To Dance until Dawn - Emma V. Leech Page 0,41

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.

“I-I didn’t think you liked it.”

“I like it,” he managed gruffly, forcing himself to stare out of the window and think about crop rotation and grain yields per acre.

“Thank goodness, for if you think this frivolous, I dare not consider how you might react to the rest of what was sent.”

Though he knew it was foolish, Max returned his attention to her.

“Is it dreadfully scandalous?” he asked with interest, unable to exorcise visions of lace-edged corsets and garters trimmed with scarlet ribbons from his wicked mind.

Phoebe bit her lip, which made his gaze fall to her mouth.

She nodded. “It is, rather.”

“Then this should be a fascinating trip,” he said lightly, somehow sounding amused when he felt as if he was being subjected to torture by a dizzying vision of red satin bows that still danced in his imagination.

“You weren’t angry, then?” she asked, staring at him in confusion.

Max shook his head.

“You were when I mentioned the corset,” she said flatly.

He could not tell her she was wrong without explaining the real reason.

“Which is quite unfair, Max, really, as you mentioned my corset when you came to my birthday. You told me I had it laced too tightly.”

“So I did,” he said, aching to move, to sit beside her, to take her into his arms, disarrange those artful curls and send the mad hat tumbling to the floor with a flurry of ribbons and plumes.

“You were right, of course,” she added with a sigh, which made him smile. “Max?” she said a moment later, her voice quiet. “Is… is something wrong?”

Max jolted as he realised he’d been staring at her with the intensity of a starving dog outside a butcher’s shop. He cleared his throat and shook his head, reminding himself sternly he was a gentleman and he had no business thinking such things unless she agreed to marry him.

“No,” he said firmly. “Not a thing.”

Chapter 10

Dear Prue,

I am so sorry, but I must refuse your delightful invitation to dine tomorrow night. I would have so liked to have seen you and caught up, but we are returning to Dern tomorrow and to be honest we have been thrown into quite a panic. You will never believe what Phoebe has done this time….

―Excerpt of a letter to Her Grace, Prunella Adolphus, the Duchess of Bedwin, from The Most Honourable Matilda Barrington, Marchioness of Montagu.

9th April 1827. Palais Impérial, Boulogne sur Mer, France.

“Really, Max, do be sensible. It’s the only way we will pick up the trail. It’s all very well believing Alvanly is going to Paris, but if he gets there before us, we shall have the very