To Dance until Dawn (Girls Who Dare Book 12) Page 6

  “I am sorry, Papa.”

  Her voice was quiet, her big eyes more grey than blue in this light, and Lucian’s heart clenched as he saw the echo of his little brother in her expression.

  “I know you are, Bee.”

  Unable to keep up such an atmosphere of disapprobation, Lucian held out his arms to her. Phoebe leapt to her feet and ran into them.

  “Are you still cross?” she asked, her voice muffled against his shoulder.

  Lucian snorted. “You know perfectly well I can’t stay cross with you above five minutes, Bee. I just worry for you. Surely you know how devastated we would all be if you were hurt or unhappy.”

  “Yes. I do, and I am sorry. I don’t mean to be a trial to you, truly, but I get so dreadfully bored. I can’t sit still and do needlework for hours, and I hate talking about fashion and everyone is so dull, Papa, it makes me want to scream.”

  Despite himself, Lucian laughed.

  “I know,” he said sympathetically.

  He could only thank God he’d been born male, for he well understood how she chafed at the rules. Phoebe would have done better to have been born in the previous century where her antics would have made her wildly popular. Whilst she was certainly that now, larks like this one would damage her if they became public knowledge.

  Lucian held her by the shoulders and looked down at her. “I will not demand you be good, Phoebe. I know it’s impossible. Only, please darling, be safe. I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you.”

  Phoebe returned a rueful grin. “I’ll do my best, Papa.”

  Lucian nodded. “Away with you, then. Goodnight, sweetheart.”

  “Goodnight.” She kissed him on the cheek and hurried away to bed.

  ***

  22nd March 1827. The Countess of March’s Spring Ball, Mayfair, London.

  “Oh, Phoebe, what a beautiful gown.”

  Phoebe grinned at Helena as a footman took her cloak away and did a little twirl for her. It was a pale pink satin with little puff sleeves that sat low on her shoulders. Tightly fitted at the waist, it then flared out and the bottom of the heavy skirts were embroidered with tiny rosebuds in a darker shade of pink.

  “Gorgeous!” Helena said, taking her arm. “The poor men will throw themselves at your feet.”

  Phoebe pulled a face at the idea and Helena laughed, nodding. “Yes, I know. A challenge is far more enticing. You know, Gabe wouldn’t even look at me the first few times we met, which naturally made me even more determined to have him. I was quite shocking, I assure you.”

  “I believe you,” Phoebe replied gravely, sending Helena off into peals again.

  “So you should, and I pray you do not follow her example,” Gabriel replied, shaking his head. “Heaven alone knows what manner of scoundrel you’ll find yourself entangled with.”

  “One like you?” Helena suggested.

  Phoebe almost blushed at the look that passed between the two of them, such obvious adoration, and such heat in their eyes that she felt like an intruder. Heavens. If only she could meet a man who made her as wild and desperate as Gabe had made Helena. She’d heard the story many times, of course, of their mad race from London to Brighton, and then a different kind of race, one that had been hushed up. Only their dearest friends knew of their desperate flight to Gretna Green with Helena’s brother, the duke, in hot pursuit. She could not imagine wanting a man so much as to cast everything aside for him, risk everything for him. She’d do something mad for the adventure of it, for the thrill of it, but she’d felt nothing close to the depth of feeling that she saw between these two, or between her parents.

  “Oh, Lord,” Phoebe muttered.

  Helena followed her gaze across the packed ballroom to where people were gathered at the edges of the dance floor, talking. There was Max, deep in conversation with Lord St Clair.

  “What is it?” Helena asked.

  “I must speak to Lord Ellisborough,” Phoebe said, with the same tone she might remark, I must have a tooth pulled.

  “And is that such a terrible fate?” Helena asked, her green eyes alight with curiosity.

  Phoebe shrugged. “No. Only, I… I owe him an apology, or thanks, or something, and I’m not particularly good at things like that. He always makes me feel like such a ninny.”

  Helena frowned at her, the curiosity in her eyes deepening. “Why do you think that is?”

  “I don’t know,” Phoebe said, huffing. “He just… he makes me want to be even more dreadful than usual, because I know how much he disapproves of me. Though he says he doesn’t, but I don’t believe him.” She looked up as Helena laughed, the sound soft and knowing. “What?”

  “Oh, no,” Helena replied. “You shan’t hear it from me. You’re a bright girl. You’ll figure it out… eventually.”

  “Are you causing mischief, wife?”

  Helena looked up, her eyes sparkling. “Possibly,” she replied.

  Gabe chuckled. “There’s no possibly about it. Come along and dance with me before you start a riot, you wicked creature.”

  Phoebe watched, rather envious as Gabe guided Helena onto the dance floor and held her shockingly close, making all the old biddies gasp and mutter. Sighing, she decided she’d best get the onerous part of the evening over with and headed towards Max.

  Her stomach fluttered as she drew closer and she told herself it was just because he would likely say something to make her cross. He turned, seeing her before she reached him and finished his conversation with the earl, moving towards her.

  “Miss Barrington,” he said, politely. “May I say how lovely you look this evening?”

  Phoebe smiled and thanked him, not taking much notice of his words. He was unfailingly polite to everyone, and would have said the exact same thing if she’d worn a puce gown with an orange flounce and green lace. She rather wished she had now, just to see if he flinched at all whilst he said it.

  “I came to say thank you,” she said, wishing she could avoid his gaze, those dark eyes she felt certain could see into her brain and read whatever nonsense she was thinking, and always seemed to find her wanting. “For not telling Papa what I did.”

  Max smiled at her. It was a good smile, warm and honest, and Phoebe noticed now that it made his eyes crinkle a little at the corners, which she liked.

  “I did not want to tell tales on you, and I knew you would tell him yourself, in any case.”

  Phoebe snorted and then wished she hadn’t, remembering too late that it was unladylike. “Well, you had more faith in me than I did. I fully believed I would take it to my grave if I could. Sadly, my nerves are not strong enough to withstand my father’s scrutiny.”

  “I’m not certain anyone’s nerves are strong enough for that,” Max replied with a wry smile.

  “No.” Phoebe sighed, relaxing a little in the light of his good humour. “I don’t suppose they are.”

  Max cleared his throat. If Phoebe hadn’t known better, she might have thought him nervous.

  “Miss Barrington—”

  “There you are!”

  Phoebe turned and felt a surge of dismay to see it was Baron Alvanly who’d found her.

  “You owe me a dance,” he said, a wicked glint sparkling in his eyes. He was dressed in immaculate evening attire, tall and lithe and rather splendid, with his blond hair gleaming gold. Well, the devil was handsome, she’d give him that.

  “Good evening, and yes, I know I do,” she said, daring a glance up at Max to discover his face was rigid, his dark eyes frosty with disapproval.

  Well, honestly. She knew Alvanly was a rake and a scoundrel, but they were in a packed ballroom. Dancing with him held no perils. Surely, Max could not object to that. She waited, hoping he would continue whatever it was he’d been about to say.

  “Was there something you wished to ask?” she said when he remained silent, ignoring Alvanly’s outstretched hand for a moment, for she’d been certain Max would ask her to dance.

  “No,” he said, returning a tigh
t smile that did not reach his eyes. “Enjoy your dance.”

  Well, really!

  Phoebe seethed with irritation. Alvanly was always popular at events like these. He was funny and charming and a wonderful dancer. She’d look terribly high in the instep if she refused him, rake or no. It wasn’t as if she had agreed to go into the gardens alone with him. Max was just a boring old stick in the mud who thought young ladies ought to be quiet and well-behaved and never stir from home without a man by their side.

  Grrrr.

  By the time she’d reached the dance floor, Phoebe had worked herself up into quite a ferment of indignation. The unsettling idea that she was horribly disappointed Max had not asked her to dance did not help matters.

  “What wickedness is brewing inside that lovely head of yours?” Alvanly asked as he guided her through a complicated turn. “You look ready to strike someone dead.”

  Phoebe let out a breath, aware that her expression bore no relation to the inscrutable mask her father had perfected, drat it.

  “Oh, nothing,” she said, knowing the lie was easily discernible.

  “Ellisborough is a dry old stick. No doubt he disapproves of both of us. You, the bastard daughter, and me, the loose screw. He can’t bear to see people having fun.”

  Phoebe frowned a little at that, unnerved that he’d read her with such ease. It had never occurred to her that her parentage might disgust Max. The thought made her chest feel tight with anxiety. If that was true, he hid it well, but then Papa was his friend and he was so well mannered with everyone, no matter their birth. Could he really think ill of her for her illegitimacy? How could she tell if he did, or if he just always behaved impeccably? She was uncertain that Max disliked people having fun, though. Oh, how she wished he were easier to read, but though she considered herself a good judge of character—or of bad character, at least—Max always made her feel uncertain of everything, especially her own judgement.

  “I believe he fancies you for himself and doesn’t wish to see you tainted by association with the likes of me.”

  These words so discomposed Phoebe that she stumbled, only saved by the tightening of Alvanly’s arms about her. He drew her close, too close, their bodies touching for a moment.

  “Alvanly,” she said, shocked. He released her at once, but she felt hot and muddled and she didn’t know why. Surely the baron hadn’t caused such sensations?

  “I want you too. You do know that, don’t you?”

  His voice was low and liquid, shivering over her back, and Phoebe was compelled by some force she did not understand to look up into his eyes. They were darker than before, the pupils wide, and she was not so innocent that she did not know desire when she saw it. He stared down at her, his gaze falling to her lips, and she knew he wanted to kiss her. What would that be like with a man like him, she wondered. A small tendril of excitement unfurled deep in her belly. She knew from Mama and her friends—who had all advised her at one time or another—that there was temptation in such men, that desire could lead one into all sorts of trouble. Alvanly was a wicked man, a rake, and so he would know what he was doing. How interesting it would be to let him, just to see what it was like, to see if it were different from anything she’d experienced before. She wondered then how Max would kiss, the thought so startling her that she remembered just what had tangled her emotions in a knot in the first place.

  “What did you mean?”

  “Surely I don’t need to explain what it means when a man wants a woman?” Alvanly murmured, a thread of amusement in his voice.

  “No, no, not that,” Phoebe said impatiently, noting a flash of irritation in the baron’s eyes. “What did you mean about Ellisborough, that he fancies me for himself?”

  “Any man here with a pulse fancies you for himself, Miss Barrington. Surely you know that?”

  Phoebe laughed and shook her head. “Any man with an empty bank account, certainly, and perhaps some of the others, but not Ellisborough.”

  She felt the baron stiffen and was a little sorry for having spoken so glibly. She knew he needed to marry money and did not blame him for pursuing her. He was lazy and over-bred and had no idea of how to work for a living. What else could he do? Despite not trusting him an inch, she did rather like him, and he was amusing company, even if he would be a disastrous husband.

  “You’re wrong,” he said angrily. “It’s not just the money, though God knows I’d be struck by lightning if I said it meant nothing to me, and there’s a dozen or more like me, watching as I speak. But I’d want you even if you were penniless, and that’s the truth too. Ellisborough is no different. He might act like he wishes you to behave as a nice young lady ought, but he’ll be eager to discover more of your tempestuous spirit. He likes it well enough when he’s imagining you in his bed, I don’t doubt, just like the rest of us poor devils.”

  “My lord!” Phoebe glared at him, tugging out of his arms.

  Thankfully, the dance had ended at that moment, and she thought perhaps no one noticed.

  Alvanly looked unrepentant. “I’m sorry, Miss Barrington, to be so crude, but I think you wanted to know. I believe you like a little danger, don’t you?”

  “I don’t think you ought to speak of him so,” she said, far more indignant on Max’s behalf than her own.

  She knew men of his nature said such things to make her blush and to make her curious. Well, her cheeks were burning, and her insides were all in a quake, though she could not understand why, for she’d dealt with men like Alvanly before with no trouble.

  “Forgive me,” the baron said, smiling gently now. “You have such spirit, such a wild nature that echoes my own so closely, I sometimes forget we tread different paths. I forget just how innocent you are, sweet child. I ought not have spoken so.”

  Phoebe nodded, accepting his apology, though she did not like being called a child by him. Not that he meant it, the devil. She could still see the dark glitter in his eyes. Well, he was a rake. What did she expect, dancing with such a man? Alvanly sighed, a rueful glint apparent as he watched her.

  “Am I forgiven?”

  “Yes,” Phoebe said, wishing she didn’t feel so agitated. She could not decide what it was that made her heart skip about so, but the baron’s words had edged under her skin and made her uncomfortable.

  “Good. Until next time, Miss Barrington.”

  Phoebe moved away from the dance floor and headed towards the retiring room, intending to splash some cold water on her face. What was wrong with her? She felt strangely restless and cross, but she did not know why.

  “Miss Barrington.”

  Oh drat. She did not wish to talk to anyone. Hurrying on, she ignored her name, but whoever it was called again.

  “Miss Barrington, wait, please.”

  She turned then, unable to pretend she had not heard a second time when they were so close. It was Max, of course.

  “Are you quite well?”

  “Quite, thank you,” she said, forcing a smile and trying to move away again, but Max caught her wrist. It was only a gentle touch, just enough to stay her movement before he let her go again.

  “Did Alvanly…. Did he say something that upset you?”

  To her irritation, she could only remember what he’d said about Max, about how Max would be pleased to imagine her tempestuous spirit in his bed. Her cheeks blazed scarlet.

  “I’ll kill him,” Max muttered.

  “What? Oh! No… No,” she said in a rush, realising what he thought.

  Indeed, Alvanly ought never to have spoken so, but she wasn’t some silly green chit who had no idea what men were like. She knew well enough how to deal with him. It was only when he’d spoken of Max thinking of her in such a way she’d become quite… quite….

  “Really, he said nothing you need reprimand him for.”

  Phoebe crossed her fingers behind her back and hoped her wretched face did not give her away. She did not wish for Max to speak with Alvanly, or for Alvanly to tell him what he’d said.


  Max studied her, his jaw tightening. “I see.”

  What the devil did he mean by that?

  Phoebe glared back at him, realising he thought Alvanly had been flirting with her, and that she’d liked it. Indignation swelled in her chest. Max still thought her a fool, he thought her too silly to see the truth of a man like Alvanly. Well, damn him. Let him think it.

  “Is that all?” she asked tartly.

  Max nodded and let her go, and Phoebe fled.

  ***

  Max watched Phoebe run from him and tried to fight the wave of furious jealousy that rose inside him. No right, he scolded himself. He had no right to such feelings. Lucian had asked him to keep an eye and he would. He would look out for her and pray he could steer her out of trouble. Max could not make her want him or think of him as a man who desired her, as she clearly thought of Alvanly. That she might throw herself away on such a creature, a fellow who would drink and gamble and whore his way through her fortune and make her wretched too…. It made him want to break something. Max clenched his fists and reminded himself that he was a rational human being, and that breaking Alvanly’s nose for flirting with her was not a rational reaction. It didn’t seem to help.

  He took a breath and forced himself to walk the perimeter of the ballroom twice before trusting himself to seek out the baron.

  Alvanly looked up as Max approached, a smirk at his lips.

  “Well, I wondered how long before you came to speak with me.”

  “I had to take the time to remind myself I was a gentleman,” Max replied, his voice as easy and conversational as the baron’s.

  Alvanly’s eyebrows shot up. “My, my. I admit, that is… unexpected. I had not thought you would take such a direct approach.”

  “I would. Her father might not.”

  That gave him pause. There were stories enough about Montagu and the power he wielded for the baron not to take Max’s words lightly. The marquess might attack obliquely, and Alvanly would never see it coming. Max could see the glimmer of fear in the man’s eyes, there and gone in an instant. Alvanly laughed and shook his head.