by Ingrid Hahn
And so he might have been. Yet Max was clenched so hard, he almost shook. He appeared savagely brutal and intense.
A tender spot. She’d seen hints of what she believed—hoped, rather, and quite desperately—to be the real him. If she pushed him a little now, would she help that side of him crack through the rough exterior?
Cautiously, her lips parted. She whispered a single word. “And?”
“Because nobody did it for me.”
Chapter Fifteen
Max had said so little and yet said so much. He’d never been so open. So exposed. It was like he’d ripped a bloody bandage from a wound on his soul and found the tender flesh festering.
Part of him wanted to do as he always did. Hide. Turn back to the gaming tables, a woman on either arm, and good and soaking drunk as he hadn’t done in far too long.
With Phoebe close enough to touch, that life he’d lived for so long seemed hollow.
Worse, a perverse part of him wanted her to see—see everything so she would run away, wild with fear and screaming to be saved.
So she’d remain safe.
“You should stay away from me.”
But she stood firm. The morning light fell upon her features, intensifying her expression.
Lord help him, but she was beautiful. So determined. So resolute.
She was not going to back down, which made her at once the most precious thing in the world…and the most dangerous.
“Even if all the rumors about you are true, Max, let me tell you—I don’t care, not one single whit.”
That’s because she didn’t know how his father had died. It was his one final secret. The deepest. The darkest. Perhaps she did think she could endure marriage to the son of a madman.
But what if she knew he were not only the son of a madman…not only destined to go mad himself…but also the son of a suicide?
He couldn’t risk seeing the look of horror in her eyes. It would be more than he could bear. With anyone else, he’d have survived. With her, however, with Phoebe, the rules were entirely different.
With those bleak memories clawing their way into his thoughts, Max could only shake his head. For a long interval, he couldn’t trust himself to speak. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“Do me the honor of believing me.”
He pressed his lips together, studying her intently. “I do believe you think you mean what you say. But you don’t know the full extent—”
“Why can’t the past be left in the past?”
“The past never leaves us.”
“Rubbish.” Phoebe frowned. “It never leaves us only if we refuse to stop clinging to it. The choice is ours.”
“Then what were you on about that scandal business—when we originally spoke—”
She held up her hands. “All right. All right. Fair enough, I admit. We don’t always escape the past. But we can move beyond it. Which is what you should do. What we should do. Together.”
“Phrased like that, my lady, it is so terribly difficult to say no.”
“Then don’t.”
“Phoebe—some things were meant to stay buried.”
“I think you’ve already driven too many people away.”
He grunted. “Perhaps they are in possession of more sense than you.”
“If that is what passes for sense, I’d much rather remain without any such faculties.” A slow smile crossed her face. The look in her dark eyes made his breath catch.
“Are you planning something, my lady?” He drawled the words, already certain of the answer.
“I think what is good for the goose is good for the gander.”
Which meant…what? “I’m sorry?”
“You are going to marry me, my lord. You want Thomas. Your mother holds him. If she doesn’t give him to you, what would you do, take him by force?”
“I’m not following. Come to the point.”
“Marry me or I tell her not only what you put me up to but also why you put me up to it.”
Anger and panic twisted in his gut, ugly and corrosive.
He spoke, but with difficulty, his churning insides creating a vortex threatening to consume him whole. “Don’t you think you stand more to lose than I do? I could expose your sister…”
She spoke carefully, head tilted to one side. “I think your nephew means more to you than that scandal means to me. Furthermore, I think this marriage would be to our mutual advantage.”
“How many times do I have to warn you away from me?”
“How many times do I have to ask you for a reason to be frightened?”
“You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“Apparently not—because you won’t tell me. It must be terrible. But it doesn’t matter. I’m not asking. You will marry me. You don’t want your mother to know our engagement is a farce. You want your nephew too badly.”
“You can’t blackmail me.” The words came out as if ground through stone.
“No?” Still standing firm, she arched her brows at him.
“No. Never.” If he’d ever had a heart, it was gone now. Vanished. In its place remained only a cold chunk of glistening ice. “Do what you think you must. One day, I hope you’ll thank me for sparing you.”
With that, he turned, leaving her alone in the garden with only her ever-silent maid watching suspiciously.
…
“Oh, at last! I thought I’d never see you.” Divested of only a single glove, and the ribbons of her bonnet untied, Phoebe turned from the waiting servant and launched herself into Isabel’s arms.
Isabel took Phoebe into a firm embrace. “My dearest sister, whatever is the matter?”
So much time could pass without seeing Isabel. In some ways, each month without Isabel was like a hundred years. In others, it was like no time at all had passed.
Pulling out of Isabel’s arms, Phoebe turned to Albina. “I’m sure if you go down to the kitchen, my aunt’s cook will have tea and refreshments for you.”
The maid curtsied and did as she was bid while Phoebe gave the rest of her things over to the servant.
“Aunt Landon? Where is she?” Phoebe held her breath. She liked her aunt, truly she did—and all the more for having aided Isabel all these many years with discretion and compassion—but was crawling with eagerness to speak privately with her sister.
“She’s out for a fitting with her dressmaker. It’s just us.” Isabel slipped her hand around Phoebe’s elbow and began leading her up to the drawing room.
Since Phoebe had learned of Isabel’s secret, she’d wondered at the fact that her sister never appeared tired. Phoebe and Isabel shared the same richly colored hair inherited from their mother, and a certain heartiness. Neither would have been mistaken for delicate.
That’s where the similarities ended. Isabel was effortlessly elegant, easy wherever she went and with whatever company she kept. She had an air about her of quiet watchfulness, as if she knew the world’s secrets and guarded them like precious stones.
Well, now Phoebe knew why. Isabel had secrets of her own. And who knows how many she’d learned in the gaming hell—that she kept for others?
Though learning of Isabel’s true life—her true burden, what she’d sacrificed for her family—had brought Phoebe closer to her sister, in some ways, it had also erected a divider between them. All those years of living with various family members, staying past their welcome at each, simply because they had no other place to go…Phoebe had always held a glowing ember of envy for Isabel. Oh, true, she’d been happy for her sister, as well. And Phoebe couldn’t really begrudge her anything; they were sisters. Also, she liked Isabel too well.
But. It had seemed that Isabel lived in perfect comfort while the others were all but homeless and vagrant. Aunt Landon had given Isabel a home, clothing, wages. And a purpose.
The truth of Isabel’s situation, however, could not have been more different. When Phoebe had asked Isabel why she hadn’t returned to her mother and sisters
now that Grace was well married, Isabel had told her everything.
After their father had died, a man from a notorious gaming hell had come to Isabel about their father’s debts. For her family’s sake, she’d agreed to repay everything—herself—on the condition that they never be told. At the time, she had thought the knowledge of yet more debts would be too much for their mother. And because she’d promised to remain until she’d completed the task, remain she would.
Sometimes Phoebe wished she didn’t know. And the guilt for feeling that was suffocating. Of course, her sister had needed someone in whom to confide. And it wasn’t as if Phoebe wasn’t honored to share her sister’s secret.
Oh, family was so horribly complicated sometimes, wasn’t it? One could love another person so much and still be subject to fits of selfishness.
They came into their aunt’s private drawing room, an inner sanctum that absolutely never saw guests outside the family. It was a place where fashion was left behind in favor of creature comforts and items of prized sentimental value. Nothing ornamental or expensive. Nothing for displaying wealth. A personal room, full of trinkets and treasures, like rocks and seashells from special beaches and pressed flowers from particularly verdant springs.
It was one of the few places from Phoebe’s childhood to which she could still return. She and her sisters had played in the room, sometimes accompanied by their two cousins, Aunt Landon’s sons, Jeremy and Arthur. Lady Bennington had delivered strong warnings about having care with the objects in the room. Afterward, Aunt Landon had whispered to the young Phoebe not to worry and enjoy herself.
Smiling at the old memories, Phoebe took a seat in a favorite old chair—a worn piece covered in frayed blue fabric, grayed in the places that had seen the heaviest use over the years. It had been her grandmother’s, and Aunt Landon had told them the stuffing still faintly carried the scent of the grand old lady’s perfume.
Isabel lost no time. “So what is this urgent matter?”
“It’s Lord Maxfeld.”
Concern shadowed Isabel’s face. “Are you rethinking your engagement?”
“What? Oh.” Phoebe shook her head, unable to meet her sister’s eyes.
“Are you all right?” Isabel reached out to take Phoebe’s hand. “You’ve gone quite pale.”
“Have I?” Phoebe cupped her cheek, the skin of her face cool to the touch. “Yes, I suppose…” Her gaze fell to the floor and she sighed. Of all the things to have to tell Isabel. And yet, it must be done. “Well, it’s a rather unfortunate matter.”
Tea and refreshments came. Their aunt favored a stronger leaf than Corbeau bought from his supplier, and the kitchen staff had a heavy hand with the clotted cream. Neither were defects.
When the servant left, Phoebe lingered over the tea Isabel poured for her. She wasn’t as poised as she would have liked to have been. Truth be told, this morning had been dashed unsettling. What would become of her and Max? Was he out there now, telling the world about Isabel?
Every instinct in her said that Max had far more honor than to do such a thing, despite dire threats otherwise. His rakish ways were no more than a conjurer’s tricks—all billowing smoke and glistening mirrors.
Or so she hoped.
Could she afford to be wrong?
Phoebe licked her lips. “Forgive me, this is difficult.”
“Take your time, of course.”
It came out in a rush. “He knows. Lord Maxfeld, I mean. He knows.”
“He knows what?”
Phoebe met her sister’s eyes at last.
Understanding dawned in Isabel’s expression. “You mean about me?”
The only response Phoebe could give was a single nod. Her throat was dry, and her hands trembled, threatening to spill the tea. She had to set the cup and saucer down lest she ruin her dress.
“Well.” Isabel leaned back in her chair, her normally perfect posture temporarily sacrificed for the comforts of informality. She sipped her tea. “That doesn’t concern me greatly.”
“No?”
The smile she bestowed upon Phoebe was warm—replete with easy confidence. “I suspected as much.”
“You suspected…” What had she suspected? “Oh, you mean about his knowing about you?”
“The look he gave me when he saw me here. I could tell he’d recognized me. But it’s all right. And no, it doesn’t bother me. Why should it?” Isabel tossed a shoulder. “He’s going to marry you, after all. And Mother’s already told me how terribly in love the two of you are.”
The guilt was suffocating. She rubbed her throat, as if by so doing she might open the passageway to accept air again.
Isabel smiled at her. “I’m exceedingly pleased for you, by the way.”
Phoebe was unable to reply. She couldn’t confess without revealing the truth about the engagement—which would have broken her promise to Max.
What a mess. What a horrible, dastardly, vile mess.
When had everything started to spin so far out of control? And how would she ever be able to face her family again when the dust finally settled?
Chapter Sixteen
It wasn’t yet noon when Max pounded up the stairs of his Mayfair residence, taking them two at a time.
Of course, after he had Thomas, he’d close the London house. When he returned to town, he could just as easily stay with his mother. She’d like to see Thomas. That meant leaving his cook behind, but he wouldn’t plan on ever staying longer than a week.
But would his mother forgive him when he didn’t marry Phoebe? It was the one thing she wanted for him, above all. God knew why; her own marriage had been a disaster. Although, to hear her tell it, she regretted nothing. Her children were too dear to her. Considering Max owed his own existence to the union, he could hardly blame her.
Marriage. The very thought of the word raised the storm inside him to violent proportions. He’d sworn he would have done anything to gain his nephew. Anything.
Except marry.
There had to be another way—something he hadn’t yet considered. Another angle. Another idea. Another…something.
The only thing he could see, however, was that he would have to have a conversation with his mother. Make her see reason.
Yes. Reason. And how would he phrase his plea this time? What could he say to implore her—convince her? It wasn’t as if he hadn’t tried and tried again innumerable times already. Each instance had ended the same way. In failure.
He burst into the room where he’d temporarily housed a desk while the wood floors below were being redone. Marriage meant providing a suitable home for his bride, and part of the ruse was undertaking improvements.
Max sat, pulled out a sheet of paper, and took his pen, only to find the inkwell empty. “Hell.”
Now where had the inkpot been hidden?
He rummaged through the detritus on the desk and in the drawers. What a sore trial it was not to have everything in perfect order. And what an unfortunate reflection of his life this was.
He found the ink and began filling the well. Only his hands trembled with anger and he spilled. Black liquid ran over the surface of the desk, streamed off the edge, and began puddling on the floor. Glancing down, he found spots on the previously immaculate fawn of his breeches.
Digsby would be in a state when he saw this. He could already hear the man’s sniff of disapproval. But his valet was the least of his concerns.
Struggling to remain in control of himself, Max paced to the other side of the room. No fire burned, so he couldn’t take the iron and stab it into the flames. It would take too long to travel all the way to Angelo’s over in Bond Street. He shook with energy that needed to be burned immediately—no delay. Before he cracked and did something inexcusable.
Like say to hell with his promises to himself.
The thought proved almost too much. A wave came over him, unlike anything he’d ever before experienced in the entirety of his life. Huge and terrifying. He was going to be ruined—batter
ed, buried, and left for dead in the wreckage of his own emotions.
Max ran both hands through his hair.
From the distant hollows of his mind, where light never shone, a thread of hope had started to spin itself into existence.
What if this was his chance? What if life was about to cradle him in her gentle hands and present him at the feet of a dream he could not have dared to dream?
He could be married. And not just to anybody. To Phoebe. It was like he’d lived his life resigned to hell, only to be told an angel might ransom him from the iron cage of his imprisonment. He could be her husband. She could be his wife.
They could raise Thomas together.
He withdrew the handkerchief on which she’d embroidered an intricate spray of flowers in so many shades of yellow and gold. Had he been in her thoughts as she’d stitched?
Pressing the fabric to his nose, he closed his eyes and inhaled the scent of her. She’d worked the cloth with her own hands, patiently working her needle in. And out. And in. And out.
Instantly Max went hard.
No—no he couldn’t have these thoughts. What if he put Phoebe through what his father had put his mother through?
Never.
The thought alone filled him with venomous rage.
Phoebe deserved better. A hundred times better. She deserved a man who would dote upon her. One with no deranged madness lurking in his blood, threatening to slowly steal away his sanity.
Max rubbed his eyes. If he ever saw her on another man’s arm, the sight would cut him so deeply, he might not survive the experience.
There was the sound of a throat being cleared discreetly. Max turned to find his manservant, Krum—part man of business, part butler, and lifelong sworn enemy of Max’s valet—standing behind him with a note on a silver tray. “This arrived by messenger, my lord.”
“Thank you. Wait a moment to see if I have a reply.”
Krum’s heavy brow wrinkled. “I’m afraid the messenger informed me that he was under strict instructions not to wait for a reply, my lord.”
“What?”
“I told him it was highly irregular, but he remained firm.”
