To Dance until Dawn (Girls Who Dare Book 12) Read online

  Phoebe blushed scarlet, wondering how on earth he managed it. She’d hardly ever blushed in her life before this wretched affair began, and now it was becoming a problem.

  “Max….” She knew she sounded utterly miserable but, really, she must tell him he was under no obligation to her. “I think perhaps—”

  “Of course, it’s late,” he said, getting to his feet at once. “And you must be exhausted. Forgive me for keeping you up so late. I shall leave you now to get some rest. I shall see you in the morning. Goodnight, Phoebe. Sleep well.”

  “G-Goodnight, Max,” Phoebe replied, a little dazed by how speedily he’d dismissed himself. Good heavens, had he been so desperate to quit her company? The thought made a wash of regret and sadness fill her chest, which she told herself was stupid. She knew Max did not wish for her company. He only tolerated her because of his esteem for her father, and because he was too much of a gentleman to abandon her in such a fix as she was in.

  But then she remembered the way he’d looked when he’d told her he’d wanted an adventure, and hope stirred to life anyway.

  “Lud, you are a fool, Phoebe Barrington,” she scolded herself, and went to bed.

  ***

  Max closed the adjoining door with a sigh, and leaned back against it. He knew it had been cowardly to make such a speedy exit, but he’d felt certain Phoebe had been about to kindly explain why she could never marry him, not even if the alternative was ruination. That she would prefer that to the horror of being his wife made his chest tight. Yet, she did not seem to dislike him. She even seemed to enjoy his company, but… but he had the lowering suspicion that she could not bear the idea of having him touch her and for that he could have wept. She really did think of him as a kindly uncle, then: one of her father’s friends, to whom she would be endlessly grateful, and whom she would rather die a thousand deaths than take to her bed.

  With an aching heart and a sense of impending doom, Max knew there was little to look forward to other than a broken heart once this adventure was done. Not to mention Lucian’s wrath. If he’d stopped her from haring off on this mad adventure rather than joining her, they could have weathered the gossip well enough and allowed Phoebe to break off their fictitious engagement. There would have been talk, of course, but Montagu could have managed that. Now, though… now she had undertaken a voyage to Paris alone with him. There was no coming back from that if she refused to marry him. Yet having a wife whom he adored to the point of madness, but who merely tolerated him, was enough to make him reach for the brandy decanter. He’d not sleep now, not unless he was foxed, so he may as well get on with it.

  ***

  Phoebe awoke the next morning to find the maid who had helped her undress last night squealing with delight over a great pile of gowns and a tumble of hat boxes.

  “Good heavens!” she said, scrambling out of bed to inspect the rather lavish mound of fabrics. “Good heavens!” she said again, with rather more force as she saw what Max had provided for her.

  “You will look perfectly ravishing, Lady Ellisborough,” the young woman said, wide-eyed with awe, as well she might be.

  “Good heavens, Max! Whatever have you done?” Phoebe said, biting her lip against the giggle trying to escape, for she had been correct in her estimation that it would be impossible to provide a wardrobe for her overnight.

  The manager had clearly done his best, and everything that had been provided was the height of Parisian fashion—for a highflyer. The necklines were nigh on indecent, and the dresses an impossible indulgence of huge gigot sleeves and ribbons and ruffles, and… good heavens.

  “Oh, la la!” the maid squeaked, holding up a corset so indecent Phoebe blushed scarlet.

  The two of them looked at each other, and fell about laughing.

  With some difficulty, Phoebe selected the least shocking of the clothes provided, remembering her new determination to be a proper young lady and not make a spectacle of herself. The effect was spoiled by the scandalous under-things, which—even though no one but her knew they were there—made her feel quite wicked. She fought to ignore them, but it was difficult. Still, the maid, whose name was Yvette, was gazing at her with such wonder she believed that she would not embarrass Max by looking either dowdy or cheap.

  The pelisse-robe was a soft sage colour with huge gigot sleeves stiffened at the top with whalebone, and they were the largest Phoebe had ever seen. If there was a strong gust of wind, she saw the daunting possibility of being lifted clear off the floor. The sleeves then narrowed and became tightly fitting with a complicated arrangement of laces. The waist was tightly nipped in and belted, and the full skirts trimmed with several scalloped flounces. Yellow limerick gloves and matching half boots completed the ensemble. It was far more outrageous and frivolous than anything she’d ever worn before and, by the time Yvette had wrestled her hair into some ridiculously fashionable coiffure, and she’d put on the enormous Leghorn hat that came with the dress, Phoebe felt like a cross between a duchess and a bride cake with too many decorations.

  Having swallowed a cup of chocolate and eaten far too many delicate little pastries called Kipferls that had been presented alongside it, Phoebe was ready to face Max again. She could not wait to see his face and see if he thought it all as ridiculous as she did.

  Momentarily forgetting her vow to act with decorum, she almost ran down the stairs to discover Max waiting in the grand entrance hall for her. His mouth fell open as he saw her. Not only his, however. The entire hotel, which she now saw was quite bustling with patrons, stopped in their tracks to stare.

  Phoebe blushed, and wondered if, yet again, she had done nothing but embarrass him.

  Chapter 9

  My dear Pippin,

  We are returning to Dern and I beg you to be waiting to attend Matilda. She is quite out of sorts, increasingly pale and lethargic, and I don’t mind telling you I am out of my mind with worry. She has swooned twice in the last week, which she assures me she has never done in her life before. Pippin, I cannot lose her. I shall go mad. I cannot even consider my life without

  I beg you to discover what ails her. The vexing creature refuses to see another doctor here and will have no one but you attend her. So, we will be with you midmorning tomorrow, all being well, and I pray you might put my fears to rest.

  ―Excerpt of a letter to Mrs ‘Pippin’ Appleton from The Most Honourable Lucian Barrington, Marquess of Montagu.

  9th April 1827. Montagu House, St James’s, London.

  Matilda took a deep breath and forced herself to stand up, fighting past the sudden wave of dizziness. She clutched the back of the chair by the dressing table, willing herself not to swoon again for fear Lucian would cart her off to the nearest doctor by force. Her reflection in the mirror spoke volumes of yet another sleepless night and a lack of energy so profound that all she wanted was to turn around and go straight back to bed. She had never in her life wanted to sleep the day away, but at this moment it seemed an appealing prospect.

  In other circumstances, she would have believed herself with child and be delighted, but it was not that. The symptoms were not the same, for she had not had the slightest bit of nausea, and she had not been so dreadfully tired with the boys. Besides which, Thomas’ birth had been long and difficult, and her monthly courses had all but disappeared ever since. She had visited several of the most prominent doctors in the country and all had agreed she was no longer fertile. She was too old, and the last birth had taken its toll and damaged her womb. There would be no more children. Even Pippin had agreed it was unlikely, and had nothing to suggest except to prescribe red clover tea, which Matilda drank several times a day, knowing it was hopeless. Although she had been disappointed, having so wished to have given Lucian a little girl, she knew she had nothing at all to be disappointed about. She had given Lucian his heirs and they were her greatest pride and joy, as well as their father’s. They had been blessed indeed, and she would not be so ungrateful as to wish for more. Yet if this malaise,
which had come on so gradually and worsened so steadily, was not a child, she feared to consider what it might be.

  Lucian was terrified.

  She could see it in his eyes, and sense it in the way he held her, touching her as though she were fragile, as though she might break. He said nothing to her, of course, only agreed that she was tired, that the boys had run her ragged, the season had been too energetic, etcetera, etcetera. Except they both knew she had never lacked for energy before, and that it was nothing of the sort.

  Determined that she would not behave like some swooning heroine in a Gothic novel, she took another deep breath and made her way down the stairs.

  “Goodness, what a slugabed you’ve let me turn into,” she said cheerfully as she strode into the breakfast room with a smile for her beautiful husband.

  And, Lord, he was handsome still. More so, she thought, though it seemed impossible. But the past twelve years had only made him more imposing than ever. On the rare occasions he omitted to shave, she had noticed a scattering of white against the darker gold of his stubble, but there were no other visible signs of age, and he was as vigorous and vital as he had ever been. Unlike her, sadly.

  “Whyever didn’t you wake me?” she asked as she closed the door.

  Lucian was standing by the window, staring down at a letter. He looked up as she came in. One look at his face and her pretence of jollity fell away.

  “Oh, my darling, whatever is the matter?” She rushed to him, putting her hand to his cheek.

  He covered it with his own and took a deep breath.

  “Phoebe,” he said shortly. “She….”

  To Matilda’s astonishment, he gave a breathless laugh and shook his head.

  “Oh, Lord, that girl will kill me. Except that I’m rather afraid she might kill poor Max first.”

  “Max and Phoebe?” Matilda repeated, bewildered. “Lucian, if you don’t explain at once—”

  Silently, he handed her the letter. Except, she saw now that there were two letters, one from Phoebe and another from Max. She moved to the breakfast table and sank into a chair to read.

  “Alvanly! Oh, the villain!” she cried as she read through as quickly as she could. “Oh, Phoebe, oh, you silly goose.”

  Matilda looked up, staring at Lucian.

  “Thank God for Max. He’ll marry her. It will be all right.” Lucian did not look away, but said nothing, and Matilda nodded, swallowing. “If she’ll have him.”

  “If she’ll have him,” he repeated dully, turning back to the window and staring at the square beyond.

  “You should go after them, I suppose.”

  “No.” That one word was firm and definite, and Matilda looked up, shocked.

  “Lucian!”

  He turned around and walked back to her, sinking to his knees before her and taking her hands. “Max is a good man. I trust him, and Phoebe is a reckless hoyden, and I should like to wring her pretty neck, but she’s not a fool. They will figure things out between them, and they do not need me poking my nose in and making things worse. If she marries him, as I pray she will, I will rejoice and wish them happy. If not, I shall support her and protect her in any way I can, but if you think I would leave you now….”

  His voice quavered and he closed his mouth, his jaw rigid.

  Matilda’s heart ached. If they discovered she was seriously unwell, she feared for him far more than for herself. If anything happened to her, she knew it would break him.

  “Lucian, do not worry so. I’m sure once I get to Dern and have some proper rest, I will be quite well again. No doubt Pippin will have some evil concoction to force down my throat that will make me want to vomit, and I’ll be right as rain in a matter of days.”

  He nodded, holding her hands tightly.

  “Yes,” he said, smiling at her, though terror lurked in his eyes. “Yes. Pippin will put it all to rights.”

  She returned his smile and he drew her hands to his mouth, kissing each one in turn with such tenderness Matilda blinked back tears.

  “I love you,” he said. “So much.”

  “I love you too.”

  He looked up then, his silver eyes glittering with fear and pain.

  “Always,” he said fiercely.

  Matilda nodded. “Always.”

  ***

  9th April 1827. Hôtel du Bourbon, Calais, Pas-de-Calais, France.

  Max felt rather than heard the collective intake of breath from those around him, and instinctively looked up towards the stairs, only to acknowledge the sensation of being hit in the head with a heavy blunt object.

  Good God.

  He was doomed.

  All but skipping down the stairs was a vivacious confection in pale green silk. A confection was, indeed, the only description, and Max longed to unwrap her to discover the delights hidden beneath. The hat had clearly been designed by a mad woman as it was enormous and embellished with wide black-and-green striped ribbons and, enough ostrich feathers to allow the wearer to fly to Paris. The illusion was not diminished by the huge sleeves of the pelisse gown, which were trailing laces. Everything moved, from the rustling skirts to the ribbons and feathers on the hat, and the insane profusion of curls that framed Phoebe’s lovely face as she hurried towards him. She slowed as she noticed everyone watching her, a pretty flush pinking her cheeks, which made him want to pick her up and carry her back up the stairs so he might ravish her in private. Except that she would be disgusted and hate him for it, so he forced his desires aside with aching regret and moved to greet her.

  “Good morning,” he said, trying to smile, though the longing in his chest made his expression feel stiff and rigid. He only hoped it looked natural.

  “G-Good morning, my lord,” she replied, dipping a curtsey.

  Good heavens, why was she being so formal?

  Max took a breath and tried to dispel the suddenly tense atmosphere. It only worsened as he noticed many of the men gazing at Phoebe with such envy that he felt a burst of irritation.

  “You look….” he began, finding his voice inexplicably husky and unable to grasp at words appropriate to describe what he saw.

  Edible was the only one that seemed to fit, and he doubted that would charm her. More likely, she’d run back up the stairs and lock herself in her room.

  “Ridiculous,” she said, laughing, though he thought it an oddly brittle sound. “Yes, I know. Your Monsieur Joly did the best he could, I’m sure, but this was the most respectable outfit I could find in what he sent over. I tried not to cause you embarrassment, I swear, but if you think this outrageous, you should see the under-things. They’re all lace and little scarlet silk bows and ribbons, even the garters, and—”

  Max felt some thread of sanity inside him snap.

  “Phoebe,” he said in a harsh whisper. “For the love of God, don’t discuss your undergarments.”

  She blushed then, almost as scarlet as the damned ribbons he’d be thinking about for the rest of this damnable journey.

  “I beg your pardon, Max,” she said, looking so mortified he wanted to pull her to him and beg her forgiveness.

  Oh, God, he’d discuss her undergarments all the way to Paris, and with pleasure, but not if she did not wish him to see them for himself. That way lay madness, and he was already well on the way.

  He offered her his arm, unable to rectify the matter when half of Calais seemed to watch them.

  “Come along,” he said, moderating his voice to something less intense. “The carriage is waiting.”

  “Oh, but I am sorry… I didn’t mean to….”

  Max felt a surge of irritation with her apology and waved it aside. She ought to kick him in the shins for being such a brute. She would have, he was certain, before he’d told the world he would marry her. Now there was more restraint between them than ever, and he did not know how to fix it.

  He guided her outside to where Jack had just fixed the extra trunks containing Phoebe’s new wardrobe onto the carriage. He turned, his eyes growing wid
e as he looked at her. Even Fred snatched off his hat as he saw Phoebe approach, goggling in amazement. Jack whistled, low and approving.

  “Blimey, Princess—and you look like one, I tell you. Strike me dead if I tell a lie. The high kick, you are, and that’s a fact.”

  Max smothered his annoyance at not having managed half such a compliment, and only hated himself more for the wan smile Phoebe returned.

  “Thank you, Jack,” she said quietly as Max handed her into the carriage.

  Jack glared at him, as well he might, but Max got in and slammed the door shut before he could be subjected to an interrogation. Phoebe did not look at him, but stared out of the window as the carriage rocked to life. Just moments ago she had been alive with life and happiness and, somehow, he had ruined it all. He wanted to kick himself for his stupidity. He’d never been nervous or clumsy around women before. Though he was not, and had never wished to be considered, a lady’s man, he knew how to flirt, how to seduce, and yet he need only get within twenty feet of Phoebe and he turned into a blithering idiot.

  “It should be a fine day, I think, once the cloud has lifted,” he said, wincing inwardly. The weather. Really? That was the best he could do? He deserved to be shot.

  “Yes, indeed,” Phoebe replied.

  This was intolerable.

  “Jack was right,” he said in a rush, his voice too loud in the confined space.

  She lifted her eyes to his, a slight frown between the fine blonde brows that he ached to smooth away with a fingertip.

  “About what?”

  “You do look like a princess.”

  “Oh.”

  There was that pretty blush again, the soft pink one that put him in mind of rose petals, not quite as dark a shade of pink as her lips. Wilfully ignoring his express instructions to behave itself, his libido kicked in, and suddenly he wondered if her nipples were the same delicate shade as her mouth. His body grew taut with desire.