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

  “Dearest Phoebe, do you think you are perhaps in over your head?” Alvanly taunted as he poured himself another glass of wine.

  “Oh, no, my luck is sure to turn,” she said brightly, shuffling the card so ineptly that two fell free of the deck. “Oopsie.”

  Alvanly rolled his eyes as Phoebe reached for the fallen cards, unaware of the fact she had just palmed the king of hearts. She dealt the cards in batches of two and three, five each, and then turned the next one up to reveal the trump, the king of hearts.

  “Oh, I get a point for that, don’t I?” she said disingenuously.

  Alvanly scowled. “I propose.”

  “Oh, how sweet,” Phoebe said, batting her eyelashes at him, well aware that meant he wished for another card. “I refuse.”

  Alvanly’s scowl deepened. But it was the dealer’s right to accept or refuse, and Phoebe wanted to play immediately, having arranged a perfect array of cards through some judicious sleight of hand.

  “That’s two extra points to me if I win,” Alvanly muttered.

  “But you aren’t going to win,” Phoebe said, smiling sweetly, and proceeded to take the trick, and the next, and the one after. “Oh!” she crowed, having won back fifty pounds. “I told you my luck would turn.”

  Naturally, she then lost disastrously, losing three hundred pounds, much to her opponent’s amusement, but it was all a part of the deeper game she played, reeling him in.

  “I think we should make things more interesting,” she said, having dealt the next hand and made out as if she were trying to hide the fact she had excellent cards. “A thousand pounds,” she declared.

  Max jolted beside her and she looked up at him. There was a pleading expression in his eyes, and she reached out and took his hand, pressing a kiss to his gloved fingers as she held his gaze. He let out a ragged breath and smiled, saying nothing, though she knew he must be biting his tongue. He squeezed her fingers in a silent show of support, and Phoebe turned back to Alvanly to see avarice and excitement glittering in his eyes.

  “But I don’t have a thousand pounds, as you well know.”

  “But you do have the painting,” Phoebe pointed out.

  Alvanly laughed and wagged a finger at her. “Oh ho. No, my dear. That painting is worth far more than a thousand pounds. Ten thousand, at least.”

  “I’m not playing you for ten thousand pounds,” Phoebe said in disgust, though her heart was hammering with excitement.

  “Then I shall not play.” Alvanly sat back and folded his arms.

  Phoebe bit her lip, as if considering his proposal.

  “Two thousand.”

  Alvanly snorted.

  Phoebe looked up as a dark figure drifted towards the table and Monsieur Demarteau appeared. He stood watching, his sloe black gaze drifting to Phoebe, and she smothered a curse. Even Jack could not tell when she was cheating. Her fingers were so nimble, too quick for most eyes, even if they knew what to look for, but a man like that…. His dark eyes focused on her, making her heart thud and her stomach churn so hard she felt sick. She felt as if he could see everything. The last thing she needed was to be caught cheating. Well, there was no help for it. She was committed to this course; she had to take the chance.

  “Five thousand pounds,” she said, putting her chin up and ignoring Max, whose fists were clenched now. He put them behind his back and paced away from her for a moment before returning to stand at her side, his jaw rigid with tension.

  “That’s half its value. Less, even,” Alvanly said in disgust.

  “Yes, but it’s cash, and it’s yours if you win, and you keep the painting. All that money without the bother of finding a buyer. Heaven knows how long that would take. And then there is that little matter of provenance,” she added, lifting one eyebrow.

  The baron’s gaze drifted to Demarteau and back to Phoebe, his lips compressing into a thin line of displeasure.

  “Fine.”

  Phoebe fought to suppress a grin of triumph as Alvanly reached beneath the table and retrieved a small, paper-wrapped parcel. He tugged at the string holding it closed to reveal the grubby little picture that had caused all this bother.

  “I wager the painting.”

  “And the three hundred pounds you have there,” Phoebe added with a glittering smile. “And I shall wager five thousand, three hundred. I believe that is fair.”

  “As you like,” Alvanly replied sullenly. His gaze flickered back to Demarteau, who lingered in the shadows, silent and still, and a little unnerving.

  Phoebe took a breath, and a moment to calm her jittery heart, before she shuffled the cards, expertly this time, allowing Alvanly to see her skill as the cards flew between her hands. His eyes grew wide and he looked sharply at her. Phoebe looked back, unsmiling.

  She dealt, her fingers moving quickly, floating the cards she wanted to the top of the deck and once again turning up the king as trumps, spades this time.

  “Oh, would you look at that,” she said, badly feigning surprise as Alvanly’s jaw set rigid.

  She dared a glance up at Demarteau to find him watching her intently, his dark eyes fierce and considering. He did not know, but he suspected. Phoebe waited, wondering what he would do, if anything. One corner of his mouth kicked up just a little. Phoebe let out a breath of relief.

  She could feel Max’s gaze upon her, and sensed his astonishment as she played card after perfect card. Alvanly was sweating now. Not that he had anything of real value to lose. He knew as well as she did that the painting was a fake, but to have had the money so nearly in his hands—as he believed, at least—and to have it snatched away, by her of all people. He was sick with it.

  Phoebe held his gaze as she laid the card that sealed his fate and won the game.

  “You lose.”

  ***

  Max was coiled so tight he felt ready to burst. His hands were fists behind his back, palms sweaty, his lungs locked down hard, and he could not draw a breath.

  When Phoebe finally laid the winning card, it was all he could do not to shout in triumph. The little beauty, she’d done it! Good God. She’d beaten Alvanly to flinders. He did not understand how, could not fathom how she had played so terribly to begin with and then….

  Except, of course, she had been playing a deeper game than he had realised. Her eyes had begged him to trust her, and even though he had been desperate to save her from folly, from losing a fortune to this loathsome man, he had allowed her to continue. He had not interfered, not counselled her to stop, not insisted she stop, and thank God for that. She would never have forgiven him for not trusting her. And now he saw… saw the brilliance of it, the sheer daring. He hadn’t the slightest doubt that Jack had taught her such skills, and she had been toying with the baron from the start, utterly in control.

  God, she was magnificent.

  “You lose.”

  Alvanly surged to his feet.

  “You cheated!” he raged, pointing a finger at her. “I’m not giving you anything, you tricky little bitch.”

  Max erupted in fury, but Demarteau was there before he could lay his hands on the baron for saying such a thing.

  “Arrêtez!” he said sharply, holding Max back with surprising force for such a young man. “Stop. Your lady does not need your assistance.”

  Max turned his head and froze, seeing the truth of the Frenchman’s words with a gasp of shock. Phoebe was sitting quite calmly in her seat, holding a small pearl-handled gun on the baron.

  He had seen that gun before.

  “The painting and my three hundred pounds, if you please,” she said, her hand perfectly steady.

  “You wouldn’t dare,” Alvanly sneered.

  Max choked, torn between shock and laughter. She really would get the bloody painting back at gunpoint.

  “Honestly, I wouldn’t bet on that,” he said, meaning it. “You ought never dare, Phoebe. It’s a dreadfully bad idea.”

  “Lord Alvanly,” Demarteau said smoothly, as he moved towards the baron. “I
watched the game. You lost, the lady won. We ’ave no room for bad losers at Rouge et Noir. I would like you to leave now. I counsel you… do not come back ’ere again. I think you would not like the welcome you receive.”

  Alvanly looked at Demarteau, who exuded menace though he did not move so much as an eyelid. He just watched the baron placidly. Alvanly turned his gaze looked to Phoebe, who had not lowered her gun, and let out a soft laugh as the tension fell away from him. He shook his head.

  “I really could have fallen for you, Phoebe, dear,” he said, staring at her with something like hunger in his eyes, before turning to Max. “I wish you joy of her, Ellisborough. She’ll lead you a merry dance, by God. I admit, I envy you that.”

  And then he turned his back on them all and walked away.

  Max let out a breath and turned back to Phoebe, wanting to congratulate her and apologise for ever having doubted her, but before he had the chance, she had launched herself into his arms and was holding on tight.

  “Oh, Max! Max, thank goodness you were here. I was so afraid I would mess it up.”

  She clung to him, trembling in every limb, and Max held her to him, beyond words that she had turned to him, his heart so full he almost trembled himself with the enormity of everything he felt.

  “Afraid?” said he asked incredulously. He tipped her head up, his fingers gentle on her chin as he looked down at her. “I don’t believe it. You were ice cold the entire way through. I’ve never seen such a steady hand, and the way you drew him in, losing those first hands… my God, Phoebe. You were incredible. I’ve seen nothing like it before in my life.”

  “Nor I,” murmured a soft voice beside them.

  They turned to see Demarteau watching them with interest.

  “I should like to try my hand against you, Lady Ellisborough, should you ’ave cause to return to Rouge et Noir. I believe it would be an—’ow do you say, une expérience éclairante?”

  “An enlightening experience,” Phoebe translated for him with a nervous smile.

  “Quite so,” Demarteau said, the glimmer of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Though I would prefer it if you did not use those quick fingers of yours with quite such skill when we meet. A fair fight, alors? I shall have the counters changed up for you. The money will be waiting at the door, with the painting when you leave. If you wish to celebrate there is dancing in the ballroom. One of my men will show you the way. Good evening to you both.”

  He gave a deep and respectful bow and left them alone.

  Max looked back to Phoebe with a frown. “He knew.”

  “Yes,” Phoebe said, her expression sheepish. “I don’t usually cheat, I promise, though I admit it’s tempting, but I had to win against Alvanly. I had to. You do see?”

  There was fear in her eyes, and he realised she was afraid he might not see, might not understand why she had done what she had. He had no words to tell her what he felt, all he had experienced and learned and understood from the moment they had set foot in Rouge et Noir, and so he simply leaned down and pressed his mouth to hers.

  “I love you,” he said.

  She sighed, her anxiety melting away as she leaned into him. “I should like to dance with you, Max.”

  “Your wish is my command, my Lady Ellisborough.”

  Phoebe looked up and beamed at him. “I am your lady.”

  “Yes,” he said, unable to keep the emotion from his voice. “Yes, you are.”

  ***

  Though it was closer to morning than evening, the ballroom was alive still. Music swelled and Cyprians and scandalous women, the fashionable and the richest in the city, came together to dance. It was not dancing of the kind Phoebe was used to. A waltz was still shocking enough, even after so many years of acceptance in the ton’s ballrooms, but always there was a proper distance kept between partners. Not so here. The waltz here was a different creature, passionate and indiscreet as men held their ladies far too close, their hands too low on their backs. Phoebe saw one man kiss his partner’s neck as she closed her eyes with a sigh of pleasure. She hurried Max to the dance floor, wanting that now. At once.

  He swept her into the melee and Phoebe laughed with the joy of it. His eyes reflected her laughter, and it shone in the warmth of his smile, happiness radiating from him. She had done that. She had made him happy.

  “I want to dance until the sun comes up,” she said, gasping as Max pulled her close against him, delighted that her proper, polite Lord Ellisborough should act so outrageously.

  “Then we shall,” he said, leaning in to nip at her ear.

  Phoebe gasped as desire lanced through her, and wondered if she might rather go back to the hotel at once.

  Max shook his head.

  “Not until dawn,” he murmured, amusement lurking in his dark eyes.

  Oh, well, she had said she wanted to dance until the sun came up, and all good things came to those who waited, she supposed. She grinned at him and he swept her into a quick turn, spinning her so fast she almost stumbled. His arms tightened about her, keeping her steady, and on they went, with Max guiding her effortlessly through the crowd. He would not act so in life though, she realised. He would always steady her when she stumbled, but he would not choose her path for her.

  Phoebe closed her eyes and let the music spin her away.

  ***

  Max stared down at the glittering look Phoebe gave him and felt his breath catch. The night was over, the sun touching the sky and lighting the darkness, but Phoebe did not look the least bit sleepy.

  “Take me back to the hotel,” she said, and Max became aware of a new challenge. How the devil to get Phoebe back to her parents and marry her, without debauching her at every opportunity between here and Dern?

  Judging by the stormy darkening of her eyes, it was an endeavour Phoebe had no intention of helping with.

  He took her hand and placed it firmly upon his sleeve, guiding her out of the lavish ballroom.

  “Should we find Charlie and Nina before we go?” she asked as he steered her through the crowds.

  “No,” he said, smiling a little. “I suspect they left hours ago.”

  Phoebe grinned, and he chuckled at the pleasure in her eyes. “Do you think they’ll marry?”

  Max shrugged, less certain of that than the fact that Charlie had every intention of getting to know Nina a good deal better. “I think it would take a great incentive to get Kline to walk the aisle again, after his last experience.”

  “Oh, but Nina is nothing like his last wife, I’m certain of it, and I’m an excellent judge of character.”

  Max sent her a bland look and Phoebe huffed.

  “I knew Alvanly was a rogue, Max, so don’t look at me like that. I admit I was immensely stupid to fall in with his plans, but I thought he only meant to seduce me, and I’m very capable of foiling those sorts of plans.”

  Max stilled, something hot and angry unfurling in his belly. “What do you mean by that? If some devil has tried to—”

  Phoebe sighed and reached up a hand to touch his cheek, such a tender caress he shivered with longing, wishing they were already at the hotel and away from prying eyes.

  “No, Max. There are no more villains for you to protect me from. I only meant that I am not so innocent as that. I know how to defend myself if the need arises, and if that had been Alvanly’s plan he would have failed, but I think perhaps you are coming to see that for yourself.”

  He let out a soft breath of laughter. “Indeed,” he murmured.

  It seemed an eternity before they had collected their cloaks and hats, but finally the black painted door of Rouge et Noir closed behind them and Max handed Phoebe up into the carriage. He had barely closed the door and sat down when Phoebe landed herself in his lap with a soft rustle of silk skirts and petticoats.

  Desire lanced through him, all the restraint he had meant to hold himself back with snapping in an instant as her soft behind nestled against his groin. With a groan he reached for her, sinking his fi
ngers in the insanity of her latest hairdo and pulling her mouth to his. He was neither tender nor sweet, his mouth urgent upon hers, seeking, taking, demanding more, but he sensed his passion only inflamed her. This was his Phoebe after all, bold and brave and unlike anyone he’d ever met in his life before. She tugged at his cravat and he stilled her hand.

  “We have to walk through the hotel yet,” he said, laughing a little at the frustration in her eyes.

  “But I want to touch you,” she said, her impatience sending a jolt of lust directly to his groin.

  “You must wait,” he commanded, astonished he got the words out and not the least bit surprised his voice was deep and harsh.

  Phoebe shivered in his arms and he realised she had rather liked that tone, a revelation he tucked away to be considered later.

  “But I can touch you,” he added with a wicked smirk.

  He tugged at his gloves, biting into the finger ends to pull them off and casting them down on the seat beside them before reaching for the hem of her skirts. Phoebe gasped as he found his way beneath the yards of silk and the petticoats that frothed beneath until his hand closed around one dainty, stocking-clad ankle.

  “Got you,” he murmured, leaning in to nuzzle the sweet spot beneath her ear and nipping at the soft lobe as his hand moved up, slowly but inexorably, following the curve of her calf and then caressing the sensitive skin at the back of her knee. He kissed the line of her jaw, aware of the way her breathing quickened, the rapid rise and fall of her breasts pushing against the indecent neckline of her gown. His questing hand moved on, lingering on the garter just above her knee. “Show me.”

  Her breath caught at the dark command, but she lost no time in reaching for her skirts, hiking them up until he could glimpse the ribbon and the neat little bow.

  “Black,” she whispered.

  Max groaned and sought her mouth, revelling in the sweet taste of her, the enthusiastic slide of her tongue against his. He almost laughed with joy as he considered her enthusiasm, compared to the disaster of his first marriage. His poor first wife had been raised with such a fear of physical intimacy she would not even look upon her own nakedness, let alone his. He had been filled with regret and pity for her, and he had tried his best to be kind, even when she was not.