Читать книгу Regency Collection 2013 Part 1 - Хелен Диксон, Louise Allen, Хелен Диксон - Страница 16

‘Because I had a guilty conscience and because I am unused to failure.’ Max had had long enough to work out why he had consigned the problem of his marriage to a locked cupboard. ‘Don’t think I feel any complacency about my lack of action. But I should never have married her—I took the poor girl completely out of her depth. And having done so, somehow I should have made it work. It may sound arrogant, Mr Ryder, but I am not used to failure.’

‘I am sure that is the case, my lord.’

Max paused, tapping the tips of his joined fingers against his lips. ‘And the longer I left it, the more difficult it became. I suppose, too, that my damnable pride got in the way as well. I had offered her a golden future and she tossed it back in my face to run off with an adventurer—I was damned if I was going to chase after her.’ Was that at the heart of it? Was that the real reason, and I’ve been too much of a hypocrite to admit it? Pride?

‘Well, my lord, I think I have enough to commence my investigations. I will write to you weekly to advise you of progress, unless, of course, I make a breakthrough. I will refer to the Countess in terms of a painting that was stolen some years back and which you wish to trace. That should be adequate cover in the event of a letter falling into the wrong hands.’

Ryder stood, tucking his notebook away in a breast pocket. ‘Just one more thing, my lord. Did none of her family make any attempt to contact you after the marriage?’

‘No.’ He looked at the investigator and suddenly that omission seemed as odd to him as it obviously did to Ryder. ‘How very strange.’

‘Indeed. I believe I will start with them. Good day, my lord.’

Max went to sit at his desk again as the door closed behind Ryder. He felt confidence in the man, both in his discretion and his skill. A few weeks and he would know where he was and how he stood. It was good to have done this at last. For years he had been telling himself that Nevill would make a perfectly acceptable heir. Now he could close his eyes and see the nebulous outline of his own son. The fact that this phantom of the future had only begun to appear since he had met Bree did not escape him.

A son with her blue eyes and his dark hair, or perhaps his brown eyes and her wheaten blonde hair—either was an attractive thought. And a number of daughters, all like their mother.

Max grinned at his distorted image in the silver inkwell, his spirits lifting from what seemed like an inordinate time in the doldrums. Surely, if one was daydreaming about the number of children one would have with a lady, one was beyond the stage of being undecided about one’s feelings? All this needed was very careful timing and complete self-control. And her co- operation, of course. And beyond that, to learn what one had done so very wrong before and not commit the same mistakes again.

By the second circuit of Green Park on Wednesday afternoon with Mr Latymer, Bree had come to the conclusion that she needed at least three new walking dresses if she was going to keep this up. And two new bonnets.

On Tuesday Lord Lansdowne had called and had taken her driving in Hyde Park at the height of the fashionable promenade. She had been acknowledged by a gratifying number of new acquaintances from the Dowager’s ball, despite the Viscount’s protestations that town was virtually empty of company.

‘I wouldn’t be up now if it weren’t that Grandmama wanted to puff off Sophia’s engagement from the town house,’ he explained. He moved the phaeton off again after a stop to speak to three of Bree’s Grendon cousins who were staying up in town while the fine weather lasted.

‘But the Nonesuch Whips are here,’ Bree observed. ‘At least, enough of you to be having meetings.’

‘Mmm.’ The Viscount touched his hat to a barouche full of fashionably dressed young matrons as they passed. ‘I’m here for Sophia’s affair, Greesley’s staying on because his elderly uncle, the one who’s going to leave him all the money, is threatening to turn up his toes, and Greesley’s doing the dutiful. Penrith’s up because his suite at his country seat is being redecorated and he’s fled from demands to choose hangings—at least, that’s his story—and young Nevill’s here because Penrith is. Don’t know what Latymer’s reason is, but once there’s a core of us, then it makes it worthwhile for the others and it snowballs.’

‘Has Lord Penrith told the other club members about my suggestion for them to drive the stage?’ Bree twirled her parasol and tried not to feel guilty about leaving Rosa with a stack of account books. Her companion had protested that she wanted to read them to get a better understanding of the business and had shooed Bree out of the house as soon as Lord Lansdowne had called.

‘Indeed he has.’ The Viscount was enthusiastic. ‘It’s what’s keeping us all up now, the hope we can get at least two outings in while the weather holds.’

‘I really do not understand the attraction,’ Bree said doubtfully, still uneasy that they would try and race. ‘I expect you all have beautiful rigs and very fine teams.’

‘That’s just the point.’ Lansdowne caught the end of his whip neatly round the handle in a way that had Bree itching to learn the trick of it. ‘We spend the money, but is it our horses and our well-balanced rigs that make us drive well? How do we know? If we take a stagecoach, which, forgive me, is not built to the same standards, and have to take pot luck with teams that are not bred for looks or speed, then the man with the better skills will be obvious.’

‘It’s more of a challenge, then?’ Bree could think of one gentleman who more than lived up to it.

‘That’s right,’ Lansdowne agreed cheerfully. ‘Tell me, do you drive, Miss Mallory?’ Once she had recovered from the inexplicable coughing fit, Bree was able to assure him that she was capable of managing a phaeton or a curricle, and to convince herself that admitting to being able to handle the reins of a park carriage did not brand her as a hoyden who drove coaches.

She had enjoyed her drive with the Viscount. Then this morning Georgy had arrived in her barouche to ask whether Bree would like to visit Ackermann’s Repository with her to chose some prints. It has seemed only courteous to agree, although that made a second day when she would be absent from the Mermaid.

‘I’ll show Rosa around, settle her into the office,’ Piers had promised firmly. ‘You go and enjoy yourself.’ Really, if she had not known better, she would have thought Piers and Rosa were in a conspiracy to give her a holiday.

Georgy was intent on buying enough images to make a fashionable print room out of a closet between her dressing room and her husband’s, but the necessity to buy what seemed like hundreds of prints from the shop did not distract her from the lure of fashion magazines, a stack of which were now waiting, oozing temptation, on Bree’s bedside table.

It seemed strange to have a female friend, especially one as au fait with society as Lady Lucas. She seemed to have forgotten that Bree was single and cheerfully chatted of the latest crim. con. scandals, her falling out with her husband over her milliner’s bill and her scheme to put him in a better mood by wearing a quite outrageously naughty négligée she had just purchased.

‘It is the sheerest pink lawn, with deep rose ribbons and lots of lace, which makes it look as though it is quite decent until one moves and then—oh la, la! Charles is going to be beside himself.’

Bree thought of what effect such a garment might have on Max and found the very thought brought a blush to her cheeks. It also brought a very unwelcome tingling feeling in all those places he had kissed and she tried to calm herself by thinking how very unflattering such a garment would be to her complexion in pink. Deep blue, on the other hand …

‘And how is Dysart?’ Georgy demanded, uncannily echoing her train of thought as they sat back in the barouche and regarded their morning’s shopping with satisfaction.

‘I have no idea. I saw him briefly the day after the ball when he called, but that is all.’

‘Really?’ Lady Lucas frowned. ‘How provoking. I would have thought he would have asked you out driving at least once by now.’

So would I, Bree thought.

‘I am convinced you should marry him,’ her companion added chattily.

‘What!’ Bree sat bolt upright and shot a glance at the backs of the driver and groom sitting up in front of them. ‘I am quite ineligible, even were his lordship interested.’

‘Oh, I know I said you had better settle for a younger son,’ Georgy said airily, ‘but now I know you, I think you would do marvellously for Dysart. You have so much more élan than I could have hoped for—you could carry it off.’

‘But I do not want—’

But Georgy was in full flow, although this time she lowered her voice. ‘If anyone can mend his broken heart, I am sure you can.’

‘His what?’ One thing Max Dysart did not appear to be afflicted by was a broken heart. Anyone less lovelorn she had yet to see.

‘They say he fell in love ten years ago and she would not have him, and now he holds the memory of her, for ever frozen, in his heart.’

‘That is a horrid image,’ Bree said robustly. ‘And, in any case, ten years is a long time. Why, he was hardly more than a boy then. Now he’s a man.’

‘Yes, but ten years ago, he withdrew from society!’ Georgy whispered, her voice thrilling. ‘In the height of the Season, he vanished off down to Longwater. That must have been when it happened.’

‘Well, who was she?’ Bree demanded. Max’s words at the ball came back: What would you say if I told you that I had a secret that would scandalise society? No, it couldn’t be that. A broken heart was sad, but not a scandal.

‘I have no idea,’ Georgy said, breathless with the excitement of a mystery. ‘But you can unfreeze his heart …’

‘Yuck! I shall do no such thing, even if I were capable of it. And even if it were frozen, which I am sure it is not.’

‘Then why has he not married?’

‘Because he has not found someone he loves enough.’ And when he does, he is going to court them properly, not promise to take them driving and then forget all about it!

‘You are horribly sensible,’ Georgy grumbled. ‘Just like darling Charles.’

‘Think of the négligée,’ Bree whispered to distract her, and was rewarded with a gurgle of laughter and a quick hug.

Now Mr Latymer had called to take her out in his high-perch phaeton. It was a more showy vehicle than Lord Lansdowne’s, but she did not feel Mr Latymer’s pair was the equivalent in quality of the Viscount’s match bays, so honours so far were even.

On hearing that she had been in Hyde Park yesterday, Mr Latymer had offered to take her again, or for her to name her choice, congratulating her when she decided on Green Park. ‘So much more tranquil,’ he observed, turning in out off the hubbub of Piccadilly and skirting the reservoir with its promenaders.

‘This is delightful. I have walked here often, of course, but I had not realised how pleasant it is for driving—so much less crowded than Hyde Park with everyone on the strut.’

‘Do you keep a carriage, Miss Mallory?’

‘No. Not in town. When we are at home in Buckinghamshire, then I drive a gig.’ She regarded Mr Latymer from under the shelter of the brim of her bonnet. He was not as good-looking as Lord Lansdowne, with dark looks which bordered on the sardonic, but he had an edge about him that was quite stimulating, she decided. It wasn’t in anything he said, more in the way that he said it. Sometimes he could deliver a compliment with a glint in his black eyes that made her suspect this was all a game to him. It certainly put a girl on her mettle.

‘Would you care to drive now?’

‘Why …’

‘Unless you are unsure about driving more than a single horse.’ He made it sound like a challenge.

‘Oh, no, I can drive four in—’ Oh, Lord!

‘Four in hand, Miss Mallory? What a very unusual skill for a woman.’

Drat, double drat! ‘Farm wagons,’ she improvised hastily. ‘Only at a walk, of course, for fun, in the summer.’

‘Ah, I see. For a moment there I thought you were going to tell me you could drive a stagecoach.’

Bree fought the temptation to look at him and try to read his expression. ‘Goodness, what a shocking thing to suggest, Mr Latymer!’ She laughed brightly. ‘But I would like to try a pair—under your guidance, of course.’

‘Certainly.’ He pulled up and began to hand her the reins. They both saw her gloves at the same time.

‘Oh, bother. I should have worn something more sensible to come out driving.’ Bree regarded the almond-green glacé kid gloves ruefully. ‘I bought them this morning, and could not resist. But I will surely split or stain them if I try to drive.’

‘Why not take them off and wear mine?’ Brice Latymer stripped off his gloves as he spoke. ‘They’ll be too big, of course, but the leather is very fine. They should protect your hands.’

‘Thank you.’ She really ought to refuse until another day when she could come prepared, but the temptation of the quiet park in the sunshine was too much. ‘Oh, dear, I knew I should have bought a larger size.’ Bree tugged, but the thin leather clung tenaciously to her warm skin.

‘Let me. I think you need to pull finger by finger.’ Mr Latymer wrapped his reins around the whip in its stand and shifted on the seat until he was facing her. ‘Give me a hand.’

Obediently Bree held out her right hand and sat patiently while he caught each fingertip in turn, tugging the tight leather a fraction at a time. Finally the glove slid off and he caught her hand in his own bare one. ‘There, you see? Patience and care.’ He began on the other.

It was, she realised, a very intimate act. He was having to sit close, her hand held in his while he used the other hand to fret at each fingertip. He made no move to touch her in any other way, nor did he say anything the slightest bit flirtatious, but Bree was visited by the realisation that he was finding this an arousing experience. There was colour on his cheekbones and his breathing was slightly ragged. She swallowed, her own colour rising.

‘Here it comes.’ The second glove slid off, the fragile kid insubstantial in his hand. Bree found she could not take her eyes off it; it seemed like a crushed leaf. Latymer lifted her hand and kissed her fingers. ‘Such a very hot little hand.’

‘Good afternoon.’ A deep voice had Bree jerking her hand out of Latymer’s grip and sitting bolt upright, her cheeks scarlet. ‘Undressing, Miss Mallory?’

She gasped. Of course, it just had to be Max Dysart regarding her with raised eyebrows from the back of a very fine black gelding.

What the devil is she doing, letting Latymer make love to her in the middle of Green Park? He’ll be starting on her garters next. Max recognised the look of heavy-lidded concentration—Latymer was hunting, whether Bree in her innocence knew it or not. However, dismounting, dragging him out of the phaeton and punching him, while it would be satisfying, was not acceptable behaviour in public parks, especially as Bree was showing no signs of distress at his actions.

The gelding sidled, picking up his mood. Max steadied it with hands and the pressure of his thighs, without conscious thought.

‘Mr Latymer was lending me his gloves as he was kind enough to offer to let me drive, and I was foolish enough to come in the most impractical ones imaginable.’

Max fought a brisk battle with his own temper, and won. He had made no claim on her—if one discounted a scandalously indiscreet kiss—and he had no right to be jealous if he found her in a public place with another man. But it was damned hard to be rational and fair about this when the other man was Brice Latymer, whom he trusted about as far as he could throw him.

‘I was not aware that you wished for driving lessons, Miss Mallory.’

‘Hardly lessons, my lord, although I am sure Mr Latymer will be able to give me many useful pointers. Is it not kind of him to remember his promise to take me driving? Lord Lansdowne did as well, and Lady Lucas.’

Hell, I promised to take her driving too! And she’s furious that I haven’t, Max realised with a flash of insight. Is that just pique, or is she disappointed? He should be apologetic that he had forgotten; instead, he cheerfully heaped coals on the flames to see if that produced a reaction.

‘Yes, most thoughtful of them,’ he agreed cordially. ‘You see how much fun you are having since you began to follow my advice, Miss Mallory?’ He tipped his hat to her, and nodded to her companion. ‘Latymer. Enjoy your drive.’ He turned the gelding’s head and cantered off towards the park entrance, fully conscious of two pairs of eyes glaring at his back.

‘Advice?’ Bree was conscious of Brice Latymer’s own hostility, even through her own chagrin. There was something between the two men, something she had noticed, but not given any thought to, in the inn yard in Hounslow. Whatever it was, Max had not liked seeing her with Mr Latymer. Infuriating man. It would serve him right if she set out to make him jealous.…

‘Advice?’ Latymer repeated.

‘Er, yes. He suggested that I … that I get out more, spend less time at home looking after things.’

‘Did he indeed?’ Brice Latymer’s voice was silky. ‘How right he was, of course. But then, Lord Penrith specialises in being right. Now, if you would care to try my gloves?’