on her hair, her skin, and the gown as she moved about the floor. He was by far from the only poor fool who could not keep his eyes from her. Longing flared to life, a burning desire to be the man who held her in his arms. He stamped on it, trying to snuff it out, even though nothing had worked to date.
He’d kept away for the last month, trying his best to enjoy the endless parties and social whirl, yet finding himself bored to tears. His fault, of course. If a man could not find satisfaction in the company of others, he must surely look to himself for the problem. Not everyone could be counted upon for scintillating conversation, but there was pleasure to be found in a polite exchange, a well-worn story, if you were willing to be pleased by it. As much as he wanted to be, as much as he remembered how these exchanges were supposed to proceed, he felt always as if he was telling a joke, only to realise he’d forgotten the punchline.
Unwillingly, his eyes were drawn back to the dance floor, and to Phoebe. He slid his hand into his pocket, feeling the rustle of a small piece of paper there. Fool. Turning away, he fought his way to the refreshment room, knowing that word fitted him only too perfectly, but unable to do a thing about it.
***
Phoebe thanked Mr Jameson for the dance and gave an inward sigh of relief. Moving quickly, she hurried out of the ballroom, hoping to find a quiet corner to catch her breath and ease her poor toes. She headed for the long gallery where many people were strolling and enjoying the cooler temperature whilst admiring the paintings. Seeking out one of many deep set alcoves, she spied an ornate padded bench, unoccupied, and sat down with a sigh of relief. It was a shadowy nook, too public to be scandalous but still reasonably private, and so she took a moment to slip off her shoes. Glancing up to be certain she was not observed, she reached down and massaged her toes with a little sigh of pleasure.
“Did you lose any?”
Phoebe started and looked up.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said, relieved it was no one she need worry about as she saw Max standing over her.
“In the flesh,” he agreed, moving forward and holding out a glass to her. “I thought you might need fortification after your ordeal.”
“Is it champagne?” she asked, perking up.
He hesitated and she sighed, knowing it was only orgeat. Of course Max would not bring her champagne.
“I assumed you’d be thirsty,” he said, sounding rather apologetic.
She was, and she supposed it wouldn’t do to down a glass of champagne. It would make her burp.
“Thank you,” she said, politely, taking the glass from him. “That was thoughtful of you.”
“Are they very sore?” he asked, staring down at her toes.
“Just a little bruised. Nothing terminal.”
Max sat down beside her and was silent for a moment.
“It was good of you to dance with Jameson,” he said at length. “He’s a nice chap.”
“He is,” she agreed, taking a large swallow of her drink. “I just wish he weren’t so heavy.”
They sat in silence again, watching some of the other guests stroll up and down the gallery. Phoebe sat up a little straighter as the blond man she’d seen earlier passed by. He glanced into the alcove and caught her eye. His lips twitched and he winked at her, before moving on. Phoebe felt a smile tug at her lips.
“Who introduced you to Alvanly?”
Phoebe looked up, a little startled by the sharp edge to Max’s voice. “I’m sorry?”
“What blithering idiot introduced you to Baron Alvanly?”
“No one,” she said, a little indignant at his tone. No doubt he meant the handsome man who’d winked at her. “I don’t know him at all.”
“Keep it that way,” he said tersely. “He’s not the sort of man you should be associating with. Don’t speak with him.”
She was aware that Max was now thrumming with tension, but was too angry to pay it much mind. “Forgive me, Lord Ellisborough. I was unaware that you had been appointed my guardian. Oh, wait… you haven’t, nor have you been asked to act the part of my father.”
“I don’t want to be your blasted father,” he snapped back, and Phoebe was so shocked at the anger in his words—and at being sworn at by him—that she could only stare.