devil of a time tracking him down. Asking a few innocent questions will not put me beyond the pale, especially as I am travelling with m-my… my husband.”
Phoebe cursed herself for stammering, but the idea of Max as her husband had become something as rare and magical as a unicorn—the kind of thing she’d love to see but had no expectation of, for it was impossible. She did not know how to interpret his behaviour. Half the time he stared at her as if he was trying to read her mind, and the other half he acted as though she did not exist. She’d been certain he was ashamed of her and the stir she’d caused at the hotel, but then he’d said she looked like a princess. One minute he was kind and affectionate, even a little flirtatious, and the next she felt he was annoyed with her. If only Mama were here, she lamented. She would know what to make of it.
Usually if a man liked her, he would write her poetry, or bring her flowers, or try to kiss her. Max had done none of those things in all the time she’d known him. He had bought her some exceptionally fine books, which she’d liked far more than poems, and for her birthday the most exquisite tortoiseshell bird box. It had a small enamelled lid on top, which popped up to display a tiny feathered automaton of a bird which flapped its wings and hopped about, singing the most delightful song. It was one of her most treasured possessions, and it had utterly charmed her. How foolish she had been not to have been charmed by the giver as quickly. She had been blind. Surely, he would not have given her such a beautiful and expensive gift just because of her father’s friendship… would he?
Confused, she returned her attention to the ongoing argument. They had stopped to change horses at Boulogne sur Mer, and Max had acceded to her wish to explore the town a little and see if they could discover news of Alvanly. So, they had come to the Palais Impérial—so named as Napoleon had once been a visitor—to eat and do a little discreet investigation. Except that Max’s French was excruciating, and he seemed loath to allow Phoebe to exercise hers.
“We ought to keep a low profile,” he said, frowning, and she wondered why he would worry about that if he intended to marry her.
Unless he was hoping she would refuse him. The thought plunged her into gloom, but she shook it off. At the very least, she would get that blasted painting back and ring a peal over Alvanly he’d not forget in a hurry. In her current frame of mind, she felt tempted to shoot the blaggard for all the trouble he’d caused.
“Well, it’s a bit late for that,” she retorted. “You’re the one who suggested we travel as man and wife. The Countess of Ellisborough is not a discreet name to carry about.” She regretted her lapse in manners at once and turned back to him. “Forgive me, Max, I—”
“Oh, damnation, do stop apologising,” he said, sounding exasperated, as he took her by the hand and dragged her inside the hotel. “I’ll tie the manager to a chair, and you can interrogate him to your heart’s content.”
Phoebe hurried in his wake, bewildered once again by Max’s sudden changes in temper. She had always believed him to be such a quiet, well-mannered fellow and, yes, dull if she was being perfectly honest, but it was clear she hadn’t known him at all. He was nothing of the sort. By now she was so uncertain of his feelings or his moods she hardly knew what to think.
They entered the elegant hotel and were quickly recognised as being of the quality. They were given a private dining area, where they were feted, and feasted upon moules marinières—mussels in a white wine sauce—and a huge dish overflowing with seafood, from lobster claws to langoustines, followed by sole meunière—fried sole, served with braised chicory—a dish with potatoes cooked in cream, another of mushrooms and herbs, and several other side dishes Phoebe could not identify. The wine was excellent and plentiful, and they finished with a superb dish of apples cooked in an apple liquor and served with a flavoured cream which Phoebe did not even pretend not to want second helpings of.
All of this seemed to restore Max’s good humour, and he did not look the