To Dance until Dawn - Emma V. Leech Page 0,35

watched him covertly, studying him for perhaps the first time, and discovering herself unsettled by what she saw. She’d always thought the grey hair at his temples made him look rather severe, but it was more that it gave him an air of gravity, of dependability, of a man who would never let you down. Something she now knew was true. His dark eyes—which she’d believed so disapproving—were in fact warm and full of humour, and crinkled at the corners when he smiled… which he did far more often than she might have credited, especially given the circumstances. He also had a square jaw with a little cleft, which was rather adorable, and that she was itching to touch. If she were honest—and Phoebe was always honest—it wasn’t the only bit of him she wanted to touch.

She remembered last night, when he’d rescued her from her bindings—rather heroically, now she came to think of it—and she’d thrown herself at his neck. He’d been warm and so solid, and when he’d eventually put his arms about her, it had felt…wonderful. So wonderful she’d not wanted to let him go, startled by the rush of feeling she’d experienced in his arms. He had only done what he ought, to comfort her as she’d been overwrought, she knew that. If he’d wanted her in his arms, she supposed he’d have been a bit more enthusiastic about responding to her, but she could hardly blame him. She acted abominably, and now he’d been forced to offer for her. The most terrible part of it all was, she was beginning to see marrying Max in a new light, but he’d only offered because he had to. The idea made her feel sick again.

So, she was turning over a new leaf. She would be a well-behaved, polite, young lady. She would no longer be a hoyden, but behave with decorum and perhaps… perhaps, if she tried very hard, Max would decide that marrying her wouldn’t be so bad.

***

Once Max had dealt with the bureau of the customs house, he’d been quite out of temper. Despite being an English lord, or perhaps because of it, he’d been subjected to a rigorous search, from his boots—the polished shine of which was now smeared with fingerprints—and even the band of his hat, for heaven’s sake, followed quickly by an interrogation as to his purpose in France that would have satisfied the Spanish Inquisition. What the douaniers expected an English earl to be smuggling out of the country he could not fathom, but then he remembered Baron Alvanly had smuggled a priceless artwork and decided he’d best keep his mouth shut. Still, it was not the treatment he was used to, and even the saintliest tempered of men would have found themselves hard pressed to withstand it with equanimity.

That Jack and Fred passed by relatively unmolested did not help matters. Next, they were inundated by touters, that breed of fellows who snapped up passengers and all but press-ganged them into staying at the hotel for which they worked. The Hotel du Bourbon at least employed a commissionaire, which meant they did not have the further indignity of presenting themselves and their passports at the Marie. The price of this service was so shocking Max almost protested, but one look at Phoebe’s wan face told him she needed to rest, and so he swallowed his ire and demanded they be taken to their room at once.

The moment Phoebe was settled, with a maid in attendance to help her with her toilette, Max sought out the manager once more. The rather inappropriately named Monsieur Joly was a neat, prim little fellow with a small perfectly shaped moustache. The pince nez that perched so precariously on the end of his nose seemed to defy gravity, and Max watched in fascination for the moment they gave into the inevitable and fell off.

“There was a mishap with my wife’s luggage on the journey here,” Max said, wishing he was better at lying through his teeth and determined to be as inscrutable as Montagu by the time this adventure was over. Practise made perfect, after all, and he had the daunting premonition that he was about to get practice a-plenty. “And she is in urgent need of a new wardrobe. I trust that you can accommodate her needs here in Calais.”

The manager’s eyes grew very wide behind his ridiculous spectacles, which quivered on his nose. “Mais, monseigneur, you tell me you stay only one night and