Scandal in the Regency Ballroom: No Place For a Lady / Not Quite a Lady

‘My lord, if you feel moved to ravish any woman looking as I do now, and after driving through the night, then I both pity your need and admire your stamina. I would appreciate the comfort of a chaise very much. Thank you.’

Enchanting. Oh, enchanting, he thought, returning the smile. ‘Let us find you a room for half an hour, for I am sure you would want to wash your hands, have a cup of tea and have your wrist better dressed. I will hire a chaise. Even stopping for breakfast along the way, we will be home for luncheon.’

When he tapped on her door she emerged promptly, discreetly wearing the voluminous greatcoat and with the low-crowned beaver down over her eyebrows. But as soon as the chaise turned out on to the highway she tossed the hat into the corner and shrugged off the weighty coat with a sigh of relief.

‘Max? What are you staring at?’ she asked, watching him with narrowed eyes in the light of the two spermaceti oil lamps that lit the interior.

‘I … I … your hair. I was not expecting it to be so long.’ God, I’m babbling like some green boy. Even Nevill would be showing more address.

Bree flipped the thick braid back over her shoulder. ‘I should have it cut, but it is easier to manage plaited.’

‘Don’t cut it,’ he said abruptly. It was a lovely, unusual, wheaten gold without any hint of red in it. Not brassy or silvery or any of the usual shades of blonde. Where it escaped from the severity of the braid tiny wisps curled at her temples and across her forehead, which was smooth and touched with just a hint of the sun. So unfashionable to have blonde hair. So unladylike to allow oneself to be caught by the sun. His gaze wandered down to arched brows, three shades darker than her hair, to deep blue eyes watching him back somewhat warily from the shelter of long lashes.

‘Do I have a smudge on my nose?’ Bree enquired, seemingly ignoring his comment about her hair.

‘No. I am just getting used to you without that hat.’ And without that greatcoat, and in breeches and boots, Heaven help me! Her legs were long and shapely, her figure, flattened by a waistcoat and shrouded by her coat, was more difficult to judge, but even the best efforts of men’s tailoring could not completely submerge womanly curves that had Max’s heart beating hard.

He wanted her, but not because she was beautiful, because she wasn’t exactly that, and he should know, he had kept some diamonds of the first water in his time. What is it about her? He struggled with it, trying to identify the elusive something that had shot an arrow straight under his skin in that first fleeting exchange of glances.

More for something to occupy himself than for comfort, Max took off his own greatcoat, stuffed his gloves in his pocket, and ran his hands through his hair, which had suffered from having his hat jammed down hard to keep it on against the wind.

‘Is that a Brutus, that hairstyle?’ Bree was watching him, head on one side a little. She had the faint air of a woman sizing up a purchase. Max had the uncomfortable feeling that if he were a chicken she would have inspected his feet for signs of age, or if he were a horse she would be checking his teeth. He was not at all sure he was passing muster.

‘My own variation on it, yes.’

‘I only ask because Piers says that is how he has had his hair cut. I can see the resemblance, but yours is far more successful.’

‘Thank you,’ Max said gravely. Contact with Miss Mallory handing out lukewarm compliments was chastening to one’s self-esteem. ‘How old is your brother?’

‘Just seventeen. We have a half-brother, James, who is thirty. Mama married twice.’

When she talked about Piers her voice was warm, loving; when she spoke of her other brother, it was cool. ‘Is James concerned with the business?’

‘Goodness, no.’ That was apparently funny enough to make her laugh. Max was filled with an ambition to make her laugh again, to hear the rich, amused chuckle, but his usually ready wit appeared to have deserted him. ‘James has nothing to do with it. Piers inherited my father’s half and Uncle George holds the other. He founded the company with Papa and he still runs both family farms and breeds most of our horses. I run the office.’

‘So you own nothing, but do all the work. That seems a little unjust.’

‘It is merely the lot of most women,’ Bree observed drily. ‘Piers will take over as soon as he is of age, although I suspect I will still manage things day to day. Piers is far more interested in the technical side of the business—improved springing, horse breeding for stamina, that sort of thing. And he believes that we will need to keep an eye on all the new forms of transport that will come in the next few years.’

‘Such as? Nothing will replace the horse, however improved the carriages may become.’

‘Canals, steam locomotion …’

‘Never catch on,’ Max said confidently. ‘Canals are fine for heavy transport, I’ll give you that, and steam is good for industry and mining. But these steam locomotives are nothing but dangerous gimmicks.’

That luscious chuckle again. ‘Should you ever meet Piers, I advise you not to air such opinions. I usually have to rescue the unenlightened after an hour’s lecture.’ She yawned suddenly, hugely, clapping both hands over her mouth like a guilty child. ‘Oh, I beg your pardon!’

‘Go to sleep,’ Max suggested. ‘Here.’ He stripped off his coat, folded it so the soft silk lining was outermost and offered it to her. ‘Use that as a pillow. And take your own coat off. You’ll be more comfortable. You can put one of the greatcoats over you, if you feel chilly.’

Bree regarded him, the laughter gone from her face, her eyes a little wide. Max realised that taking off his coat had probably been unwise, and expecting her to abandon herself to sleep under the circumstances was asking too much.

‘Thank you,’ she said, surprising him. She shrugged off her own coat, giving him a glimpse of the label. Not such a good tailor as his, but not contemptible either. She saw the direction of his gaze. ‘Yes, I was so brassy as to have these clothes made by a tailor, but he came to the house—I draw the line at marching into a gentleman’s establishment to order breeches, whatever James might think.’

Max sat back, his arms folded, and gazed out of the window on to darkness while Bree made herself comfortable. She placed her own greatcoat on the seat at one end, patted his coat carefully into a pillow at the other, then swung her feet up and curled on to her side.

‘Are you warm enough?’ He shook out his caped greatcoat and offered it.

‘If I take it, then you might be cold.’ She looked up at him, suddenly so vulnerable on the makeshift bed that something inside him twisted.

‘I’m warm,’ Max assured her. ‘Very warm indeed.’ Too damned hot, in fact.

‘Thank you.’ She simply closed her eyes and snuggled down as he draped the heavy cloth over her, careful not to touch her body. As if it were something she did every night, Bree fished out the golden plait and let it lie on the covering. ‘Goodnight.’ Her lips curved into a smile.

‘Goodnight.’ Max flattened his shoulders against the squabs, crossed his arms, crossed his legs and gazed fixedly at the webbing of the small luggage holder above Bree’s seat. How was that made? Netting, presumably. How was netting made? Try to work it out. Or count the number of diamonds it made. Or think about how much damage tonight’s little adventure had done to the immaculate lacquer of his drag’s sides. Or anything other than the fact that the woman opposite trusted him enough to fall asleep like this, and that he wanted to abuse that trust, very, very badly.

Why? It all seemed to go back to his musings in the club, so many hours ago: he should get married and start his nursery. He had a title, an estate, a family name to consider.

There was no one to nag him to do it except his grandmother, who on their last meeting had informed him with some asperity that if he wanted to go racketing around like a twenty-year-old instead of a man who had just had his thirtieth birthday, then she washed her hands of him. ‘Either sort out that business over Drusilla once and for all and find a suitable young woman to marry, or decide to accept Nevill as your heir. He’s a nice enough young cub,’ the Dowager had pronounced flatly. ‘I expect I can lick him into shape if I start now.’

Nevill was, indeed, nice. The word just about defined the boy. But Max didn’t want him as his heir, he wanted his own son, he realised. That decision at least seemed to have hardened since he was thinking about it last night.

A son meant a wife. He had done his best to reform his life, he assured himself. He had danced attendance at every function the Season could throw up. He had spent the summer at a number of house parties—he had even spent two weeks in Brighton.

I have been giggled at, simpered at, flirted with. I’ve chatted endlessly to tongue-tied girls, I’ve done my duty by well-bred wallflowers, I’ve risked my skin by talking to forward young madams with bold manners and overprotective brothers and I’ve done the pretty by every matchmaking mama in town. And not one of them has stirred me as much as that first sight of this woman.

The honourable thing—the rules—were quite simple. Well-bred virgins were for courting, respectfully. Young matrons who had not yet produced their husband’s heir and spare were for avoiding. Decent middle-class women of any description and servants were out of bounds. Professionals, flighty widows and married women with a quiver full of offspring and a yen to stray—they were all for pleasure.

What he had before him was a decent, if unusual, middle-class woman. Which meant she was out of bounds for any purpose whatsoever. Except friendship. That was a startling thought. Men did not have women friends. Women were to be married to, or related to or for making love to or for employing. But this one, this Bree Mallory, made him want to talk to her, as well as reduce her to quivering ecstasy in his arms.

He thought he could talk to her about the problems with the Home Farm, his efforts to make Nevill less awkward around ladies, his search for a decent cook, his doubts about government policy and whom he should support in the House.

Talk about big things or utter trivia, both comfortably, with a friend.

For a moment, thinking about that fantasy, he had forgotten the reality. To marry, a man must be single, unattached, free. And he had no idea whether he was or not, whatever his lawyer assured him. And reforming his life in order to find himself a wife was meaningless when he was still avoiding the same issue that he had been for ten years.

Bree sighed and stirred in her sleep, and the heavy plait slithered over the rough wool, hairs snagging in it. Then it fell. Max sat watching it swing with all the focus of a cat confronted by a mouse. He wanted to catch it, pat it, stroke it, play with it. He wanted to feel the texture of it in his hands. It would be like silk, he just knew. Most of all, he wanted to see it loose.

He must not touch her. He knew that as he knew the sun came up in the morning. But the thin ribbon that tied the end of the plait, that was another matter. The bow had come undone, so only one crossing of the tie held the knot. Max bent, caught one end in his fingers and tugged gently. It was brown velvet, prickling against the pads of his fingers. The tug loosened it. He tweaked the other end, the weight and springiness of the hair working with him. The ribbon caught for a moment, then fell to the floor.

He sat upright, away from Bree, his eyes on her hair as the plait, freed, began to part and come undone, his breathing as tightly controlled as though he were about to fight a duel.

The lack of movement woke Bree, then the noise from outside. Confused, she lay with her eyes closed. It sounded like the yard of the Mermaid during a change, but she hadn’t fallen asleep at her desk … the bed she was lying on lurched slightly and her eyes flew open.

‘Oh! Oh, I’m sorry, I had forgotten where I was.’ Lord Penrith, no, Max, was sitting opposite her, the lines of his face harsh in the morning light filtering through the drawn blinds. His cheeks were darkened with stubble. ‘What time is it?’

‘Almost seven. You’ve slept through two changes and we are at an inn on the far side of Reading. I thought it might be better to stop here for breakfast.’

‘Why? Oh, you mean more discreet?’ Bree sat up, rubbing her eyes. ‘For goodness’ sake, look at my hair.’ It had managed to free itself almost entirely from its plait and the ribbon lay twisted on the floor. She pushed back the greatcoat and sat up, gathering the mass in both hands and dragging it back off her face. Max stood up abruptly and reached for his coat.

‘I’ll go and bespeak a private parlour and breakfast.’ He almost snatched up his hat and the door was banging shut behind him before she could respond. ‘Wait here.’

What is it about men and mornings? Papa was just the same, and Uncle George still is, and I cannot get a coherent or intelligent word out of Piers before at least nine. Shrugging, Bree raked her fingers through her hair and began to plait as best she could with no mirror. She pulled on her coat, then the greatcoat, jammed on her hat and got out of the chaise into a familiar scene.

The poles of the chaise were grounded, the postilions leaning against them chatting with an ostler, knowing that they had at least half an hour before their passengers finished breakfast. A pair of stable boys in breeches and waistcoats scurried across the yard carrying buckets, and a stout man with a gig was engaged in earnest conversation with a groom over a problem with the harness.

It was a small inn, not one she knew, which meant it would not accommodate a stage changing. But the horses looking over the stable doors were healthy stock, from what she could see, and the place was well kept. It was a wise choice for a discreet stop, she realised, wondering if Max knew all the inns along the Bath road where a man might halt with a woman and expect privacy and a good meal.

No one took any notice of her as she walked across the yard and in through the inn door. A maid was bustling through with a loaded tray. Bree stopped her with a query and received a startled glance when the girl realised she was a woman.

‘The privy’s through there, sir … I mean, ma’am.’

‘And the gentleman who just bespoke a private parlour for breakfast?’

The maid’s face cleared. Obviously this was an illicit liaison, which was an easy explanation for the strangely dressed woman in front of her. ‘Second on the left, ma’am, Miss … er.’

Max was brooding over a day-old news sheet when Bree came into the parlour and tossed her hat on to a chair. He got to his feet, a frown between his level brows. ‘There you are. I couldn’t find you.’

‘Privy,’ Bree explained briskly. No point in being coy about it. ‘The maid thinks we are eloping,’ she commented, peeling off her greatcoat and sitting down in the chair he was holding for her.

‘How the devil do you deduce that?’

‘Well, when a woman in man’s clothes asks which parlour a gentleman is in, there are very few alternatives that are likely to occur to her.’

‘Do you mind?’

‘Not at all. I certainly won’t be stopping at this inn again, so where’s the harm?’

‘I am beginning to have grave doubts about how I am going to explain this to your male relatives.’

‘I cannot imagine Uncle George coming up from Buckinghamshire armed with his horsewhip, and Piers will be too busy worshipping at your feet to notice, even if I staggered through the door shrieking that you had ruined me.’ Bree found she enjoyed watching Max’s face, even when he was scowling.

He definitely was not handsome. She had long ago decided that her taste ran to slender gentlemen with dark hair and green eyes, the refined, artistic type. The earl was big, tough, and did not look as though he had an artistic bone in his body. His eyes were brown, his hair the deep colour of dark honey. The decided chin she had already remarked upon. And his mouth—now that was very expressive.

His lips quirked as she studied him. ‘And why should your brother do anything so outlandish?’

‘Because, although he has altogether too much interest in steam engines and canal boats, his absolute passion is driving. And he knows all about the exploits of the Nonesuch Whips—meals are frequently rendered hideous by his mistaken belief that I must be just as interested. You, my lord, feature frequently. Oh, thank you.’ The maid came in with a large platter of ham and eggs, followed by a pot boy with a teapot in one hand and a tankard in the other and another girl with the bread, butter and preserves.

‘So you knew who I was from the moment you saw my card?’

‘Of course.’ Bree began to cut bread.

‘So you knew I was a perfectly competent driver?’

‘A nonpareil, according to Piers.’ She passed him the bread and helped herself from the platter. ‘I am starving.’

‘Yet you asked me if I was any good?’ That obviously rankled.

Bree smiled sweetly. ‘I could not resist. I was somewhat annoyed with you, if you recall.’

‘You, Miss Mallory, are a minx and I hope your young man has the measure of you,’ Max said warmly, taking out his feelings on a slice of ham.

‘My what?’

‘Young man, follower, betrothed.’

‘I don’t have one.’ She regarded him, surprised, her forkful of food half-raised.

‘Why ever not?’

‘Most of the men I meet are employees. And I don’t mix socially with the other coaching company proprietors, because … I don’t know really, I just don’t. When we are at the farm there are our neighbours, but I’ve never met anyone I felt I wanted to be closer to, somehow.’ Her voice trailed away.

How could she explain that the farmers and the coaching proprietors all regarded her warily because of her titled relatives, and her half-brother and that side of the family thought of her and Piers as an embarrassment hardly to be acknowledged. She fell neatly between two stools, but she had no intention of revealing her family circumstances to the earl. He too would despise what she knew James regarded as her mongrel breeding.

The vertical line between Max’s dark brows was deeper now. ‘That’s a waste.’

‘I am too bossy anyway,’ she said with a laugh, determined that he would not pity her. ‘What about you? Is Lady Penrith wondering what has become of you?’

‘I am not—’ He broke off. ‘There is no Lady Penrith at home waiting for me.’

‘So is there a young lady expecting to become a countess shortly?’

‘No.’ He frowned again and there was a bleakness at the back of those warm brown eyes that spoke of banked emotion. ‘If I were looking for a wife, I would first have to find one who isn’t a ninny.’

‘They can’t help it, you know.’ Bree cut some more bread. ‘They are brought up to believe that the slightest show of independence, the merest hint of taking an intelligent interest in anything besides fashions and dancing, housekeeping and babies, will brand them as either bluestockings or fast.’

‘How do you know?’ Max was enjoying watching her eating. Her table manners would have graced a banquet, but her appetite was extremely healthy. It occurred to him that Bree Mallory was one of the freest women he knew: she said what she thought, she made up her own mind about things and she did not appear to feel she had to hide things just for the sake of convention.

‘I …’ It seemed he was wrong. What had he said? She had coloured up and was looking thoroughly self-conscious. ‘I read fashionable journals, if you must know. And I observe people.’

‘Of course,’ Max agreed. There was a mystery about Miss Mallory, and one he was only too well aware he was not going to be able to investigate. Whatever he felt about her—no, because of what he felt about her—the only honourable thing to do would be to drop her at her own front door and never see her again.

Chapter Four

‘That was a good stretch,’ Bree remarked, looking out on the countryside rushing past as the postilions took advantage of the famously fast road between Staines and Hounslow.

‘Yes.’ Max nodded agreement. ‘I would reckon we made thirteen miles an hour there. We’ll be at the bridge over the River Crane in a moment.’

‘Then the Heath, then Hounslow and we’ll be back where we started,’ she said brightly, trying to keep the conversation going. That sentence was the longest Max had uttered since they left the inn, replete with ham, eggs and cherry preserve.

‘Yes.’

Bree watched him from under her lowered lashes as the chaise slowed and clattered over the bridge. He wasn’t sulking; he did not appear to be sleepy. Perhaps he was simply irritated to have lost so much time over her concerns. She hoped it was not that; she had been enjoying the adventure—even her wrist had stopped aching so much. And, if truth be told, she was enjoying Max’s company.

The chaise lurched on the well-worn road and the Heath unfolded on either side with its rough grazing, spiny cushions of gorse and occasional copses of trees.

‘The gorse is still in flower.’ Max was resting his forearm on the window ledge.

‘Love is out of fashion when the gorse is out of bloom.’ Bree quoted the old adage with a smile. ‘I love the scent of it in the summer when the sun’s on it. It smells of—’

There was a shot, very close, and the chaise juddered to a halt to the sound of shouting outside.

‘Hell.’ Max shifted to stare forwards out of the offside window, pushed Bree firmly into a corner and rummaged urgently in the pockets of his greatcoat as it lay on the seat. ‘Highwaymen. Two of them.’ He dragged a pistol from the pocket. ‘Stay there.’ He opened the door and climbed out slowly, the hand holding the pistol slightly behind his back.

The moment he was out of the door Bree slid along the seat and squinted round the corner of the window frame. There were two of them, each with an ugly-looking horse pistol, one covering the postilions who were out of her sight, the other now training his weapon on Max.

‘Not good odds,’ Bree muttered. Her heart was banging somewhere in the region of her throat, but she tried to think calmly. The fact that they probably did not have much of value about them, beyond a few coins in her pocket and Max’s watch, signet and what money he had left after hiring the chaise, was not particularly encouraging. She had heard of highwaymen shooting travellers out of sheer frustration at a disappointing haul.

She dug into the pocket of her own greatcoat and produced her pistol. Not as large, and by no means as elegant, as the firearm Max was carrying, it was still perfectly capable of doing the job. Not that she had ever used it in anger. Bree checked it carefully, brought the hammer to half-cock and slid out of the opposite door, opening it as little as possible.

‘Hand it over, guv’nor.’

‘I am not carrying more than a few sovereigns.’ Max sounded bored.

‘We’ll have them. And yer watch and yer rings.’

‘I’ll be damned if you do.’

Bree peered round the back of the chaise. The position hadn’t changed, although the man covering the postilions had turned slightly, his pistol wavering between the riders and Max.

‘Well, if you wants to go to hell, guv’nor, I’m sure we can manage that. Just hand the dibs over first.’ The closer man seemed to be the leader—he was certainly doing all the talking. She tried to commit his appearance to memory for later reporting to the magistrates, but between a kerchief covering him from the nose down, and a battered tricorne jammed on his head, there was little to identify him.

She couldn’t see properly to get a clear shot at the other, not without coming right out into the open, and she didn’t want to do that until Max made his move. Her bruised wrist was already aching abominably with the weight of the pistol; she just wished he’d do something.