Kitabı oku: «Scandal in the Regency Ballroom»

About the Author

LOUISE ALLEN has been immersing herself in history, real and fictional, for as long as she can remember. She finds landscapes and places evoke powerful images of the past—Venice, Burgundy and the Greek islands are favourite atmospheric destinations. Louise lives on the North Norfolk coast, where she shares the cottage they have renovated with her husband. She spends her spare time gardening, researching family history or travelling in the UK and abroad in search of inspiration. Please visit Louise’s website, www.louiseallenregency.co.uk, for the latest news, or find her on Twitter, @LouiseRegency, and on Facebook.

Scandal in the Regency Ballroom
No Place for a Lady
Not Quite a Lady
Louise Allen

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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In The Regency Ballroom Collection

Scandal in the Regency Ballroom

April 2013

Innocent in the Regency Ballroom

May 2013

Wicked in the Regency Ballroom

June 2013

Cinderella in the Regency Ballroom

July 2013

Rogue in the Regency Ballroom

August 2013

Debutante in the Regency Ballroom

September 2013

Rumours in the Regency Ballroom

October 2013

Scoundrel in the Regency Ballroom

November 2013

Mistress in the Regency Ballroom

December 2013

Courtship in the Regency Ballroom

January 2014

Rake in the Regency Ballroom

February 2014

Secrets in the Regency Ballroom

March 2014

No Place for a Lady

Chapter One

Almost 1:00 a.m. on the Bath Road outside Hounslow—September 1814

We are going to crash. The thought went through Max’s brain with almost fatalistic calm. There was not enough room, even if the stage pulled over, even if it were broad daylight—even if he were driving and not his young cousin.

‘Rein in, damn it, it’s too narrow here!’ He had to shout over the wind whipping past them and the thunder of hooves. The stage held the crown of the road, as well it might. At this time of night it was the safest place to be—unless you had a private drag bearing down upon you, driven at full gallop by an over-excited eighteen-year-old racing for a wager.

The coach was lit with side lanterns, as they were, and the moon was high and full, bathing the road and the surrounding heath in silver light, but Max did not need it to judge the road—he knew it like the back of his hand.

‘I can make it!’ Nevill looped the off-lead rein and the team, obedient to the lightest touch, moved out to the right ready to overtake, and they were committed.

Snatching the reins would not help; they were going too fast—the big Hanoverian bays, full of oats and more than a match for any stagecoach team, especially night-run horses, were too powerful to stop in this distance. And somewhere behind them, moving just as fast, was Brice Latymer, out for blood, and behind him, Viscount Lansdowne.

Max raised the yard-long horn to his lips and blew, more in hope than expectation. If they were lucky, if the driver of the stage was alert, strong and experienced, they might get away with a sideways collision and at least the horses would not plough straight into the back of the stage. Unlucky, and there would be a four-coach pile-up and carnage.

And the miracle happened. The stage, scarcely checking its speed, drew tight to the left, the whipping branches of the hedgerow trees lashing the side, forcing the rooftop passengers to throw themselves to the right. It was lurching, its nearside wheels riding the rim of the ditch, but if Nevill could keep his head they might just make it through.

‘Go, damn it!’ he thundered. Nevill dropped his hands and the bays went through the gap like a cavalry charge. The drag tilted to the right, bounced, branches scored down the length of the black lacquer sides and then they were neck and neck with the stage.

Now he had created the space the other driver was slowing, fighting his team to keep the vehicle steady and out of the ditch it was teetering on. Max looked across, wanting to send a silent message of apology, and found himself looking into an oval face, white in the moonlight, the eyes huge, dark and furious, the mouth lush. A woman’s face?

Then they were past. Max shook himself—he was mistaken, or in the confusion of the moment he had seen the face of one of the rooftop passengers, not the driver.

He glanced to the side. Nevill was visibly shaken now the crisis had passed, his hand lax on the reins. ‘Here, take them. I’m going to be sick.’ He thrust the reins towards Max, making the bays jib at the confusing signals.

‘No, you are not—drive! This is your bet, your responsibility, and I just hope to hell the others were far enough back to miss that.’

The Bell was perhaps three minutes ahead. The end of the race. If the stage didn’t come through in five minutes it would be in the ditch and he would have to go back and see what he could do to help.

Who is she? The glimpse of that exquisite face seemed burned into his mind. Just a hallucination caused by fear, excitement, the relief of finding we were through after all? Or a flesh-and-blood woman? His blood stirred. He realised, with shock, that he was aroused. I want her.

‘We’re here,’ Nevill said with a gasp. ‘The Bell.’

Two and a half hours earlier

‘Have you heard a word I said?’

‘Probably not.’ Max Dysart looked up from his contemplation of the firelight reflected in the toes of his highly polished boots and grinned unrepentantly at his young cousin.

Despite the fact that the clocks on the high mantel had just struck half past ten, and the darkness outside was pierced by countless points of flickering light, he and all the men in the noisy, convivial company were dressed in buckskin breeches, riding boots and carelessly open coats. Only the elegance with which they wore their casual dress and the pristine, uncreased whiteness of their Waterfall cravats hinted that these were members of the Nonesuch Club and not denizens of some sporting tavern.

‘What were you thinking about?’ Nevill demanded, folding himself down on to the buttoned-leather top of the high fender and holding out one hand to the fire.

‘Women,’ Max drawled, knowing it would bring a blush to Nevill’s cheeks. The boy was on the cusp of ceasing to find women terrifying and unnecessary and discovering that they were still terrifying, but mystifyingly desirable, as well. He was too easy to tease, although women had certainly been the subject of Max’s brooding thoughts.

Max gave up trying to solve the conundrum of how he was going to find a suitable bride he could tolerate, marry and produce an heir with when he was, when he came right down to it, not certain he was in a position to make anyone an offer. He gave his cousin his attention, focusing on the youth’s eager face. He could just give up on the problem and accept Nevill as his heir, he supposed. Or was that the coward’s way out?

Nevill Harlow was just eighteen and appeared still to be growing into his hands and feet. He was also by far the youngest member of the Nonesuch Whips, gathered for their monthly meeting in their usual room at the Nonesuch Club on the corner of Ryder Street and St James’s. Young he might be, but even the highest stickler amongst the members accepted him for his growing skill with the ribbons and his relationship to Max Dysart, Earl of Penrith, acknowledged nonpareil amongst drivers.

Acknowledged by everyone except, inevitably, Brice Latymer. Latymer was sitting beside the betting book, tapping his teeth with the tip of a quill pen and regarding the cousins sardonically.

Max let the cool regard slide over him without giving any sign he had noticed it. Sometimes he thought Latymer lived to antagonise him. The man’s scarcely veiled pleasure whenever he bested Max, whether in a race, at cards or by cutting him out for a dance, mystified him.

‘What should I have been listening to?’

‘I’ve had a bet with Latymer.’ Nevill was grinning with excitement. ‘But you’ll need to lend me your bays.’

‘My what?’ Max swung his feet down off the fender.

‘Your bays. And the new drag. I’ve bet I can beat him and Lansdowne to the Bell at Hounslow.’

‘In my new drag, driving my bays? My four expensive, perfectly matched, Hanoverian bays?’ Max enquired ominously.

‘Yes.’ Nevill was not known for the strength of his intellect, more for his abounding good nature, but it was obviously beginning to dawn on him that his magnificent cousin was not delighted by the challenge he had accepted. ‘They’re more than able to beat Latymer and his greys.’

‘They are. Are you? Are you aware what I will do to you if you sprain so much as a fetlock?’

‘Er … no.’ Out of the corner of his eye Max could see the rest of the Nonesuch Whips watching them, most with good-natured grins on their faces. They all knew Max’s feelings about his precious bays, and they all liked young Nevill, but the rare opportunity to view Max Dysart, Earl of Penrith, losing his fabled self-control was eagerly anticipated.

‘I will tear your head off your shoulders,’ Max promised softly, dropping his arm over Nevill’s shoulders and smiling a crocodile’s smile. The younger man flinched, his nervous grin wavering. ‘I will knot your arms behind your neck and I will use your guts for garters.’

‘Right.’ It was a strangled squeak.

‘And do you know what I will do if you lose to our friend Mr Latymer?’

‘No.’ That was a gulp.

‘Never let you drive one of my horses again, as long as you live.’ Max imbued his smile with all the menace he could muster and felt the bony shoulders under his arm quiver. ‘Are you allowed passengers?’

‘No. Just a guard to carry the yard of tin.’

‘Right. I’ll do that.’ He felt the relief run through the young man. ‘When is it for?’

‘Midnight, tonight. Leaving from here. I wanted to send round to your mews and get them harnessed up.…’ Nevill’s voice began to trail away.

‘Just ask next time before you lay the bet,’ Max said mildly, creating major disappointment amongst the audience as they realised the anticipated explosion was not going to happen.

But, damn it, he had taught the boy to drive, starting with a pony cart, graduating through curricle and phaeton until he could manage a drag, the heavy private coach drawn by four horses, and a match in size, weight and speed for the Mail or the stagecoaches. If he could not trust Nevill with his team now, it was to mistrust his own teaching.

‘Send to the mews. And, Nevill,’ he added as his cousin made for the door, enduring amiable joshing as he went. ‘Bespeak dinner—I’m damned if I’m waiting until we get to the Bell!’

‘Have you had any dinner yet?’

Bree Mallory pushed back her chair and saw Piers standing in the doorway, a pint tankard in his hand. ‘No. What time is it?’

Her brother shrugged. ‘Nearly eleven. I had the ordinary in the snug an hour past.’

Bree got to her feet, stretched and glanced out of the window overlooking the main yard of the Mermaid Inn. The scene outside in the glare of torches and lanterns would have struck most people as chaos. To Bree’s experienced eye it was running like clockwork and the whole complex business of the headquarters of a busy coaching company was just as it should be.

Pot boys were pushing through the crowd with tankards and coffee pots; at least three women appeared to have lost either children or husbands, and in one case, a goose, and through the whole turmoil the grooms leading horses to coaches or to stables wove the intricate pattern that sent out a dozen coaches in the course of the night, and received as many in.

A coach, the Portsmouth Challenge, was standing ready, the porters tossing up the last of the luggage and a reluctant woman being urged on to a roof seat by her husband. Over her head Bree could hear the grinding of the clock gears as it made ready to strike the three-quarter, and she glanced towards the door of the tap room in anticipation. A massive figure in a many-caped greatcoat strode out, whip in hand, jamming his low-crowned hat down as he went. It was Jim Taylor, the oldest and most cantankerous of all the Challenge Coaching Company’s drivers.

As the clock struck Jim swung up ponderously on to the box, arranged the fistful of reins in his left hand without glancing at them and shouted, ‘Let them go!’

‘You could set your watch by him,’ Piers commented, strolling across to join his sister at the window.

‘You can by all of them,’ she riposted, ‘or we wouldn’t employ them.’

‘You’re a hard woman, Bree Mallory.’ He gave her a one-armed hug round the shoulders in passing, grinning to show he was only teasing.

Bree smiled back. ‘I have to be. This is a hard business. And why haven’t you gone home to bed?’ He might look like a man, her tall, handsome, baby brother, but he was only seventeen and, if he hadn’t been recovering from a nasty bout of pneumonia, he would have been at school at Harrow. ‘And my excuse, before you ask, is that the corn chandler’s bill is completely at odds with the fodder records again and either he is cheating us, or someone is stealing the feed.’

‘I was finishing my Latin text.’ He grimaced. ‘It’s enough to put me into a decline, the amount of work the beaks have sent me home with.’

‘If you hadn’t spent most of the day hanging round the yard, you’d have been done hours ago,’ Bree chided mildly. Piers was itching to finish at school and come to start working at the company. It was his, after all. Or at least, he owned half of it, with George Mallory, their father’s elder brother, retaining his original share.

Bree had a burning desire to protect the company for Piers. Uncle George, with no children of his own, would leave his half to his nephew eventually and then there would be no stopping her brother.

He already knew as much as Bree about the business, and rather more about the technical aspects of coach design and the latest trends in springing than she ever wanted to know. ‘Where are my journals?’ he wheedled now. ‘I have finished my Latin, honestly.’

‘They look even more boring than the grammar texts,’ Bree commented, lifting the pile of journals dealing with topics such as steam locomotion, pedestrian curricles and canal building off the chair by her desk. ‘Here you are.’

‘I am giving up on the mystery of the vanishing oats for the night.’ Bree blotted the ledger and put away her pens. ‘Come on, let’s go and find some dinner—I expect you can manage to put away another platter of something.’

They rented a small, decent house in Gower Street, but the sprawling yard of the Mermaid seemed more like home for both of them and they maintained private rooms up in the attic storey for when they chose to stay overnight.

Bree stopped and looked back over the yard, seized with a sudden uneasiness, as though things were never going to be the same again. She shook herself. Such foolishness. ‘You weren’t born when Papa bought this—I can only just recall it.’ She smiled proudly. ‘Twenty years and it’s turned from a decaying, failed business into one of the best coaching inns in the capital.’

‘The best,’ Piers said stoutly, cheerfully ignoring the claims of William Chaplin at the sign of the Swan with Two Necks, or Edward Sherman’s powerful company with its two hundred horses, operating out of the Bull and Mouth.

From small beginnings, with his own horses and a modest stage-wagon service, William Mallory had built it into what it was today, and Bree had grown up tagging along behind him, absorbing the business at his coat tails.

It had worried her father, a decent yeoman farmer, that his daughter did not want to join the world of her mother’s relatives, but Edwina Mallory had laughed. ‘I was married to the son of a viscount, my eldest son is a viscount and I am delighted to let him get on with it! Bree can choose when she is older if she wants a come-out and all the fashionable frivols.’

And perhaps, if Mama had lived longer, Bree might have done. But Edwina Mallory, daughter of a baron, once married to the Honourable Henry Kendal, had died when Bree was nine, and her relatives seemed only too glad to forget about the daughter of her embarrassing second marriage.

‘What does Kendal want?’ Piers asked, hostility making his voice spiky. He had picked up the letter lying on her desk, recognising the seal imprinted on the shiny blue wax.

‘I don’t know,’ Bree said, taking it and dropping it back again. ‘I haven’t opened it yet. Our dear brother is no doubt issuing another remonstrance from the lofty heights of Farleigh Hall, but I am in no mood to be lectured tonight.’

‘Don’t blame you,’ Piers grunted, handing her the shawl that hung on the back of the door. ‘Pompous prig.’

She ought to remonstrate, Bree knew, but Piers was all too correct. Their half-brother, James Kendal, Viscount Farleigh, was, at the age of thirty, as stuffy and boring as any crusted old duke spluttering about the scandals of modern life in his club.

As soon as Bree was old enough to realise that her mother’s connections looked down on her father, and regarded her mother’s remarrying for love as a disgrace, she resolved to have as little as possible to do with them. Now, at the age of twenty-five, she met her half-brother perhaps four times a year, and he seemed more than content for that state of affairs to continue.

‘I don’t expect he can help it,’ she said mildly, following Piers out into the yard. ‘Being brought up by his grandfather when Mama remarried was almost certain to make a prig out of him. You won’t remember the old Viscount, but I do!’

Bree broke off as they negotiated the press of people beginning to assemble for the Bath stage in less than hour.

‘Hey, sweetheart, what’s a pretty miss like you doing all alone here in this rough place? Come and have a drink with me, darling.’

Bree looked to her left and saw the speaker, a rakish-looking man with a bold eye and a leer on his lips, pushing towards her.

‘Can you possibly be addressing me, sir?’ she enquired, her voice a passable imitation of Mama at her frostiest.

‘Don’t be like that, darlin’—what’s a pretty little trollop like you doing in a place like this if she isn’t after a bit of company?’

As Bree was wearing a plain round gown with a modest neckline, had her—admittedly eye-catching—blonde hair braided up tightly and was doing nothing to attract attention, she was justifiably irritated. But it was the rest of the impertinent question that really got her temper up.

‘A place like this? Why, you ignorant clod, this is as fine an inn as any in all London—as fine as the Swan with Two Necks. I’ll have you know—’

‘Is this lout bothering you?’ At the sight of Piers, six foot already, even if he had some growing to do to fill out his long frame, the rake began to back away. ‘Get out of here before I have you whipped out!’

‘Honestly, Bree, you shouldn’t be here without a maid,’ Piers fussed as they pushed their way into the dining rooms and found their private table in a corner. ‘You’re too pretty by half to be wandering about a busy inn.’

‘I don’t wander,’ she corrected him firmly. ‘I run the place. And as for being too pretty, what nonsense. I’m tolerable only and I’m bossy and I’m too tall, and if it wasn’t for this wretched hair I wouldn’t have any trouble with men at all.’

The waiter put a steaming platter of roast beef in front of them and Bree helped herself with an appetite, satisfied that she had won the argument.

Half an hour later she sat back, replete, and regarded her brother with fascinated awe as he dug into a large slice of apple pie.

‘This is your second dinner tonight. I think you must have hollow legs, else where can you be putting it?’

‘I’m a growing boy,’ Piers mumbled indistinctly through a mouthful of pastry. ‘Look, here comes Railton. I think he’s looking for us.’

‘What is it, Railton?’ The Yard Master was looking grim as he stopped by their table.

‘We’ll have to cancel the Bath coach, Miss Bree.’

‘What? The quarter to midnight? But it’s fully booked.’ Bree pushed back her empty plate and got to her feet. ‘Why?’

‘No driver. Todd was taking it out, but he’s slipped just now coming down the ladder out of the hayloft and I reckon his leg’s broke bad. Willis is taking the Northampton coach later, and all the rest of the men are spoken for too. There’s no one spare, not with you giving Hobbs the night off to be with his wife and new baby.’ His sniff made it abundantly clear what he thought of this indulgence.

‘Are you sure it is broken?’ Bree demanded, striding across the yard, Piers at her heels. ‘Have you sent for Dr Chapman?’

‘I have, not that I need him to tell me it’s a break when the bone’s sticking through the skin. You’ve no cause to go in there, Miss Bree. It’s not a nice sight and Bill’s seeing to him.’

Even so, one did not leave one’s employees in agony, however much of a fix they had left one in through their carelessness. Bree marched through the hay-store door and was profoundly grateful to see there was no sign of blood and Johnnie Todd was neither fainting nor shrieking in agony.

‘He’ll do.’ Bill Potter, one of the ostlers and the nearest they had to a farrier on the premises, got to his feet and walked her back firmly out of the door. ‘Doctor will fix him up, never you fret, Miss Bree.’

That was good, but it didn’t solve the problem of the Bath coach. ‘I’ll drive it.’ Piers bounded up. ‘Please?’

‘Certainly not! It’s one hundred and eight miles.’ Bree knew the mileages to their destinations, and all the stops along the way, without even having to think about it. ‘The most you’ve ever driven is twenty.’

‘Yes, but I don’t have to drive all the way, do I?’ Piers protested as they walked back to the office.

‘What?’ Bree broke off from wondering if she could possibly send round to one of the rival yards and borrow a driver. But that put one in debt …

‘Johnnie would only have driven fifty miles, wouldn’t he? Whoever the second half-driver is, he’ll be ready and waiting in Newbury.’ Piers banged through the door and started rummaging in the cupboard for his greatcoat.

‘Fifty miles is too far. I’ve driven thirty, and that was hard enough, and I wasn’t recovering from pneumonia.’ Thirty miles. Thirty miles with Papa up beside me, in broad daylight and with an empty coach coming back from the coach makers. Even so, can it be that much harder to do it with passengers up and at night? There’s a full moon.

‘I’ll drive,’ she said briskly, trampling down the wave of apprehension that hit her the minute she said it. ‘The Challenge Coach Company does not cancel coaches and we don’t go begging our rivals for help either. Shoo! I’m going to get changed.’

Chapter Two

Bree thrust the whip into the groom’s hands and used both hers on the reins. Behind her the passengers were screaming, the inner wheels were bucking along the rough rim of the ditch and branches were lashing both coach and horses.

Thank God she had never followed the practice of so many companies and used broken-down animals for the night runs, she thought fleetingly, as the leaders got their hocks under them and powered the heavy vehicle back on to the highway. The lurking menace of a milestone, glinting white in the moonlight, flashed past an inch from the wheels.

The coach rocked violently, throwing her off balance. Her right wrist struck the metal rail at the side of the box with a sickening thud. Bree bit down the gasp of pain and gathered the reins back into her left hand again, stuffing the throbbing right into the space between her greatcoat buttons.

Hell, hell and damnation. Ten miles gone, another forty to go. Her arms already felt as though she had been stretched on the rack, her back ached and now she had a badly bruised wrist. I must have been mad to start, but I’m going to do this if it kills me. It probably will.

The team steadied, then settled into a hard, steady rhythm. ‘Slow down, Miss Bree,’ Jem the groom gasped as she took the crown of the road again. ‘You can’t spring them here!’

‘I can and I will. I’m going to horsewhip that maniac the length of Hounslow High Street, and we’ve lost time as it is,’ she shouted, as the sound of another horn in the distance behind them had the groom staring back anxiously. ‘If they can catch us up before the inn, they can wait,’ Bree added grimly. And if they didn’t like it, they had one very angry coaching proprietor to deal with.

‘You won. Congratulations.’ Max fetched Nevill a hard buffet on his back as the young man climbed stiffly down from the box.

‘I … Max, I’m sorry. I nearly crashed it.’ He stumbled and Max caught him up, pushing him back against the coach wheel. The others would be here in a moment; he wasn’t having Nevill showing them anything but a confident face. ‘If you hadn’t told me when to go, shouted at me … I was going too fast on a blind bend. I’ll understand if you never let me drive your horses again.’

‘Are you ever going to do anything that stupid again?’ Max demanded, ignoring the bustle of ostlers running to unharness his team. ‘No?’ His cousin shook his head. ‘Well, then, lesson learned. I once had the York mail off the road, although I don’t choose to talk about it. I was about your age, and probably as green. Now, get the team put up and looked over and then get us a chamber. I’m going to save your bacon by doing my best with the coachman.’

‘But I should—’

‘Just do as I ask, Nevill, and pray I don’t look at the damage to my paintwork before I’ve had at least one glass of brandy.’

The average stagecoachman would have the boy’s guts for garters—their temper and their arrogance were legendary. Max heard the sound of the horn and the stage swept into the yard: at least he wasn’t going to have to organise its rescue from the ditch. He scanned the roof passengers as they clambered down, protesting loudly about their terrible experience. No young woman—he must have been dreaming. His heart sank and he grimaced wryly; he was acting like a heartsick youth after a glimpse of some beauty at a window.

The groom swung down beside the grumbling passengers. ‘Brandy on the company,’ he said, urging them towards the door of the Bell and the waiting landlord.

He swung round as Max strode up. ‘You driving that rig just now, guv’nor?’ he demanded belligerently.

‘No, my young cousin was, but I am responsible. Allow me to make our apologies to the driver, and to you, of course.’ He slipped a coin into the man’s hand and stepped to one side to confront the other who was slowly climbing down, his back to the yard. The groom shifted as though to protect his driver’s back. Max dodged—and found himself face to face with the smallest, strangest, and certainly most belligerent stagecoach driver he had ever met.

‘You oaf!’ It was his young woman. In the better light of the inn yard she was even more striking than he recalled from that startling glimpse, her looks heightened by shimmering fury. No classical beauty, although a low-crowned beaver jammed down almost to her eyebrows so that not a lock of hair showed, did not help. And goodness knows what her figure was like under the bulk of the caped greatcoat. But her face was a pure oval, her skin clear, her eyes deep blue and her mouth flooded his mind with explicit, arousing images

‘What are you staring at, sir?’ she demanded, giving him the opportunity to admire the way those lovely lips looked in motion, glimpsing a flash of white teeth. ‘Haven’t you ever seen a woman driving before?’ She grounded the butt of her whip with one hand and glowered at him. Tall, she’s tall for a woman, he thought irrelevantly as she tipped her head, just a little, to look at him.

‘Not one driving a stagecoach,’ he admitted. Somewhere behind him the increase in noise heralded the arrival of the two rival drags. Max moved instinctively to shield her from sight. ‘Madam, I must apologise for that incident. Naturally I will meet any damages to the coach, and you must allow me to pay for whatever drinks the passengers are taking in there.’

‘Certainly. Your card for the bill?’ That was businesslike with a vengeance. Max dug into the breast pocket of his coat and produced his card case. ‘Send me a round sum, I am not concerned with detail—it was our fault.’

‘It most certainly was, and I am concerned with detail. You will get a full accounting. Now, if you please, I must see to having my next team put to.’

‘Wait. You surely do not want to be seen by the other drivers.’ She did not appear in the least discommoded by being found, dressed as a man, in the midst of a group of boisterous gentlemen.

‘Really, Mr …’ She glanced at the card, tilting it to catch the lantern light and her eyebrows rose. ‘Lord Penrith, I am in a hurry.’ If it had been a young man with that accent and that attitude he would have assumed it was some young sprig of fashion out for a thrill. But women did not drive stages, and ladies most certainly did not drive anything on public highways outside the centre of town.

‘Damn it, Dysart, if it wasn’t for that damnable stagecoach I’d have had you in that last straight.’ Latymer.

Max swung round, the flaring skirts of his greatcoat effectively screening the willowy figure of the woman. ‘Go and argue the toss with Nevill,’ he suggested. ‘But I say you lost it on the pull past Syon House. How far behind was Lansdowne?’

‘One minute, but I still maintain—’

‘I’ll be with you inside in a moment. I’ve just got to argue this blockhead down from claiming half the cost of his damn coach,’ he added, low-voiced, taking Latymer by the arm and turning him away. ‘I told Nevill to get the brandy in.’

As he suspected, that was enough to turn the grumbling man back to the warmth of the inn parlour. As usual, whenever Latymer lost something, he would insist on a prolonged post mortem, the aim of which would be to prove he had failed for reasons entirely outside his control.

When he turned back, the young woman, far from taking advantage of his efforts to shield her, was engaged in spirited discussions with the head ostler about the team he was proposing to put to. ‘And not that black one either. It’s half-blind,’ she called after him as he stomped back to the stables to fetch another horse.

‘I will not run with those broken-down wrecks they try and fob one off with at night,’ she pronounced as he came up to her.

‘Madam—’

‘Miss Mallory. Bree Mallory.’

‘Miss Mallory, you cannot be intending to continue driving?’

‘As far as Newbury.’ She turned an impatient shoulder on him, watching the team being put to. It would take only a few minutes, now the horses had been agreed. ‘Jem, get the passengers.’

‘But wait, you’ve had a nasty shock.’ Max put out his hand and caught her by the right wrist, then dropped it as she went white and gasped in pain.

For a sickening moment the yard spun and Bree found herself caught up hard against Lord Penrith’s chest.

‘Let me go!’ The effect of being held by a strange man—no, by this strange man—was making her as dizzy as the pain. Reluctantly, it seemed, he opened his arms.

‘You are hurt. Let me see.’ What a nice voice he has, she thought irrelevantly. Deep, and gentle and compelling. She had no intention of doing as he asked, and yet, somehow, her hand was in his again and he was peeling back the cuff of the gauntlet to examine her wrist. ‘Has that just happened?’ She nodded. ‘Can you move your fingers?’

‘Yes. It isn’t broken,’ she added impatiently. His concern was weakening her; she had to tell herself it was nothing, that she could drive despite it.

‘Well, you aren’t driving a stage with that. You had best go inside and get it bound up.’

‘Yes, I am driving! I cannot abandon a coach full of passengers here, let alone the parcels we’re carrying. The Challenge Coach Company does not cancel coaches.’

‘There are entirely too many cs in that sentence,’ Lord Penrith remarked, ‘but it does at least prove that you haven’t been drinking if you can declaim it. The coach won’t be cancelled. I’ll drive it. Wait here.’

‘You … I … you’ll do no such thing!’ She found herself talking to his retreating back. He was already striding off towards the inn door to where the youth who had been driving the drag was waiting. There was a short conversation—more an issuing of orders, she decided, going by her short experience of his lordship’s manner, then he was coming back.

‘Right. Is there room for you inside, Miss Mallory?’

‘Certainly not. I am staying on the box.’ Bother the man, now he had tricked her into accepting that he was going to drive! ‘Are you any good, my lord?’

She knew who he was, of course—one glance at his card, and the cut of his own drag and team, told her that. But she was not going to give Max Dysart, Earl of Penrith, the satisfaction of acknowledging that he was one of the finest whips in the land. Piers would be mad with jealousy when he found out with whom she had virtually collided.

He turned, pausing in the act of climbing on to the box, one hand still resting on the wheel. ‘Any good? At driving?’ One eyebrow arched.

‘Yes, at driving,’ she snapped. If only he didn’t keep looking at me like that. As though he knew me, as though he owned me …

‘Certainly. Much better than my young cousin, I assure you, Miss Mallory. Then … I am quite good at most things.’

Furious at what she suspected was an innuendo that she didn’t understand, Bree marched round and got Jem to help her up on the other side of the box. She could have made it on her own, she told herself resentfully, but she wasn’t such an idiot as to strain her hurt wrist just to prove a point. Without thinking about it she flicked the tails of her coat into a makeshift cushion under her, and settled back. Jem swung up behind.

Lord Penrith already had the reins in hand. He certainly looked the part. ‘Have you ever driven a stage before?’ she demanded. It would not be surprising if he had—it was a craze amongst young bucks to bribe a coachman to let them take the ribbons. More often than not, the entire rig ended up in a ditch.

‘Let them go!’ He turned his head and grinned at her as the wheelers took the strain and began to move. ‘Now I am wounded. You think I’m the sort of fellow who gets drunk and overturns stages for kicks? No, I drive a drag and my own horses when I want a four in hand. This lot aren’t too bad.’

‘Stick to ten miles an hour,’ Bree cautioned. ‘No springing them.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said meekly as they got back on to the road and the leaders settled into their collars. ‘There’s a clean handkerchief in my left-hand pocket if you want to tie up your wrist.’

Gingerly Bree fished in the pocket and pulled out the square of white linen. She wrapped the makeshift bandage round her wrist, then tucked her hand back into the front of her coat. Just the knowledge that she did not have to drive another forty miles was bliss. Surreptitiously she rolled her aching shoulders.

‘Thank you, my lord.’

‘Max,’ he said absently, his eyes on the road ahead. ‘What sort of name is Bree?’

‘My sort. It was my father’s mother’s name.’

There was a flash of white as he grinned. ‘Tell me, Miss Mallory, how does a lady, who speaks with an accent that would not be out of place administering set-downs in Almack’s, come to be driving a stagecoach?’

‘I had an excellent education.’ Bother. She had been so shaken she had let her guard down. Both she and Piers were perfectly capable of switching their accents to suit their company, whether it was disputing the price of oats with the corn chandler or holding a stilted conversation with their half-brother. If she had been thinking, she would have let a strong overtone of London City creep into her vowels.

It was entirely possible that this man knew James, and if he discovered she was driving on the open road, and in men’s clothes, then the fat really would be in the fire. One more of James’s ponderous and endless lectures on propriety and she would probably say something entirely regrettable and cause a permanent family rift.

She shot an anxious glance over her shoulder, but the roof passengers were huddled up, scarves and mufflers round their ears, hunched in the misery of open-air, night-time travel. She could confess to robbing the Bank of England and they would not hear.

‘My parents were perfectly well to do. Just because we’re in trade does not mean elocution was neglected,’ she added starchily.

‘So how is it that you are driving?’ he persisted.

‘Because the driver broke his leg and there was no one else to send out, and the Challenge—’

‘Coach Company does not cancel coaches,’ he parroted. ‘Yes, I know. Do you drive often?’

‘I haven’t driven a stage for three years,’ Bree admitted. ‘And I’ve never driven one in service or at night. But Piers—my younger brother—is recovering from pneumonia. I couldn’t let him drive. It’s his company, his and my uncle’s. And I drive four in hand all the time.’ She didn’t add that she liked to drive the hay wagon up from the family farm near Aylesbury, or that she’d driven the dung cart before now when the need arose. Let him think she bowled round Hyde Park in a phaeton.

‘Your driving is superb. I don’t know how you held the stage out of the ditch when we overtook,’ he said.

Neither do I! Terror and desperation, probably. The compliment from such a master warmed her. ‘Why, thank you, my lord.’

‘Max.’

‘Max. It was sheer necessity. I doubt I could do it again. I was using both hands by that point, and I had abandoned my whip,’ Bree confessed. ‘The old coachmen in our yard would be shocked to the core.’

There was a chuckle from her companion, then he fell silent, intent on navigating the moonlit road.

It was curiously companionable, riding through the chilly darkness on the jolting, hard box beside this stranger. The team were trotting out strongly, then gathering themselves to canter when Max gave them the office on the better stretches. Her wrist throbbed painfully and her shoulders ached, but Bree realised she was enjoying herself. The man was a superlative whip.

‘You had better blow for the gate,’ Max remarked, jerking her out of her reverie. ‘The next toll bar’s coming up.’

‘I can’t. I’ve tried and tried to master the horn, but I can’t do it.’

‘Fine guard you are,’ Max grumbled. ‘Here, take the reins.’

He held his left hand towards her and she slid her own into it, fingers slipping down his wrist and over his palm until the ribbons lay between the correct fingers and he could pull his own free. The team pecked a little at the strange position, then settled.

Max lifted the horn and blew, the long notes echoing through the clear night. ‘Just in time,’ Bree said as the toll gate keeper stumbled out in his nightgown to drag open the wide gate.

‘We’re going to have to do this for every gate, you realise,’ Max commented, his big hand sliding into hers as he took back the reins. It brought them close together again and the fleeting memory of his arms around her in the inn yard made Bree catch her breath.

‘We could stop a moment and pass the horn back to Jem,’ Bree suggested reluctantly. It was the sensible thing to do, of course, but that had been rather fun.

‘And lose more time?’ Max flicked the whip close to the ear of the offside wheeler that seemed to have decided it didn’t want to share the work. ‘I’m sure the Challenge Coach Company is always punctual. Hmm, not enough cs. I shall have to think of a slogan.’ Bree chuckled. ‘Besides,’ he added, echoing her own thoughts, ‘it was rather fun.’

‘In what way, exactly?’ she enquired repressively. It might be very stimulating to be sitting here enjoying a master class in four-in-hand driving, but one had to recall that she was also alone, unchaperoned, with a man she was certain James would stigmatise as a rake. On the other hand, if James would disapprove, it made it all much more pleasurable.

‘It’s a form of trick driving in its way. And, of course, there’s the opportunity to hold hands with a pretty girl. Now, what have I said to make you snort?’

‘I do not snort. And if you find any female dressed as I am pretty, my lord, there is something wrong with you.’

‘I have exceptionally good eyesight.’

‘And a vivid imagination,’ she muttered. He probably was a rake, and flirting with anything female under the age of ninety was doubtless a prerequisite.

Max smiled, but all he said was, ‘We shall see.’

By the time they reached the last toll gate before Newbury Bree thought she had never been so stiff, nor so exhilarated, in her life. She seemed to have passed through some barrier of exhaustion and now, at almost four in the morning, she felt wide awake.

Probably because my bottom-bones are bruised black and blue, she concluded ruefully. The old coachman’s trick of making a cushion with her coat tails was not as effective as she had been led to believe, or perhaps she simply had less natural padding than they did.

It was time to sound the horn again. They had the rhythm of it now. Bree felt the warmth of Max’s large hand slide over hers, then she had the reins and he was blowing for the gate. But when they were through and he reached for her in his turn he did not slip his fingers across her palm; instead, he closed his hand around hers and held it lightly.

‘We’ll drive the last bit together,’ he said simply, and she wondered at the warm rush of pleasure the words and the action brought her.

I’m getting light-headed, Bree thought, flexing her fingers within Max’s grip and fighting the urge to lean into his body. It was deliciously like being drunk.

The sensation lasted as long as it took William Huggins, otherwise known as Bonebreaker Bill, to come striding out into the yard of the Plume of Feathers and see who was driving his coach through the arch.

‘Miss Bree! What do you think you are doing?’ He glowered up at the box of the coach, meaty fists on his bulky hips, booted feet apart.

‘We didn’t have a driver to send out, Bill,’ she said placatingly. Bill had known her since she was six and had proved a far stricter guardian than either of her parents ever had.

‘Who’s this flash cove, then?’ he demanded, swivelling his bloodshot eyes to Max. ‘Some break-o’day boy who’s cozened you into letting him take the ribbons for a thrill?’

‘This is Lord Penrith, Bill. My lord, allow me to introduce William Huggins, the finest coachman on this, or any other, road.’

Bill brushed aside the compliment, taking it as his due, but his eyes narrowed. ‘Penrith? From the Nonesuch Whips?’

‘For my sins.’ Sensibly, Max was staying on the box where he had the advantage of height. But the coachman had lost all his hostility.

‘Well, I’ll be damned! If half they say about you is true, my lord, then it’s a privilege to have you drive my coach, that it is! Why, you can take it all the way to Bath if you be so wishful.’

‘Thank you, but no, Mr Huggins.’ Max began to climb down. ‘This was a long enough stage for me—I had no idea those box seats were so hard.’

‘Hah! You should fold your coat tails under you, my lord. That’s the way to save your bum bones.’

‘It doesn’t work, Bill,’ Bree said, causing him to go scarlet. ‘I tried. Now, come and lift me down, please. I’m as stiff as a board.’

The ostlers, spurred on by the presence of their severest critic, completed the change in under two minutes and Bill took the coach out on to the highway with a roar of farewell and a flourish of his hat. Poor Jem, expected like all guards to work the whole distance, was back up on the box beside him.

‘There you are,’ Max said, fishing his pocket watch out. ‘Dead on time. The Challenge Coach Company never compromises with the clock,’ he added with satisfaction. ‘You may have it engraved on your stationery with my compliments.’

‘Thank you so much.’ Bree turned to him, tipping her head back to smile up into his face. It was one part of him, she realised, that she hadn’t been able to study during the last four hours. She knew the feel of his hands on hers, the range of his voice, and the height and breadth of his body had bulwarked hers like a rock all night.

It was difficult to make out colours in the lamplight, but his eyes were dark under dark brows, his cheekbones pronounced, his chin rather too decided for her taste, and his mouth—which was within a fraction of a smile as he watched her—was generous. It was a good face, she decided. A tough face, but in a good way. He made her feel safe.

‘Thank you,’ she said again. ‘Goodbye, my lord.’

‘And just where do you think you are going now, Miss Mallory?’

‘To bespeak a room, of course.’

‘With no maid, no luggage and at four in the morning?’

‘They will know who I am when I introduce myself.’

‘It is not the inn staff I am concerned about. Really, Miss Mallory, you cannot stay here—goodness knows who you might encounter. Think of your reputation.’

‘I do not have one!’ Really, he was as bad as James. ‘Not that sort of reputation. I am not in society, I am not in the marriage mart. I am in trade, my lord. Besides, what alternative do I have, other than to wait for the next stage back and be jolted for another five sleepless hours? I have, I regret to say, no convenient maiden aunt in Newbury.’

His mouth twitched. She could not tell, in this light, whether he was annoyed that she was arguing with him, or amused by the maiden aunt. ‘I was going to take a private parlour for you to rest in for a while and I will hire a chaise to take us back to London.’

‘A chaise? A closed carriage? For the two of us? All the way back to London? And just what will that do for my reputation, pray?’

‘Ruin it, I imagine,’ Max said amiably.

Chapter Three

Max watched the expressions chase across what little he could see of Bree’s face. Oh, to get that damned hat off her head. ‘At least, it would ruin you if you were the young society lady you speak of, with vouchers for Almack’s and a position in the marriage mart to defend. Then, if it should be known that you had spent five hours in a closed carriage with a man, it would be a disaster.

‘But you aren’t, are you? You are much safer being whisked home in comfort by me than you are sitting in a public house where you will be recognised by anyone who does business with your company, and at the mercy of any passing rakes and bucks who chose to prey on unprotected women.’

‘And you aren’t, I suppose? A rake, I mean.’ That lush mouth looked gorgeous even when it was thinned to a suspicious line.

‘No, I am not, if by that you imagine I will take the opportunity to ravish you. But I cannot prove it—you will have to make your own judgment on my character.’ He studied Bree’s face, expecting anything from anger to the vapours, and was taken aback when she laughed.

‘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.