Читать книгу Regency Betrayal - Julia Justiss - Страница 13

The next morning, Max rose before dawn and headed to the stables before even a glimmer of dawn lightened the treeline, determined not to risk missing Miss Denby. But though he trotted his mount up and down the stable lane for so long that the grooms must have wondered what in the world he was doing, she did not appear.

Perhaps she was being prudent, abstaining from her morning ride so as not to be pounced upon by Henshaw. Alastair had told him over billiards the previous evening that his mother said the party was wrapping up; Jane had boasted to him of its successes, two matrons having managed to get offers for their daughters. Felicity, she added, had made a great new friend of Miss Denby’s stepsister, Eugenia Whitman, and was giddy about the prospect of sharing her upcoming Season with the girl.

The same Miss Whitman who, his Aunt Grace had informed him, ‘far outshines her stepsister in youth, wit and beauty’. Max still resented that comment on Miss Denby’s behalf.

In any event, it appeared she would soon be relieved of Mr Henshaw’s pursuit, Max concluded, turning his probably puzzled mount to the stable and returning to the house. But what of next spring? Would she, as she feared, have to suffer through another Season, dragged off to participate in a round of social activities for which she had no inclination, forced to neglect her beloved horses?

What a shame her childhood beau Harry was so far away. She deserved to marry a man who appreciated her unique talents and interests, who supported rather than discouraged her desire to carry on her father’s legacy.

He toyed with the idea of trying to seek her out and bid her goodbye, but couldn’t come up with a way to do so that would not shock the gathering by revealing she was well acquainted with a man she wasn’t supposed to know. Perhaps, once he had his life sorted out, he could call on her in London, maybe even seek her out at Denby Lodge and purchase some of her horses.

With Alastair away on another of his lord-of-the-manor errands, Max fetched his book and headed for what might be his last afternoon hidden away at the conservatory. He’d rather miss the place, whose warm scented air and soothing palm murmurs he would probably never have discovered had he not been forced to vacate the house. With the guests soon departing, he and Alastair would have free run of the estate again.

He halted just inside the threshold of the glasshouse, inhaling the tangy-sweet scent of jasmine that seemed always to hang in the air, insubstantial as a whisper. He was about to proceed to his usual bench when a murmur of voices reached his ears, the words as indistinct as the gurgling of a brook over rocks.

He halted, trying to identify the speakers. Aunt Grace, conferring with the gardener? Or one of the affianced couples, stealing one last tryst before the party broke up?

In either case, his presence would be an impediment. He was silently retracing his steps when a feminine voice reached his ears, its increased volume making the words suddenly clear.

‘Mr Henshaw, I do appreciate the honour of your offer, but I’m absolutely convinced we will not suit!’

Miss Denby’s voice, Max realised, halting in mid-step. Had Henshaw tracked her there?

His first impulse was to set off in her direction, but she’d probably not thank him for interfering. Still, though he felt confident she could handle her disappointed suitor without his assistance, some deep-seated protective instinct made him linger.

After a masculine murmur whose words he could not make out, Miss Denby said, ‘No, I shall not change my mind. You must admit, sir, that I have tried in every possible way to discourage you, so my refusal can hardly come as a surprise. You will oblige me by leaving now.’

‘Waiting here for someone else, were you?’ Henshaw replied, his angry tones now comprehensible. ‘Max Ransleigh, perhaps? He’d never marry you. Despite his father’s banishment, he has money enough, and if he ever does wed, it will be a woman from a prominent society family. In any event, his taste runs to sophisticated beauties, which you, I’m forced to say, are not. Nor are you getting any younger. If you’ve any hopes at all of marrying, you’d better accept my offer.’

Why, the mercenary little weasel, Max thought, incensed. Only the certainty that Miss Denby would not appreciate having him witness this embarrassing scene kept him from setting off down the pathway to plant a fist squarely on the jaw of that overdressed excuse for a gentleman.

‘You’re quite correct,’ she was saying. ‘I possess none of the virtues and talents a gentleman looks for in a wife. As you so kindly noted, I’m hardly a beauty and am hopeless at making the sort of polite chat that makes up society conversation. Worst of all, I fear I have no fashion sense. You can do so much better, Mr Henshaw! Why not wait until the Season and find yourself a more suitable bride?’

Despite his ire, Max had to grin. Had any female ever so thoroughly disparaged herself to a prospective suitor?

‘I’m afraid, my dear, the press of creditors don’t allow me the luxury of waiting. Though admittedly you possess neither the style nor the talents I would wish for in a wife, you do have … a certain charm of person. And wealth, of which I’m in desperate need.’

No style? No talent? His mirth rapidly dissipating, Max reconsidered the prospect of cornering Henshaw, shaking him like a dog with a ferret and then tossing him out of the glasshouse like the refuse he was.

But alerting them to his presence would not only distress Miss Denby, it might give the thwarted suitor an opportunity to claim he’d caught Max and Miss Denby alone together. His self-protective instincts on full alert now that Miss Denby wasn’t within touching distance, Max didn’t want to risk that.

His decision not to intervene, however, wavered when he heard a sharp, cracking sound that could only be a slap.

‘Keep your hands to yourself,’ Miss Denby cried. ‘You followed me without my leave or encouragement. If you will not quit this place, then I will do so. Since I do not anticipate seeing you again before the party ends, I will say goodbye, Mr Henshaw.’

‘Not so hasty, my dear. It might not be an arrangement either of us want, but you will marry me.’

‘Let go of my arm! It’s useless for you to detain me, for I promise you, nothing on earth would ever induce me to marry you!’

‘I’d hoped you would consent willingly, but if you will not, you force me to employ … other measures. Before you leave this spot, you’ll be fit to be no one’s wife but mine.’

At that threat, Max abandoned discretion and set off at a run. If he hadn’t already been prepared to tear Henshaw limb from limb, the scuffling, panting sounds of a struggle that reached him as he rounded the last corner, followed by the unmistakable rip of fabric, had him ready to do murder.

Seconds later, he lunged over a potted fern to find Henshaw trying to pin a wildly struggling Miss Denby down on the bench, his free hand clawing up her skirts. As a clay pot fell over and shattered, Henshaw looked up, his hands stilling.

The smirk on his face and the lust in his eyes turned to surprise, then alarm as he recognised Max. But before Max could seize him, Miss Denby, taking advantage of Henshaw’s distraction, kneed him in the groin, then caught him full on the nose with a roundhouse left jab of which Gentleman Jackson would have been proud.

Howling, Henshaw released Miss Denby and staggered backwards, one hand on his breeches front, the other holding his nose. Blood oozing through his fingers, he snarled, ‘Bitch! You’ll regret that!’

Max grabbed him by the arm and slammed him against the wall, regrettably with less force than he would have liked, but he didn’t want to break a glass panel in Aunt Grace’s conservatory.

Securing him against it with a stranglehold on his cravat, Max growled, ‘Miss Denby will not regret her rejection. But you, varlet, will regret this episode for the rest of your life unless you do exactly what I say. You will apologise to Miss Denby, then pack your bag and leave immediately, before I tell the world and Lady Melross how you tried to attack an innocent and unwilling young lady.’ Giving Henshaw’s cravat a final twist, he released the man.

Henshaw shook his arms free and retreated several steps, trying to repair his ruined cravat before giving it up as hopeless. ‘You dare to threaten me?’ he blustered. ‘Who will believe you? A flagrant womaniser, sent away from Vienna in disgrace, disowned by your own father!’

‘Who will believe me?’ Max echoed, his voice silky-soft. ‘Your hostess, my aunt, perhaps? Or Lady Melross, seeing your elegant attire as it now appears?’

Fury and desperation might have briefly clouded Henshaw’s judgement, but the reference to his dishevelled clothing snapped him back to reality. Obviously realising he could not hope to prevail over the nephew of his hostess, especially in his present incriminating state of disorder, he clamped his lips shut and looked down the pathway, eyeing the exit.

More concerned with assisting the lady, Max resigned himself to letting him go. ‘Are you unharmed, Miss Denby?’ he asked, stepping past Henshaw to her side.

‘Y-yes,’ she replied, her voice breaking a little.

The path to the doorway free, Henshaw backed cautiously away, his wary gaze fixed on Max. After retreating a safe distance, he tossed back, ‘I won’t forget this, Ransleigh. I’ll have retribution some day … and on the bitch, too.’

‘You don’t follow instructions very well,’ Max said softly, an icy contempt filling him. ‘Now I’m going to have to thrash you like the cur you are.’

But before he could take a step, abandoning any pretence of dignity, Henshaw bolted for the door. Much as he would have liked to give chase and thrash the man, Max concluded his more urgent duty was to see to Miss Denby, who stood trembling by the bench, holding together the ripped edges of her bodice.

Her cloak had fallen off during the struggle and her pelisse, now lacking its buttons, gaped open over her white-knuckled hands. Her beautiful dark eyes, wide with shock and outrage, looked stricken.

Max cursed under his breath, wishing he’d tossed the bounder through the glass wall after all. ‘I entered a few minutes ago and heard voices, but didn’t realise what was transpiring until … it was almost too late. I’m so sorry I didn’t intervene earlier and spare you that indignity. Say the word and I’ll track down Henshaw and give him the drubbing he deserves.’

‘Beating him further will serve no useful purpose,’ she said, attempting a smile, which wobbled badly. ‘Though I might wish to hit him again myself. He has ruined one of my best ugly gowns.’

Thankfully, some colour was returning to her pale cheeks and her voice sounded stronger, so Max might not have to pursue the man and rearrange his skeleton after all. ‘You did quite a capital job on your first round, though I don’t believe you succeeded in breaking his nose, more’s the pity. Who taught you to box? That roundhouse jab was worthy of a professional.’

‘Harry. He took lessons with Jackson in London while he was at Winchester. Satisfying as it was to land the blow exactly where I wished—on both parts of his anatomy—that won’t help my biggest problem now, which is how to get back to my chamber and out of this gown. My stepmother would have palpitations if she saw me like this. Not that I would mind being ruined, but I should be indignant if anyone were to try to force me to marry Henshaw.’

‘That sorry excuse for a man?’ Max said in disgust. ‘I should think not.’

‘A sorry excuse indeed, but stronger than I anticipated,’ she said, looking down at the fingers clutching her torn bodice. ‘I thought I could handle him, but …’ She took a shuddering breath, as if shaken by the evidence of how close she’d come to being ravaged. ‘If only you had accepted my first offer! I’m certain you would have c-compromised me much more g-genteelly.’

She was trying to put on a brave face, but tears had begun slipping down her cheeks and she started to tremble again.

Making a vow to seek out Henshaw wherever he went to ground and pummel him senseless, Max abandoned discretion and drew Miss Denby into his arms. ‘If I were to compromise you, I would at least make sure you enjoyed it,’ he said, trying for a teasing tone as he cradled her, gently chafing her hands and trying to use his warmth to heat her chilled body. ‘And it would have been done with much more expertise and finesse. Like this,’ he said and kissed just the freckled tip of her nose.

The last time he’d encountered her in the conservatory, he’d burned to plunder her mouth and let his lips discover every wonder of nose, chin and eyelids. As indignant as his aunt would be that a guest of the Ransleighs had been assaulted, all he wished for now was to erase from her memory the outrage that had just been perpetrated against her.

To his relief, she gave herself into his hands, snuggling with a broken little gasp against his chest. For long moments, he simply held her, one finger gently stroking her cheek, until at last the tremors eased and she pulled back a bit, still resting in the circle of his arms.

‘You do compromise a lady most genteelly,’ she said. ‘Thank you, Mr Ransleigh. I shall never forget your kind assistance.’

‘Max,’ he corrected with a smile. ‘I should be honoured to have you call on me at any time.’

Before she could reply, a loud shriek split the air. ‘Miss Denby!’ a shrill female voice exclaimed. ‘Whatever are you about?’

A sense of impending disaster stabbing in his gut, Max looked over Miss Denby’s head to see Lady Melross hurrying toward them.