almost drowned him. He fought against it, fought for control as he coaxed and tempted Phoebe into losing hers. Finally she gasped, her head tipping back, exposing the elegant line of her neck. Max leaned in, nipping at her tender throat gently, and she fractured in his arms. She trembled and gave a soft, shuddering cry that made his heart soar with happiness as she took the pleasure he gave her, without shame or apology. When she came back to herself, she stared at him with quiet delight, without a trace of regret.
“How beautiful you are,” he said. “And how I love you.”
“I love you too, Max.”
Max stared at her, hardly daring to breathe, to believe she had said the words he had ached for. He knew Phoebe desired him, knew that she liked him—most of the time—and that had been more than he’d dared dream of. He’d hoped love would come, in time, but he had not expected….
“Did you not know, Max?” she asked, a little shy now as he shook his head, too overwhelmed to speak. She chuckled and snuggled into him and he heard her smother a yawn. “Well, I do. I love you, very much. Lord, I’m sleepy.”
She let out a soft sigh and closed her eyes, asleep within moments.
Max stared at her, beguiled and amused that she should fall asleep at such a moment.
“Oh, my love,” he said, unable to hold back his laughter, his joy. “Thank you. Thank you for reminding me what it is to be alive.”
Max carried her into the hotel as the sun rose over Paris, uncaring of the scandalous glances they received. He would not have woken her for the world. She stirred as he laid her gently on the bed and tried to unwind her arms from his neck.
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Stay. Stay with me.”
He knew he ought not. Though they had signed in as man and wife, they were not, and he ought not court disaster, but he did not wish to leave her alone.
It was not impossible to sleep chastely by her side. Difficult, but not impossible. If he rose before she woke, all would be well. So he went with her, down to the bed, holding her to him, her head on his chest as she sighed and fell back to sleep.
Chapter 19
My dear friend,
I have the greatest joy in telling you that Phoebe has agreed to marry me. Although it seems still to be some extraordinary dream, she does not do so only to protect her reputation. Indeed, if that were the only consideration, I know she would refuse me. By some miracle she returns my feelings, and I believe I need not explain to you how happy I am. I flatter myself that this news will not be unwelcome, but I give you my word of honour that I shall do all in my power to be everything she needs, to give her everything she desires, and never to cage her free spirit.
She wishes to marry at Dern, upon our return to England. To my dismay, she is also holding me to my promise to allow her to enjoy Paris. We will return as soon as I can persuade her to leave such delights behind. I beg you will make the necessary arrangements so we might be married at once.
―Excerpt of a letter to The Most Honourable Lucian Barrington, Marquess of Montagu, from The Right Hon’ble Maximillian Carmichael, Earl of Ellisborough.
12th April 1827. Hôtel Westminster, 2nd Arrondissement, Paris.
Phoebe sighed, blinking a little as sunlight slanted through a crack in the curtains. Little by little, the events of last night returned to her: besting Alvanly at cards, and Max standing at her side, trusting her to do as she wished. Dancing until dawn, and then the wicked pleasure Max had given her on the journey back to the hotel. A smile curved her mouth as she remembered him in the carriage, the way he had kissed her, touched her, the sinful thing he’d said he wanted to do. She had never realised he had such a side to him. How had she always thought him so very proper, such a perfect gentleman—which he was, without a doubt—but he was also….
“What are you thinking about, you dreadful girl?”
She jolted and turned, the smile growing wider as she discovered him lying beside her, his head propped on one hand as he stared down with a lazy, somewhat predatory glint in his eyes.