Читать книгу Regency Collection 2013 Part 1 - Хелен Диксон, Louise Allen, Хелен Диксон - Страница 18

Max bit the inside of his lip to control the grin of triumph that was threatening to give him away. That had been almost too easy. He had hardly needed to do more than flinch a little and move stiffly and Bree had leaped to the conclusion that he needed looking after. ‘Thank you,’ he said, attempting to sound as though he was having to struggle with his pride to accept, and was rewarded with a sharp nod.

So now they were on their way to her uncle’s farm, and Bree thought it was all her own idea.

The notion had come to him out of the blue as she explained her anxieties. It gave him time in her company and it enabled him to find out more about her family. Max might feel more and more sure that Bree would make a wife who would suit him admirably, but he was not about to make the same mistake twice and plunge another woman into a world that was totally alien.

A postilion came out and mounted up; Bree did her best to lift the bag into the carriage herself, but this time Max won and did it himself, helping her up and settling back on to the worn squabs with a quite genuine sigh of relief. He was conscious of her directing a sidelong look at him from under her lashes, an entirely feminine trick that made his lips twitch with appreciation.

‘Tell me about your uncle,’ he suggested. ‘How will he take you turning up on his doorstep, unchaperoned and with a strange man?’

‘Uncle George?’ Bree bit her lip in thought. ‘Do you know the old tale about the two mice? Well, Uncle George is the Country Mouse and Papa was the Town Mouse. George is quiet, unmarried, a little bit reticent and very hardworking. I do not think for a moment that he will remember that he ought to be worried about my travelling unescorted with a man, although I expect Betsy, his housekeeper, will give me a scold and will watch you like a hawk for signs of decadent London propensities.’

‘Such as?’ Max demanded, intrigued.

‘Getting drunk, pinching the kitchen maid—I don’t know what goes on in her imagination, but she always seems amazed when we visit and haven’t sunk into some slough of moral turpitude as a result of London’s corrupting influence.’ She brooded a little. ‘What exactly is turpitude?’

‘Let me show you, my pretty.’ Max produced a convincing leer and laughed as Bree batted him with her reticule.

‘Idiot!’ She smiled, reminding him all over again, as if he needed it, that she had a mouth that was made for kissing. ‘You are much nicer tonight. You were so stuffy when you called the other day.’

‘Was I?’ He knew perfectly well he had been. He had bored himself, let alone the two women. ‘I expect I was trying to behave with propriety.’

Bree produced a noise that he assumed was the ladylike equivalent of a snort. ‘It does not suit you. How is your shoulder now?’

‘Much better,’ he assured her truthfully. ‘Are we there? That was a short journey.’

‘Yes, this is it, only a mile of lane to the farmhouse now. There is just the one large house, for both farms. In my great-grandparents’ time the land was split into two for two brothers, but they shared the house. It came back together and was split again for my father and uncle. Uncle George will leave his farm to Piers and it will all come back together again.’

‘Unconventional,’ Max commented. He peered out of the window as the chaise turned right, through high gateposts and into a wide courtyard. The house that stood there was illuminated poorly, but he could see enough to send his eyebrows up. ‘That’s not so much a farmhouse, more a medium-size manor house!’

‘I know. Despite what the Farleighs think, we are really quite respectable, despite having to work for a living. Thank you.’ Max jumped down, flipped the folding step out and handed Bree from the carriage as the front door opened.

‘Miss Bree! Why, I didn’t look to see you for a few weeks yet.’ A comfortably rounded, middle-aged woman held up a lantern and peered at Max. Her expression changed from beaming surprise to suspicion. ‘And who might this be, Miss Bree? I don’t see your maid.’

‘This is Lord Penrith, Betsy. My lord, this is Mrs Hawkins, the housekeeper here.’

‘And what are you doing, gallivanting about the countryside with a man, might I ask, miss?’ Max tried for an expression of sober reliability and was rewarded with a glare.

Bree hustled the housekeeper inside. ‘Betsy, it is trying to rain and we are tired and hungry. Please, let us in before we talk any more.’

They gained the hallway and stood on the stone flags while Mrs Hawkins shut the door on the damp darkness outside. ‘Are you married, Miss Bree?’ she demanded, turning from this task and wiping her hands on her apron.

‘No!’ they answered together, with equal vehemence. Max found himself regarding Bree apologetically, while she looked equally abashed at her unflattering reaction.

‘Lord Penrith is a friend who very kindly offered to escort me on the stagecoach, Betsy,’ Bree said repressively. ‘Now, I would like you to make him up a bed in one of Uncle’s spare bedrooms, but first, tell me quickly, what is wrong?’

‘Wrong? Why, nothing, Miss Bree. What should be wrong?’

‘I had such a strange letter from Uncle George, I felt I had to come straight away. Are you sure he is all right?’

‘Why, yes, Miss Bree.’ The housekeeper frowned. ‘He’s made some new friends, goes out more than he used to, which is a good thing. He’s always been a bit solitary, has Mr Mallory.’

It was on the tip of Max’s tongue to ask about these new friends, but he stopped himself. It was Bree’s family business.

‘Where’s your luggage, sir?’

‘My lord,’ Bree corrected, looking harassed. ‘Lord Penrith kindly came to my aid at very short notice and has no luggage. He will need to borrow razors and so forth. And a nightshirt. I’ll show Lord Penrith to the blue bedroom, Betsy, and you let Uncle George know we’re here and find something for our supper, if you would be so kind.’

‘Show a man to a bedchamber! You’ll do no such thing, Miss Bree. And your uncle’s out—I don’t know when he’ll be back.’

‘Out?’ From Bree’s blank expression Max could only deduce this was arare occurrence in the evening. ‘Well, I’ll just have to sit up until he gets in. I do hope it won’t be too late because I was planning on catching the seven o’clock stage tomorrow morning. And I will show his lordship to his room, so don’t fuss. Lord Penrith is a friend of Viscount Farleigh.’

The mention of Bree’s half-brother was obviously a guarantee of respectability. The housekeeper unbent a trifle. ‘I’ll bring hot water up in a moment, Miss Bree. The bed’s all made up, like always, and I ran the warming pan through all the beds only yesterday, so it won’t be damp.’ She began to make her way towards the back regions of the house. ‘Mind you come down directly now, miss!’

‘Yes, Betsy.’ Bree rolled her eyes at Max and began to lead the way upstairs, lifting a branch of candles off the side table as they went. ‘Piers keeps spare razors and things here, although I doubt his shirts will fit you. I’ll see if any of Papa’s things are to hand.’

‘I would not like you to feel you must lend me those. It is my fault I am without a change of linen. I would not put you to the pain.…’

‘Not at all. They are clean and pressed and really I should be giving them away to a deserving family, but I simply have not got round to it. You are kind to show such sensitivity, but Papa would have hated to see good clothes go to waste.’ Her smile was sweet and just tinged with sadness and it made him want to take her in his arms and hold her, gently.

‘Bree …’

‘Here we are.’ She threw open a panelled door before he could act on the impulse and stepped into an antique chamber with an uneven boarded floor, exposed beams in the ceiling and panelling on the walls that glowed richly in the candlelight. Deep blue hangings around the four-poster bed and at the windows explained the name of the room.

She set down the candles on the dresser and went to run a hand between the sheets. ‘That’s fine. If you could set a light to the fire, I will go and find those things for you. Better if Betsy does not find us in here together.’

‘Bree.’

‘Yes?’ She paused on the threshold, turned and smiled at him. It was enough to overturn all his good resolutions to keep his distance.

Max took one long stride and caught her to him. ‘Bree, don’t worry.’ She quivered in his arms, then, when he did no more than hold her, she sighed wearily and laid her head on his shoulder. ‘What is it you fear?’

She shook her head, unaware of the havoc her closeness was creating in him. ‘That he is ill, or becoming confused, or that there is some problem with the farms that he is not telling us about. I had better stay, I think—it was foolish to think I could deal with this in a few hours.’ She tipped back her head to look into his face. ‘Will you let Piers and Rosa know, when you get back?’

‘I am not going back without you.’ Max put one hand on her head and turned her cheek back into his chest. That was much safer; if she looked up at him again like that he was going to kiss her, and from the vehemence of her reaction when the housekeeper had asked if they were married, that was unlikely to be welcome. ‘And you must try not to imagine things before you see your uncle. He could simply have been having a bad day—the housekeeper has noticed nothing, has she?’

‘No, no, she said as much. You are quite right.’ Bree let her cheek rest against the soft warmth of Max’s linen shirt and closed her eyes. She was being foolish in worrying; Uncle George would be mildly baffled by her descent upon him and everything would be fine.

The comfort of having someone to lean on was unexpected. For years she had been the one leant upon and had accepted it as her lot in life. Now … Without conscious thought she moved her head a little, like a cat butting against a caressing hand. Through the linen she felt the press of something hard and realised it was that scandalous stud. She moved again and felt, rather than heard, his indrawn breath. Max’s heartbeat was more pronounced.

What had he said about it? That such things were considered erotic? Touching certainly had an effect. His long fingers slid into her hair, whether just to hold her, or to hold her still, she could not decide. But it brought her to her senses. It was not fair to him to be like this, especially not in a bedchamber and especially not after his reaction to Betsy’s embarrassing question had been so vehement. Men’s physical responses, she had to remember, were often quite at odds with their deeper feelings.

‘I had better go and fetch those things,’ she murmured, stepping back. ‘Betsy will be along with your hot water in a moment.’

His hands opened, freed her, and he let her go, his smile perfectly bland. But his eyes were dark and intent, denying the soothing message of that smile. Bree found her skin was tingling. ‘I won’t be a minute.’ She not so much left the room, as fled, scurrying down the long passage to the door that led into the part of the house she and Piers owned. Inside Piers’s room she leant back against the door and tried for some coherent thought.

For the past few days she had tried to convince herself that Lord Penrith merely wished to pursue an acquaintance that centred around his interest in driving. To believe anything else was to yearn after a relationship that was impossible. Today, on the journey, she had been too irritated by his cool assumption that she needed him to look too closely at her own feelings.

Now, fresh from his arms, she made herself think. She liked him, she wanted him … Bree made herself stop and be honest with herself. Wanted both his company and his friendship, and wanted him, as a man, in her arms and in her bed.

And that was quite impossible. She was not going to take a lover, or be taken as a mistress, and that was that. She had promised herself a love match and she was not going to settle for a few nights of passion. Always assuming that was what Max wanted.

Bree shook her head, more to clear it than to deny her thoughts. When he had kissed her at the ball he had overstepped the bounds of propriety by several long strides. And yet, he had stopped well before things got out of hand, and had done nothing that she had not wanted.

Since then he had kept his distance. Tonight his embrace had been almost one of friendship, if one disregarded that indrawn breath, the beat of his heart, the awareness that she had sensed. It was far from what she imagined the actions of a man seeking an immoral connection would be. And anything else was highly unlikely, given her parentage and his title. It was not as though she was such a great beauty that society would be dazzled by her, as it was by the Gunning sisters, years ago. Nor had she great wealth, that other passport into the ranks of the aristocracy.

The clock down below in the hall chimed. Bree shook her head again, this time with determination. One could hardly stand around like a moonling, brooding. Piers’s razors were on the dresser. She began to gather them up, adding shaving soap and a badger-bristle brush, and securing them in a linen towel. She found a neckcloth in one drawer, one of her father’s shirts in another and added them to the pile, then sat down on the end of the bed, her burst of practicality ebbing away.

Logic told her that Max was simply acting as a good friend, that he was interested in coaching and had no ulterior motive. The kisses, the hint of arousal when he held her, those were doubtless perfectly normal male responses and she was such an innocent that she was refining upon them too much.

An elder brother to confide in would be helpful, Bree thought with a rueful smile. She could hardly ask Piers how a man might be expected to react with a woman in his arms; the poor boy would be mortified, and she sincerely hoped he had no experience to draw upon.

I could ask Georgy, Bree mused, getting a grip both on herself and the bundle and heading back for Max’s room. But how discreet would Lady Lucas be? Would she guess what Bree was worrying about, even if she worded her enquiry in the most general of terms?

‘I thought we had agreed that you were not going to worry.’ Max’s voice startled her so much she almost dropped the things in her arms. She was standing outside the open door of his room and he was just inside it, in his shirtsleeves, neckcloth discarded. ‘You are frowning.’

‘Oh! No, I was not worrying. Not exactly. I was thinking about something else entirely.’ Bree thrust the shaving tackle and clothing into Max’s arms and turned on her heel. ‘I’ll see you downstairs for supper shortly.’

‘Thank you.’ She had almost made it to the end of the corridor when his voice stopped her. ‘Bree? What are you blushing about?’

‘I … absolutely nothing,’ she said with as much dignity as she could muster. ‘I am doubtless red in the face from hanging upside down in the chest in Piers’s room looking for a neckcloth.’

Oh, stop trying to fool yourself. She shut her own chamber door safely behind her and stared into the steaming bowl of water Betsy had set ready on the dresser. You’re in love with the man. If this were a fairy tale, the steam would clear and there would be some message, some guidance, visible in the clear water. All there was in her basin was a rather pretty design of roses on the bottom of the bowl. It was no help whatsoever.

Betsy, who had apparently decided to acquit Max of being a dangerous rake, or at least, to give him the benefit of the doubt, served them a supper of hot pot and vegetables. She refrained from hovering in the dining room, as Bree rather feared she would, instead leaving the door pointedly open.

‘I do wish she wouldn’t do that,’ Bree grumbled as the candles on the long oak table flickered wildly. ‘It is creating such a draught.’

‘She is ensuring that I am not going to take advantage of you and ravish you while we are alone.’ Max helped himself to the buttered cabbage hearts. ‘Foolish, of course, I am far too hungry.’

Bree smiled somewhat wanly at the sally. The way she was feeling, it was far more likely that she would do something scandalous than he would. She searched for a safe topic of conversation.

‘Where do you get your horses from, my lord?’

He raised an eyebrow at the formality, then his eyes flickered to the sturdy figure of Betsy, coming in with the mustard pot, and he nodded in comprehension.

‘From a number of sources, Miss Mallory. Some direct from Ireland—my hunters mainly—others through private sales or at Tattersalls. Do you breed all your own horses for the company here?’

‘Mostly, unless we come across something suitable at a bargain price. I have a yen for having all our horses one colour—grey would be smart, I think. No other coach company does that. But Piers and Uncle George think me frivolous for entertaining such an idea.’

‘It would be an advertisement. People would clamour to travel behind your match greys.’ Max grinned at her. ‘But I can’t quite make that fit your slogans. You don’t fancy chestnuts, do you? The Challenge Coach Company’s Champing Chestnuts has a fine ring.’

‘Chestnuts are too temperamental,’ Bree said repressively, finding her sense of humour rather lacking when he chaffed her about the company. She was missing the bustle of the yard, even after only a few days of handing much of her work to Rosa. The thought of cutting herself off entirely was painful. But her involvement with the company was yet another reason why there could never be anything between her and Max.

‘You’re looking down in the dumps Miss Bree.’ Betsy set a large rhubarb pie in front of her. ‘There’s no need to fret about Mr Mallory, you’ll see. I’ll just go and get the cream for you.’

‘It is only that I am tired,’ Bree confessed to Max, picking up a spoon to serve the dessert. ‘I do wish he would come home soon.’

‘Why not go to bed after supper?’ He accepted a portion of pie and reached for the cream. ‘I’ll sit up and wait for him and wake you up when he gets back.’

‘On the contrary, it is you who should retire and rest. There is your shoulder for one thing, and you are a guest.’

‘A self-invited one! But let us both sit up, then. Mr Mallory will come in after a pleasant evening with friends and find us both scandalously asleep on the drawing-room sofa.’

Bree had always liked Uncle George’s drawing room, but now she wondered how it would look to Max’s sophisticated gaze.

‘What a charming room.’ He wandered about peering at the walls, crammed with pictures of everything from Great-aunt Emeline to the pig that won the Best in Show at Buckingham three years ago. Piles of books were stacked everywhere, nearly all of them to do with hunting, fishing or horse breeding, and the table was littered with accounts ledgers. ‘One could never make the mistake of believing that this room belongs to a married man.’

‘Indeed not. I think it must run in the family. Papa was always in trouble with Mama for being so untidy and Piers would revert to this state in two days if I let him, but Uncle George takes no notice of Betsy’s nagging.’

She looked around the room. ‘Really, I do apologise. I feel I ought to be entertaining you in some way. In fact, there is a piano over there, under all those journals, but I fear it will be sadly out of tune.’

‘A hand or two of cards, perhaps?’

‘If we can find a pack. Uncle George does not play, but there are probably some in our drawing room.’

‘There are two packs here.’ Max held one up. ‘They look quite new.’

‘How peculiar.’ Bree came across to look. ‘Perhaps he has taken up patience. We will have to play for farthings—any more and I am certain you will bankrupt me.’

‘I would not dream of it.’ Max lifted some papers off a small side table. ‘Shall I deal? We can play for love.’