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Chapter Two

After Mr. Whitney left, Max issued a set of rapid and comprehensive orders to his majordomo Wilson. In response, his servants flew to various corners of London, some to Twyford House, others to certain agencies specializing in the hire of household staff to the élite of the ton. One footman was despatched with a note from the Duke to an address in Half Moon Street, requesting the favour of a private interview with his paternal aunt, Lady Benborough.

As Max had intended, his politely worded missive intrigued his aunt. Wondering what had prompted such a strange request from her reprehensible nephew, she immediately granted it and settled down to await his coming with an air of pleasurable anticipation.

Max arrived at the small house shortly after noon. He found his aunt attired in a very becoming gown of purple sarsenet with a new and unquestionably modish wig perched atop her commanding visage. Max, bowing elegantly before her, eyed the wig askance.

Augusta Benborough sighed. “Well, I suppose I’ll have to send it back, if that’s the way you feel about it!”

Max grinned and bent to kiss the proffered cheek. “Definitely not one of your better efforts, Aunt.”

She snorted. “Unfortunately, I can hardly claim you know nothing about it. It’s the very latest fashion, I’ll have you know.” Max raised one laconic brow. “Yes, well,” continued his aunt, “I dare say you’re right. Not quite my style.”

As she waited while he disposed his long limbs in a chair opposite the corner of the chaise where she sat, propped up by a pile of colourful cushions, she passed a critical glance over her nephew’s elegant figure. How he contrived to look so precise when she knew he cared very little how he appeared was more than she could tell. She had heard it said that his man was a genius. Personally, she was of the opinion it was Max’s magnificent physique and dark good looks that carried the day.

“I hope you’re going to satisfy my curiosity without a great deal of roundaboutation.”

“My dear aunt, when have I ever been other than direct?”

She looked at him shrewdly. “Want a favour, do you? Can’t imagine what it is but you’d better be quick about asking. Miriam will be back by one and I gather you’d rather not have her listening.” Miriam Alford was a faded spinster cousin of Lady Benborough’s who lived with her, filling the post of companion to the fashionable old lady. “I sent her to Hatchard’s when I got your note,” she added in explanation.

Max smiled. Of all his numerous relatives, his Aunt Benborough, his father’s youngest sister, was his favourite. While the rest of them, his mother included, constantly tried to reform him by ringing peals over him, appealing to his sense of what was acceptable, something he steadfastly denied any knowledge of, Augusta Benborough rarely made any comment on his lifestyle or the numerous scandals this provoked. When he had first come on the town, it had rapidly been made plain to his startled family that in Max they beheld a reincarnation of the second Viscount Delmere. If even half the tales were true, Max’s great-grandfather had been a thoroughly unprincipled character, entirely devoid of morals. Lady Benborough, recently widowed, had asked Max to tea and had taken the opportunity to inform him in no uncertain terms of her opinion of his behaviour. She had then proceeded to outline all his faults, in detail. However, as she had concluded by saying that she fully expected her tirade to have no effect whatsoever on his subsequent conduct, nor could she imagine how anyone in their right mind could think it would, Max had borne the ordeal with an equanimity which would have stunned his friends. She had eventually dismissed him with the words, “Having at least had the politeness to hear me out, you may now depart and continue to go to hell in your own fashion and with my good will.”

Now a widow of many years’ standing, she was still a force to be reckoned with. She remained fully absorbed in the affairs of the ton and continued to be seen at all the crushes and every gala event. Max knew she was as shrewd as she could hold together and, above all, had an excellent sense of humour. All in all, she was just what he needed.

“I’ve come to inform you that, along with all the other encumbrances I inherited from Uncle Henry, I seem to have acquired four wards.”

“You?” Lady Benborough’s rendering of the word was rather more forceful than Miss Twinning’s had been.

Max nodded. “Me. Four young ladies, one, the only one I’ve so far set eyes on, as lovely a creature as any other likely to be presented this Season.”

“Good God! Who was so besotted as to leave four young girls in your care?” If anything, her ladyship was outraged at the very idea. Then, the full impact of the situation struck her. Her eyes widened. “Oh, good lord!” She collapsed against her cushions, laughing uncontrollably.

Knowing this was an attitude he was going to meet increasingly in the next few weeks, Max sighed. In an even tone suggestive of long suffering, he pointed out the obvious. “They weren’t left to me but to my esteemed and now departed uncle’s care. Mind you, I can’t see that he’d have been much use to ’em either.”

Wiping the tears from her eyes, Lady Benborough considered this view. “Can’t see it myself,” she admitted. “Henry always was a slow-top. Who are they?”

“The Misses Twinning. From Hertfordshire.” Max proceeded to give her a brief résumé of the life history of the Twinnings, ending with the information that it transpired all four girls were heiresses.

Augusta Benborough was taken aback. “And you say they’re beautiful to boot?”

“The one I’ve seen, Caroline, the eldest, most definitely is.”

“Well, if anyone should know it’s you!” replied her ladyship testily. Max acknowledged the comment with the slightest inclination of his head.

Lady Benborough’s mind was racing. “So, what do you want with me?”

“What I would like, dearest Aunt,” said Max, with his sweetest smile, “is for you to act as chaperon to the girls and present them to the ton.” Max paused. His aunt said nothing, sitting quite still with her sharp blue eyes, very like his own, fixed firmly on his face. He continued. “I’m opening up Twyford House. It’ll be ready for them tomorrow. I’ll stand the nonsense—all of it.” Still she said nothing. “Will you do it?”

Augusta Benborough thought she would like nothing better than to be part of the hurly-burly of the marriage game again. But four? All at once? Still, there was Max’s backing, and that would count for a good deal. Despite his giving the distinct impression of total uninterest in anything other than his own pleasure, she knew from experience that, should he feel inclined, Max could and would perform feats impossible for those with lesser clout in the fashionable world. Years after the event, she had learned that, when her youngest son had embroiled himself in a scrape so hideous that even now she shuddered to think of it, it had been Max who had rescued him. And apparently for no better reason than it had been bothering her. She still owed him for that.

But there were problems. Her own jointure was not particularly large and, while she had never asked Max for relief, turning herself out in the style he would expect of his wards’ chaperon was presently beyond her slender means. Hesitantly, she said, “My own wardrobe…”

“Naturally you’ll charge all costs you incur in this business to me,” drawled Max, his voice bored as he examined through his quizzing glass a china cat presently residing on his aunt’s mantelpiece. He knew perfectly well his aunt managed on a very slim purse but was too wise to offer direct assistance which would, he knew, be resented, not only by the lady herself but also by her pompous elder son.

“Can I take Miriam with me to Twyford House?”

With a shrug, Max assented. “Aside from anything else, she might come in handy with four charges.”

“When can I meet them?”

“They’re staying at Grillon’s. I’m taking Miss Twinning for a drive this afternoon to tell her what I’ve decided. I’ll arrange for them to move to Twyford House tomorrow afternoon. I’ll send Wilson to help you and Mrs. Alford in transferring to Mount Street. It would be best, I suppose, if you could make the move in the morning. You’ll want to familiarize yourself with the staff and so on.” Bethinking himself that it would be wise to have one of his own well-trained staff on hand, he added, “I suppose I can let you have Wilson for a week or two, until you settle in. I suggest you and I meet the Misses Twinning when they arrive—shall we say at three?”

Lady Benborough was entranced by the way her nephew seemed to dismiss complications like opening and staffing a mansion overnight. Still, with the efficient and reliable Wilson on the job, presumably it would be done. Feeling a sudden and unexpected surge of excitement at the prospect of embarking on the Season with a definite purpose in life, she drew a deep breath. “Very well. I’ll do it!”

“Good!” Max stood. “I’ll send Wilson to call on you this afternoon.”

His aunt, already engrossed in the matter of finding husbands for the Twinning chits, looked up. “Have you seen the other three girls?”

Max shook his head. Imagining the likely scene should they be on hand this afternoon when he called for Miss Twinning, he closed his eyes in horror. He could just hear the on-dits. “And I hope to God I don’t see them in Grillon’s foyer either!”

Augusta Benborough laughed.

WHEN HE CALLED AT Grillon’s promptly at two, Max was relieved to find Miss Twinning alone in the foyer, seated on a chaise opposite the door, her bonnet beside her. He was not to know that Caroline had had to exert every last particle of persuasion to achieve this end. And she had been quite unable to prevent her three sisters from keeping watch from the windows of their bedchambers.

As she had expected, she had had to describe His Grace of Twyford in detail for her sisters. Looking up at the figure striding across the foyer towards her, she did not think she had done too badly. What had been hardest to convey was the indefinable air that hung about him—compelling, exciting, it immediately brought to mind a whole range of emotions well-bred young ladies were not supposed to comprehend, let alone feel. As he took her hand for an instant in his own, and smiled down at her in an oddly lazy way, she decided she had altogether underestimated the attractiveness of that sleepy smile. It was really quite devastating.

Within a minute, Caroline found herself on the box seat of a fashionable curricle drawn by a pair of beautiful but restive bays. She resisted the temptation to glance up at the first-floor windows where she knew the other three would be stationed. Max mounted to the driving seat and the diminutive tiger, who had been holding the horses’ heads, swung up behind. Then they were off, tacking through the traffic towards Hyde Park.

Caroline resigned herself to silence until the safer precincts of the Park were reached. However, it seemed the Duke was quite capable of conversing intelligently while negotiating the chaos of the London streets.

“I trust Grillon’s has met with your approval thus far?”

“Oh, yes. They’ve been most helpful,” returned Caroline. “Were you able to clarify the matter of our guardianship?”

Max was unable to suppress a smile at her directness. He nodded, his attention temporarily claimed by the offside horse which had decided to take exception to a monkey dancing on the pavement, accompanied by an accordion player.

“Mr. Whitney has assured me that, as I am the Duke of Twyford, I must therefore be your guardian.” He had allowed his reluctance to find expression in his tone. As the words left his lips, he realised that the unconventional woman beside him might well ask why he found the role of protector to herself and her sisters so distasteful. He immediately went on the attack. “And, in that capacity, I should like to know how you have endeavoured to come by Parisian fashions?”

His sharp eyes missed little and his considerable knowledge of feminine attire told him Miss Twinning’s elegant pelisse owed much to the French. But France was at war with England and Paris no longer the playground of the rich.

Initially stunned that he should know enough to come so close to the truth, Caroline quickly realised the source of his knowledge. A spark of amusement danced in her eyes. She smiled and answered readily, “I assure you we did not run away to Brussels instead of New York.”

“Oh, I wasn’t afraid of that!” retorted Max, perfectly willing to indulge in plain speaking. “If you’d been in Brussels, I’d have heard of it.”

“Oh?” Caroline turned a fascinated gaze on him.

Max smiled down at her.

Praying she was not blushing, Caroline strove to get the conversation back on a more conventional course. “Actually, you’re quite right about the clothes, they are Parisian. But not from the Continent. There were two couturières from Paris on the boat going to New York. They asked if they could dress us, needing the business to become known in America. It was really most fortunate. We took the opportunity to get quite a lot made up before we returned—we’d been in greys for so long that none of us had anything suitable to wear.”

“How did you find American society?”

Caroline reminded herself to watch her tongue. She did not delude herself that just because the Duke was engaged in handling a team of high-couraged cattle through the busy streets of London he was likely to miss any slip she made. She was rapidly learning to respect the intelligence of this fashionable rake. “Quite frankly, we found much to entertain us. Of course, our relatives were pleased to see us and organised a great many outings and entertainments.” No need to tell him they had had a riotous time.

“Did the tone of the society meet with your approval?”

He had already told her he would have known if they had been in Europe. Did he have connections in New York? How much could he know of their junketing? Caroline gave herself a mental shake. How absurd! He had not known of their existence until this morning. “Well, to be sure, it wasn’t the same as here. Many more cits and half-pay officers about. And, of course, nothing like the ton.”

Unknowingly, her answer brought some measure of relief to Max. Far from imagining his new-found wards had been indulging in high living abroad, he had been wondering whether they had any social experience at all. Miss Twinning’s reply told him that she, at least, knew enough to distinguish the less acceptable among society’s hordes.

They had reached the gates of the Park and turned into the carriage drive. Soon, the curricle was bowling along at a steady pace under the trees, still devoid of any but the earliest leaves. A light breeze lifted the ends of the ribbons on Caroline’s hat and playfully danced along the horses’ dark manes.

Max watched as Caroline gazed about her with interest. “I’m afraid you’ll not see many notables at this hour. Mostly nursemaids and their charges. Later, between three and five, it’ll be crowded. The Season’s not yet begun in earnest, but by now most people will have returned to town. And the Park is the place to be seen. All the old biddies come here to exchange the latest on-dits and all the young ladies promenade along the walks with their beaux.”

“I see.” Caroline smiled to herself, a secret smile as she imagined how she and her sisters would fit into this scene.

Max saw the smile and was puzzled. Caroline Twinning was decidedly more intelligent than the women with whom he normally consorted. He could not guess her thoughts and was secretly surprised at wanting to know them. Then, he remembered one piece of vital information he had yet to discover. “Apropos of my uncle’s plan to marry you all off, satisfy my curiosity, Miss Twinning. What do your sisters look like?”

This was the question she had been dreading. Caroline hesitated, searching for precisely the right words with which to get over the difficult ground. “Well, they’ve always been commonly held to be well to pass.”

Max noted the hesitation. He interpreted her careful phrasing to mean that the other three girls were no more than average. He nodded, having suspected as much, and allowed the subject to drop.

They rounded the lake and he slowed his team to a gentle trot. “As your guardian, I’ve made certain arrangements for your immediate future.” He noticed the grey eyes had flown to his face. “Firstly, I’ve opened Twyford House. Secondly, I’ve arranged for my aunt, Lady Benborough, to act as your chaperon for the Season. She’s very well-connected and will know exactly how everything should be managed. You may place complete confidence in her advice. You will remove from Grillon’s tomorrow. I’ll send my man, Wilson, to assist you in the move to Twyford House. He’ll call for you at two tomorrow. I presume that gives you enough time to pack?”

Caroline assumed the question to be rhetorical. She was stunned. He had not known they existed at nine this morning. How could he have organised all that since ten?

Thinking he may as well clear all the looming fences while he was about it, Max added, “As for funds, I presume your earlier arrangements still apply. However, should you need any further advances, as I now hold the purse-strings of your patrimonies, you may apply directly to me.”

His last statement succeeded in convincing Caroline that it would not be wise to underestimate this Duke. Despite having only since this morning to think about it, he had missed very little. And, as he held the purse-strings, he could call the tune. As she had foreseen, life as the wards of a man as masterful and domineering as the present Duke of Twyford was rapidly proving to be was definitely not going to be as unfettered as they had imagined would be the case with his vague and easily led uncle. There were, however, certain advantages in the changed circumstances and she, for one, could not find it in her to repine.

More people were appearing in the Park, strolling about the lawns sloping down to the river and gathering in small groups by the carriageway, laughing and chatting.

A man of slight stature, mincing along beside the carriage drive, looked up in startled recognition as they passed. He was attired in a bottle-green coat with the most amazing amount of frogging Caroline had ever seen. In place of a cravat, he seemed to be wearing a very large floppy bow around his neck. “Who on earth was that quiz?” she asked.

“That quiz, my dear ward, is none other than Walter Millington, one of the fops. In spite of his absurd clothes, he’s unexceptionable enough but he has a sharp tongue so it’s wise for young ladies to stay on his right side. Don’t laugh at him.”

Two old ladies in an ancient landau were staring at them with an intensity which in lesser persons would be considered rude.

Max did not wait to be asked. “And those are the Misses Berry. They’re as old as bedamned and know absolutely everyone. Kind souls. One’s entirely vague and the other’s sharp as needles.”

Caroline smiled. His potted histories were entertaining.

A few minutes later, the gates came into view and Max headed his team in that direction. Caroline saw a horseman pulled up by the carriage drive a little way ahead. His face clearly registered recognition of the Duke’s curricle and the figure driving it. Then his eyes passed to her and stopped. At five and twenty, Caroline had long grown used to the effect she had on men, particularly certain sorts of men. As they drew nearer, she saw that the gentleman was impeccably attired and had the same rakish air as the Duke. The rider held up a hand in greeting and she expected to feel the curricle slow. Instead, it flashed on, the Duke merely raising a hand in an answering salute.

Amused, Caroline asked, “And who, pray tell, was that?”

Max was thinking that keeping his friends in ignorance of Miss Twinning was going to prove impossible. Clearly, he would be well-advised to spend some time planning the details of this curious seduction, or he might find himself with rather more competition than he would wish. “That was Lord Ramsleigh.”

“A friend of yours?”

“Precisely.”

Caroline laughed at the repressive tone. The husky sound ran tingling along Max’s nerves. It flashed into his mind that Caroline Twinning seemed to understand a great deal more than one might expect from a woman with such a decidedly restricted past. He was prevented from studying her face by the demands of successfully negotiating their exit from the Park.

They were just swinging out into the traffic when an elegant barouche pulled up momentarily beside them, heading into the Park. The thin, middle-aged woman, with a severe, almost horsy countenance, who had been languidly lying against the silken cushions, took one look at the curricle and sat bolt upright. In her face, astonishment mingled freely with rampant curiosity. “Twyford!”

Max glanced down as both carriages started to move again. “My lady.” He nodded and then they were swallowed up in the traffic.

Glancing back, Caroline saw the elegant lady remonstrating with her coachman. She giggled. “Who was she?”

“That, my ward, was Sally, Lady Jersey. A name to remember. She is the most inveterate gossip in London. Hence her nickname of Silence. Despite that, she’s kindhearted enough. She’s one of the seven patronesses of Almack’s. You’ll have to get vouchers to attend but I doubt that will be a problem.”

They continued in companionable silence, threading their way through the busy streets. Max was occupied with imagining the consternation Lady Jersey’s sighting of them was going to cause. And there was Ramsleigh, too. A wicked smile hovered on his lips. He rather thought he was going to spend a decidedly amusing evening. It would be some days before news of his guardianship got around. Until then, he would enjoy the speculation. He was certain he would not enjoy the mirth of his friends when they discovered the truth.

“OOOH, CARO! Isn’t he magnificent?” Arabella’s round eyes, brilliant and bright, greeted Caroline as she entered their parlour.

“Did he agree to be our guardian?” asked the phlegmatic Sarah.

And, “Is he nice?” from the youngest, Lizzie.

All the important questions, thought Caroline with an affectionate smile, as she threw her bonnet aside and subsided into an armchair with a whisper of her stylish skirts. Her three half-sisters gathered around eagerly. She eyed them fondly. It would be hard to find three more attractive young ladies, even though she did say so herself. Twenty-year-old Sarah, with her dark brown hair and dramatically pale face, settling herself on one arm of her chair. Arabella on her other side, chestnut curls rioting around her heart-shaped and decidedly mischievous countenance, and Lizzie, the youngest and quietest of them all, curling up at her feet, her grey-brown eyes shining with the intentness of youth, the light dusting of freckles on the bridge of her nose persisting despite the ruthless application of Denmark lotion, crushed strawberries and every other remedy ever invented.

“Commonly held to be well to pass.” Caroline’s own words echoed in her ears. Her smile grew. “Well, my loves, it seems we are, incontrovertibly and without doubt, the Duke of Twyford’s wards.”

“When does he want to meet us?” asked Sarah, ever practical.

“Tomorrow afternoon. He’s opening up Twyford House and we’re to move in then. He resides at Delmere House, where I went this morning, so the properties will thus be preserved. His aunt, Lady Benborough, is to act as our chaperon—she’s apparently well-connected and willing to sponsor us. She’ll be there tomorrow.”

A stunned silence greeted her news. Then Arabella voiced the awe of all three. “Since ten this morning?”

Caroline’s eyes danced. She nodded.

Arabella drew a deep breath. “Is he…masterful?”

“Very!” replied Caroline. “But you’ll be caught out, my love, if you think to sharpen your claws on our guardian. He’s a deal too shrewd, and experienced besides.” Studying the pensive faces around her, she added. “Any flirtation between any of us and Max Rotherbridge would be doomed to failure. As his wards, we’re out of court, and he won’t stand any nonsense, I warn you.”

“Hmm.” Sarah stood and wandered to the windows before turning to face her. “So it’s as you suspected? He won’t be easy to manage?”

Caroline smiled at the thought and shook her head decisively. “I’m afraid, my dears, that any notions we may have had of setting the town alight while in the care of a complaisant guardian have died along with the last Duke.” One slim forefinger tapped her full lower lip thoughtfully. “However,” she continued, “provided we adhere to society’s rules and cause him no trouble, I doubt our new guardian will throw any rub in our way. We did come to London to find husbands, after all. And that,” she said forcefully, gazing at the three faces fixed on hers, “is, unless I miss my guess, precisely what His Grace intends us to do.”

“So he’s agreed to present us so we can find husbands?” asked Lizzie.

Again Caroline nodded. “I think it bothers him, to have four wards.” She smiled in reminiscence, then added, “And from what I’ve seen of the ton thus far, I suspect the present Duke as our protector may well be a distinct improvement over the previous incumbent. I doubt we’ll have to fight off the fortune-hunters.”

Some minutes ticked by in silence as they considered their new guardian. Then Caroline stood and shook out her skirts. She took a few steps into the room before turning to address her sisters.

“Tomorrow we’ll be collected at two and conveyed to Twyford House, which is in Mount Street.” She paused to let the implication of her phrasing sink in. “As you love me, you’ll dress demurely and behave with all due reticence. No playing off your tricks on the Duke.” She looked pointedly at Arabella, who grinned roguishly back. “Exactly so! I think, in the circumstances, we should make life as easy as possible for our new guardian. I feel sure he could have broken the guardianship if he had wished and can only be thankful he chose instead to honour his uncle’s obligations. But we shouldn’t try him too far.” She ended her motherly admonitions with a stern air, deceiving her sisters not at all.

As the other three heads came together, Caroline turned to gaze unseeingly out of the window. A bewitching smile curved her generous lips and a twinkle lit her grey-green eyes. Softly, she murmured to herself, “For I’ve a definite suspicion he’s going to find us very trying indeed!”

THUP, THUP, THUP. The tip of Lady Benborough’s thin cane beat a slow tattoo, muffled by the pile of the Aubusson carpet. She was pleasantly impatient, waiting with definite anticipation to see her new charges. Her sharp blue gaze had already taken in the state of the room, the perfectly organised furniture, everything tidy and in readiness. If she had not known it for fact, she would never have believed that, yesterday morn, Twyford House had been shut up, the knocker off the door, every piece of furniture shrouded in Holland covers. Wilson was priceless. There was even a bowl of early crocus on the side-table between the long windows. These stood open, giving access to the neat courtyard, flanked by flowerbeds bursting into colourful life. A marble fountain stood at its centre, a Grecian maiden pouring water never-endingly from an urn.

Her contemplation of the scene was interrupted by a peremptory knock on the street door. A moment later, she heard the deep tones of men’s voices and relaxed. Max. She would never get used to thinking of him as Twyford—she had barely become accustomed to him being Viscount Delmere. Max was essentially Max—he needed no title to distinguish him.

The object of her vagaries strode into the room. As always, his garments were faultless, his boots beyond compare. He bowed with effortless grace over her hand, his blue eyes, deeper in shade than her own but alive with the same intelligence, quizzing her. “A vast improvement, Aunt.”

It took a moment to realise he was referring to her latest wig, a newer version of the same style she had favoured for the past ten years. She was not sure whether she was pleased or insulted. She compromised and snorted. “Trying to turn me up pretty, heh?”

“I would never insult your intelligence so, ma’am,” he drawled, eyes wickedly laughing.

Lady Benborough suppressed an involuntary smile in response. The trouble with Max was that he was such a thorough-going rake that the techniques had flowed into all spheres of his life. He would undoubtedly flirt outrageously with his old nurse! Augusta Benborough snorted again. “Wilson’s left to get the girls. He should be back any minute. Provided they’re ready, that is.”

She watched as her nephew ran a cursory eye over the room before selecting a Hepplewhite chair and elegantly disposing his long length in it.

“I trust everything meets with your approval?”

She waved her hand to indicate the room. “Wilson’s been marvellous. I don’t know how he does it.”

“Neither do I,” admitted Wilson’s employer. “And the rest of the house?”

“The same,” she assured him, then continued, “I’ve been considering the matter of husbands for the chits. With that sort of money, I doubt we’ll have trouble even if they have spots and squint.”

Max merely inclined his head. “You may leave the fortune-hunters to me.”

Augusta nodded. It was one of the things she particularly appreciated about Max—one never needed to spell things out. The fact that the Twinning girls were his wards would certainly see them safe from the attentions of the less desirable elements. The new Duke of Twyford was a noted Corinthian and a crack shot.

“Provided they’re immediately presentable, I thought I might give a small party next week, to start the ball rolling. But if their wardrobes need attention, or they can’t dance, we’ll have to postpone it.”

Remembering Caroline Twinning’s stylish dress and her words on the matter, Max reassured her. “And I’d bet a monkey they can dance, too.” For some reason, he felt quite sure Caroline Twinning waltzed. It was the only dance he ever indulged in; he was firmly convinced that she waltzed.

Augusta was quite prepared to take Max’s word on such matters. If nothing else, his notorious career through the bedrooms and bordellos of England had left him with an unerring eye for all things feminine. “Next week, then,” she said. “Just a few of the more useful people and a smattering of the younger crowd.”

She looked up to find Max’s eye on her.

“I sincerely hope you don’t expect to see me at this event?”

“Good Lord, no! I want all attention on your wards, not on their guardian!”

Max smiled his lazy smile.

“If the girls are at all attractive, I see no problems at all in getting them settled. Who knows? One of them might snare Wolverton’s boy.”

“That milksop?” Max’s mind rebelled at the vision of the engaging Miss Twinning on the arm of the future Earl of Wolverton. Then he shrugged. After all, he had yet to meet the three younger girls. “Who knows?”

“Do you want me to keep a firm hand on the reins, give them a push if necessary or let them wander where they will?”

Max pondered the question, searching for the right words to frame his reply. “Keep your eye on the three younger girls. They’re likely to need some guidance. I haven’t sighted them yet, so they may need more than that. But, despite her advanced years, I doubt Miss Twinning will need any help at all.”

His aunt interpreted this reply to mean that Miss Twinning’s beauty, together with her sizeable fortune, would be sufficient to overcome the stigma of her years. The assessment was reassuring, coming as it did from her reprehensible nephew, whose knowledge was extensive in such matters. As her gaze rested on the powerful figure, negligently at ease in his chair, she reflected that it really was unfair he had inherited only the best from both his parents. The combination of virility, good looks and power of both mind and body was overwhelming; throw the titles in for good measure and it was no wonder Max Rotherbridge had been the target of so many matchmaking mamas throughout his adult life. But he had shown no sign whatever of succumbing to the demure attractions of any débutante. His preference was, always had been, for women of far more voluptuous charms. The litany of his past mistresses attested to his devotion to his ideal. They had all, every last one, been well-endowed. Hardly surprising, she mused. Max was tall, powerful and vigorous. She could not readily imagine any of the delicate debs satisfying his appetites. Her wandering mind dwelt on the subject of his latest affaire, aside, of course, from his current chère amie, an opera singer, so she had been told. Emma, Lady Mortland, was a widow of barely a year’s standing but she had returned to town determined, it seemed, to make up for time lost through her marriage to an ageing peer. If the on-dits were true, she had fallen rather heavily in Max’s lap. Looking at the strikingly handsome face of her nephew, Augusta grinned. Undoubtedly, Lady Mortland had set her cap at a Duchess’s tiara. Deluded woman! Max, for all his air of unconcern, was born to his position. There was no chance he would offer marriage to Emma or any of her ilk. He would certainly avail himself of their proffered charms. Then when he tired of them, he would dismiss them, generously rewarding those who had the sense to play the game with suitable grace, callously ignoring those who did not.

The sounds of arrival gradually filtered into the drawing-room. Max raised his head. A spurt of feminine chatter drifted clearly to their ears. Almost immediately, silence was restored. Then, the door opened and Millwade, the new butler, entered to announce, “Miss Twinning.”

Caroline walked through the door and advanced into the room, her sunny confidence cloaking her like bright sunshine. Max, who had risen, blinked and then strolled forward to take her hand. He bowed over it, smiling with conscious charm into her large eyes.

Caroline returned the smile, thoroughly conversant with its promise. While he was their guardian, she could afford to play his games. His strong fingers retained their clasp on her hand as he drew her forward to meet his aunt.

Augusta Benborough’s mouth had fallen open at first sight of her eldest charge. But by the time Caroline faced her, she had recovered her composure. No wonder Max had said she would need no help. Great heavens! The girl was…well, no sense in beating about the bush—she was devilishly attractive. Sensually so. Responding automatically to the introduction, Augusta recognised the amused comprehension in the large and friendly grey eyes. Imperceptibly, she relaxed.

“Your sisters?” asked Max.

“I left them in the hall. I thought perhaps…” Caroline’s words died on her lips as Max moved to the bell pull. Before she could gather her wits, Millwade was in the room, receiving his instructions. Bowing to the inevitable, Caroline closed her lips on her unspoken excuses. As she turned to Lady Benborough, her ladyship’s brows rose in mute question. Caroline smiled and, with a swish of her delicate skirts, sat beside Lady Benborough. “Just watch,” she whispered, her eyes dancing.

Augusta Benborough regarded her thoughtfully, then turned her attention to the door. As she did so, it opened again. First Sarah, then Arabella, then Lizzie Twinning entered the room.

A curious hiatus ensued as both Max Rotherbridge and his aunt, with more than fifty years of town bronze between them, stared in patent disbelief at their charges. The three girls stood unselfconsciously, poised and confident, and then swept curtsies, first to Max, then to her ladyship.

Caroline beckoned and they moved forward to be presented, to a speechless Max, who had not moved from his position beside his chair, and then to a flabbergasted Lady Benborough.

As they moved past him to make their curtsy to his aunt, Max recovered the use of his faculties. He closed his eyes. But when he opened them again, they were still there. He was not hallucinating. There they were: three of the loveliest lovelies he had ever set eyes on—four if you counted Miss Twinning. They were scene-stealers, every one—the sort of young women whose appearance suspended conversations, whose passage engendered rampant curiosity, aside from other, less nameable emotions, and whose departure left onlookers wondering what on earth they had been talking about before. All from the same stable, all under one roof. Nominally his. Incredible. And then the enormity, the mind-numbing, all-encompassing reality of his inheritance struck him. One glance into Miss Twinning’s grey eyes, brimming with mirth, told him she understood more than enough. His voice, lacking its customary strength and in a very odd register, came to his ears. “Impossible!”

His aunt Augusta collapsed laughing.