell of a garden in early spring, full of promise and the secret knowledge of a reborn world about to burst forth. Birds chittered and tweeted in the trees above.

  “I didn’t say I wanted to be conspicuous.” Taking the other part of the blanket for himself, he began unloading the contents. “Besides. Wouldn’t it be good for us to know a few things about each other? People are going to want to talk to us about the engagement. It’d be odd if we were ignorant about the other’s likes and dislikes.”

  “That reminds me. I suppose this is as good a time as any.” Phoebe handed over a small square of snowy white linen she dug from her reticule.

  “What’s this?” He took the item by the corner, letting it fall open to reveal decorative stitching in colorful silks.

  “I think you ought to have something I made you.”

  He looked more closely at the corner. “Pretty yellow flowers—”

  “A chain of common laburnum. They’re like drops of liquid sunshine, don’t you find?”

  His gaze flicked up to meet hers, and suddenly the moment hinged on a point of unexpected intimacy—as if he were seeing something he’d overlooked until now. “Yes, just so.” Trailing his thumb over the stitches, he spoke quietly. “And our initials.” His face held no hint of what his internal state might be.

  Phoebe swallowed, a dark shadow fallen over her mood. A swell of breeze drew the wind shushing through the leaves. Below them, the river meandered with idle nonchalance. “Have I done wrong, my lord?”

  Instead of replying, he tucked the handkerchief away and busied himself with opening bundle after bundle to reveal food item after food item, each in a tidy pair. “Well.” He surveyed the bounty. “If we wanted to stay in the park for a few days and nights and take an intimate look at what it would be to become a wildling, we wouldn’t have to send anyone to fetch us sustenance. I hope there is something here you like.”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  “Good.”

  Giving the food on the blanket another perusal, she smiled and teased. “All my favorite things, in fact.”

  The way he returned her smile suggested he was all too pleased to have been caught—but genuinely pleased, not cocksure. “I had a bit of investigation done.”

  “Well. Isn’t that…resourceful of you, my lord…” She paused for effect before blurting out his name. “Max.”

  “What?” He sent an inscrutable expression her way.

  Phoebe continued, bold as brass and rippling with pride at her audacity. The fact that he’d gone to the trouble of gratifying her tastes worked to spur her innate inability to resist pushing boundaries. “I’ve decided to call you Max. Just for the duration of our…” Engagement didn’t sound right, not between them, knowing what they both knew. Arrangement might have worked, but there was a hint of the untoward about the word. “For the duration of our agreement, of course. But I will be calling you Max.”

  “Shouldn’t I have been consulted about this?” His tone crackled with arid dryness.

  “Forgive me, my lord. Max. It is something I will insist upon.” She stared hard at him, not about to give one inch. Names were nuances of power and control—hierarchy. In truth, she had little authority over the man or the situation. But using a familiar name would feel like a subtle shift. And the right costumes and stage dressings made all the difference. “Do you feel this is a term to which you can’t agree?”

  “Is this your one favor, my lady?” He must have recovered some of his initial shock, for he pulled a cork from a green bottle and poured lemonade.

  “It is most certainly not.” She took the glass he offered. “Thank you.”

  “Then I shall call you Phoebe.”

  “You already call me Phoebe.”

  “Not without ‘lady’ before your name.”

  “Mmm. I despair of the informality in our language. If I spoke better French, we could adopt that language between ourselves to observe the vous and tu distinction.”

  His mouth pulled into a constrained smile, hinting at the bearer not wanting to display amusement, but not being able to help himself. A fevered heat infused the depths of his eyes. “Ah. Then I see how it would be between us. Vous désirez me tutois, madame. You would dominate, and I would be the helpless submissive.”

  The hidden meaning turned Phoebe’s blood to warm honey. With no small measure of effort, she maintained her outward calm. “That sounds approximately correct.”

  His next words came out in a low rumble, each note in his voice suffused with depths she hadn’t before realized existed. “Do you think you could handle me, Phoebe?”

  Her lips parted. She made no sound.

  Handle him?

  Excitement surged through her, from the depths of her breast to the end of each individual toe. And not any sort of innocent type of excitement, either. No indeed—the kind she’d seen only hinted at in the books she’d pilfered from her mother.

  A scenario spun through her mind—Max lying supine. Her body upon his, soaking up his warmth, singing in praise of his masculine allure. Their lips joining.

  Then the tables turning. Him flipping her on her back, pinning her wrists down, and…

  It was a wonderful fantasy. Thrilling. All she could want and more with this man who was so large and so full of tantalizing mystery.

  Finally, she smiled, slowly and deliberately, not daring to break eye contact. “I suppose we’ll just have to find out.”

  Chapter Nine

  It was the devil’s own curse to sport such a damnably hard prick on a sunny spring day in the middle of the park. Not that Max would have balked at an alfresco caress, but his coachman and her maid at an all-too-proper distance precluded any liberties he might take.

  Could she handle him? What an absurd question. He couldn’t even handle himself—much less her. If only she knew to what an appalling disadvantage she had him.

  Max swallowed his entire glass of lemonade, which would have been vastly improved by being brandy.

  When she tilted her head a certain way, the sun lit the artful disarray of curls around her face.

  “You’re venturing in too deep, Phoebe.” It was the last thing he wanted to say. And the only thing he could say. As it was, he could hardly call himself a gentleman. However, he still clung to some strange and obscure points of integrity. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

  With nothing else available, he poured himself another glass of the spiritless beverage.

  Her eyes flashed at him. “What’s that supposed to mean? That I’m too young? Too innocent?”

  “Yes.”

  “I might be innocent of body, but I am most certainly not innocent of mind.”

  The shameless assertion nearly undid him. To be privy to the thoughts running wild behind that fair visage…

  He swallowed, heart racing to plunder those thoughts, to explore each and every one of her not-so-innocent imaginings in slow and careful detail.

  This woman was going to be the death of him. “No?”

  “No. And if you think I’m—I’m…well, I don’t know what you think, but whatever it is, perhaps you should have given it more consideration before you chose to exploit me for your scheme.” Her brows knit. “Speaking of your scheme, I’ve been wondering why you did pick me—was it only that my sister made me convenient for you?”

  Why he’d picked her…because he hadn’t been able to help himself.

  Her sister had been convenient, but not in the way Phoebe meant. He’d had his eye on Phoebe—well, truth be told, it hadn’t been from the first time he’d seen her. It’d been fro
m the first time she’d opened her mouth and delivered a decided opinion. She had no qualms about who she was or what she thought. If she’d been silly, she’d have been insufferable. But nothing about Phoebe was silly.

  “I admit, I did happen upon the information at a particularly advantageous time.” Which was absolutely the truth.

  She said nothing, simply stared. Then she raised her brows at him. “Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  “Tell me how you came upon the information.”

  “Unfortunate happenstance. One of those unbelievable circumstances too strange to be real.” So it had seemed at the time. The hand of divine providence had been working in his favor, for the first time in his life. The instant he’d made the connection, he’d known Phoebe was his for the taking. The whole plan had leaped to mind fully formed, like Athena springing from the head of Zeus, large and powerful and ready for battle. “I had reason to call upon your aunt. It was the night after I’d been at the gaming hell. I was in the right place at exactly the right time.”

  “As simple as that?”

  “As simple as that.” Saying the words aloud stirred a sensation in the depths of his chest. Replaying the scenario, it was difficult not to imagine the hand of fate working—placing him first in the gaming hell, then bringing him to see an acquaintance about a matter already forgotten.

  Was he supposed to have been with Phoebe? Was this all preordained? If that were true, what was he supposed to make of it?

  Max scowled with all his might to remain master over his features. “What would you like first, my lady?” He cleared his throat. “Phoebe.”

  Clearly ignoring any acknowledgment of his inner toil, she rearranged herself on the blanket. “The tart, please, I think.”

  “Before anything else?”

  “It’s gooseberry, isn’t it?” After he replied affirmatively, she nodded. “If I had to pick one favorite among everything here, that would be it. I’m not going to risk sating my appetite before having it.”

  “Not one to save the best for last, are you?”

  “With the future being uncertain, I maintain that to be a bad policy.” Smiling, she took the flaky morsel from his hands, their fingers brushing together. “Besides, they have a short growing season. One must take what one can, when one can get it. Did you have much luck at the gaming tables?”

  “Hardly. Faro is a cruel mistress. A game of desperation and delusion. I hardly ever play, but a friend took me.”

  “By all accounts, you’re not one to shy away from the gaming tables.”

  “Games of strategy are far different than games of chance.”

  She sank her teeth into the tart. Her lips closed, her eyes fell shut, and she made a noise of pure carnal enjoyment as she slowly savored the bite. She licked crumbs off her lips. “My compliments to your cook.”

  It took a moment to regain control before he could speak. “Yes. I…she’s the highest paid member of my staff…” He blinked, mind trailing off in a different direction before he yanked himself back to the present. “I’ll do anything to keep her happy.”

  “You have a female cook?” Phoebe took another bite, blinking with interest.

  Indeed he did. And he didn’t care who knew it, either, because her food was the best to be had this side of heaven. The gender of the cook mattered not a whit. The food was everything.

  “I do. Built her an entirely modern kitchen, everything tailored to her whim. It’s the best part of Sutterton Grange, in fact.”

  “I don’t recall the place being so terrible.”

  “That’s because you didn’t grow up there.”

  She stopped, her wide and knowing eyes upon him.

  Having said too much, he turned his attention to his own food.

  “You left me an opening to pry…you almost outright invited me to do so.” She spoke earnestly, eyes shining with interest. “Am I meant to poke at you with questions, or should I allow the subject to drop?”

  “Most things about me you’re better off not knowing.”

  “I cannot believe that to be true. Besides, didn’t you say something about our needing to become better acquainted?”

  It was all too easy to append, “in bed,” to her statement. In which case, yes, he was all for that option. “I meant more in terms of favorite color—”

  “Yellow.”

  “Favorite poet—”

  “Cowper.”

  “Favorite composer?”

  “Just one? Surely nobody can pick just one.”

  “I can.”

  “Really?”

  Max nodded. “Mr. Handel.”

  The look she gave him was so inscrutable, he could have believed her to never have heard of the man.

  “I wouldn’t have thought him to be your style.”

  “What might you have thought?”

  She didn’t hesitate. “Mr. Beethoven, because he strikes against all previously known forms of music. He’s entirely modern and unlike anybody before him.”

  “And likely to be unique among his successors, too, I daresay.”

  She straightened, her interest obviously piqued. “You know music?”

  Max only shrugged. “I enjoy it, certainly. I wouldn’t count myself among the musical elite of Society, however.”

  “Ask me another question about my favorites.”

  “You never answered me on the question of your favorite composer.”

  “Yes, I did. Too many to name.” She plucked a morsel from a dish. “Go on. I’m enjoying this game.”

  “Very well. Favorite…” Nothing but improper inquiries flooded his brain. Where was her favorite place to be kissed? Where could he touch her to drive her mad with pleasure? His gaze went to her mouth where she consumed the final piece of her tart. “Er… Well, I guess you’ve already told me you like gooseberries.”

  She nodded, then swallowed and finished her lemonade. “Those aren’t the most interesting things about a person, though. I think you could have surmised my color preference by simply noticing what I wore most of the time.”

  “Yes, you do wear a lot of yellow. Any particular reason?”

  “Isabel.”

  “Isabel?”

  Phoebe smiled. “When I was small, I was in awe of everything about my sisters. Whatever they did, I absolutely insisted upon doing, too. And Isabel’s favorite color as a girl was dusty rose. I wanted to wear the exact same shade to be like her, but there was…” Her lips pursed, holding back laughter, not entirely successfully. “Truth be told, there was a bit of a row. There were tears. And theatrics. And lots of wailing. In the end I was told I could wear a color of my choice, but I had to leave Isabel the dusty rose. I chose yellow, and I’ve loved it ever since. It’s been mine. Not having had my first choice of clothing for most of my life, I’m now making up for lost time.”

  “You had a row over colors?”

  “You had a sister. Surely you know what most females are like in the matter of their dress.”

  “I never paid it much mind.” He shrugged, shaking his head. “My entire life, someone else has had charge over what I wear. I pay my valet very well to see that I never have to think about it.”

  “Never have to think about it?” She repeated his statement as if it were an utterly foreign concept.

  “Never.”

  “You have a great many nevers in your life, don’t you, Max?”

  God, how he loved the way she called him Max.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Listen to yourself. You’ll be as sick to death of hearing it as I am, I daresay.” The breeze picked up, fluttering the silk ties of Phoebe’s bonnet. “Grace told me to ask you how you met Corbeau.”

  “Ahh. Well, there’s a story.” Idly, he played with the fabric of the blanket. “Heard of Catullus?”

  “Latin poet. And no, not until Grace mentioned him. She said I ought not to have heard of him. I found a volume of his poetry in Corbeau’s library, but it was in Latin. My poor French an
d Italian weren’t enough to come to my aid.”

  “I didn’t know he kept a copy in his library.” Max kept silent on one score—that her sister underestimated her. If any woman could handle bawdy verse, his money would be on Phoebe.

  “Tell me the story.”

  “He and I didn’t form an immediate friendship, to say the least. In fact, we were rivals in everything. He had the slight advantage in mathematics, I in the natural sciences.”

  “You were at school together?”

  He nodded. “But we were evenly matched in Latin. Truth be told, the subject was rather a bore. We were leaps and bounds ahead of the others. I’d gotten my hands on a tattered old copy of Catullus—don’t ask how—and memorized some passages. One day when I was called upon to recite the lesson, I stood, and, instead of the lesson…” He gave her a look.

  “You recited Catullus.”

  “Indeed. And Corbeau burst out laughing. We were both sent to the headmaster, and the rest is history.”

  “Am I to understand that this old poet wrote some rather indecent material?”

  “Indecent doesn’t begin to—”

  “But how did you know what it meant?” She tilted her head. “I mean, if you hadn’t been taught the words, how did you know how indecent they really were?”

  “Notes scrawled in the margins.”

  “And how did Corbeau?”

  “You know, I never thought to ask.”

  The smile on her face as she looked at him tangled in the overgrown weeds around his heart. The way she spoke to him, as if they were equals. As if all his years of incurring a terrible reputation had no bearing on her mind—as if she would decide her own opinion of him without paying the least heed to gossip.

  And the feeling in her eyes as she beheld him… They were easy together. Natural. There could quite readily be more between them. Much more.

  But it couldn’t be. It could never be. Life wasn’t so kind, not to him.

  An icy whisper chilled the stirring of hope… Phoebe can never be mine. He was destined for one thing—madness.