Scandal in the Regency Ballroom. Louise Allen
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