Читать книгу Regency Collection 2013 Part 1 - Хелен Диксон, Louise Allen, Хелен Диксон - Страница 21

‘Where is Miss Mallory?’ Nevill asked. All through the meal Max had been aware of her presence behind him, of her gaze on his back. Instinct told him she was not pleased to be deserted. This conclusion produced a certain smug male satisfaction at the thought that she cared, but he was riding his emotions on a tight rein with Bree. All his instincts told him that he was free to hazard his fortune with her. All his judgement and caution warned him against making that assumption, or to exposing her to speculation and gossip. If he were wrong about Drusilla, the consequences would be awful.

‘Behind us, just up the slope with Lady Harrison,’ he said lazily. But even as he spoke he knew he was wrong. She wasn’t there, that sensation of being watched had left him. Max rolled round on to his elbow to look up the hill. There was no sign of Bree.

‘She has probably gone into the ladies’ retiring carriage,’ he murmured, nodding towards the vehicle with its drawn blinds that had been set up for the comfort of the ladies, who could not be expected to vanish into the surrounding shrubberies as the men could.

Nevill blushed. ‘She isn’t. I glanced that way just now and Miss Collins was entering it.’

‘Why do you want to know?’ Max rolled over until he was facing up the slope and could survey all the scattered groups. A sense of unease gripped him, which was ridiculous; they were in the middle of a civilised English park, surrounded by friends.

‘I wanted to ask her if I could visit their breeding stables. I asked Mallory, but he said his sister was a little concerned about their uncle’s health and might not agree.’

‘Yes, she is anxious about him.’ Max got to his feet and climbed up to where Lady Harrison was sitting, spotting Rosa admiring someone’s sketch book as he passed. ‘Did you see where Miss Mallory went?’ he asked, as Melinda Harrison favoured him with her cool smile.

‘She went off with Latymer, about five minutes ago.’

‘Alone?’

‘As far as I can see. That young lady is a sad romp.’

‘In which direction?’ He was not going to waste time defending Bree’s good name, or asking why a supposedly responsible matron had let her wander off unchaperoned with a man; time for that when he was assured that she was safe and sound.

Lady Harrison waved vaguely towards the east. ‘That way, I think.’

Max strode off, his eyes scanning the ground ahead as the grass sward curved around, out of sight behind the big stand of trees. Surely she would not be so imprudent as to actually enter the woodland?

The sound of a scuffle ahead made him break into a run; as he rounded the bend he found himself in a small clearing in the side of the wood. Bree was hard up against a tree, Latymer holding her and kissing her, despite her frantically kicking feet.

Max heard a snarl, realising with a jolt that it was coming from his own throat. He was across the clearing without being conscious of moving, then his hand was on Latymer’s shoulder. He heaved the other man back, turned him and let fly with his left fist.

Latymer sprawled on the ground at his feet. Across his prone body Max met Bree’s wide eyes. The pupils were almost black, her face white, her hair disordered and her bonnet fallen to the ground. Very slowly she slid down the tree trunk until she was sitting on the short grass, her eyes never leaving his face.

Max found he had stopped breathing and drew in a deep breath. Then he saw that the neckline of her bodice was dragged down, that the delicate upper swell of her breast was exposed, and this time he had no trouble knowing where the snarl was coming from.

‘Max!’ It was Nevill, hanging on to his arm. ‘You can’t hit him, he’s down.’

‘That can be remedied.’ Max stooped, seized Brice Latymer by the neckcloth and hauled him, choking, to his feet. ‘Have you any objections if I kill him now?’

‘You must not.’ Nevill, with more courage than Max knew his cousin possessed, was hanging on to his arm like a pitbull terrier. ‘You will have to call him out,’ he stammered. ‘I’ll be your second.’ He looked as white as Bree, and as though he were about to cast up his accounts.

Max released his grip on Latymer’s neckcloth. ‘Name your friends.’

Brice staggered back, clutched a low branch for support, and croaked, ‘I apologise. Completely. Miss Mallory …’ He turned to Bree, who met his gaze squarely. Her eyes were chilly, although her lower lip quivered. Max wanted to hug her. ‘My feelings got the better of me. I apologise a hundred times over. My behaviour was inexcusable.’

‘ What? You have the brazen nerve to even attempt to apologise to the lady after mauling her like that?’ Max felt his fists clenching. ‘Name—’

‘You cannot.’ It was Nevill again, tugging at his sleeve. ‘You really can’t, Max, not if he’s apologised.’ He frowned, biting his lip. ‘Can you?’

‘No one I’ve called out has ever apologised before,’ Max admitted, glaring at Latymer in furious frustration. ‘But you are probably correct, not if the lady accepts his apology.’ He looked across at Bree. ‘I cannot imagine for a moment that she will find it acceptable.’

‘Someone said to me, quite recently, something that is apropos to this situation,’ she said. Her voice shook a little and he forced himself to stand still and not to make matters worse by going and dragging her into his arms in front of witnesses. ‘Let me see, what was it?’ She frowned. ‘Oh, yes. It is a sad fact that a lady, incautiously without chaperonage, may find herself kissed, or worse. Not that I am excusing Mr Latymer’s behaviour, but I should have been more cautious.’ She shot Latymer a hard look. ‘I accept your apology, sir, but I hope never to find myself in a position where I have to exchange a single word with you, ever again.’

‘You are most generous, Miss Mallory.’ Latymer was red in the face, his usual pose of cool, languid indifference shattered. ‘Believe me, it was the passion of the moment, the effect of your—’

‘Latymer, if you are not out of my sight in one minute, and out of this park in ten, I will call you out for being a chicken-hearted coward in front of the entire club.’

Latymer bent to pick up his hat and walked away without another word, his gait stiff, the back of his neck crimson.

‘Nevill, go and find Miss Mallory’s companion.’ Max hardly dared move to touch her. He was so angry that he was afraid that if he did, if he felt her tremble, he would go after Latymer and kill him.

‘No. No, please do not tell Rosa.’ His heart ached at the courage it must be taking for her to keep her voice steady and to smile reassuringly at Nevill. The lad was shaking with reaction now, appalled to his chivalrous core by what he had seen.

‘Mr Harlow, would you be very kind and find Miss Thorpe and tell her that I have taken a walk with Lord Penrith to see a good view of the Thames? It will be the truth, it is what I thought was going to happen when I agreed to walk with Mr Latymer. I will tell her what happened later, but I do not want to have any—’ Her voice wavered and she got it back under control with a visible effort. ‘Any fuss,’ she finished, rather desperately.

‘Of course.’ With a job to do that did not involve the hideous etiquette of the duel, or the sight of a lady battling tears, Nevill rose to the occasion with aplomb. ‘I will see if Miss Thorpe has had any dessert yet, and if she has, I will see if she would like to take a stroll in the opposite direction.’ He bowed, with all the formality of the ballroom and strode off, pausing at the edge of the clearing. ‘And if Latymer hasn’t gone, I’ll see that he does.’ He marched off, a young knight, ready to do battle for a lady’s honour.

‘Oh, dear,’ Bree said faintly. ‘He isn’t going to get into a brawl, is he?’

‘No,’ Max assured her. ‘Latymer will be gone too fast for that.’ He wanted to go to her, hold her, kiss away the taste of Latymer’s mouth on hers, smooth his palms over every bruise on her body. And he knew if he did that he would reveal his feelings for her as clearly as if he had handed her his soul to read.

He could not be in any doubt now: he loved this woman, he wanted to marry her and he had to protect her. Max drew in a deep breath. He could do this. He could fight his own feelings, do the right thing, take her hand and help her to her feet, escort her to the ladies’ retiring carriage so she could put her dress to order, splash water on her face.

‘Max.’ Bree’s voice quavered, her face crumpled, then she had it under control again. Her determination not to give in to tears tore at his heart. ‘Max, please, just hold me.’

He could fight himself, but it seemed he could not fight her. Max went to her side, took her hands and lifted her to her feet. Bree smiled at him fleetingly, then simply slid her arms around him, under his coat, and leaned into his body with a tired sigh as though she was coming home after a long journey. His arms went round her, held her tight, and with a sigh that echoed her own, he laid his cheek on her tousled hair.

‘That’s better. I feel safe now.’ She gave a shaky chuckle. ‘I was an idiot. You are being very forbearing in not telling me so.’

‘You were an idiot,’ Max assured her gravely. And so am I. ‘Bree, we really ought to get back.’

‘Who will miss us?’ She seemed quite content to hold a conversation with his top waistcoat button. ‘Mr Harlow will distract Rosa. Everyone will be having a rest after luncheon, or strolling about admiring the views.’

Max lifted his head, found her chin and tilted her face up so he could look at her. ‘And they’ll be coming round that corner at any minute to find you in my arms.’ Just don’t kiss her …

‘Oh.’ She looked up at him, her shock temporarily forgotten in her concern. ‘That would put you in an awkward position. I am sorry to be so thoughtless. Max, I really do not feel ready to go back. Is there somewhere we can sit, just for a little while, so I can compose myself?’

There was his drag, parked, as far as he could calculate, just beyond the edge of this copse. One might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.

‘Yes, of course. My drag is just through here.’ He gently disentangled himself. ‘I think you had better put on your bonnet and try and reorder your bodice.’ Bree gave a gasp, tugged at the wayward neckline and restored herself to modest order. Max handed her the bonnet, then, when it was tied in place to hide the worst of the damage to her coiffure, tucked her hand under his elbow and began to walk back. ‘If anyone comes, faint.’

‘What?’

‘Faint. You strolled this way to see if there was a view. You saw an adder. You screamed, I heard you, rushed to your side and am just escorting you back. If you faint, then that will cover up any amount of disorder to your gown and hair.’

‘And what were you doing in the woods when I screamed?’ Bree was sounding far more like herself now.

‘That is the sort of question no lady asks,’ Max said repressively and was rewarded with a gurgle of laughter that choked off as she struggled for control.

‘I am sorry. I would have thought I could deal with something like that with ease, but I feel so shaky. It is truly feeble of me—I send young bucks to the rightabout every day at the inn.’

‘Why should you not feel shocked and distressed?’ he asked brusquely. ‘When you trust someone you do not expect them to attack you, or to betray your confidence. Snubbing young fools in a crowded inn yard is quite different from dealing with a determined attempt on your virtue, I would have thought.’

‘True,’ she agreed sadly. ‘I thought he was my friend, which only makes it worse. Did you know he was … unreliable?’

‘I have never liked him, and it is mutual. If I had thought you in the slightest danger from him, I would have warned you.’ Could I have guessed? Should I have said something? That incident with her gloves in the park … ‘Here we are. Would you like to sit inside and compose yourself and I will go and fetch you a drink?’

The drag presented a safe wall between them and the open slope. Max opened the door and flipped down the step. Bree let herself be handed in, then turned, clutching his hand. ‘Max, please don’t go, just sit with me while I tidy my hair and find some balance.’

With a sensation that he was about to step off a cliff, Max followed her in and pulled the door shut. The solid shutters of the drag’s windows were closed. He found the strap for the one on the side facing the wood and ran it down six inches, letting in enough light to show him her face.

Her big blue eyes were wide in the gloom, her mouth full, trembling as she smiled at him. Bree untied her bonnet, laid it on the seat next to her and began to unpin her hair. It was the stuff of his fantasies, of the heated dreams that had woken him, sweating and rigid with desire, for nights after their first encounter. In the stage, her unravelling plait had transfixed him. Now, helpless, Max watched the golden silk slide free, down, over her shoulders, and knew he was lost.

‘Do you have a comb? I have just realised I left my reticule on the rug.’ Freeing her hair, the routine of unpinning it, beginning to gather up its weight in her hands, was strangely soothing. She was a fool to be so feeble about this, Bree told herself. It was not as though she were some sheltered miss.

It was that kiss that had so revolted her, polluting the lovely memory of Max’s lips on hers, turning something wonderful into something sordid and disgusting and violent. Max had given, Latymer had tried to take.

‘Yes. Here.’ Max held out a comb and she took it, their fingertips touching. His hand trembled, just faintly.

‘What is it? Max?’ Bree tossed the comb on to the seat beside her and caught both his hands in hers. His eyes glinted in the half-light, his expression was tense, focused.

‘Your hair.’ He freed one hand and reached out to touch it, just the very ends of it. ‘I dream about your hair.’

Instead of answering, she lifted her hand, the one still holding his, and pressed his palm against her hair. ‘Touch it then.’ It seemed to enchant him. She did not understand, but she knew she wanted his hands on her, somewhere, everywhere. Her reservations, her certainty that she wanted nothing but marriage, wavered, shook under the impact of the reality of his closeness.

Max froze, then his hands slid into her hair, cradling her head. They were so close, opposite each other in the carriage, that her knees slid between his.

‘Bree.’ His voice was husky. ‘Bree, I want to behave every bit as badly as Latymer did. I want to kiss you. I want to more than kiss you. Do you understand? You should not be alone with me. I should never have brought you here.’

They were not the words of love she dreamed about, and knew she would never hear from him. But they were words of desire. Max wanted her. She wanted him, loved him, and knew there was only one way she was ever going to have him. It went against everything she had been brought up to respect, it could ruin her if anyone ever found out. But suddenly she knew with utter conviction that she wanted it more than anything in the world, other than to hear him say I love you.

‘Yes, I understand,’ she said steadily. ‘I understand what you want, and I want it too.’

‘Bree.’ His hands tightened in her hair. ‘Bree, think what you are saying. If I am not careful you could be ruined. I could get you with child—’

‘Then be careful,’ she whispered, twisting her head to bring her lips against his wrist. Under the sensitive swell she felt his pulse, wild, hard, demanding, and knew she had to answer it.

‘God. Bree—’ Max did not move, as she had expected, to take her into his arms. Instead he just looked at her and in his eyes she could read a vast indecision. It seemed alien in someone as assured, so strong. It was as though he were weighing up a monumental choice. ‘Damn it, ten years,’ he murmured, so softly she was not certain she had heard him correctly. ‘I must be free.’

Before she could puzzle any more he leaned towards her and took her lips. Her previous experience had been so limited to his kiss on the terrace and, just now, Brice Latymer’s assault, that she would not have expected to be able to read anything into a kiss.

But this, she realised quite clearly, was a claiming. He wasn’t rough, but he left her in no doubt that if she was thinking about any other man, then that was a mistake, because she was his.

She was crushed against his body, although quite how she got there she was not sure. Her mouth was open to him, his tongue was possessing her, thrusting, making it quite clear how he wanted this embrace to end. Bree shifted until she could lock her arms around his neck, and surrendered to the demand he was making.

Her own tongue, it seemed, knew how to respond. Gradually the fierce, possessive pressure eased and he let them both breathe. Daring, Bree nipped his lower lip, gently, and gasped as he responded by drawing her own lip into his mouth and suckling it with tantalising slowness.

Every part of her thrummed with desire, with a sort of abandon which she would have thought quite alien to her nature. But in Max’s arms she was transformed into another creature altogether, someone she did not recognise, someone who lived only to be here, with him, like this.

He released her mouth and began to lick and nip his way down her neck while his fingers made short work of the hooks at the back of her bodice. Impatient, beyond shyness, Bree pushed at the lapels of his coat. He shrugged it off, then, his fingers tangling with hers, unbuttoned his waistcoat and tossed that to one side.

Bree wrenched at his neckcloth, pulled it free, dropped it just as her own bodice slid down, revealing her breasts, shielded only by the fine camisole. Max went still, his right hand cupped, just cradling the swell of her left breast. She should have been shy, blushing at his touch, but all she could do was to glory in the look in his eyes. He made her feel beautiful, desired, worshipped.

He bent his head and licked first one nipple, then the other, with the very tip of his tongue. The heat and wetness through the fine fabric made her gasp, shocked beyond belief at the effect of such a concentrated touch. The aching heat shot through her body, pooled in her belly, made her shift her hips in restless arousal and arch her back to bring his mouth closer.

He stroked the camisole down until she was naked to the waist, smoothing his palms, warm and slightly rough, over the curves of her breasts, his thumbs finding the sensitive points and tormenting them into hard, aching nubs.

Bree fumbled for his shirt buttons, began to free them, hardly able to focus over the waves of sensation Max was inflicting on her. ‘Oh!’ The skin of his chest was hot, smooth over hard muscle. Hair tickled her palms, then her questing fingertips found his nipples, and that tantalising stud, and rubbed experimentally.

They tightened under her caress as hers had done under his infinitely more experienced touch. His groan startled her more, giving her a glimpse of the power she had over him. She might be inexperienced, but he desired her, and she could give him pleasure.

‘Witch,’ he murmured huskily in her ear, making the fine hairs shiver along her hairline. ‘Tell me what you want.’

‘I want you to make love to me,’ she gasped, ‘for ever.’