Читать книгу The Duke's Unexpected Bride - Lara Temple - Страница 12

Chapter Four

Max strode down the stairs where his groom was holding the reins of his grey stallion. He had slept poorly after the soirée last night and he needed to ride off some of the tension he was accumulating in this unpleasant but necessary process. He had known there would be conjecture once he started showing up with his sister at social events attended by debutantes and their mamas. It was bad enough that he had to attend these events in the first place; much worse was becoming the object of wagers, even in his own club and among his own acquaintances. The sooner he made up his mind and got it over with the better. At least Lady Melissa had proven to fit his criteria very well. More than her beauty he appreciated her inherent reserve—it was clear she wouldn’t turn out to be like Serena, a beautiful but fatally flawed vessel, just waiting for the right amount of pressure to crack it. And he certainly wouldn’t have to worry whether his children were really his. Lady Melissa was as cool and controlled as Serena had been fiery and volatile. He would let it sit a day or to and then take the plunge. There was no point in prolonging the agony.

He had just taken the reins and dismissed his groom when he saw the Huntley girl walking her ungainly pug. He hesitated, wishing he had held off for a couple minutes so he could have avoided her. Still, there was nothing for it but to be civil. He held his stallion easily as it fretted at the inaction and nodded to her.

‘Good morning. I see he has come to accept his fate with equanimity.’

She stopped, smiling up at him, but perhaps she sensed his diffidence because her smile lacked the openness of yesterday and her voice was a shade more like a society miss.

‘Good morning. He actually walked down the stairs himself after his morning visit with Aunt Minnie. He is becoming quite alert, aren’t you, Marmaduke?’

Max eyed the near-dormant pug dubiously. Alert was not an adjective that sprang to mind.

‘Impressive. What did Lady Huntley have to say about the introduction of a dreaded leash into her home?’

‘I hadn’t meant to tell her, but the doctor tattled on me and it has had a most alarming effect on her.’

‘Is she angry?’

She laughed and he had to actively resist the urge to smile in reflexive response.

‘Not at all. After the doctor gave such a glowing report of Marmaduke’s performance, and I gave her Marmaduke’s sketch, she actually pinched my cheek. And apparently her spies among the servants told her the leash had been delivered anonymously and she demanded to know where it had come from, but I said I don’t know you and your sister’s name, merely that you probably lived near here and she said I was being very sly and good for me. That is by far the longest conversation I have had with her thus far.’

Max gave in and laughed. This strange girl seemed to see the positive or at least the amusing in everything. It really wasn’t quite proper or wise to be talking to her like this in the middle of the street, but as Hetty had pointed out someone as lively as she must be terribly bored with only Minerva and the pugs for company. A few moments of conversation would make no difference.

‘For how long are you captive in the Huntley hold?’

‘That is wholly up to Aunt Minnie. My other siblings lasted between a two days at the shortest to six days at the longest. That was Augusta, but she said Aunt Minnie almost never spoke to her, it was just that she liked the way she played the pianoforte. Then there was Cousin Arthur—he held on for a whole two weeks and was completely hateful and unctuous about it and I would dearly love to break his record.

‘I see. And what skill does the length of your servitude depend on aside from reforming her pugs?’

She twinkled up at him.

‘I am not quite certain. She has me read to her a great deal, the most amusing books and certainly nothing we are allowed at home. And now that she has discovered I am a fair artist she has decided she wants me to paint a full portrait...’ her voice wavered slightly ‘...of Marmaduke.’

‘Good God.’ Max glanced down at the object of the conversation and Marmaduke scratched himself absently. ‘In a heroic pose?’

Her laugh was joyful and infectious, but it caught on the end, as if she was used to reining it in.

‘Exactly. On a pedestal, with a landscape behind, or perhaps a castle. And both the Huntley and Trevelyan family arms. I told her I would be happy to, just so I can get her to buy me the painting supplies. I am to go to Reeves in Cheapside and buy what I need, which shall be very exciting, and also to the Royal Academy so I can get some ideas for the proper composition of a portrait. My dear Marmaduke is proving very useful, aren’t you, love?’

Marmaduke’s curly pink tongue lolled out and he directed her a look which was surprisingly adoring. Max smiled at the absurdity of it all—of the girl, the dog, the conversation and especially of his part in it.

‘So it looks like it is going to be a protracted stay. Have you ever been to the Royal Academy before?’

‘No, I have been pining to go see the Summer Exhibition, but one of the conditions of our stay has been that we not enjoy ourselves or at least not stray from Grosvenor Square. But now that I have a legitimate excuse to roam, I intend to take full advantage of it. The Royal Academy is this way, isn’t it?’

‘It is, but...do you intend to walk there? With the dog?’

‘Is it too far?’ she asked, concerned.

‘It is. He would expire before you made it halfway. And besides, you can’t take a pug into Somerset House!’ he said sternly. ‘And you also can’t go there on your own. You should at least take a maid with you.’

‘Aunt Minnie would never allow me to commandeer her maid and I can’t very well have James the footman trailing me around an art exhibition. I refuse to let this opportunity slip by simply because I don’t have a chaperon. I would never forgive myself. Besides, what on earth could happen to me there?’

‘That is not the point. Young women...well-born young women...do not wander around town unaccompanied.’

‘Oh, please don’t make me feel any guiltier than I already do. It is not as if I am known in London, so there is no reason anyone would ever know or even notice me. I simply can’t not go.’

Max told himself to take a firm step back. This was none of his business. And she had a point—no one knew her in London. But the thought of her wandering alone and unprotected through an unfamiliar city...

‘Take that misbegotten canine for his walk and then meet me in the garden in an hour. I will take you there,’ he said abruptly.

Her eyes widened in surprise, subjecting him to the full pressure of her sea-blue gaze. She was almost too expressive. He could see surprise and wariness and wistfulness in their multi-hued depths and he hoped no one would find out he was actually choosing to play chaperon for this peculiar girl.

‘That is kind of you, but it is really not necessary for you to put yourself out on my account,’ she said properly and some of his tension faded, giving way to amusement at what was clearly an uncharacteristic show of propriety on her part.

‘You sound like you are impersonating someone,’ he replied and her warm tumbling laugh, like the sound of water in a brook, evoked the same surge of proprietary heat as when he had accidentally touched her hand the previous day in the garden. It was short but sharp, unmistakable. Not that there was anything particular about her that merited this unwanted tug of desire. She was mildly pretty but unexceptional aside from her eyes which reminded him of the colours of the sea at summer off the coast near Harcourt. It was something that went beyond her looks, a vividness that was magnetic—an unconscious invitation to enjoy life.

‘Oh, dear, I was. My Aunt Seraphina, Arthur’s mother. She’s dreadful. I wasn’t at all believable, was I? But I do mean you needn’t go with me. I shall be perfectly fine on my own, really.’

‘Probably. We shall compromise then. I shall just make sure you get in safely and then leave you to explore while I continue on to the City. I have a meeting there later. And then you can take a hackney directly back home afterwards.’

He swung on to his horse before she could argue.

‘I will see you in an hour,’ he repeated and rode off, wondering if she would be there or whether even she would back down before such unconventional behaviour.

* * *

Somehow, when he entered the garden an hour later he was not very surprised to see her standing just inside the gates. For once she was not wearing a simple countrified white-muslin dress and spencer, but a walking dress of a pale smoky blue under a darker blue pelisse. And though the style was perhaps a few years out of fashion, it was well tailored and for the first time he could see she had a very appealing and well-proportioned figure. She also looked more her age and dignified, but contrarily that just made it clearer he should not be doing this, no matter how chivalrous his motives. Then he met her eyes which were sparkling with suppressed excitement and he relented. It was such an inconsequential thing for him and such a great deal for her, there surely was nothing very wrong in merely seeing her safely into the Academy.

‘Come,’ he said, holding out his arm and she moved towards him with her peculiar brand of pent-up energy, following him out to the street where he hailed a passing hackney cab.

She gave a breathy laugh as she settled on to the seat.

‘I feel like I am escaping from the Bastille! This is quite ridiculous. I have been here less than two weeks and already I am losing perspective on reality.’

Max smiled. He should have known she would treat this with her usual irrepressible enthusiasm. He settled back and waited for her next outrageous comment. It was not long in coming.

‘Thank you for offering to take me there. It makes it seem so much more...commonplace.’

‘That sounds disappointing. Should I apologise for taking the adventure out of it?’

‘Oh, I didn’t mean it like that... Just that I am trying to convince myself that it needn’t be such a to do. That it is quite normal for me to go to see some of the most amazing painters alive in England today. Part of me doesn’t want to go.’

‘Why not?’

‘Well, I am bound to discover that an unbridgeable chasm lies between my puny talent and real artistic skill. I am quite prepared to suffer some mortification before I can free myself from vanity and enjoy real genius.’

‘That is very...broad-minded of you,’ Max replied after a moment’s struggle not to laugh, reminding himself this was a serious issue for her, after all.

‘Are you laughing at me?’ she asked, her gaze both questioning and accusing.

‘Is that terrible?’

Her eyes slanted again in the amusement that never seemed far from the surface.

‘I did sound terribly pompous, didn’t I? But I mean it. Back in Ashton Cove I was always by far the best artist, not that anyone really cares about that over there unless they need me for the church decorations. But I know today I will see real talent. There are so very, very few and some of them will have their paintings on those walls. And I will know, for certain, that I am not and never will be of that calibre. I know that I am going to feel something in me die today and even though it will hurt, I wouldn’t avoid it even if I could, because the other side of that coin is the experience of witnessing genius. It’s still pompous, but I can’t help it—that is what I feel. Oh, look, is this Piccadilly?’

Max assented, absorbing what she said. He was acquainted with several artists because of his uncle and this was a very mature and quite unusual approach among those gifted, or cursed, with artistic talent. She didn’t speak again, aside from occasional questions about the buildings they passed as they made their way towards the Strand. Finally they drew towards St Mary le Strand and pulled up in front of the neoclassical façade of Somerset House where the Royal Academy was housed.

‘Oh, here we are! That was so very quick! Oh, come!’

She almost jumped from the hackney, waiting with clear impatience as Max paid the driver, her hand straining on his arm as he led her through one of the three tall arches into the Somerset House complex and towards the winding staircase leading to the Exhibition Room at the top of the building. Her eyes moved hungrily over the decorations that marked their passage, the sculptures by Wilton and Bacon, and the ornamented landings with occasional benches for the visitors to rest as they climbed the long staircase.

‘It’s a good thing you didn’t bring Marmaduke,’ he remarked halfway up and she looked up at him, laughter chasing away some of her intentness, but she didn’t reply. She didn’t flag on the stairs, as did many women who had stopped to rest and fan themselves and gossip, for which Max was grateful since it meant that beyond nodding at his acquaintances, he did not have to speak to anyone, though he was aware of the curious stares directed at them.

‘Aren’t you tired?’ he asked her, curious about the seemingly boundless energy she radiated.

The question cut through her concentration.

‘Tired?’ she asked in obvious confusion and he indicated the steep stairwell.

‘You’re going up these at breakneck speed.’

She flushed guiltily.

‘Sorry, but I am so excited. And I am very used to climbing up and down the cliffs near Ashton Cove. My favourite place to draw is a little bay just to the west of where we live and there is quite a steep ascent. These stairs don’t really compare. I will slow down if it is too fast for you, though.’

‘Don’t be cocky,’ he said easily and she laughed. They had just made it to the final landing and he turned her to him.

‘Before we enter the Exhibition Room and I lose your attention utterly, you should probably tell me your name in the event we have no choice but to speak to someone. It would be a bit embarrassing to introduce you simply as the girl with the pug.’

She was straining forward like a racing horse against the gate, but that checked her and her eyes widened.

‘You are quite right. How foolish, but I hadn’t realised...still, we haven’t been introduced formally so it is not at all surprising. I am Sophie Trevelyan. And you?’

He hesitated. He had initiated this, after all.

‘Max...’

‘Harcourt!’

Max squared his shoulders and turned towards the exquisitely dressed dandy who was approaching them from the Exhibition Room. His shirt points were so high his amiable face seemed to bloom from the middle of a tight white flower. He stopped and bowed to Sophie, raising one brow expectantly. Max resigned himself.

‘Miss Trevelyan, this is Lord Bryanston. Bry, this is Miss Sophie Trevelyan.’

‘Trevelyan! That’s a West Country name, isn’t it? Do you live near Max?’

Before Max could respond, she extended her hand properly and answered with a warm smile.

‘Yes, we are neighbours. How do you do, Lord Bryanston?’

He assessed her with a practised eye and bowed gallantly over her hand.

‘Much better now, Miss Trevelyan,’ he replied, his eyes wide and appreciative. Her captivating laughter rolled out and two men who had been inspecting the Carlini sculpture at the top landing turned, one of them raising a curious quizzing glass towards them.

‘I hadn’t realised the exhibition began out here,’ she remarked with such a mixture of innocence and mirth that Max wasn’t surprised to see Bryanston’s gaze sharpen, like a dog catching the scent of prey.

‘Neither had I,’ Bryanston responded. ‘And to think I almost managed to find an excuse not to accompany my aunt here today. My luck is definitely in. I should go lay a wager while it lasts. Max, be a good fellow and bring Miss Trevelyan over to join our party.’

‘Not this time, Bry.’ Max replied firmly.

‘Here, what kind of friend are you?’ Bryanston protested and turned to Sophie. ‘I don’t know why I put up with him. He’s as stiff-necked as those statues over there and about as warm.’

‘At least I’m not as gaudy as a potted plant. Where the devil did you get that atrocity of a waistcoat, Bry? It reminds me of one of my grandmother’s dressing gowns.’

‘Have you no discrimination, you heathen? I personally designed this with Stultz! That’s what your parents get for naming you after some marauding Welsh warrior.’

‘He was a Roman, he just married a Welshwoman.’

‘That’s worse. They wore sheets.’

‘I think your choice of colours is very creative, Lord Bryanston,’ Sophie interceded. ‘Not many people would have thought of putting saffron together with puce like that.’

‘Thank God for small mercies,’ Max muttered. ‘I think your aunt is trying to catch your attention, Bryanston, so run along now.’

Bryanston half-turned in alarm, restricted by his high shirt points.

‘Have some pity, man. Between my aunt and Lady Pennistone I am being reduced to emotional rubble. You clearly have a kind heart, Miss Trevelyan, convince the cold brute to join us.’

He grinned appealingly at Sophie, but before she could respond Max took her elbow, urging her towards the entrance of the Exhibition Room.

‘Go charm your aunt before she writes you out of her will, Bry.’

‘Good day, Lord Bryanston,’ Sophie said properly as they moved forward, but the laughing smile she directed at Bryanston was so vivid Max wasn’t surprised that his friend remained standing on the steps with his hand held dramatically to his breast in what might have been a very successful Byronic pose if not for his irrepressible grin. Max considered enlightening Sophie as to the lack of wisdom in encouraging the likes of Bryanston when he realised it was too late, he had clearly lost her attention.

They had entered the great Exhibition Room and she stared in awe around the enormous space, her head back and lips slightly parted. He had been here so often, he had forgotten how powerful the impact of entering the enormous hall could be during the Summer Exhibition. For someone like her it must be overwhelming. Hundreds of gilt-framed paintings jostled each other on the walls of the enormous space, lit by the wide, arced skylights that dominated the ceiling. Dozens of fashionable men and women were moving idly around or seated on the low olive-green sofas in the centre of the room. The cavernous buzz of voices swallowed her gasp of surprise. She took a step forward and then, as if suddenly conscious of his presence, she turned back to him.

‘Oh, thank you for bringing me here. You needn’t stay, I know you would prefer not to. I shall be just fine now. Good day, Mr Harcourt.’

Max hesitated, wondering if he should correct her, but since he had suffered under one title or another from the day he remembered himself there was an appeal in being just plain Mr Harcourt. This woman knew nothing about him but that he lived near her and had a sister, and unlike most of the young women he met she didn’t seem to have an agenda for him other than wanting to sketch him. Being Mr Harcourt made everything simpler, lighter. In a few days she would probably be back on her way home and he would never see her again. What was the harm in taking just a few more minutes to enjoy one of his favourite places in London in the company of someone who actually appreciated the artwork itself rather than the spectacle of people on the strut? Ten minutes and he would be on his way. There was no harm in that.

‘Come. I will show you my favourite,’ he said.

She directed a questioning look at him and then gave a little nod and he took her hand and placed it on his arm again and led her towards the other side of the enormous room. As they walked her gaze swept over the paintings, drinking them in, her lips parted as if on the verge of a smile, but he could feel the tension of her hand on his arm. He drew her to a halt just where the room led off into another corridor where a silk cord marked a barrier.

The light from the skylight was not as pronounced here, but Turner’s painting still stood out from among the more ponderous landscapes and portraits. It was labelled Venice, looking east from the Giudecca, Sunrise and its deceptive simplicity and limited palette also made it stand out. It was mostly washed sky and sea in pale pink and golden yellow and a long line of Venice’s skyline traced in purplish blue in the distance. She drew away from him, moving towards the painting, taking it in and then moving back again, forcing a portly couple to make way for her without even noticing them. Max moved so he could watch her face, the smile that bloomed slowly, suffusing her face with joy. Finally she turned to him, her eyes filled with pleasure and even some sadness.

‘I had no idea anyone could do that. He is utterly unfettered. It is quite unfair to have him crowded here like this. There is nothing here like it. I see why you love it,’ she said, her gaze locked back on the painting.

She stood there for a long moment and then with a sigh she turned away to examine the other paintings. She hardly seemed to notice that he placed her hand on his arm again, her attention fully on the paintings. Surprisingly he didn’t mind being taken for granted. Her face was so expressive of enjoyment and awe, it was enough to just watch her revelation and to answer the questions she occasionally directed at him about the artists and the paintings which became more frequent as they advanced.

When they had completed the circuit of the room he led her down a corridor to the Academy’s Council Chambers.

‘Come, I want to show you something.’

Guests could not usually enter this part of the Academy, but she would appreciate seeing Angelica Kauffman’s allegorical murals, as much for their quality as for the artist’s gender. But they had barely entered the chamber when a portly man who had been standing talking with a small group of men and women turned and noticed them and promptly gave a shout of greeting and headed in their direction.

‘Oh, hell,’ Max said ruefully under his voice. ‘It’s a good friend of my uncle’s and a relentless gossip. Once he starts asking questions, we will never escape. Wait here, I’ll get rid of him.’

He moved forward to intercept the man, grasping his elbow and deflecting him from his trajectory. As they moved towards the other end of the room, the man’s voice rang out merrily.

‘Max, old boy! What have you been up to? How is Charles? Still having a high time out with the ladies in Venice? The old dog!’

Max answered the barrage of questions about his uncle’s activities in Italy as best he could and drew the conversation to a close with a promise to remember him to his uncle. Then he turned around to an empty room.

‘You looking for that pretty little thing you came in with? Saw her head to the inner rooms.’

‘What?’ Max exclaimed and without even bothering to say goodbye he headed towards the doorway at the other side of the room. Damn the girl. It was just like her to go to the one place in the whole Academy she was absolutely forbidden to enter.

He found her easily enough the moment he entered the inner room. She was staring in wonder at the tightly packed nude paintings and studies that covered most of the wall space.

‘For heaven’s sake, you can’t come in here!’ Max said sternly, grasping her arm and drawing her towards the door at the other end of the corridor.

‘Why not?’

‘Why not? I would have thought that was obvious! This part of the Academy is not for well-bred young women.’

She turned to him with the amused twinkle in her eyes he was becoming very familiar with and which did nothing to lower his guard.

‘I know that’s what people say, but that is rather ridiculous, isn’t it? There’s hardly anything here a woman hasn’t already seen. If anything, I would have thought this wasn’t a room for well-bred young men.’

Max had to make a considerable effort not to laugh at this rather original view of the matter. She really was absurdly peculiar.

‘Besides, I just saw two very nicely dressed young women pass through here,’ she pointed out.

‘They may have been nicely dressed, but I doubt they were well bred.’

‘Oh! Do you mean they were...lightskirts?’

‘I mean that unless you want to find yourself classified alongside them, we should return to the main exhibition,’ Max said, exasperated as much at himself as at her.

She glanced back with a rather wistful look at the painting of the reclining woman.

‘It is such a pity. There are some amazing paintings in here, though I don’t know what I think about this one. There is something not quite right about her, something in the eyes. Though other than that it is one of the best paintings I have seen today, aside from Mr Turner’s...’

‘Why, thank you, miss. Though I do not know what I feel about being classified alongside Turner’s increasingly eccentric oeuvres.’

A man dressed almost entirely in deep grey and black moved towards them. He was extremely handsome, his hair was a deep shade of chestnut and his brown eyes gleamed amber around the iris, but his expression, which was calculating and faintly malicious, did not match his features. He bowed slightly towards Max and the malice became more apparent.

‘Harcourt.’

Max cursed their ill luck. Of all the men in London to run into...

‘Wivenhoe,’ he acknowledged and took Sophie’s arm, guiding her towards the door.

‘Going so soon, Harcourt? Aren’t you going to introduce me to your...friend?’

To Max’s surprise Sophie burst out laughing.

‘Oh, dear, you are right!’ she said to Max, chuckling. ‘He thinks I’m your...what is it called? Chère amie? Do you really think I look the part?’ she asked Wivenhoe curiously. ‘I wouldn’t have thought so with my looks and clothes, judging by the two lovely ladies I just saw. Did you really paint this amazing painting? Frankly, you don’t look the part either.’

That speech seemed to shake even Wivenhoe’s world-weary pose and he inspected her with a look unusually devoid of cynicism.

‘I find myself quite afraid to enquire into the meaning of that comment,’ he said at least.

‘Yes, I think that beast is best left dormant,’ Max said caustically. ‘Now if you don’t mind, I will take Miss Trevelyan back to the main room. She is unacquainted with Somerset House and has strayed into this area by mistake.’

Sophie allowed Max to propel her out of the room and back down the corridor to the main hall, her gaze scanning the paintings as she went. Once in the corridor she sighed.

‘It really is quite unfair of men to keep such lovely paintings to themselves. I am beginning to suspect that London is a great deal more straitlaced than the countryside. After all the dire warnings I received from the squire’s wife I thought it would be a great deal more exciting than it is.’

Wivenhoe gave a soft breathy laugh as he followed behind them.

‘It depends on the company you find yourself in, my dear. Harcourt is not the right escort if it is excitement you are after. Or at least not if you are gently born. I cannot speak for his other relationships since he chooses women as discreet as he.’

Sophie glanced from Wivenhoe to Max with a slight frown and Max wished he had Wivenhoe across from him in Jackson’s Boxing Saloon right now. Or preferably as they had been almost a decade ago, in a dark alley, just the two of them. He would not mind repeating that experience and hopefully doing a bit more damage this time around.

‘Wivenhoe is enjoying himself at your expense, Miss Trevelyan. You would do best to ignore him.’

‘Quite right, my dear,’ Wivenhoe replied, unabashed. ‘I am not a very dependable fellow. You see, I freely admit my vices. Max here is more circumspect about his, though to be fair they are probably milder than mine, but one can never know what such a controlled façade harbours. Certainly he is more generous, as his last high flyer would attest judging by the very lovely bauble I saw her wearing when he was done with her.’

Sophie glanced back at Wivenhoe with a sudden frown.

‘You actually sound contemptuous of people who are generous towards the women who depend on their patronage. I can’t imagine that kind of approach gets you very far, Mr Wivenhoe,’ she said with blighting coldness.

Max struggled between shock at this very improper but principled condemnation of Wivenhoe’s ethics and amusement at the stunned expression on Wivenhoe’s face. But Wivenhoe swiftly recovered his characteristic expression of jaded ennui.

‘I compensate, my dear, I assure you.’

‘If you say so.’ She shrugged, clearly unconvinced. The corridor had led back to the Exhibition Room, which was still as crowded as before, and she turned to Max. ‘And now I really should return to Grosvenor Square or Aunt Minerva will start baying for my blood. Thank you very much for showing me these lovely paintings, Mr Harcourt.’

‘I will see you home—’ Max began, but she cut him off.

‘Nonsense. You said you had business in the City and that is quite the other direction. I shall do very well with a hackney cab, I noticed there are plenty outside. Thank you. Good day, Mr Wivenhoe.’ She nodded briefly in the artist’s direction and headed towards the staircase.

‘Mr Harcourt?’ Wivenhoe enquired softly. ‘Does that original young lady have something against titles or is she in ignorance of the identity of her very obliging cavalier?’

‘She is merely an acquaintance of my sister’s. I saw her wandering into this room and thought it prudent to extract her before she came across someone like you. She’s not in your league, Wivenhoe.’

‘Oh, clearly beyond it. And not in your usual line either, my dear Harcourt. Far too outspoken. And so very refreshing. Trevelyan. That name rings a bell. Who did she say...? Ah, Aunt Minerva in Grosvenor Square... Could she possibly be related to Lady Minerva Huntley, née Trevelyan?’

Max didn’t bother answering, but merely turned and left as well. Wivenhoe’s veneer of cynical affability did not deceive him. Almost a decade had passed since the incident, but neither of them had forgotten or forgiven. He rubbed the scar on his hand unconsciously. Wivenhoe’s appearance was a sharp reminder that his idea of escorting that pert and uncontrollable country miss to the exhibition had been very ill conceived. He should have known it would only lead to trouble. Now that she was gone he couldn’t even understand why he had gone in with her. He had been drawn along in the wake of her enthusiasm like that pug of hers. Whatever the case, he would do well to stay out of her way in future. There was some quality to her that attracted trouble like bees to a flower. He had had enough of that in his life. He should know better.

* * *

‘I met Lord Bryanston at Lady Jersey’s last night. He asked me who your latest flirt was. A young woman from Devon with a pair of delightfully smiling blue eyes, in his words,’ Hetty said blandly as she sifted through the pile of invitations Gaskell had brought in on a tray as they sat at the breakfast table.

‘Bryanston is an idiot,’ Max replied, not looking up from his newspaper.

‘True. But then there was Mrs Westminger. She asked me the identity of the animated young woman you were so attentive to in the Exhibition Rooms for close to an hour. Since she is Lady Penny’s godmama I presume it was by design that she said this very loudly next to Lady Melissa now that the betting appears to have swung in her favour. She was somewhat more careful about communicating the information you had been seen with the same young woman conversing with Lord Wivenhoe, of all people. That little titbit she passed along in a stage whisper to only three of her cronies in the dowagers’ corner.’

Max folded the newspaper and laid it down.

‘Is there a question in there?’

Hetty nodded, undaunted by his cool tone.

‘There is indeed. I presume they were referring to Lady Huntley’s niece? Is any of this true? Did you really take her to Somerset House? And introduce that young woman to the likes of Wivenhoe?’

Max held on to his temper by a thread, mostly angry at himself. At least Hetty did not know the full extent of Wivenhoe’s infamy. Thankfully his parents had never told his sisters the truth about Serena.

‘Yes, I took her. Because she was about to head there, on foot, on her own, in the company of that dratted pug. But do you really think I would introduce her to someone like Wivenhoe? That was her own doing. I turned my back for one minute and she wandered off into the private rooms where she proceeded to make mincemeat of Wivenhoe. Besides, this whole thing is your fault!’

‘Mine?’

‘Yes, you were the one who said she must be bored on her own in the mausoleum. I felt sorry for her. That’s why I offered to see her there safely. My mistake, but acquit me of either taking advantage of her or exposing her to someone like Wivenhoe!’

Hetty sighed.

‘No, I know you wouldn’t. But really, Max, it wasn’t very wise to take her there at all. Naturally people are curious when you are seen squiring an unchaperoned, unknown and personable young woman.’

‘I would think my credit is sufficient to make clear I have never shown an interest in toying with virtuous young women,’ he bit out.

‘Well, precisely, it is out of character, which is why it drew so much attention. Now that it is clear to everyone that you finally intend to marry you know the gossips are having a fine time speculating who will be the next Duchess of Harcourt. I can hardly step outside the house without someone coyly asking me who you are favouring. Fine, I won’t say another word. Just do be careful.’

‘That was four more words. And don’t worry; I’ve satisfied my chivalrous instinct for the next decade. I will stay well away from that troublesome pixie.’ He picked up the newspaper again, as much to block out his sister’s anxious frown as to prevent himself from venting his resentment on her. It was just typical that the moment he did anything that was one step out of character everyone was up in arms. All his life he had walk a fine line between his independence and his parents’ confining criticism, couched always in unarguable terms of duty, but to have to put up with it from Hetty as well when all he had done was take pity on that aggravatingly buoyant girl was putting a serious strain on his civility. Suddenly he wished Hetty and everyone at the devil.