were possible to fall in love with a man for offering her a second helping instead of looking disapproving when she took it. It seemed to her to be perfectly reasonable to do so.
“Thank you.”
Max gave her a generous second helping before serving himself, and they ate in companionable silence for a while.
“That was excellent,” he said with approval, pushing away his empty plate. “And this claret is very tolerable. Perhaps we should buy some wine whilst we are here. The cellars at Ellisborough could do with replenishing. I’m afraid I’ve rather neglected them, not being much of a one for entertaining. At least, I haven’t been,” he added hurriedly. “I don’t particularly care for hunting parties, and one needs a wife for… well. I should enjoy giving parties and balls, if… if you should like to.”
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