Regency Betrayal

The Rake to Ruin Her

The Rake to Redeem Her

Julia Justiss

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Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

The Rake to Ruin Her

About the Author

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

The Rake to Redeem Her

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Copyright

The Rake to Ruin Her

JULIA JUSTISS wrote her first ideas for Nancy Drew stories in her third-grade notebook and has been writing ever since. After publishing poetry in college she turned to novels. Her Regency historical romances have won or been placed in contests by the Romance Writers of America, Romantic Times magazine, National Readers’ Choice and the Daphne du Maurier Award. She lives with her husband in Texas. For news and contests visit www.juliajustiss.com.

Prologue

Vienna—January 1815

The distant sound of waltz music and a murmur of voices met his ear as Max Ransleigh exited the anteroom. Quickly he paced toward the dark-haired woman standing in the shadowy alcove at the far end of the hallway.

Hoping he wouldn’t find on her more marks of her cousin’s abuse, he said, ‘What is it? He hasn’t struck you again, has he? I fear I cannot stay; Lord Wellington should arrive in the Green Salon at any moment and he despises tardiness. I would not have come at all, had your note not sounded most urgent.’

‘Yes, you’d told me you were to rendezvous there; that’s how I knew where to find you,’ she replied. The soft, slightly French lilt of her words was charming, as always. Lovely dark eyes, whose hint of sadness had aroused his protective instincts from the first, searched his face.

‘You’ve been so kind. I appreciate it more than I can say. It’s just that Thierry told me to obtain new clasps for his uniform coat for the reception tomorrow and I haven’t any idea where to find them. And if I fail to satisfy my cousin’s demands …’ Her voice trailed off and she shivered. ‘Forgive me for disturbing you with my little problem.’

Disgust and a cold anger coiled within him at the idea of a man—nay, a diplomat—who would vent his pique on the slight, gentle woman beside him. He must find some excuse to challenge Thierry St Arnaud to a boxing match and show him what it was like to be pummelled.

Glancing over his shoulder toward the door of the Green Salon, the urgent need to leave an itch in his shoulder blades, he tried not to let impatience creep into his voice. ‘You mustn’t worry. I won’t be able to escort you until morning, but there’s a suitable shop not far. Now, I regret to be so unchivalrous, but I must get back.’

As he bowed and turned away, she caught at his sleeve. ‘Please, just a moment longer! Simply being near you makes me feel braver.’

Max felt a swell of satisfaction at her confidence, along with the pity that always rose in him at her predicament. All his life, as the privileged younger son of an earl, others had begged favours of him; this poor widow asked for so little.

He bent to kiss her hand. ‘I’m only glad to help. But Wellington will have my hide if I keep him waiting, especially with the meeting of plenipotentiary officials about to convene.’

‘No, it wouldn’t do for an aspiring diplomat to fall afoul of the great Wellington.’ She opened her lips as if to add something else, then closed them. Tears welled in her eyes. ‘I’m so sorry.’

Puzzled, he was about to ask her why when a pistol blast shattered the quiet.

Thrusting her behind him, Max pivoted toward the sound. His soldier’s ear told him it had come from within the Green Salon.

Where Wellington should now be.

Assassins?

‘Stay here in the shadows until I return!’ he ordered over his shoulder as he set off at a run, dread chilling his heart.

Within the Green Salon, he found chairs overturned, a case of papers scattered about and the room overhung by the smell of black powder and a haze of smoke.

‘Wellington! Where is he?’ he barked at a corporal, who with two other soldiers was attempting to right the disorder.

‘Whisked out of the back door by an aide,’ the soldier answered.

‘Is he unharmed?’

‘Yes, I think so. Old Hookey was by the fireplace, snapping at the staff about where you’d got to. If he had not looked up when the door was flung open, expecting you, and dodged left, the ball would have caught him in the chest.’

I knew where to find you …

Those French-accented words, the tears, her apologetic sadness slammed into Max’s gut. Surely the two events couldn’t be related?

But when he ran back into hallway, the dark-haired lady had disappeared.

Chapter One

Devon—Autumn 1815

‘Why don’t we just leave?’ Max Ransleigh suggested to his cousin Alastair as the two stood on the balcony overlooking the grand marble entry of Barton Abbey.

‘Dammit, we only just arrived,’ Alastair replied, exasperation in his tones. ‘Poor bastards.’ He waved towards the servants below them, who were struggling to heft in the baggage of several arriving guests. ‘Trunks are probably stuffed to the lids with gowns, shoes, bonnets and other fripperies, the better for the wearers to parade themselves before the prospective bidders. Makes me thirsty for a deep glass of brandy.’

‘If you’d bothered to write that you were coming home, we might have altered the date of the house party,’ a feminine voice behind them said reproachfully.

Max turned to find Mrs Grace Ransleigh, mistress of Barton Abbey and Alastair’s mother, standing behind them. ‘Sorry, Mama,’ Alastair said, leaning down to give the petite, dark-haired lady a hug. When he straightened, a flush coloured his handsome face; probably chagrin, Max thought, that Mrs Ransleigh had overhead his uncharitable remark. ‘You know I’m a terrible correspondent.’

‘A fact I find astonishing,’ his mother replied, retaining Alastair’s hands in a light grip, ‘when I recall that as a boy, you were seldom without a pen, jotting down some observation or other.’

A flash of something that looked like pain passed across his cousin’s face, so quickly Max wasn’t sure he’d actually seen it. ‘That was a long time ago, Mama.’

Sorrow softened her features. ‘Perhaps. But a mother never forgets. In any event, after all those years in the army, always throwing yourself into the most dangerous part of the action, I’m too delighted to have you safely home to quibble about the lack of notice—though I fear you will have to suffer through the house party. With the guests already arriving, I can hardly call it off now.’

Releasing her son’s hands with obvious reluctance, she turned to Max. ‘It’s good to see you, too, my dear Max.’

‘If I’d known you were entertaining innocents, Aunt Grace, I wouldn’t have agreed to meet Alastair here,’ Max assured her as he leaned down to kiss her cheek.

‘Nonsense,’ she said stoutly. ‘All you Ransleigh lads have run wild at Barton Abbey since you were scrubby schoolboys. You’ll always be welcome in my home, Max, no matter how … circumstances change.’

‘Then you are kinder than Papa,’ Max replied, trying for a light tone while his chest tightened with the familiar wash of anger, resentment and regret. Still, the cousins’ unexpected appearance must have been an unpleasant shock to a hostess about to convene a gathering of eligible young maidens and their prospective suitors—an event of which they’d been unaware until the butler warned them about it upon their arrival half an hour ago.

As he’d just assured his aunt, had Max known Barton Abbey would be sheltering unmarried young ladies on the prowl for husbands, he would have taken care to stay far away.

He’d best talk with his cousin and decide what to do. ‘Alastair, shall we get that glass of wine?’

‘There’s a full decanter in the library,’ Mrs Ransleigh said. ‘I’ll send Wendell up with some cold ham, cheese and biscuits. One thing that never changes—I’m sure you boys are famished.’

‘Bless you, Mama,’ Alastair told her with a grin, while Max added his thanks. As they bowed and turned to go, Mrs Ransleigh said hesitantly, ‘I don’t suppose you care to dine with the party?’

‘Amongst that virginal lot? Most assuredly not!’ Alastair retorted. ‘Even if we’d suddenly developed a taste for petticoat affairs, my respectable married sister would probably poison our wine were we to intrude our scandalous presence in the midst of her aspiring innocents. Come along, Max, before the smell of perfumed garments from those damned chests overcomes us.’

Thumping Max on the shoulder to set him in motion, Alastair paused to kiss his mother’s hand. ‘Tell the girls to visit us later, once their virginal guests are safely abed behind locked doors.’

Max followed his cousin down the hallway and into a large library comfortably furnished with well-worn leather chairs and a massive desk. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to leave?’ he asked again as he drew out a decanter and filled two glasses.

‘Devil’s teeth,’ Alastair growled, ‘this is my house. I’ll come and go when I wish, and my friends, too. Besides, you’ll enjoy seeing Mama and Jane and Felicity—for whom the ever-managing Jane arranged this gathering, Wendell told me. Jane thinks Lissa should have some experience with eligible men before she’s cast into the Marriage Mart next spring. Though she’s not angling to get Lissa riveted now, some of the attendees did bring offspring they’re trying to marry off, bless Wendell for warning us!’

Sighing, Alastair accepted a brimming glass. ‘You’d think my highly-publicized liaisons with actresses and dancers, combined with an utter lack of interest in respectable virgins, would be enough to put off matchmaking mamas. But as you well know, wealth and ancient lineage appear to trump notoriety and lack of inclination. However, with my equally notorious cousin to entertain,’ he inclined his head toward Max, ‘I have a perfect excuse to avoid the ladies. So, let’s drink to you,’ Alastair hoisted his glass, ‘for rescuing me not only from boredom, but from having to play the host at Jane’s hen party.’

‘To evading your duty as host,’ Max replied, raising his own glass. ‘Nice to know my ruined career is good for something,’ he added, bitterness in his tone.

‘A temporary setback only,’ Alastair said. ‘Sooner or later, the Foreign Office will sort out that business in Vienna.’

‘Maybe,’ Max said dubiously. He, too, had thought the matter might be resolved quickly … until he spoke with Papa. ‘There’s still the threat of a court-martial.’

‘After Hougoumont?’ Alastair snorted derisively. ‘Maybe if you’d defied orders and abandoned your unit before Waterloo, but no military jury is going to convict you for throwing yourself into the battle, instead of sitting back in England as instructed. Some of the Foot Guards who survived the fighting owe their lives to you and headquarters knows it. No,’ he concluded, ‘even Horse Guards, who are often ridiculously stiffrumped about disciplinary affairs, know better than to bring such a case to trial.’

‘I hope you’re right. As my father noted on the one occasion he deigned to speak with me, I’ve already sufficiently tarnished the family name.’

It wasn’t the worst of what the earl had said, Max thought, the memory of that recent interview still raw and stinging. He saw himself again, standing silent, offering no defence as the earl railed at him for embarrassing the family and complicating his job in the Lords, where he was struggling to sustain a coalition. Pronouncing Max a sore disappointment and a political liability, he’d banished him for the indefinite future from Ransleigh House in London and the family seat in Hampshire.

Max had left without even seeing his mother.

‘The earl still hasn’t come round?’ Alastair’s soft-voiced question brought him back to the present. After a glance at Max’s face, he sighed. ‘Almost as stubborn and rule-bound as Horse Guards, is my dear uncle. Are you positive you won’t allow me to speak to him on your behalf?’

‘You know arguing with Papa only hardens his views—and might induce him to extend his banishment to you, which would grieve both our mothers. No, it wouldn’t serve … though I appreciate your loyalty more than I can say—’ Max broke off and swallowed hard.

‘No need to say anything,’ Alastair replied, briskly refilling their glasses. ‘“Ransleigh Rogues together, for ever,”’ he quoted, holding his glass aloft.

‘“Ransleigh Rogues,”’ Max returned the salute, his heart lightening as he tried to recall exactly when Alastair had coined that motto. Probably over an illicit glass of smuggled brandy some time in their second Eton term after a disapproving master, having caned all four cousins for some now-forgotten infraction, first denounced them as the ‘Ransleigh Rogues.’

The name, quickly whispered around the college, had stuck to them, and they to each other, Max thought, smiling faintly. Through the fagging at Eton, the hazing at Oxford, then into the army to watch over Alastair when, after the girl he loved terminated their engagement in the most public and humiliating fashion imaginable, he’d joined the first cavalry unit that would take him, vowing to die gloriously in battle.

They’d stood by Max, too, after the failed assassination attempt at the Congress of Vienna. When he returned to London in disgrace, he’d found that, of all the government set that since his youth had encouraged and flattered the handsome, charming younger son of an earl, only his fellow Rogues still welcomed his company.

His life had turned literally overnight from the hectic busyness of an embassy post to a purposeless void, with only a succession of idle amusements to occupy his days. With the glorious diplomatic career he’d planned in ruins and his future uncertain, he didn’t want to think what rash acts he might have committed, had he not had the support of Alastair, Dom and Will.

‘I’m sure Aunt Grace would never say so, but having us turn up now must be rather awkward. Since we’re not in the market to buy the wares on display, why not go elsewhere? Your hunting box, perhaps?’

After taking another deep sip, Alastair shook his head. ‘Too early for that; ground’s not frozen yet. And I’d bet Mama’s more worried about the morals of her darlings than embarrassed by our presence. Turned out of your government post or not, you’re still an earl’s son—’

‘—currently exiled by his family—’

‘—who possesses enough charm to lure any one of Jane’s innocents out of her virtue, should you choose to.’

‘Why would I? I’d thought Lady Mary would make me a fine diplomat’s wife, but without a career, she no longer has any interest in me and I no longer have any interest in marriage.’ Max tried for a light tone, not wanting Alastair to guess how much the august Lady Mary’s defection, coming on the heels of his father’s dismissal, had wounded him.

‘I wish I could think of another place to go, at least until this damned house party concludes.’ With a frustrated jab, Alastair stoppered the brandy. ‘But I need to take care of some estate business and I don’t want to nip back to London just now, with the autumn theatre season in full swing. I wouldn’t put it past Desirée to track me down and create another scene, which would be entirely too much of a bore.’

‘Not satisfied with the emeralds you brought when you gave her her congé?’

Alastair sighed. ‘Perhaps it wasn’t wise to recommend that she save her histrionics for the stage. In any event, the longer I knew her, the more obvious her true, grasping nature became. She was good enough in the bedchamber and possessed of a mildly amusing wit, but, ultimately, she grew as tiresome as all the others.’

Alastair paused, his eyes losing focus as a hard expression settled over his face. Max knew that look; he’d seen it on Alastair’s countenance whenever women were mentioned ever since the end of his ill-fated engagement. Silently damning once again the woman who’d caused his cousin such pain, Max knew better than to try to take him to task for his contemptuous dismissal of women.

He felt a wave of bitterness himself, recalling how easily he’d been lured in by a sad story convincingly recited by a pretty face.

If only he’d been content to save his heroics for the battlefield, instead of attempting to play knight errant! Max reflected with a wry grimace. Indeed, given what had transpired in Vienna, he was more than half-inclined to agree with his cousin that no woman, other than one who offered her talents for temporary purchase, was worth the trouble she inevitably caused.

‘I’ve no desire to return to London either,’ he said. ‘I’d have to avoid Papa and the government set, which means most of my former friends. Having spent a good deal of time and tact disentangling myself from the beauteous Mrs Harris, I’d prefer not to return to town until she’s entangled with someone else.’

‘Why don’t we hop over to Belgium and see how Dom’s progressing? Last I heard, Will was still there, looking after him.’ Alastair laughed. ‘Leave it to Will to find a way to stay on the Continent after the rest of us were shipped home! Though he claimed he only loitered in Brussels for the fat pickings to be made among all the diplomats and army men with more money than gaming sense.’

‘I don’t know that Dom would appreciate a visit. He was still pretty groggy with laudanum and pain from the amputation when I saw him last. After he came round enough to abuse me for fussing over him like a hen with one chick, he ordered me home to placate my father and the army board.’

‘Yes, he tried to send me away too, though I wasn’t about to budge until I was sure he wasn’t going to stick his spoon in the wall.’ Setting his jaw, Alastair looked away. ‘I was the one who dragged the rest of you into the army. I don’t think I could have borne it if you hadn’t all made it through.’

‘You hardly “dragged” us,’ Max objected. ‘Just about all our friends from Oxford ended up in the war, in one capacity or another.’

‘Still, I won’t feel completely at ease until Dom makes it home and … adjusts to life again.’ With one arm missing and half his face ruined by a sabre slash, both knew the cousin who’d always been known as ‘Dandy Dominick’, the handsomest man in the regiment, would face a daunting recovery. ‘We could go and cheer him up.’

‘To be frank, I think it would be best to leave him alone for a while. When life as you’ve always known it shatters before your eyes, it requires some contemplation to figure out how to rearrange the shards.’ Max gave a short laugh. ‘Though I’ve had months and am still at loose ends. You have your land to manage, but for me—’ Max waved his hand in a gesture of frustration. ‘The delightful Mrs Harris was charming enough, but I wish I might find some new career that didn’t depend on my father’s good will. Unfortunately, all I ever aspired to was the diplomatic corps, a field now closed to me. I rather doubt, with my sullied reputation, they’d have me in the church, even if I claimed to have received a sudden calling.’

‘Father Max, the darling of every actress from Drury Lane to the Theatre Royal?’ Alastair grinned and shook his head. ‘No, I can’t see that!’

‘Perhaps I’ll join John Company and set out for India to make my fortune. Become a clerk. Get eaten by tigers.’

‘I’d feel sorry for any tiger who attempted it,’ Alastair retorted. ‘If the Far East don’t appeal, why not stay with the army—and thumb your nose at your father?’

‘A satisfying notion, that,’ Max replied drily, ‘though the plan has a few flaws. Such as the fact that, despite my service at Waterloo, Lord Wellington hasn’t forgotten he was waiting for me when he was almost shot in Vienna.’ The continuing coldness of the man he’d once served and still revered cut even deeper than his father’s disapproval.

‘Well, you’re a natural leader and the smartest of the Rogues; something will come to you,’ Alastair said. ‘In the interim, while we remain at Barton Abbey, best watch your step. Mrs Harris was one thing, but you don’t want to get entangled with any of Jane’s eligible virgins.’

‘Certainly not! The one benefit of the débâcle in Vienna is that, with my brother to carry on the family name, I’m not compelled to marry. Heaven forbid I should get cornered by some devious matchmaker.’ And trapped into a marriage as cold as his parents’ arranged union, he thought with an inward shudder.

Picking up the decanter, Alastair poured them each another glass. ‘Here’s to confounding Uncle and living independently!’

‘As long as living independently doesn’t involve wedlock, I can drink to that,’ Max said and raised his glass.

Chapter Two

‘No, no, you foolish creature, shake out the folds before you hang it!’

Caroline Denby looked up from her comfortable seat on the sofa in one of Barton Abbey’s elegant guest bedchambers to see her stepmother snatch a spangled evening gown from the hapless maid and give it a practised shake.

‘Like this,’ Lady Denby said, handing the garment back before turning to her stepdaughter. ‘Caroline, dear, won’t you put that book away and supervise Dulcie with that trunk while I make sure this girl doesn’t get our evening dresses hopelessly wrinkled?’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ Caroline replied, setting down her book with regret. Already she was counting the hours until the end of this dreary house party so she might return to Denby Lodge and her horses. She hated to lose almost ten days’ training with the winter sales approaching. The Denby line her father had bred had earned a peerless reputation among the racing and army set, and she wasn’t about to let her stepmama’s single-minded efforts to marry her off get in the way of maintaining her father’s high standards.

Besides, while working in the fields and stables in a daily regimen as comfortable and familiar as her father’s old riding boots, she could still feel the late Sir Martin’s kindly presence, watching over her and the horses that had been his life. How she still missed him!

Sighing, she closed her book and dutifully cast her gaze over at Dulcie, who was currently lifting a layer of chemises, stays and stockings out of a silken rustle of tissue paper. She should be thankful she’d been delegated to supervise the undergarments and leave the gowns to her stepmother. At least she wouldn’t have to cast her eyes on them again until she was forced to wear one.

Better to appear in some hideously over-trimmed confection of unflattering colour, she reminded herself, than to end up engaged.

‘I’ll help with the unpacking, but afterwards, I intend to ride Sultan before the light fades.’ As her stepmother opened her lips, probably to argue, Caroline added, ‘Remember, you agreed that if I consented to come to Mrs Ransleigh’s cattle auction, I’d be allowed to ride every day.’

‘Caroline, please!’ Lady Denby protested, her face flushing. Leaning closer and lowering her voice, she said, ‘You mustn’t refer to the gathering in such terms! Especially …’ She angled her head toward the maids.

Caroline shrugged. ‘But that’s what it is. A few gentlemen in search of rich wives gathering to look over the candidates, evaluate their appearance and pedigree, and try to strike a bargain. Just as they do at cattle fairs, or when they come to buy Papa’s horses, though I suppose the females here will be spared an inspection of their teeth and limbs.’

‘Really, Caroline,’ her stepmother said reprovingly, ‘I must deplore your using such a vulgar analogy. Just as the ladies wish to ascertain the character of prospective suitors, gentlemen want to assure themselves that any lady to whom they offer matrimony possesses suitable background and breeding.’

‘And dowry,’ Caroline added.

Ignoring that comment, Lady Denby said, ‘Couldn’t you, for once, allow yourself to enjoy the attentions of some handsome young men? I know you don’t want to spend another Season in London!’

‘You also know I’m not interested in getting married,’ Caroline said with the weariness of long repetition. ‘Why don’t you forget about trying to lure me into wedlock and concentrate on making a match for Eugenia? My stepsister is beautiful and wealthy enough to snare any suitor she fancies, and she’s eager enough for both of us. Only think how much blunt you’d save, if you didn’t have to take her to town in the spring!’

‘Unlike you, Eugenia is eagerly anticipating her London Season. Besides which, though I don’t wish to be indelicate, you are … getting on in years. If you don’t marry soon, you will be considered quite on the shelf.’

‘Which would be quite all right with me,’ Caroline retorted. ‘Harry won’t care a fig for that, when he comes back.’

‘But, Caroline, India is such an unhealthy, heathenish place! Marauding maharajas and fevers and all manner of dangers. Difficult as it is to consider, you must acknowledge the possibility that Lieutenant Tremaine might not return.’ Lady Denby’s eyes widened, as if the notion had only just occurred to her. ‘Surely he wasn’t so heedless of propriety as to ask you to wait for him!’

‘No,’ Caroline admitted. ‘We have no formal understanding.’

‘I should think not! It would have been most improper, with him leaving for Calcutta while everything was still in such an uproar after your papa’s … demise. Now, I understand you’ve known Harry Tremaine for ever and are comfortable with him, but if you would but give the notion a chance, I’m sure you could find some other gentleman equally … accommodating.’

Of her odd preferences for horses and hounds rather than gowns and needlework, Caroline silently filled in the unstated words. With Harry she’d had no need to conceal her unconventional and mannish interests, nor did she have to pretend a maidenly deference to his masculine opinions and decisions.

For her dearest childhood friend she might consider marrying and braving the Curse—though just thinking about the prospect sent an involuntary shudder through her. But she certainly wasn’t willing to risk her life for some lisping dandy who had his eyes on her dowry … or the Denby stud.

Unfortunately, she was wealthy enough that, despite her unconventional ways, there’d been no lack of aspirants to her hand during her aborted Season, before news of her father’s sudden illness had called them home. Caroline remained sceptical of how ‘accommodating’ any prospective husband might be, however, once he gained legal control over her person, property—and beloved horses. With the example of her now much-wiser and much-poorer widowed cousin Elizabeth to caution her, she had no intention of letting herself become dazzled by some rogue with designs on her wealth and property.

If she must marry, she’d wait to wed Harry, who knew her down to the ground and for whom she felt the same sort of deep, companionable love she’d felt for her father. Another pang of loss reverberated through her.

Gritting her teeth against it, she said, ‘In the five years since Harry joined the army, I’ve not found anyone I like as well.’

‘Well, you certainly can’t claim to have seriously looked! Not when you managed to talk your dear father, God rest his soul, out of taking you to London, or even attending the local assemblies, until I managed to convince him of the necessity last year. It’s just not … natural for a young lady to have no interest in marriage!’ Lady Denby burst out, not for the first time.

Before Caro could argue that point, her stepmother’s expression turned cajoling. ‘Come now, my dear, why not allow Mrs Ransleigh’s guests to become acquainted with you? It’s always possible you might meet a gentleman you could like well enough to marry. You know I have only your best interests at heart!’

The devil of it was Caroline knew the tenderhearted Lady Denby did want only the best for her, though what her stepmother considered ‘best’ bore little resemblance to what Caroline wanted for herself.

Her resolve weakening in the face of that lady’s genuine concern, Caroline gave her a hug. ‘I know you want me to be happy. But can you truly see me mistress of some ton gentleman’s town house or nursery? Striding about in breeches and boots rather than gowns and dancing slippers, stable straw in my braids and barn muck on my shoes? Nor do I possess your sweetness of character, which allows you to listen with every appearance of interest even to the most idiotic of gentlemen. I’m more likely to pronounce him a lackwit to his face, right in the middle of the drawing room.’

‘Fiddle,’ her stepmother replied, returning the hug. ‘You’re often a trifle … impatient with those who don’t possess your quickness of wit, but you’ve a kind heart for all that and would never be so rag-mannered. Besides, it was your papa’s dying wish that I see you married.’

When Caroline raised her eyebrows sceptically, Lady Denby said, ‘Truly, it was! Though I suppose it’s only natural of you to doubt it, since he made so little effort to push you towards matrimony while he was still with us. But I promise you, as he breathed his last, he urged me to help you find a good man who’d make you happy.’

Caroline smiled at her stepmother. ‘You brightened what turned out to be his last two years. Knowing how much you did, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that, at the end, he urged you to cajole me into wedlock.’

Lady Denby sighed. ‘We were very happy. I’ve always appreciated, by the way, how unselfish you were in not resenting me for marrying him, after it had been just the two of you for so long.’

Caroline laughed. ‘Oh, I resented you fiercely! I wished to be sullen and distant and spiteful, but your sweet nature and obvious concern for us both quite overwhelmed my ill humour.’

‘You’re not still concerned about that silly notion you call ‘the Curse’?’ Lady Denby enquired. ‘I grant you, childbirth poses a danger to every woman. But when one holds one’s first child in one’s arms, one knows the risk was well worth it! I want you to experience that joy, Caroline.’

‘I appreciate that,’ Caro said, refraining from pointing out again just how many of her female relations, including her own mama, had died trying to taste that bliss. Her stepmother, ever optimistic, chose to see their deaths as unfortunate chance. Caro did not believe it to be mere coincidence, but there was no point continuing to argue the matter with Lady Denby.

Her stepmother’s genuine concern for her future usually kept Caroline from resenting—too much—Lady Denby’s increasingly determined efforts to push her towards matrimony … as long as the discussion didn’t drag on too long. Time to end this now, before her patience, always in rather short supply when discussing this disagreeable topic, ran out altogether.

‘Enough, then. I promise I will view the company with an open mind. Now, I must change if I am to get that ride in before dinner.’ She gave Lady Denby an impish grin. ‘At least I’ll don a habit, instead of my usual breeches and boots.’

Caroline was chuckling at her stepmother’s shudder when suddenly the chamber door was thrown open. Caro’s stepsister, Eugenia, rushed in, her cheeks flushed a rosy pink and her golden curls tumbled.

‘Mama, I’ve heard the most alarming news! Indeed, I fear we may have to repack the trunks and depart immediately!’

‘Depart?’ Lady Denby echoed. With a warning look at Eugenia, she turned to the maids. ‘Thank you, girls; you may go now.’

After the servants filed out, she faced her daughter. ‘What calamity has befallen that would require us to leave when we’ve only just arrived? Has Mrs Ransleigh fallen ill?’

‘Oh, nothing of that sort! It seems that her son, Mr Alastair Ransleigh, just arrived here unexpectedly. Oh, Mama, he has the most dreadful reputation! Miss Claringdon says he always has an actress or high-flyer in keeping, or is carrying on a highly publicised affair with some scandalous matron! Sometimes both at once!’

‘And what would you know of high-flyers and scandalous matrons, Eugenia?’ Caro asked with a grin.

‘Well, nothing, of course,’ her stepsister replied, flushing. ‘Except what I learned from the gossip at school. I’m just relating what Miss Claringdon said. Her family is very well connected and she spent the entire Season in town last spring.’

‘Poor Mrs Ransleigh!’ Lady Denby said. ‘What an embarrassing development! She can hardly forbid her son to enter his own home.’

‘Yes, it’s quite a dilemma! She cannot send him away, but if any of us should encounter him … why, Miss Claringdon said merely being seen conversing with him is enough for a girl to be declared fast. How enormously vexing! I was so looking forward to becoming acquainted with some of the ladies and gentlemen that I shall meet again next Season in London. But I don’t want to remain and have my reputation tarnished before I’ve even begun.’ She sighed, a frown marring her perfect brow. ‘And that’s not all!’

‘Goodness, more bad news?’ Lady Denby asked.

‘I’m afraid so. Accompanying Mr Ransleigh is his cousin, the Honourable Mr Maximillian Ransleigh.’

‘Why is that a problem?’ Caro asked, dredging out of memory some of the details about the ton Lady Denby had drummed into her head during her short stay in London. ‘Isn’t he the Earl of Swynford’s younger son? Handsome, wealthy, destined for a great career in government?’

‘He was, but his circumstances now are sadly changed. Miss Claringdon told me all about it.’ Eugenia gave Caroline a sympathetic look. ‘It’s no wonder you didn’t hear about the scandal, Caro, with Sir Martin falling ill and you having to rush back home. Such a dreadful time for you both!’

‘What happened to Mr Ransleigh?’ Lady Denby asked.

‘“Magnificent Max”, they used to call him,’ Miss Claringdon said. ‘Society’s favourite, able to persuade any man and charm any lady. He’d served with distinction in the army and was sent to assist General Lord Wellington during the Congress of Vienna—the perfect assignment, everyone believed, for someone poised to begin a brilliant diplomatic career. But then came the affair with the mysterious woman and the attack on Lord Wellington, and Mr Ransleigh was sent home in disgrace.’

Caroline frowned, remembering now that Harry had told her before leaving for Calcutta how the English commander, then in charge of all the Allied occupation troops in Paris after Napoleon’s first abdication, had been forced to station a personal guard because of assassination threats. ‘How did it happen?’

‘Miss Claringdon didn’t know the details, only that he returned to London under a cloud. Then, if that wasn’t bad enough, when Napoleon escaped from Elba and headed to Paris, gathering an army as he marched, Mr Ransleigh disobeyed a direct order to remain in London until the Vienna matter was investigated and sailed to Belgium to rejoin his regiment.’

‘Did he fight at Waterloo?’ Caroline asked.

‘I suppose so. There’s still talk of a court-martial, though. In any event, Miss Claringdon says his father, the Earl of Swynford, was so incensed, he ordered his son out of the house! Lady Mary Langton, whom everyone thought he would marry, refused to see him, which ought to have been a vast good fortune for some other lucky female. Except that it’s now said that he has vowed never to marry and has been going about London with his cousin Alastair, always in the company of some actress or … or lady of easy virtue!’

A glimmer of a memory stirred in Caroline’s mind … Harry, talking about the ‘Ransleigh Rogues’, four cousins who’d been at school with him before they all joined the army and served in assorted regiments on the Peninsula. Brave, strapping lads who could always be found in the thick of the fight, Harry had described them approvingly.

‘Miss Claringdon was nearly in tears as she told me the story,’ Eugenia continued. ‘She’d quite thought to set her cap at him before he began making up to Lady Mary … but now, with him dead set against marriage and keeping such scandalous company, no well-bred maiden would dare associate with him.’

‘An earl’s son, too.’ Lady Denby sighed. ‘How vexing.’

‘Well, Mama, must we leave? Or do you think we can remain and avoid the Ransleigh gentlemen?’

For a moment, Lady Denby stared thoughtfully into the distance. ‘Mrs Ransleigh and her elder daughter, Lady Gilford, are both eminently respectable,’ she said at length. ‘In fact, Lady Gilford is the most influential young hostess in the ton. I’m sure they will talk privately with the gentlemen who, once the situation has been explained, will either take themselves off, or remain apart, so as not to compromise any of Mrs Ransleigh’s guests.’

‘So they don’t inadvertently ruin some young innocent before she even begins her Season?’ Caro asked, winking at Eugenia.

‘Exactly.’ Lady Denby nodded. ‘Though I’m convinced it will be handled thus, just to make certain, I shall go at once in search of Mrs Ransleigh and make enquiries.’

Caroline laughed. ‘Goodness, Stepmama, how are you to phrase such a question? “Excuse me, Mrs Ransleigh, I just wished to make sure your reprobate son and disgraceful nephew aren’t going to hang about, endangering the reputation of my innocent girls!”’

Eugenia gasped, while Lady Denby chuckled and batted Caroline on the arm. ‘To be sure, it will be more than a little awkward, but I’ll word my question a good deal more discreetly than that!’

‘Perhaps she will lock the gentlemen in the attic—or the wine cellar, so none of the young ladies are at risk of irretrievable ruin,’ Caroline said.

‘Caro, you jest, but it is a serious matter,’ Eugenia insisted, a worried frown on her face. ‘A girl’s whole future depends upon her character being thought above reproach! A ruined reputation is irretrievable, and I, for one, don’t find the discussion of so appalling a calamity amusing in the least … especially after Miss Claringdon told me Lady Melross arrived this afternoon.’

Lady Denby groaned. ‘The worst gossip-monger in the ton! What wretched luck! Well, you must both be extremely careful. Lady Melross can winkle out a scandal faster than a prize hound scents a fox. She’d like nothing better than to uncover some misdeed she can report back to her acquaintances in town.’

‘Very well,’ Caroline said, sobering at the sight of her stepmother’s agitation. ‘I shall behave myself.’

‘And I shall go and make discreet enquiries of our hostess,’ Lady Denby said. ‘Eugenia, let me escort you to your room, where you should remain until dinner, while I … acquaint myself with the arrangements.’

‘Please do, Mama. I shan’t stir a foot from my chamber until you tell me it is safe!’

‘You’d best make haste,’ Caroline said, anxious to see them out of the door before her stepmother recalled her intention to ride and forbade her to leave her room. She didn’t intend to let adherence to some silly society convention get in the way of riding the best horse she’d ever trained.

The two ladies safely dispatched, Caroline tugged the bell pull to summon Dulcie to help her into her habit. Extracting the garment from the wardrobe, she sighed as she thought of the much more comfortable breeches and boots she’d sneaked into her portmanteau. Though she was sensible enough not to don them when her hostess or the guests might be about, she did intend to wear them on her daily dawn rides.

Might she encounter one of the scandalous Ransleigh men this afternoon? If Mrs Ransleigh was going to banish them from the house, the stables were a likely place for them to retreat.

Despite Eugenia’s alarm, Caroline felt no apprehension about encountering either Alastair or Max Ransleigh. She doubted either would be so overcome by her charms that they’d try to ravish her in the hayloft. As for having her reputation ruined merely by chatting with them, Harry would consider that nonsense, and his was the only opinion besides her own that mattered to her.

A knock at the door heralded Dulcie’s arrival. Caroline hurried into her habit, anxious to be changed and gone before her stepmother finished her errand and returned, possibly to ban her from riding for the duration.

She didn’t slow her pace until she’d escaped the house and made it safely down the lane leading to the stables. Curious now, she looked about the grounds as she walked and peered around the paddock, but saw no sign of anyone besides the groom who had saddled Sultan for her.

She had enjoyed the ride tremendously, thrilled as always to order Sultan through his paces and receive his swift and obliging responses. As she turned him back towards the stables, she had to admit she was a bit disappointed she hadn’t caught so much as a glimpse of the infamous Ransleigh men.

It would be interesting to come face to face with a real rogue. Her stepmother, however, would be aghast if she were to converse with either of them, given their terrible reputations and the fact that Lady Melross was now in residence. Were that woman to observe her exchanging innocuous comments about the weather with either Mr Ransleigh, she’d probably find herself branded a loose woman by nightfall.

Although, Caroline thought with a grin as she guided Sultan back into the stable yard, being pronounced ‘ruined’ in the eyes of society might be positively advantageous, if it relieved her of having to suffer through another Season and made her unacceptable as a bride to anyone save Harry.

The idea struck her then, so audacious that her heart skipped a beat and her hands jerked on the reins, causing Sultan to toss his head. Soothing him with a murmur, she took a deep breath, her pulse accelerating. But outrageous as it was, the idea caught and would not be dislodged.

For the rest of the way back to the stables and from there to her chamber, she examined the idea from every angle. Stepmother would probably be appalled at first, but soon enough, she and Eugenia would be off to London, where Caro’s small scandal would be swiftly forgotten in the excitement and bustle of Eugenia’s first Season.

By the time she’d summoned Dulcie to help her change out of her habit into one of the unattractive dinner gowns, she’d made up her mind.

Now all she needed to do was track down one of the Ransleigh Rogues and convince him to ruin her.

Chapter Three

In the late afternoon three days later, Max Ransleigh lounged, book in hand, on a bench in the greenhouse, shaded from the setting sun by a bank of large potted palms, his nose tickled by the exotic scents of jasmine and citrus. Alastair had gone off to see about purchasing cows or hens or some such for the farms; armed with an agenda prepared by his aunt that detailed the daily activities of her guests, he’d chosen to spend his afternoon here, out of the way.

A now-familiar restlessness filled him. Not that he wished to participate in this petticoat assembly, but Max missed, and missed acutely, being involved in the active business of government. His entire life, he’d been bred to take part in and take charge at a busy round of political dinners, discussions and house parties. To move easily among the guests, soliciting the opinions of the gentlemen about topics of current interest, drawing out the ladies, setting the shy at ease, skilfully managing the garrulous. Leaving men and women, young or old, eloquent or tongue-tied, believing he’d found their conversation engrossing and believing him intelligent, attentive, masterful and charming.

Skills he might never need to exercise again.

Anguish and anger stirred again in his gut. Oblivious to the amber beauties of the sunset, he stared at the narrow iron framework of the glasshouse. Somehow, somewhere, he had to find a new and worthwhile endeavour to which he could devote his energy.

So abstracted was he, it was several minutes before he noticed the muffled pad of approaching footsteps. Expecting to see Alastair, he pasted on a smile and turned towards the sound.

The vision confronting him made the jocular words of greeting die on his lips.

Instead of his cousin, a young woman halted before him, garbed in a puce evening gown decorated with an eruption of lace ruffles, iridescent spangles and large knots of pink-silk roses wrapped in more lace and garnished with pearls. So over-trimmed and vulgar was the dress, it was some minutes before his affronted senses recovered enough for him to meet the female’s eyes, which were regarding him earnestly.

‘Mr Ransleigh?’ the lady enquired, dipping him a slight curtsy.

Only then did he remember, being young and female, she must be one of Aunt Grace’s guests and therefore should not be here with him. Especially unchaperoned, which a quick glance towards the door of the glasshouse revealed her to be.

‘Have you lost your way, miss?’ he asked, giving her the practised Max smile. ‘Take the leftmost path to the terrace; the French doors will lead you into the drawing room. Hurry, now; I’m sure your chaperon must be missing you.’

He made a little waving motion towards the door, wishing her on her way quickly before anyone could see them. But instead of turning around, she stepped closer.

‘No, I’m not looking for her, I’m looking for you and very elusive you’ve proven to be! It’s taken me three days to run you to ground.’

Max stirred uneasily. Normally, when attending a gathering such as this, he’d have taken care never to wander off alone to a location that screamed ‘illicit assignation’ as loudly as this secluded conservatory. He couldn’t imagine that he and Alastair had not been the topic of a good deal of gossip among the attendees—hadn’t the girl in the atrocious gown been warned to stay away from them?

Or perhaps she was looking for Alastair? Though he couldn’t imagine why a respectable maiden would agree to a clandestine rendezvous with as practised a rogue as his cousin—or why his cousin, whose tastes ran to sensual and sophisticated ladies well skilled in the game, would trouble himself to lead astray one of his mother’s virginal guests.

‘I’m sorry, miss, but I’m not who you are seeking. I’m Max Ransleigh and it would be thought highly inappropriate if anyone should discover you’d spoken alone with me. For your own good, I must insist that you depart imm—’

‘I know which Ransleigh you are, sir,’ the young woman interrupted. ‘That’s why I sought you out. I have a proposition for you. So to speak,’ she added, her cheeks pinking.

Max blinked at her, sure he could not have heard her properly. ‘A “proposition”?’ he repeated.

‘Yes. I’m Caroline Denby, by the way; my father was the late Sir Martin Denby, of Denby Stables.’

Thinking this bizarre meeting was getting even more bizarre, Max bowed. ‘Miss Denby. Yes, I’ve heard of your father’s excellent horses; my condolences on your loss. However, whatever it is you wish to say, perhaps Mrs Ransleigh could arrange a meeting later. Truly, it’s most imperative that you quit my presence immediately, lest you put your reputation at risk.’

‘But that’s exactly what I wish to do. Not just risk it, but ruin it. Irretrievably.’

Of all the things the lady might have said, that was perhaps the most unexpected. The glib, never-at-a-loss Max found himself speechless.

While he goggled at her, jaw dropped, she rushed on, ‘You see, the situation is rather complicated, but I don’t wish to marry. However, I have a large dowry, so any number of gentlemen want to marry me, and my stepmother believes, like most of the known world—’ her tone turned a bit aggrieved at this ‘—that marriage is the only natural state for a woman. But if I were to be found in a compromising situation with a man who then refused to marry me, I would be irretrievably ruined. My stepmother could no longer drag me about, trying to introduce me to prospective suitors, because no gentleman of honour would consider marrying me.’

Suddenly, in a blinding flash of comprehension, he understood her intentions in seeking him out. Chagrin and outrage held him momentarily motionless. Then, with a curt nod, he spat out, ‘Good day, Miss Denby’, turned on his heel and headed for the door.

She scurried after him and snagged his sleeve, halting his advance. ‘Please, Mr Ransleigh, won’t you hear me out? I know it’s outlandish, and perhaps insulting, but—’

‘Miss Denby, it is without doubt the most appalling, outlandish, insulting and crack-brained idea I’ve ever heard! Naturally, I shall say nothing of this, but if your doubtless long-suffering stepmother—who has my deepest sympathies, by the way—should ever learn of it, you’d be locked up on bread and water for a month!’

The incorrigible female merely grinned at him. ‘She is long suffering, the poor dear. Not that it would do her any good to lock me up, for I’d simply climb out of a window. You’ve already been outraged and insulted. Could you not allow me a few more moments to explain?’

He ought to refuse her unconditionally and beat a hasty exit. But the whole encounter was so unexpected and preposterous, he found himself as intrigued as he was affronted. For a moment, curiosity arm-wrestled prudence … and won.

‘Very well, Miss Denby, explain. But be brief about it.’

‘I realise it’s an … unusual request. As I said, I possess a substantial dowry and I’m already past the age when most well-dowered girls are married off. It wasn’t a problem while my father lived—’ sorrow briefly shadowed her brow ‘—for he never pressed me to marry. Indeed, we’ve worked together closely these last ten years, building the reputation of the Denby Stables. My only desire is to continue that work. But since Papa’s death, my stepmother has grown more and more insistent about getting me wed. Because of my dowry, she has no trouble coming up with candidates, even though I possess almost none of the attributes most gentleman expect in a wife. If I were ruined, the suitors would disappear, my stepmother would be forced to give up her efforts and I could remain where I wish to be, at Denby Lodge with my horses.’

‘Do you never want to marry?’ he asked, curious in spite of himself.

‘I do have a … particular friend, but he is in India with the army, and won’t return for some time.’

‘Wouldn’t this “particular friend” be incensed if he were to discover you’d been ruined?’

She waved a hand. ‘Harry wouldn’t mind. He says most society conventions are contrived and ridiculous.’

‘He might feel differently about something that sullied the honour of the woman he wished to marry,’ Max pointed out.

‘Oh, I’d have to explain, of course. But Harry and I have been the closest of friends since we were children. He’d understand that I only meant to … to save myself for him,’ she finished.

‘Let me see if I understand you correctly. You wish to be found in a compromising situation with me, then have me refuse to marry you, so you would be ruined, which would prevent any honourable gentleman but your friend Harry from ever seeking your hand in wedlock?’

She nodded approvingly, as if he’d just worked out a particularly difficult proof in geometry. ‘Exactly.’

‘First, Miss Denby, let me assure you that though the world may call me a rogue, I am still a gentleman. I do not ruin innocents. Besides, even if I were obliging enough to agree to this scheme, how could I be sure that in the ensuing uproar— and there would be considerable uproar, I promise you—that you would not change your mind and decide you had better wed me after all? Because—no offence meant to present company—I have no wish at all to marry.’

‘Nor do I—no offence meant either—wish to marry you. But no one can force us to marry.’

Leaving aside that dubious claim, he said, ‘If it’s ruination you seek, why did you not approach my cousin Alastair? His reputation is even more scandalous than mine.’

‘I considered him, but thought he wouldn’t suit. For one, it’s his mother’s house party and he wouldn’t wish to embarrass her. Second, I understand that since being disappointed in love, he’s held females in aversion, whereas you are said to genuinely like women. And finally, since your plans for your career were recently shattered, I thought perhaps you would understand what it is like to have your future dictated by the decisions of others, with little control over your own destiny.’

His eyes widened, for the observation struck home. Despite the impossible nature of her request, he felt a rush of sympathy for this young woman who’d lost the only advocate who could guarantee her the life she wanted, while everyone else was trying to force her into a role not of her choosing.

She must have seen the realisation in his eyes, for she said, ‘You do understand, don’t you? Despite the setback in your choice of career, you are a man; you can make new plans. But when a woman marries, everything she owns, even power over her very body, becomes the possession of her husband, who can sell it, game it away, or ruin it, as he pleases. You must admit, few gentlemen would permit their wives to run a horse-breeding farm. I don’t want to see Papa’s lifetime of work pass into the hands of a man who would forbid me to manage it, who might neglect, ruin—or even sell it! My horses! There’s no one I trust with Papa’s legacy, except for Harry. So … won’t you help me?’

The whole idea was outlandish, as she herself had admitted. He ought to refuse categorically and send her on her way … before someone discovered them and she was compromised in truth. But he hadn’t been so intrigued and amused for a very long time. ‘You’re in love with this Harry, I suppose?’

‘He’s my best friend,’ she said simply, her gaze resting on the glass panes behind them. ‘We’re comfortable together and we understand each other.’

‘What, no passionate declarations, or sighs, or sonnets to your eyebrows? I thought all females dreamt of that.’

She shrugged. ‘It might be lovely, I suppose. Or at least my stepsister, who always has her nose in a Minerva Press novel, says so. But I’m not a beauty like Eugenia, the sort of delicate, clinging female who inspires gentlemen to poetry. Harry will marry me when he gets back from India, but that’s no help now.’

‘Why don’t you just contact him about entering into an engagement?’

She sighed. ‘If I’d been thinking rationally at the time, I would have asked him to announce we were affianced before he left for India. But Papa had just died unexpectedly and I …’ her voice trembled for a moment ‘… I wasn’t myself. Not until weeks later, when my stepmother, fearing Harry might never return, began pressing me to marry, did I realise what Papa’s demise would mean to my work and my future. Meanwhile, Stepmama keeps trying to thrust me into society, hoping I will meet another gentleman I might be persuaded to marry. I shall not.’

‘I sympathise—’ and he truly did ‘—with your predicament, Miss Denby. But what of your family, your stepmother and stepsister? Do you not realise that if I were to agree to ruin you, the scandal would devastate them as well? Surely you wouldn’t wish to subject them to that.’

‘If we were discovered embracing in the garden at a London ball during the height of the Season and refused to marry, it might embarrass Stepmother and Eugenia,’ she allowed. ‘But I can’t believe anything that happens here would even be remembered by the time next Season begins. In any event, Eugenia’s a Whitman, not a Denby, so there’ll be no contagion of blood and her dowry is handsome enough to make gentlemen overlook her unfortunate connection of a stepsister. By next Season, any stain on your honour for not marrying a girl you were thought to have compromised would have faded also.’

Max shook his head. ‘I’m afraid you don’t know society at all. So, though I am, ah, honoured that you considered me for your … unusual proposal—’

She chuckled, that unexpected reaction throwing him off the polite farewell he’d been about to utter.

‘It’s rather obvious you were not “honoured”,’ she retorted. ‘But speaking of honour, did you serve with the Foot Guards at Waterloo?’

‘Yes, in a Light Guard unit,’ he replied, wondering where she meant to go now with the conversation.

‘Then you were at Hougoumont,’ she said, nodding. ‘The courage and valour of the warriors who survived that engagement will have earned you many admirers. Once most of the army returns home, you will have supporters aplenty to champion your cause. If you cannot be a diplomat, why not rejoin the service? But while you are lounging about, being naught but a rogue, why not do something useful and rescue me?’

‘Rescue you by ruining you?’ he summarised wryly, shaking his head. ‘What an extraordinary notion.’ But even as the words left his lips, he recalled how he’d told Alastair earlier that he’d be glad if his aborted career were good for something.

Despite the dreadful dress, Miss Denby was an appealing chit, perhaps the most unusual female he’d ever encountered. Spirited and resourceful, too, both factors that tempted him to grant her request, no matter how imprudent. Because despite what she seemed to believe, compromising her would cause an uproar and he would be honour-bound to marry her.

A realisation that should speed him into giving her a firm refusal and sending her away. But as his thoughtful gaze travelled from her hopeful face downwards, he suddenly discovered the hideous dress’s one redeeming feature.

Miss Denby might be a most unusual young woman, but the full, finely rounded bosom revealed by the low-cut bodice of her evening gown was lushly female.

His senses sprang to the alert, flooding his body with sensation and filling his mind with images of ruining her … the scent of orange trees and jasmine washing over them as he tasted her lips … caressing the full breasts straining at her bodice, rubbing his thumb over the pebbled nipples while she moaned with pleasure …

He jerked his thoughts to a halt and his gaze back to her face. She might be startlingly plain-spoken, but she was unquestionably an innocent. Did she have any idea what she was asking, wanting him to compromise her?

Instead of bidding her goodbye, he found himself saying, ‘Miss Denby, do you know what you must do to be ruined?’

Confirming his assessment of her inexperience, she blushed. ‘Being found alone in a compromising position should be enough. You being a gentleman of the world, I thought you would know how to manage that part. As long as you don’t go far enough to get me with child.’

For an instant, he was again speechless. ‘Have you no maidenly sensibility?’ he asked at last.

‘None,’ she replied cheerfully. ‘Mama died giving birth to me. I was my father’s only child and he treated me like the son he never had. I’m more at home in breeches and topboots than in gowns.’ Catching a glimpse of herself reflected in the glass wall, she shuddered. ‘Especially gowns like this.’

He couldn’t help it; his gaze wandered back to that firm, rounded bosom. Despite the better judgement urging him to dismiss her before someone discovered them and the parson’s mousetrap snapped around him, a pesky thought started buzzing around in his mind like a persistent horsefly, telling him that compromising the voluptuous Miss Denby might almost be worth the trouble. ‘Some parts of the gown are quite attractive,’ he murmured.

He hadn’t really meant to say the words out loud, but she glanced over, her eyes following the direction of his gaze. Sighing, she clapped a hand over the exposed bosom. ‘Fiddle—I shall have to add a fichu to the neckline. As if the garment were not over-trimmed enough!’

The shadowed valley of décolletage just visible beneath her sheltering fingers was even more arousing than the unimpeded view, he thought, his heartrate notching upwards. Adding a fichu to mask that delectable view would be positively criminal.

Shaking his head to try to rid himself of temptation, he said, ‘Your speech is so forthright, I would have expected your dress to be … simpler. Did Lady Denby press the style upon you?’

She laughed again, a delightful, infectious sound that made him want to share her mirth. ‘Oh, no, Stepmama has excellent taste; she thinks the gown atrocious. But I put up such a fuss about being forced to waste time shopping, she let me purchase pretty much whatever I selected. Although I couldn’t manage to talk her into the yellow-green silk that made my skin look so sallow.’

The realisation struck with sudden clarity. ‘You are deliberately dressing to try to make yourself unattractive?’ he asked incredulously.

She gave him a look that said she thought his comment rather dim-witted. ‘Naturally. I told you I was trying to avoid matrimony, didn’t I? The dress is bad enough, but the spectacles are truly the crowning touch.’ Slanting him a mischievous glance, from her reticule she extracted a pair of spectacles, perched them on her nose and peered up at him.

Huge dark eyes stared at him, so enormously magnified he took an involuntary step backwards.

At his retreat, she burst out laughing. ‘They make me look like an insect under glass, don’t you think? Of course, Stepmama knows I don’t wear spectacles, so I can’t get away with them when she’s around, which is a shame, because they are wondrous effective. All but the most determined fortune hunters quail at the sight of a girl in a hideously over-trimmed dress wearing enormous spectacles. I shall have to remember about the fichu, however. The spectacles can’t do their job properly if gentlemen are staring at my bosom.’

Especially when the bosom was as tempting as hers, Max thought. Still, the whole idea was so ridiculous he had to laugh, too. ‘Do you really need to frighten away the gentlemen?’

Probably hearing the scepticism in his tone, she coloured a bit. ‘Yes,’ she said bluntly, ‘although I assure you, I realise it has nothing at all to do with the attractions of my person. Papa’s baronetcy is old, the whole family is excessively well-connected and my dowry is handsome. As an earl’s son, do you not need stratagems to protect yourself from matchmaking mamas and their scheming daughters?’

She had him there. ‘I do,’ he acknowledged.

‘So you understand.’

‘Yes. None the less,’ he continued with genuine regret, ‘I’m afraid I can’t reconcile it with my conscience to ruin you.’

‘Are you certain? It would mean everything to me and I’d be in your debt for ever.’

Her appeal touched his chivalrous instincts—the same ones that had got him into trouble in Vienna. Surely that experience had cured him for ever of offering gallantry to barely known females?

Despite his wariness, he found himself liking her. The sheer outrageousness of her proposal, her frank speech, disarming candour and devious mind all appealed to him.

Still, he had no intention of getting himself leg-shackled to some chit with whom he had nothing in common but a shared sympathy for their inability to pursue their preferred paths in life. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Denby. But I can’t.’

As if she hadn’t heard—or couldn’t accept—his refusal, she continued to stare at him with that ardent, hopeful expression. Without the ugly spectacles to render them grotesque, he saw that her eyes were the velvety brown of rich chocolate, illumined at the centre with kaleidoscope flecks of iridescent gold. A scattering of freckles dusted the fair skin of her nose and cheeks, testament to an active outdoor life spent riding her father’s horses. The dusky curls peeping out from under an elaborate cap of virulent purple velvet glowed auburn in the fading light of the autumn sunset.

Miss Denby’s ugly puce ‘disguise’ was very effective, he realised with a something of a shock. She was in fact quite a lovely young woman, older than he’d initially calculated, and far more attractive than he’d thought upon first seeing her.

Which was even more reason not to destroy her future—or risk his own.

‘You are certain?’ she asked softly, interrupting his contemplation.

‘I regret having to be so disobliging, but … yes.’

For the first time, her energy seemed to flag. Her shoulders slumped; weariness shadowed her eyes and she sighed, so softly that Max felt, rather than heard, the breath of it touch his lips.

Those signs of discouragement sent a surge of regret through him, ridiculous as it was to regret not doing them both irreparable harm. But before he could commit the idiocy of reconsidering, she squared her shoulders like a trooper coming to attention and gave him a brisk nod. ‘Very well, I shan’t importune you any longer. Thank you for your time, Mr Ransleigh.’

‘It was my pleasure, Miss Denby,’ he said in perfect truth. As she turned to go, though it was none of his business, he found himself asking, ‘What will you do now?’

‘I shall have to think of someone else, I suppose. Good day, Mr Ransleigh.’ After dipping a graceful curtsy to his bow, she walked out of the conservatory.

He listened to her footfalls recede, feeling again that curious sense of regret. Not at refusing her absurd request, of course, but he did wish he could have helped her.

What an unusual young woman she was! He could readily believe her father had treated her like a son. She had the straightforward manner of a man, with her frank, direct gaze and brisk pace. She took disappointment like a man, too. Once he’d made his decision final, she’d not tried to sway him. Nor had she employed anything from the usual womanly arsenal of tears, pouts or tantrums to try to persuade him.

He’d always prided himself on his perception. But so well did she play the overdressed spinster role, it had taken an unaccountably long time for him to realise that she was a potently alluring female.

She didn’t seem to realise that truth, though. In fact, it appeared she hadn’t the faintest idea that if she wished to tempt a man into ruining her, her most powerful weapons weren’t words, but that generous bosom and that kissable mouth.

Now, if she’d slipped into the conservatory and caught him unawares, still seated on the bench … pressed against him to whisper her request in his ear, leaning over to place those mounded treasures but a slight lift of his hand away … lowered her face in invitation … with the potent scent of jasmine washing over him, he’d probably have ended up kissing her senseless before he knew what he was doing.

At the thought, heat suffused him and his fingers tingled, as if they could already feel the softness of her skin. Damn, but it had been far too long since he’d last pleasured, and had been pleasured by, a lady. He reminded himself that he didn’t debauch innocents—even innocents who asked to be debauched.

If only she were not gently born and not so innocent. He could easily imagine whiling away the rest of his time at Barton Abbey with her in his bed, awakening to its full potential the passion he sensed in her, tutoring her in every delicious variety of lovemaking.

But she was gently born and marriage was too high a price to pay for a fortnight’s pleasure.

The ridiculousness of her request struck him again and he laughed out loud. What an outrageous chit! She’d made him smile and forget his own dissatisfaction, something no one had done for a very long time. He hoped she found a solution to her dilemma.

Her last remark echoed in his ears then, dashing the smile from his lips. Had she said she meant to try something else? Or someone else?

The last of his warm humour leached away as quickly as if he’d jumped into the icy depths of Alastair’s favourite fishing stream. Her proposal could be considered merely outlandish … if delivered to a gentleman of honour. But Max could think of any number of rogues who’d be delighted to take the luscious Miss Denby up on her offer … and would be deaf to any pleas that they halt the seduction to which she’d invited them short of ‘getting her with child’.

Were there any such rogues present at this gathering? Surely Jane and Aunt Grace would not have invited anyone who might take advantage of an innocent. He certainly hoped not, for he had no doubt, with the same single-minded directness she’d employed with him, Miss Denby would not flinch from making her preposterous offer to someone else.

He tried to tell himself that Miss Denby’s situation was not his concern and he should put her, enchanting bosom and all, from his mind. But despite the salutary lesson of Vienna, he found he couldn’t completely ignore a lady in distress.

Not that he meant to accept her offer, of course. But while he remained at Barton Abbey, shooting, fishing with Alastair, reading and contemplating his future, he could still keep an eye—from a safe distance—on Miss Caroline Denby.

Chapter Four

Still brooding over her failed interview with Mr Ransleigh, Caroline rose at the first faint light of dawn, quickly donned the hidden boots and breeches, and crept silently to the stables before the tweenies were up to light the fires. She encountered only one sleepy groom, rousted from his bed above the tack room when she went in to retrieve Sultan’s saddle.

After last night’s dinner, the guests had stayed up playing interminable rounds of cards, so she felt fairly assured they would all be abed late this morning. Her peep-of-dawn start should give her at least an extra hour to ride Sultan before prudence required her to slip back to the house and change into more acceptable clothing.

He flicked his ears and nickered at her as she entered the stables, then nosed in her pockets for his usual treat as she led him from his stall. She fed him the bit of apple, quickly saddled him and led him to the lane, then gave him his head. Eagerly the gelding set off at a gallop, the calming effects of which she needed even more than the horse.

For the next few moments, she gave herself over to the unequalled delight of bending low over the neck of the magnificent animal beneath her, heart, mind and soul attuned to his effort as the ground flew by beneath his pounding hooves.

All too soon, it was time to pull up. Crooning her approval, she schooled him to a cool-down walk while her attention, no longer distracted by the pleasure of riding, returned inexorably to her dilemma.

Unwise as it was, it seemed she’d pinned her hopes on the mad scheme of being ruined. She hadn’t realised until after he had turned her down just how much she’d been counting on coaxing Max Ransleigh to accept her offer and put an end to her matrimonial woes.

Though she had to admit to being a little relieved he had refused. Miss Claringdon had called him ‘charming’, but he exuded more than charm. Though she’d rather liked his keen wit, some prickly sense of awareness had flooded her as she’d stood under his gaze, some connection almost as real as a touch, that made her feel nervous and jittery as a colt eyeing his first bridle. When he’d asked her if she knew what he must do to compromise her, she’d blushed like a ninny, while visions of him drawing her close, covering her mouth with his, flashed through her mind. Thank heavens her garbled reply had made him laugh, but though the fraught moment had passed, she’d still felt his eyes examining her, heating her skin even as she walked away from him.

He certainly did not inspire her with the same ease and confidence Harry did.

Perhaps that’s why she’d remained so tense and sleepless last night, tossing and turning in her bed as she ran through her mind all the gentlemen present at the house party who might be possible alternatives to Max Ransleigh.

Only Mr Alastair’s reputation was scandalous enough to guarantee that being found in his presence would be enough to ruin her. She supposed she could try her luck with him, but she doubted he could be persuaded to throw his mother’s house party into an uproar by compromising one of her guests.

She could approach him back in London next spring. But though she was fairly confident ruining herself here wouldn’t create any long-lasting problems for her family, doing so at the height of the Season probably would, as Max Ransleigh had asserted. She certainly didn’t wish to repay the kindness Lady Denby and Eugenia had always shown her by spoiling in any way the Season that her stepsister anticipated so eagerly.

Which brought her back to the guests at this house party.

Unless she could work out some way to turn one of them to account, the future stretched before her like a grimly unpleasant repetition of her curtailed London Season: evening after evening of dinners, musicales, card parties, balls and routs, crowded about by men eager to relieve her of her fortune.

Was there any way she could avoid being dragged through all that? Maybe she should write to Harry after all, proposing a long-distance engagement. But would Lady Denby consider such an informally made offer binding?

By the time they reached the end of the field bordering the paddock, she was no closer to finding an answer to her problem. Thrusting it aside in disgust, she turned her attention back to putting Sultan through his paces.

If only, she thought as she commanded him to a trot, life could be schooled to such perfection as a fine horse.

Blinking sleep from his eyes, Max shouldered creel and rod and followed Alastair to the stables. His cousin, having learned from his factor in the village that the fish were running well in the river, had dragged him from his bed before first light so they might try their luck at snagging some trout.

They were tromping in companionable silence down the path leading to the river when Alastair suddenly halted. ‘By Jove, that’s the finest piece of horseflesh I’ve seen in a dog’s age, trotting there in the paddock,’ he declared, pointing in that direction. ‘Whose nag is it, do you know?’

Max peered into the distance, where a stable boy was guiding a showy bay hack in a series of high-stepping motions. His eyes widening in appreciation, he noted the horse’s deep chest, broad shoulders, glossy sheen of coat and steady, perfect rhythm. His interest piqued as well, he said, ‘I have no idea. The bay is a magnificent beast.’

‘That’s not one of our grooms, either. Horse must belong to one of Mama’s guests, who brought his own man to exercise it.’ Alastair laughed. ‘I might resent providing the food and drink these man-milliners consume while they loiter here, but an animal as magnificent as that is welcome to my largesse.’

‘Aunt Grace’s largesse, to be fair.’

‘Not that I truly begrudge Jane the expense of their party. I just wish the guests were less tedious and the timing not so inconvenient.’

At least one guest, Max thought, had not been ‘tedious’ in the least. He smiled as images of Miss Denby ran through his head: staring up at him with a grin, bug-eyed in her spectacles; the atrocious puce gown she’d employed to ‘disguise’ her loveliness; and ah, yes, the luscious breasts whose rounded tops enticed him above the low neckline of her dinner dress …

Desire rose in him, surprising in its intensity. Reminding himself that seducing Miss Denby was not a possibility, he thrust the memories of her from his mind and turned his attention back to the horse, now being put through several intricate manoeuvres.

Finally, the groom pulled up and leaned low over his mount’s head, probably murmuring well-deserved compliments in his ear. Straightening, the lad kicked him to a trot across the paddock towards the lane leading back to the stables.

‘I’d like a closer look at that horse,’ Alastair said. ‘If we cut back at the next crossing, we should reach the stable lane about the same time as the groom.’

Max nodding agreement, the two cousins set off. Confirming Alastair’s prediction, after hurrying down the path, they emerged from behind a stand of trees just as the rider trotted past.

Apparently startled by their unexpected appearance, the horse neighed and reared up. With expert ease, the lad controlled him.

‘Sorry to have frightened your mount,’ Alastair told him. ‘We’ve been admiring him from the other side of the paddock.’

Max was about to add his compliments when his assessing eyes moved from the horse to the rider. With a shock, he realised the ‘groom’ was in fact no groom at all, but Miss Caroline Denby.

Alastair, no sluggard where the feminine form was concerned, simultaneously reached the same conclusion. ‘Devil’s teeth! It’s a girl!’ he muttered to Max, even as he swept his hat off and bowed. ‘Good morning, miss. Magnificent horse you have there!’

Miss Denby’s alarmed gaze leapt from Alastair to Max. As recognition dawned in her eyes, her face flamed. ‘Stepmother is going to be furious,’ she murmured with a sigh. Apparently accepting that she’d been well and truly caught, she nodded to him. ‘Good morning, Mr Ransleigh.’

Alastair’s brows lifted as he looked enquiringly from Miss Denby back to Max, then gestured to him to perform the introductions. Bowing to the inevitable, Max said, ‘Miss Denby, may I present my cousin, your host, Mr Alastair Ransleigh.’

She made a rueful grimace. ‘I wish you wouldn’t. I thought surely I’d be able to return before anyone but the grooms were stirring. Couldn’t you just pretend you hadn’t seen me?’

‘Don’t fret, Miss Denby,’ Max said. ‘We’re not supposed to let you see us, either. Shall this unexpected encounter remain our secret?’

She smiled. ‘In that case, I shall be pleased to meet you, Mr Ransleigh.’

‘And I am absolutely charmed to meet you, Miss Denby,’ Alastair replied, his rogue’s eyes avidly roving her form.

Max restrained the strong desire to smack him. Hitherto he’d thought nothing could accentuate a lady’s body like a silk gown, preferably thin and cut low in the bosom. But though he’d be delighted to see Miss Denby garbed only in the sheerest of materials, there was no escaping the fact that, in male riding attire, she looked entirely delectable.

Tight-knit breeches hugged her slender thighs and the curve of her trim derrière upon the saddle, while riding boots outlined her shapely calves. Beneath her unbuttoned tweed jacket, her shirt, open at the top since she wore no cravat, revealed a swan’s curve of neck, kissable hollows at her throat and collarbones, and a lush fullness beneath that made his mouth water. Several lengths of the glossy dark hair she’d thrust up under her cap had tumbled down during the ride and lay in damp, tangled curls upon her face and neck—looking much as they might, he thought, if she were reclining against her pillows after a night of lovemaking.

The heated gleam in Alastair’s eyes said he was envisioning exactly the same scene, damn him.

‘Bargain or not, I’d best return immediately and get into more proper clothing,’ Miss Denby said, pulling Max from his lusty imagining. ‘Good day, gentlemen.’

‘Wait, Miss Denby,’ Alastair called. ‘There wasn’t a soul stirring when we left the house but a short time ago. Tarry with us a minute, please! I’d like to ask about your mount. You were training him, weren’t you?’

She’d been looking towards the stables, obviously anxious to be away, but at Alastair’s expression of interest, she turned back, her eyes brightening. ‘Yes. Sultan is the most promising of our four-year-olds. Father bred him, Cleveland Bay with some Arabian for stamina and Irish thoroughbred for strength in the bone. Easy-going, with wonderful paces. He’ll make a superior hunter or cavalry horse … although I’ve about decided I cannot part with him.’

‘Your father … you mean Sir Martin Denby, of the Denby Stud?’ Alastair asked. When she nodded, he said, ‘No wonder your mount is so impressive. Max, you remember Mannington brought several of Sir Martin’s horses to the Peninsula. Excellent mounts, all of them.’

‘Lord Mannington?’ Miss Denby echoed. ‘Ah, yes, I remember; he purchased Alladin and Percival. Geldings who are kin to Sultan here, having the same dam, but a sire with a bit more Arabian blood. I’m so pleased to know they performed well.’

‘Mannington said their stamina and speed saved his neck on several occasions,’ Alastair said. After giving her a second, more thorough appraisal, he said, ‘You seem very knowledgeable about your father’s operation.’

‘I’ve helped him with it since I mounted my first pony,’ she responded, pride in her voice. ‘In addition to training the foals, I kept the stud books and sales records, as Papa was more concerned with charting bloodlines than plotting numbers.’

Sympathy softened Alastair’s face. ‘You must miss him very much. My condolences on your loss.’ While, her lips tightening, she nodded a quick acknowledgement, Alastair said, ‘A sad loss for the stud as well. Who is running it now?’

‘I am,’ she replied, lifting her chin. ‘Papa involved me in every aspect of the business, from breeding the mares to weaning the foals to breaking the yearlings and beginning the training of the two-year-olds.’ Her chin notched higher. ‘Denby Stud is my life. But …’ she gestured toward the fishing gear looped across their shoulders ‘… I mustn’t keep you from the trout eager to sacrifice themselves to your lures.’

She turned her mount’s head towards the stable, then paused. ‘I can count on your discretion, I trust?’

‘Absolutely,’ Alastair assured her.

Giving them a quick nod, she touched her heels to the gelding and rode off. Alastair, Max noted with disgruntlement, was following the bounce of her shapely posterior against the saddle as closely as he was, devil take him.

After she disappeared around the curve in the lane, Alastair turned to Max, grinning. ‘Well, well, well. Don’t think I’ve ever seen you so silent around a female. Here I thought you’d been moping about, mourning your lost career. Instead, you’re been perfecting your credentials as a rogue, sneaking off to secret assignations with a tempting little morsel like that.’

Max struggled to keep his temper in check. ‘Let me remind you,’ he said stiffly, ‘that “morsel” is one of your mother’s guests and an innocent maid.’

‘Is she truly innocent?’ Alastair shook his head disbelievingly. ‘Lord have mercy, riding astride in breeches like that! I can’t believe I didn’t immediately realise she was female. Just shows how one doesn’t recognise what is right before one’s eyes when one’s not expecting it. Though she is an excellent rider: fine hands, great seat.’ With a chuckle, he added, ‘Wouldn’t mind having her in the saddle, those lovely long legs wrapped around me.’

A flash of fury surging through him, Max whacked his cousin with his fishing pole. ‘Stubble it! That’s a lady you’re insulting.’

‘Fancy her for yourself, do you?’ Alastair asked, unrepentant. ‘With her going about like that, her limbs and bottom outlined for any red-blooded man to ogle, it’s not my fault she evokes such thoughts. Nor are we the only ones watching.’ He pointed toward the opposite side of the field. ‘Some bloke over there is ogling her, too.’

His gaze following the direction of his cousin’s extended arm, Max squinted into the morning sunlight. ‘Who is it?’

‘How should I know? Probably another one of those damned macaroni merchants hanging about, measuring up the female flesh on display. Not a man’s man among them—petticoat-string dandies all,’ he concluded in disgust. ‘But this girl … she’s truly an innocent, you say?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘How do you know so much about her?’

Knowing he’d have to explain, but not wishing to reveal too much—certainly not her scandalous proposition—Max gave Alastair an abbreviated version of his meeting with Miss Denby in the conservatory.

‘Devil’s teeth, she’s a luscious armful in breeches. What a mistress she’d make!’ Alastair exclaimed, then waved Max to silence before he could deliver another rebuke. ‘Don’t get your cravat in a knot; I know there’s no chance of that. She is a “lady”, amazing as that seems to a man seeing her for the first time garbed like that. If marriage is her stepmother’s object, pulling it off is going to be difficult if word gets out of her offending the proprieties by riding about in boy’s dress. Though it would almost be worth wedlock, to get one’s hands on the Denby Stud.’

‘So she fears. She doesn’t want to marry, she said, and risk losing control over it.’

Alastair nodded. ‘I suppose I can understand. One wouldn’t wish to turn such a prime operation over to some hamfisted looby who couldn’t housebreak a puppy.’

‘How infuriating to see everything you’d worked on, worked for, the last ten years of your life given over to someone else. Ruined, perhaps, and you unable to do anything about it.’

Alastair gave him a searching look, as if he thought Max were speaking more about himself than Miss Denby. ‘Well, I wish her luck. She’s an odd lass, to be sure. But undeniably attractive, even without the inducement of the Denby Stud. Now, if we’re going to catch breakfast, we’d better be going.’ At that, Alastair kicked his mount into motion.

Lagging behind for a moment, Max studied the man across the field, who was now striding back toward the stables. He’d better find out who that was. And continue to keep an eye on Miss Denby.

Chapter Five

After a most satisfactory session at the stream, Max and Alastair returned the trout to the kitchen for Cook to turn into breakfast. While Alastair went on to change out of his fishing garb, Max hesitated by the door to his aunt’s room.

All during their mostly silent camaraderie at the river, rather than concentrate on fish, Max had thought about his aunt’s unusual guest. He’d had, he was forced to admit, to exercise some considerable discipline to keep his thoughts from turning from the serious matter of her situation and the man watching her to memories of her inviting gurgle of a laugh, that enticing bosom and the wonderfully suggestive up-and-down motion of her derrière on the saddle.

Making enquiries of Aunt Grace might seem odd, but while Alastair was otherwise occupied, he probably ought to risk it. If he discovered that the gentleman guests included none but paragons of honour and virtue, he could stop worrying about Miss Denby and dismiss her situation from his mind.

Decision made, he knocked and was bid to enter. ‘Max! This is a pleasant surprise!’ Mrs Ransleigh cried, her expression of mild curiosity warming to one of genuine pleasure. ‘Will you take chocolate with me, or some coffee? I confess, I do feel terrible, I’ve been so poor a hostess to you.’

‘Nonsense,’ he said, waving away her offer. ‘I’ll not stay long enough for coffee; we’re just back from the river, and I’m sure you’d as lief I not leave fish slime on your sofa. You know Alastair and I are quite able to keep ourselves well entertained.’

She flushed. ‘I do appreciate your … discretion. Even as I absolutely deplore the necessity for it! Is there truly no hope of your finding another diplomatic position?’

‘I have some ideas, but there’s no point initiating anything yet while Father is still so angry. You know he has the influence to block whatever I attempt, should he wish to.’

‘That’s so James!’ she cried. ‘Brilliant orator and skilled politician your father may be, but he can be so bull-headed and unreasonable sometimes, I’d like to shake him!’

Though he appreciated his aunt’s sympathy, he’d just as soon not dwell on the painful topic of his ruined prospects. ‘I didn’t stop by to talk about me,’ he parried. ‘How goes your party? Has Jane succeeded in leg-shackling any of the guests? Has Lissa found her ideal mate?’

‘Felicity is enjoying herself immensely, which is all I wished for her, since I have no desire to give her up to a husband just yet! Among the other guests, there are some promising developments, though it’s too early to tell yet whether they will result in engagements.’

Trying for a nonchalant tone, Max said, ‘I happened to encounter one of your young ladies. No, nothing scandalous about it,’ he assured her hastily before, her eyes widening in alarm, she could speak. ‘I met her briefly and by chance one afternoon in the conservatory, where she darted in, she told me, to escape some suitor. A most unusual young woman.’

Aunt Grace laughed. ‘Oh, dear! That must have been Miss Denby! Poor Diana—her stepmother, Lady Denby, an old friend of mine—is quite in despair over the girl. Perhaps you didn’t notice in your quick meeting, but the lady is rather … old.’

Were he pressed to describe what he’d noticed about Miss Denby during that first meeting, Max thought, ‘old’ would not be among the adjectives that came to mind. ‘I must confess, I didn’t notice,’ he replied in perfect truth.

‘She should have had her first Season years ago,’ his aunt continued. ‘But she was her widowed father’s only child. Now that I face having my last chick leave home, I can perfectly understand why he didn’t wish to lose her. She’s a great heiress, though, so Diana hasn’t given up hope yet of her making an acceptable match, even though at five-and-twenty she’s practically on the shelf.’

‘A doddering old age, to be sure.’

‘For a female of good birth and fortune to remain unwed at such an age is unusual,’ his aunt said reprovingly. ‘With her being practically an ape-leader, you’d think she’d be eager to wed, but apparently it’s quite the opposite! Though the poor dear seems intelligent enough, she’s terribly shy in company and possesses not a particle of conversation unrelated to hunting and horses. To make matters worse, though I hesitate to say something so uncharitable about a guest, her taste in clothing is atrocious. I expect, arbiter of fashion that you are, you did notice the dreadful gown.’

‘I did,’ he said drily. Though my attention focused more on the neckline than the trimming. ‘So, there is no one here who wishes to coax her into matrimony?

‘I had high hopes of Lord Stantson. A very knowledgeable horseman, he’s a mature man with a calm demeanour I thought might appeal to her.’ At Max’s raised eyebrow, she said, ‘Many young ladies prefer to entrust their future to the steady hand of an older gentleman, rather than risk all with such dashing young rakes as some I might mention! Mr Henshaw has also been pursuing her, though I have to admit,’ his aunt concluded, ‘she has given neither man any encouragement.’

Henshaw! That was the man who’d been watching her in the paddock this morning, Max realised.

Aunt Grace sighed. ‘Lady Denby is quite determined to get her settled before her own daughter Eugenia makes her début next spring. The poor girl’s chances for making a good match will diminish drastically if she must share her Season with her stepsister, for Eugenia Whitman is nearly as wealthy as Miss Denby and far outshines her in youth, wit and beauty.’

Miss Denby was hardly an antidote, Max thought, indignant on her behalf before he recalled the great pains she’d been taking to ensure she created just the sort of negative impression his aunt was describing.

‘If she seems so unwilling and unsuitable, I wonder that her stepmother keeps pushing her to wed. Why not let her remain at Denby Lodge, with her horses?’

‘Well, she must marry some time,’ Mrs Ransleigh said. ‘What else is she to do? And she’s very, very rich.’

‘Which explains the gentlemen’s pursuit of someone who gives them no encouragement.’ Max had been feeling more hopeful, but some niggle of memory made him frown.

Having spent so much time away with the army, he hadn’t visited London very often the last few years, but he vaguely recalled from his clubs the tattle that Henshaw was always pursuing some heiress or other. ‘Is Henshaw a fortune hunter?’

Aunt Grace coloured. ‘I should never describe him in such uncomplimentary terms. Mr Henshaw comes from a very good family and is perfectly respectable. If he wishes to marry a wealthy girl, such a desire is hardly unusual.’

Definitely a fortune hunter, Max concluded. ‘Anyone else angling for the reluctant Miss Denby?’

His aunt fixed him with an assessing look. ‘Did the young lady catch your interest?’

‘Does she look like a lady who would attract me?’ Max asked, feeling somehow guilty for disparaging a woman he admired even as he imbued his voice with the right note of disdain.

Fortunately, his previous flirts had always been acknowledged beauties, so the hopeful light in his aunt’s eyes died. ‘No,’ she admitted.

‘I merely found her amusingly unconventional.’

Aunt Grace laughed ruefully. ‘She is certainly that! Poor Lady Denby! One can only sympathise with her difficulties in trying to get the girl married.’

Having discovered what he’d come for, he’d best take his leave, before Aunt Grace tried to spin some matrimonial web around him. ‘I’ll leave you to your dresser and return to my breakfast, which Cook is now preparing.’

‘Go enjoy your fish, then. I’m so glad you stopped by. I do hope you’ll stay long enough that we can have a good visit, after all the guests leave. Felicity and Jane are eager to have more from you than a few hurried words.’

‘I would like that.’

‘Enjoy your day, then, my dear.’

Max kissed her hand. ‘Enjoy your guests.’

After bowing himself out, Max walked towards the study he and Alastair had turned into their private parlour, running over in his mind what he’d learned from Aunt Grace about Miss Denby.

So none but Stantson and Henshaw had set their sights on the heiress. If Aunt Grace believed both to be gentlemen, he had nothing to worry about. He might enquire and see what Alastair knew about the men, just to be sure, but unless his cousin disclosed something to their discredit, he had no reason to involve himself any further in the matter of her future.

Though, as he’d assured his aunt, the lady was nothing at all like the women who usually attracted him, he had to admit to a feeling of regret at the idea that he’d seen the last of Miss Denby, the only unusual member of what was otherwise a stultifyingly conventional gathering of females.

Several days later, while Alastair occupied himself in the estate office, Max repaired to his bench in the conservatory to while away the afternoon with some reading.

No sun gilded the tropical plants today, but the morning’s rain had left a soft mist dewing the grass, greying the greens of the trees, shrubs and vines. Within the warm, heated expanse of the glasshouse, the soft swish of swaying palms and ferns and the sweet exotic scent of citrus and jasmine were infinitely soothing.

Alastair had informed him the previous evening that he’d heard the colonel of Max’s former regiment had just returned from Paris. He’d recommended that Max speak with him about a position, sound advice Max meant to follow. The calm and beauty surrounding him here further lifted his spirits, filling him with the sense that much was still possible, if he were patient and persistent enough.

He was absorbed in his book when, some time later, a lavender scent tickled his nose. At the same moment, a soft ‘Oh!’ of surprise brought his head up, just in time to see Miss Denby halt abruptly a few yards away down the pathway.

A warm wave of anticipation suffused him, even as she hastily backed away. ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Ransleigh! I didn’t mean to disturb you!’

‘Then you didn’t come here to seek me out?’ he asked, his tone teasing.

‘Oh, no! I wouldn’t have intruded on your privacy, sir. Your cousin Miss Felicity, who has become great friends with my stepsister, Eugenia, told her you and Mr Alastair would be away all day.’

‘You truly are not pursuing me, then?’ He clapped a hand to his chest theatrically. ‘What a blow to my self-esteem.’

For an instant, her brow furrowed in concern, before her ear caught his ironic tone and she grinned. ‘I dare say your self-esteem can withstand the injury. But I told you I would not tease you and I meant it. I shall leave you to your book.’

It was only prudent that she leave at once … but he didn’t want her to, not just yet.

‘Since you’ve already interrupted my study, do stay for a moment, Miss Denby.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘For a chat that will become another of our little secrets?’

He grinned, pleased that she would joke with him. ‘Exactly.’ Come, sit.’

He motioned her to the bench … and found himself holding his breath, hoping she would come to him. Already his pulse had kicked up and all his senses sharpened, his body quickening at her nearness—which should have been warning enough that urging her to linger was not wise. He thrust the cautionary thought aside.

And then in a graceful swish of fabric, she sat down beside him. Max inhaled deeply as her faint lavender scent washed over him. It must be soap; he’d be astonished if she wore perfume. She was garbed against the misty chill in a cloak that covered her from head to toe, masking whatever hideous gown she’d selected along with, alas, that fine bosom. Even so, close up, he was able to drink in the fine texture of her face, the soft glow of her skin, the perfect shell of ear outlined by a mass of auburn-highlighted brown curls, tamed under her hat on this occasion. She tilted her face up to him and he lost himself in her extraordinary eyes, watching the golden centres shimmer within their dark-velvet depths.

Her lips, full and shapely, bore no trace of artificial gloss or colour. Would her mouth taste of wine, of apple, of mint?

Make conversation, he reminded himself, pulling back abruptly when he realised he’d been lowering his head toward their tempting surface. Devil’s teeth, why did this young woman of no outstanding beauty evoke such a strong response from him?

‘How goes your campaign?’ he managed.

She made a moue of distaste, curving back the ripe fullness of her mouth. He wanted to trace the twin dimples that flanked it with his tongue.

‘Not well, I’m afraid. As one might expect, all the men—the ones your aunt invited, in any event,’ she added, tossing him a mischievous glance, ‘are unmistakably gentlemen. I’ve considered each of them, but some are actively pursuing other ladies. Of the two pursuing me, neither is likely to refuse to marry, should I find some way to get myself compromised. Then there’s the inhibiting presence of Lady Melross, whom I suspect Lady Claringdon inveigled to be present just to ensure that if any gentleman coaxed a maiden to stroll with him where she shouldn’t, he’d be fairly caught—unless he was too dishonourable to do the proper thing and abandoned the girl to her ruin.’ She sighed. ‘Would that I might be!’

‘Lady Melross is a dreadful woman, who delights in spreading bad news,’ Max said feelingly. She’d been the first to trumpet the rumours of his disgrace, even before he reached London after leaving Vienna, then to whisper that his father had banished him. Though he knew she was zealous about reporting the failings of anyone of prominence whose missteps happened to reach her ears, it seemed to him she took a particularly malevolent interest in his affairs.

If he ever managed to secure a prominent position in government, hers would be the first name he would see struck from the invitation list at any function he attended.

Miss Denby drummed her fingers absently on the bench. ‘I wish I could marry my horse. He’s the most interesting male here, present company excepted, of course. Even if he has, ah, been deprived of the tools of his manhood.’

Surprised into a bark of laughter, Max shook his head. ‘You really do say the most outlandish things for a lady.’

She shrugged. ‘Because I’m not one, really. I wish I could convince all the pursing gentlemen of the fact that I’d make them a sadly deficient wife.’

With her seated there, tantalising his nose with her subtle lavender scent and his body by her nearness, Max thought that, for certain of a wife’s duties, she would do admirably.

Before his thoughts could stampede down that lane, he reined himself back to more proper conversational paths. ‘Still training your gelding every morning?’

‘Yes.’

‘In breeches and boots?’ A lovely image, that!

‘No more breeches and boots, alas; you and your cousin taught me to be more cautious. Though I still ride early, it’s getting more difficult to avoid company. Lord Stantson has been pressing me to let him ride with me of a morning, but thus far has honoured my wishes when I firmly decline. He’s a fine enough gentleman, but I’ve heard he came here specifically looking for a second wife. Since I’m not angling for the position, I’m trying to give him no encouragement.’

Wrinkling her nose in distaste, she continued, ‘Mr Henshaw, however, not only requires no encouragement, he positively refuses to be discouraged! He’s turned up each of the last two mornings, despite my continued insistence that I prefer to ride alone. How am I to train Sultan properly, with him interrupting us?’

For a moment, her eyes focused unseeing on the glasshouse wall and she shivered. ‘Though I was garbed in a stiflingly proper habit, he seems to be always staring at me. I don’t care for his expression when he does so, either—as if I were a favourite pudding he meant to devour.’

Max frowned. She might have worn a proper habit every day since that first one, but she hadn’t been the morning he’d seen Henshaw watching her. How close a look at her had the man got? Close enough to get an eyeful of the shapely form he and Alastair had so appreciated?

If so, Max could hardly fault any man for staring at her like a ‘pudding one meant to devour’. Which didn’t reduce one whit the strong desire rising in him to blacken both Henshaw’s eyes for making her feel uncomfortable.

‘He insisted on riding with me, despite the fact that I was quite obviously trying to work with Sultan,’ Miss Denby continued. ‘Honestly, he possesses terrible hands and the worst seat I’ve ever been forced to observe. I’ve taken to riding even earlier to avoid him.’

‘I’ve never seen him astride, only observed his … remarkably inventive dress. He must make his tailors very rich.’

She chuckled. ‘A man milliner indeed. One would think, with his exacting tastes in garments, sheer disgust over my atrocious gowns would be enough to dissuade him from pursuing me.’

She looked up at him, smiling faintly, those great dark eyes inviting him to share her amusement. Her lavender scent wrapped itself around him like a silken scarf, pulling him closer. He wanted to trace the scent to its origin, lick it from her neck and ears and the hollows of the collarbones he’d seen that day she’d ridden in an open-collared shirt and breeches.

As he gazed raptly, her dark eyes widened and her smile faded. She seemed as mesmerised as he, her lips parting slightly, giving him the tiniest glimpse of pink tongue within the warmth of her mouth.

Desire shot through him, pulsing in his veins, curling his fingers with the itch to cup her chin and taste her.

‘Well,’ she said, her voice a bit breathless, ‘I suppose I should leave you now, lest someone come by and see us. Unless …’ she smiled tremulously, brushing a curl back from her forehead as her cheeks pinked ‘… you’d like to … reconsider my proposition?’

Her cloak fell open at that movement. Beneath the fabric of another overtrimmed, pea-green gown, he saw the rapid rise and fall of her breasts as her breathing accelerated.

His certainly had. All over his body, things were accelerating and rising and pulsing. The need to kiss her, learn the taste of her mouth, the contour of her ears and shoulders and the hollow of her throat, thrummed in his blood. His gaze wandered back to the mesmerizing shimmer of gold in her eyes and halted.

In his head, that persistent fly of temptation buzzed louder, almost drowning out good sense.

Almost.

It took him a full minute to shoo it away and find his voice.

‘A tempting offer. But I fear I must still decline.’

Despite the words, he couldn’t make himself stand, bow, put an end to this interlude, as prudence demanded.

She, too, remained motionless, her eyes studying his, the current of attraction pulsing between them almost palpable. As he watched intently, the embarrassment she’d displayed upon repeating her offer changed to uncertainty and then, yes, he was certain, to desire. Confirming that assessment, slowly she leaned towards him and tilted her face up, bringing her lips tantalisingly close.

Max forced himself to remain motionless, while every nerve and sense screamed at him to lower his head and take her mouth. In some distant corner of his brain, honour and common sense was nattering that he should move away, end this before it began.

But he couldn’t. He would not cross that slight boundary and touch her first, but, shutting out the little voice insisting this was madness, he waited, aflame with anticipation, confident she would close the distance between them and kiss him.

Her eyelashes feathered shut. His eyes closed, too, as her warm breath washed over him, the first tentative wave from an incoming tide of pleasure.

Just as his eager body whispered ‘now, now’, she straightened abruptly and scooted backwards on the bench.

‘I—I should go,’ she said unsteadily.

Max shook his head, trying to drown out the buzzy little voice that urged him to lure her into remaining.

And he could do it; he knew he could.

Over the protest of every outraged sense, he wrestled his desire back under control. ‘That would be wisest … if not nearly so pleasant.’

‘Wisest … yes,’ she repeated and belatedly bobbed to her feet. ‘Thank you for the, ah, chat. Good day, Mr Ransleigh.’

He stood as well and bowed. ‘Good day, Miss Denby.’

Regretfully, while his body yammered and scolded at him like a disgruntled housewife cheated by a market vendor, he watched her retreat down the pathway. Just before turning the corner to exit the glasshouse, she halted.

Looking back over her shoulder, she said softly, in tones of wonder, ‘You tempt me too, you know.’

A surge of delight and pure masculine satisfaction blazed through him. Before he could reply, she turned and hurried out.

He jumped to his feet and paced after her. Fortunately, by the time he reached the door to the glasshouse, sanity had returned.

Good grief, if he couldn’t rein in his reaction to her, he’d better avoid her altogether, lest he find himself being quickstepped to the altar. Had he not committed idiocies enough for one lifetime?

So he made himself stand there, watching her trim figure retreat through the mist down the pathway back to the house. But as she took the turn leading to the drawing-room terrace, a man stepped out.

Henshaw.

Max gritted his teeth. Frowning, he watched the exchange, too far away to hear their voices, as Henshaw bowed to Miss Denby’s curtsy. Offered his arm, which she declined with a shake of her head and a motion of her hand in the direction of the stables. Henshaw, giving a dismissive wave, offered his arm again, which, after a few more unintelligible words, she reluctantly accepted.

They’d just set off on the path to the house when Alastair came striding up. Putting a hand to his forehead, he peered into the distance and declared, ‘That looks like the chap who was watching Miss Denby ride the other morning.’

‘It is. David Henshaw. Do you know him?’

‘Ah, yes, that’s why he looked familiar. He’s a member at Brooks’s. Too concerned with the cut of his coat and the style of his cravat for my taste. He the front runner for Miss Denby’s affections?’

‘Not if she has anything to say about it.’

‘Ah, had another little chat with the lady, did you? Sure you don’t fancy her for yourself?’

He made himself give Alastair a withering look. ‘Does she look like a woman I’d fancy?’ he drawled, feeling more uncomfortable about uttering the disparaging remark this time, after he’d practically devoured her on the greenhouse bench, than when he’d been trying to throw Aunt Grace off the scent.

‘Not in your usual style,’ Alastair allowed, ‘but there is something about her. Devilishly arousing in her own way … like when riding astride in breeches! What a shame she’s an innocent; don’t forget, my friend, that the price for tasting that morsel is marriage.’

‘So I keep reminding myself,’ Max muttered, grimly aware that the moment she’d sat down beside him, his instincts for self-preservation had gone missing.

‘I’m not surprised Henshaw is on the scent,’ Alastair continued. ‘The latest word at the London clubs was he’s run so far into debt, he can’t even go back to his town house for fear of meeting the bailiffs. The Denby girl’s fat dowry would put all his financial problems to rest.’

Max had never given much thought to the fact that a husband gained control over all his wife’s wealth, but after hearing Miss Denby lament the fact, such an arrangement now struck him as little short of robbery. ‘Doesn’t seem quite sporting that he could float himself down River Tick and then use her money to paddle out of danger.’

Alastair shrugged. ‘It’s done all the time.’

The fact that it was didn’t make it any more palatable, Max thought. ‘Does Aunt Grace know about Henshaw’s current monetary difficulties?’

‘I don’t know. But he’s been angling to marry a fortune ever since he came up from Cambridge, so there’s nothing new about it, except perhaps the degree of urgency. Come now, enough about Henshaw. The man’s a pretentious, ill-dressed bore. How about a game of billiards before dinner? If any guests approach the room, I’ll have Wendell scare them off.’

Absently Max agreed, but as they walked back to the house, he couldn’t get out of his mind the image of Henshaw compelling Miss Denby to take his arm.

Were Henshaw’s circumstances difficult enough that he’d be willing to coerce an heiress into matrimony?

Most likely, he was letting his dislike for the dandified Henshaw colour his perceptions. The man was a gentleman of good family and Aunt Grace would never have invited him if there were any doubt about his integrity.

However, just to be safe, he’d ride out early tomorrow and warn Miss Denby to be on her guard with him.

Feeling better about the matter, he followed his cousin into the house and focused his mind on the best strategy for beating Alastair for the third evening in a row.

Chapter Six

The next morning, Max rose before dawn and headed to the stables before even a glimmer of dawn lightened the treeline, determined not to risk missing Miss Denby. But though he trotted his mount up and down the stable lane for so long that the grooms must have wondered what in the world he was doing, she did not appear.

Perhaps she was being prudent, abstaining from her morning ride so as not to be pounced upon by Henshaw. Alastair had told him over billiards the previous evening that his mother said the party was wrapping up; Jane had boasted to him of its successes, two matrons having managed to get offers for their daughters. Felicity, she added, had made a great new friend of Miss Denby’s stepsister, Eugenia Whitman, and was giddy about the prospect of sharing her upcoming Season with the girl.

The same Miss Whitman who, his Aunt Grace had informed him, ‘far outshines her stepsister in youth, wit and beauty’. Max still resented that comment on Miss Denby’s behalf.

In any event, it appeared she would soon be relieved of Mr Henshaw’s pursuit, Max concluded, turning his probably puzzled mount to the stable and returning to the house. But what of next spring? Would she, as she feared, have to suffer through another Season, dragged off to participate in a round of social activities for which she had no inclination, forced to neglect her beloved horses?

What a shame her childhood beau Harry was so far away. She deserved to marry a man who appreciated her unique talents and interests, who supported rather than discouraged her desire to carry on her father’s legacy.

He toyed with the idea of trying to seek her out and bid her goodbye, but couldn’t come up with a way to do so that would not shock the gathering by revealing she was well acquainted with a man she wasn’t supposed to know. Perhaps, once he had his life sorted out, he could call on her in London, maybe even seek her out at Denby Lodge and purchase some of her horses.

With Alastair away on another of his lord-of-the-manor errands, Max fetched his book and headed for what might be his last afternoon hidden away at the conservatory. He’d rather miss the place, whose warm scented air and soothing palm murmurs he would probably never have discovered had he not been forced to vacate the house. With the guests soon departing, he and Alastair would have free run of the estate again.

He halted just inside the threshold of the glasshouse, inhaling the tangy-sweet scent of jasmine that seemed always to hang in the air, insubstantial as a whisper. He was about to proceed to his usual bench when a murmur of voices reached his ears, the words as indistinct as the gurgling of a brook over rocks.

He halted, trying to identify the speakers. Aunt Grace, conferring with the gardener? Or one of the affianced couples, stealing one last tryst before the party broke up?

In either case, his presence would be an impediment. He was silently retracing his steps when a feminine voice reached his ears, its increased volume making the words suddenly clear.

‘Mr Henshaw, I do appreciate the honour of your offer, but I’m absolutely convinced we will not suit!’

Miss Denby’s voice, Max realised, halting in mid-step. Had Henshaw tracked her there?

His first impulse was to set off in her direction, but she’d probably not thank him for interfering. Still, though he felt confident she could handle her disappointed suitor without his assistance, some deep-seated protective instinct made him linger.

After a masculine murmur whose words he could not make out, Miss Denby said, ‘No, I shall not change my mind. You must admit, sir, that I have tried in every possible way to discourage you, so my refusal can hardly come as a surprise. You will oblige me by leaving now.’

‘Waiting here for someone else, were you?’ Henshaw replied, his angry tones now comprehensible. ‘Max Ransleigh, perhaps? He’d never marry you. Despite his father’s banishment, he has money enough, and if he ever does wed, it will be a woman from a prominent society family. In any event, his taste runs to sophisticated beauties, which you, I’m forced to say, are not. Nor are you getting any younger. If you’ve any hopes at all of marrying, you’d better accept my offer.’

Why, the mercenary little weasel, Max thought, incensed. Only the certainty that Miss Denby would not appreciate having him witness this embarrassing scene kept him from setting off down the pathway to plant a fist squarely on the jaw of that overdressed excuse for a gentleman.

‘You’re quite correct,’ she was saying. ‘I possess none of the virtues and talents a gentleman looks for in a wife. As you so kindly noted, I’m hardly a beauty and am hopeless at making the sort of polite chat that makes up society conversation. Worst of all, I fear I have no fashion sense. You can do so much better, Mr Henshaw! Why not wait until the Season and find yourself a more suitable bride?’

Despite his ire, Max had to grin. Had any female ever so thoroughly disparaged herself to a prospective suitor?

‘I’m afraid, my dear, the press of creditors don’t allow me the luxury of waiting. Though admittedly you possess neither the style nor the talents I would wish for in a wife, you do have … a certain charm of person. And wealth, of which I’m in desperate need.’

No style? No talent? His mirth rapidly dissipating, Max reconsidered the prospect of cornering Henshaw, shaking him like a dog with a ferret and then tossing him out of the glasshouse like the refuse he was.

But alerting them to his presence would not only distress Miss Denby, it might give the thwarted suitor an opportunity to claim he’d caught Max and Miss Denby alone together. His self-protective instincts on full alert now that Miss Denby wasn’t within touching distance, Max didn’t want to risk that.

His decision not to intervene, however, wavered when he heard a sharp, cracking sound that could only be a slap.

‘Keep your hands to yourself,’ Miss Denby cried. ‘You followed me without my leave or encouragement. If you will not quit this place, then I will do so. Since I do not anticipate seeing you again before the party ends, I will say goodbye, Mr Henshaw.’

‘Not so hasty, my dear. It might not be an arrangement either of us want, but you will marry me.’

‘Let go of my arm! It’s useless for you to detain me, for I promise you, nothing on earth would ever induce me to marry you!’

‘I’d hoped you would consent willingly, but if you will not, you force me to employ … other measures. Before you leave this spot, you’ll be fit to be no one’s wife but mine.’

At that threat, Max abandoned discretion and set off at a run. If he hadn’t already been prepared to tear Henshaw limb from limb, the scuffling, panting sounds of a struggle that reached him as he rounded the last corner, followed by the unmistakable rip of fabric, had him ready to do murder.

Seconds later, he lunged over a potted fern to find Henshaw trying to pin a wildly struggling Miss Denby down on the bench, his free hand clawing up her skirts. As a clay pot fell over and shattered, Henshaw looked up, his hands stilling.

The smirk on his face and the lust in his eyes turned to surprise, then alarm as he recognised Max. But before Max could seize him, Miss Denby, taking advantage of Henshaw’s distraction, kneed him in the groin, then caught him full on the nose with a roundhouse left jab of which Gentleman Jackson would have been proud.

Howling, Henshaw released Miss Denby and staggered backwards, one hand on his breeches front, the other holding his nose. Blood oozing through his fingers, he snarled, ‘Bitch! You’ll regret that!’

Max grabbed him by the arm and slammed him against the wall, regrettably with less force than he would have liked, but he didn’t want to break a glass panel in Aunt Grace’s conservatory.

Securing him against it with a stranglehold on his cravat, Max growled, ‘Miss Denby will not regret her rejection. But you, varlet, will regret this episode for the rest of your life unless you do exactly what I say. You will apologise to Miss Denby, then pack your bag and leave immediately, before I tell the world and Lady Melross how you tried to attack an innocent and unwilling young lady.’ Giving Henshaw’s cravat a final twist, he released the man.

Henshaw shook his arms free and retreated several steps, trying to repair his ruined cravat before giving it up as hopeless. ‘You dare to threaten me?’ he blustered. ‘Who will believe you? A flagrant womaniser, sent away from Vienna in disgrace, disowned by your own father!’

‘Who will believe me?’ Max echoed, his voice silky-soft. ‘Your hostess, my aunt, perhaps? Or Lady Melross, seeing your elegant attire as it now appears?’

Fury and desperation might have briefly clouded Henshaw’s judgement, but the reference to his dishevelled clothing snapped him back to reality. Obviously realising he could not hope to prevail over the nephew of his hostess, especially in his present incriminating state of disorder, he clamped his lips shut and looked down the pathway, eyeing the exit.

More concerned with assisting the lady, Max resigned himself to letting him go. ‘Are you unharmed, Miss Denby?’ he asked, stepping past Henshaw to her side.

‘Y-yes,’ she replied, her voice breaking a little.

The path to the doorway free, Henshaw backed cautiously away, his wary gaze fixed on Max. After retreating a safe distance, he tossed back, ‘I won’t forget this, Ransleigh. I’ll have retribution some day … and on the bitch, too.’

‘You don’t follow instructions very well,’ Max said softly, an icy contempt filling him. ‘Now I’m going to have to thrash you like the cur you are.’

But before he could take a step, abandoning any pretence of dignity, Henshaw bolted for the door. Much as he would have liked to give chase and thrash the man, Max concluded his more urgent duty was to see to Miss Denby, who stood trembling by the bench, holding together the ripped edges of her bodice.

Her cloak had fallen off during the struggle and her pelisse, now lacking its buttons, gaped open over her white-knuckled hands. Her beautiful dark eyes, wide with shock and outrage, looked stricken.

Max cursed under his breath, wishing he’d tossed the bounder through the glass wall after all. ‘I entered a few minutes ago and heard voices, but didn’t realise what was transpiring until … it was almost too late. I’m so sorry I didn’t intervene earlier and spare you that indignity. Say the word and I’ll track down Henshaw and give him the drubbing he deserves.’

‘Beating him further will serve no useful purpose,’ she said, attempting a smile, which wobbled badly. ‘Though I might wish to hit him again myself. He has ruined one of my best ugly gowns.’

Thankfully, some colour was returning to her pale cheeks and her voice sounded stronger, so Max might not have to pursue the man and rearrange his skeleton after all. ‘You did quite a capital job on your first round, though I don’t believe you succeeded in breaking his nose, more’s the pity. Who taught you to box? That roundhouse jab was worthy of a professional.’

‘Harry. He took lessons with Jackson in London while he was at Winchester. Satisfying as it was to land the blow exactly where I wished—on both parts of his anatomy—that won’t help my biggest problem now, which is how to get back to my chamber and out of this gown. My stepmother would have palpitations if she saw me like this. Not that I would mind being ruined, but I should be indignant if anyone were to try to force me to marry Henshaw.’

‘That sorry excuse for a man?’ Max said in disgust. ‘I should think not.’

‘A sorry excuse indeed, but stronger than I anticipated,’ she said, looking down at the fingers clutching her torn bodice. ‘I thought I could handle him, but …’ She took a shuddering breath, as if shaken by the evidence of how close she’d come to being ravaged. ‘If only you had accepted my first offer! I’m certain you would have c-compromised me much more g-genteelly.’

She was trying to put on a brave face, but tears had begun slipping down her cheeks and she started to tremble again.

Making a vow to seek out Henshaw wherever he went to ground and pummel him senseless, Max abandoned discretion and drew Miss Denby into his arms. ‘If I were to compromise you, I would at least make sure you enjoyed it,’ he said, trying for a teasing tone as he cradled her, gently chafing her hands and trying to use his warmth to heat her chilled body. ‘And it would have been done with much more expertise and finesse. Like this,’ he said and kissed just the freckled tip of her nose.

The last time he’d encountered her in the conservatory, he’d burned to plunder her mouth and let his lips discover every wonder of nose, chin and eyelids. As indignant as his aunt would be that a guest of the Ransleighs had been assaulted, all he wished for now was to erase from her memory the outrage that had just been perpetrated against her.

To his relief, she gave herself into his hands, snuggling with a broken little gasp against his chest. For long moments, he simply held her, one finger gently stroking her cheek, until at last the tremors eased and she pulled back a bit, still resting in the circle of his arms.

‘You do compromise a lady most genteelly,’ she said. ‘Thank you, Mr Ransleigh. I shall never forget your kind assistance.’

‘Max,’ he corrected with a smile. ‘I should be honoured to have you call on me at any time.’

Before she could reply, a loud shriek split the air. ‘Miss Denby!’ a shrill female voice exclaimed. ‘Whatever are you about?’

A sense of impending disaster stabbing in his gut, Max looked over Miss Denby’s head to see Lady Melross hurrying toward them.

Chapter Seven

Clutching the ragged edges of her bodice, Caroline stared in horror as Lady Melross marched up to them, her eyes widening with shock, then malicious glee as she perceived Caro wrapped in Ransleigh’s arms, her bodice in ruins.

A sick feeling invaded Caro’s stomach. How could things have gone so hideously wrong? In Lady Melross’s accusing eyes, Mr Ransleigh, who had protected and comforted her, must now appear to be the one who’d tried to ravish her. And the old harpy would lose no time in trumpeting the news to all and sundry.

‘This isn’t what you think!’ Caro cried, furious, frustrated, knowing the denial was hopeless. Oh, that she might run after Henshaw and rake her fingers down his deceitful face!

Ransleigh had never wanted to compromise her. Now, through the hapless intervention of the detestable Henshaw, the scandal he’d scrupulously avoided would fall full upon him.

It was all her fault … and she couldn’t think of a single way to stop it.

‘Not what I think?’ Lady Melross echoed. ‘Gracious, Miss Denby, do you believe me a simpleton, unable to comprehend what I see right before my eyes? No wonder a little bird told me I might find something interesting in the conservatory.’

‘A little bird?’ Caro echoed. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Oh, I had a note … from someone who knew about your rendezvous. Or maybe you sent it yourself, Miss Caroline?’

‘Henshaw,’ Caro whispered, her eyes pleading with Max, who’d already stepped away from her, his face going grim and shuttered the moment he saw Lady Melross charging toward them down the glasshouse path, Lady Caringdon trailing behind.

Henshaw must have sent the note, wanting Lady Melross to find them with her gown in tatters, ensuring a scandal public enough that they’d be forced to marry.

Surely Max Ransleigh understood that?

‘You, Ransleigh,’ Lady Melross said, turning to Max, ‘I wouldn’t have expected something this lacking in taste and finesse … although after Vienna, I suppose maybe I should have. What a sly thing you turned out to be, Miss Denby,’ she continued as she snatched up Caroline’s cloak and tossed it over her shoulders. ‘There, you’re decent again.’

Lady Caringdon stared at them both accusingly. ‘Aren’t you a rum one, Ransleigh, sneaking around, keeping your distance from the company while you plotted to seduce an innocent right under the nose of her chaperone! And you, young lady, have got exactly what you deserve!’

‘Indeed!’ Lady Melross crowed. ‘Don’t you understand, you stupid girl? Ruining yourself with Ransleigh won’t earn you the elevated position in society you expect, for his father isn’t even receiving him! While you were immured in the country at that dreary horse farm, he was creating a scandal—’

‘Lady Melross,’ Max broke in on the lady’s tirade, ‘that is quite enough. Abuse me as you will, but I cannot allow you to harass Miss Denby. She has suffered a shock and should return to the house at once to recover. Miss Denby,’ he continued, turning to Caroline, his voice gentling, ‘will you allow these ladies to escort you back to your chamber? We will talk of this later.’

‘I should like to settle it now—’ Caro said.

‘No, in this at least, Ransleigh has the right of it,’ Lady Melross broke in. ‘You cannot stand there chatting in that disgrace of a garment! Come along, both of you. Though I cannot imagine what you could say that might excuse your behavior, Ransleigh, before you present yourself to Lady Denby, you’d best go and make yourself respectable.’

‘Perhaps it would be better if I talk with Stepmother first,’ Caroline conceded. Poor Lady Denby would be close to hysterics if the outcry about this disaster reached her before Caro did. She’d need to explain and calm her down before Max called on her.

Lady Caringdon sniffed. ‘Poor Diana. What a tawdry, embarrassing predicament—and with dear Eugenia set to make her bow next spring! Dreadful!’

‘Dreadful indeed,’ Lady Melross said, sounding not at all regretful. ‘Come along now, and wrap that cloak tight about you, miss. I shouldn’t want to shock any of the proper young ladies we might encounter on the way. Doubtless Lady Denby will summon you later, Ransleigh. Perhaps you’d better go and acquaint your aunt with the débâcle you’ve created in the midst of her party.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Ransleigh said to Caro, ignoring Lady Melross’s disparaging remarks. ‘Get some rest. I’ll see you later and make everything right.’ Giving her an encouraging smile, he stepped back to allow Lady Melross to take her arm.

Having a sudden change of heart, Caroline almost reached out to snag his sleeve and beg him to walk in with her. If only they could face Lady Denby now, together, and explain what had happened, surely they could sort it out and keep the dreadful Lady Melross from spreading her malicious account of the events!

But she suspected Ransleigh wouldn’t deign to explain himself with Lady Melross present, and there was no chance whatsoever that the lady would let herself be manoeuvred out of escorting her victim into the house.

‘I will call on Lady Denby soon,’ he told Caro, then moved aside to let them pass.

‘Speak with me first!’ she tossed back as, Lady Caringdon seizing her other arm, the two women half-led, half-dragged her down the path.

They marched her into the house and up the stairs, relentless as gaolers. Initially they peppered her with questions, but her refusal to provide any details eventually convinced them she intended to remain silent.

With a final warning that it was useless to turn mute now, as her character was already ruined, they ignored her and spent the rest of the transit speculating about how devastated Lady Denby and Mrs Ransleigh would be and how fast the scandalous news would spread.

While they chattered, Caro’s mind raced furiously. Should she ask Max Ransleigh to seek out Henshaw, drag him in so they might jointly accuse him? Was Henshaw still at Barton Abbey to be accused?

Trapped between the two dragons, she had no way of determining that. Should she try to explain immediately to Lady Denby, or wait until after she’d consulted with Mr Ransleigh?

She had only a short time to figure out what she wanted, while her whole life and future hinged on her making the right decision.

When she reached her rooms and her erstwhile ‘rescuers’ discovered neither her stepmother nor her sister was present, they finally stopped plaguing her and rushed off. Doubtless anxious to compete over who could convey the interesting news to the most people the fastest, Caro thought sardonically.

She hoped her stepmother would not be one of those so informed, vastly preferring to break the dismal story herself. In any event, Lady Denby’s absence gave her the opportunity to summon Dulcie and change before the tattered evidence of the disaster could further upset her stepmother. Reassuring her maid, who gasped in alarm upon seeing her in the ruined gown, that she was quite unharmed and would explain later, Caro sent her off to dispose of the garment.

Watching the girl carry out the shreds, Caro smiled grimly. It certainly wasn’t the way she would have chosen to do it, but the escapade in the glasshouse had effectively ruined her. At least now she’d be able to purchase gowns that didn’t make her wince when she saw her image in a mirror. With that heartening thought, she scrawled a note asking Mr Ransleigh to meet her in Lady Denby’s sitting room at his earliest convenience.

As she waited for her stepmother to return, she tried to corral the thoughts galloping about in her mind like colts set loose in a spring meadow. How could she turn Henshaw’s despicable conduct to best advantage, managing the scandal so she would be able to return to Denby Lodge and her horses, while leaving Mr Ransleigh’s good name unblemished?

Only one thought truly dismayed her: that having heard Lady Melross testify that she’d received a note bidding her come to the conservatory, Max might think, in blatant disregard of his wishes, she had arranged for Lady Melross to find them, trapping him with treachery into compromising her after persuasion had failed.

Trapping herself?

How to avoid that fate? Too unsettled to remain seated, she paced the room. In the aftermath of Henshaw’s unexpected attack, her still-jangled nerves were hampering her ability to think clearly. The bald truth was she’d underestimated the man, dismissed him as a self-indulgent weakling she could easily handle.

It shook her to the core to admit that, had Max Ransleigh not rushed to her rescue, she probably could not have successfully resisted Henshaw.

How understanding Max had been, lending her his warmth and strength as she had struggled to compose herself. Bringing her back from the horror of what might have been to a reassuring normalcy with his gentle teasing. Renewed gratitude suffused her.

They must find some way out of this conundrum. She refused to repay his generosity by trapping him in a marriage neither of them wanted.

But when she recalled his parting words, a deep sense of unease filled her.

‘I’ll make everything right,’ he’d said. Initially, she’d thought he meant to track down Henshaw and force him to confess his guilt. However, if Henshaw had already scuttled away from Barton Abbey, leaving Max bearing the blame for her disgrace, Ransleigh’s sense of honour might very well force him into making her an offer.

And that wouldn’t do at all. For one, he’d told her quite plainly he had no wish to marry and she could think of few things worse than being shackled to an uninterested husband. The image of her cousin Elizabeth came forcefully to mind.

Nor did she want to cobble her future to a man with whom she had little in common, whose wit engaged her but who agitated and discomforted her every time she was near him, filling her with powerful desires she had no idea how to manage.

Before she could analyse the matter any further, a rapid patter of footsteps in the hallway and the buzz of raised voices announced the imminent return of her stepmother.

Praying Lady Melross had not accompanied her, Caro braced herself for the onslaught.

A moment later, the door flew open and Lady Denby burst into the room, Eugenia at her elbow. ‘Is it true?’ her stepsister demanded. ‘Did Mr Ransleigh truly … debauch you in the conservatory, as Lady Melross claims?’

‘He did not.’

‘Oh, thank heavens!’ Lady Denby exclaimed. ‘That dreadful woman! I knew it had to be naught but a malicious hum!’

‘There was an … altercation,’ Caro allowed. ‘But events did not unfold as Lady Melross supposed.’

‘Surely she didn’t find you wrapped in Mr Ransleigh’s arms, your gown in disarray, your bodice torn?’ Eugenia asked.

‘My gown had been damaged, but it was not—’

‘Oh, no!’ Eugenia interrupted with a wail. ‘Then you are ruined. Indeed, we are both ruined! I shall never have my Season in London now!’ Clapping a hand to her mouth, she burst into tears and rushed into her adjoining room, slamming the door behind her.

Lady Denby stood pale-faced and trembling, tears tracking down her own cheeks as she looked at Caro reproachfully. ‘Oh, Caro,’ she said faintly, ‘how could you? Even if you had no concern about your own future, how could you jeopardise Eugenia’s?’

‘Please, ma’am, sit and let me explain. Truly, it is not as bad as you think. I’m certain that virtually nothing the detestable Lady Melross told you is accurate.’

Lady Denby allowed herself to be shown to a seat and accepted a glass of sherry, which she sipped while Caro related what had actually transpired. When she got to the part about how Mr Ransleigh’s timely arrival had prevented Henshaw from overpowering her, Lady Denby cried out and leapt to her feet, wrapping Caro in her arms.

‘Oh, my poor dear, how awful for you! Bless Mr Ransleigh for having the courage to intervene.’

‘I owe him a great debt,’ Caro agreed, settling her stepmother back in her chair. ‘Which is why we need to somehow stop Lady Melross from circulating the falsehood that he compromised me. I can hardly repay Mr Ransleigh’s gallantry by forcing him to offer for me, a girl he hardly knows. That would not be fair, would it?’

‘It doesn’t seem right,’ Lady Denby admitted. ‘But if you don’t marry someone … how are we to salvage anything? And my dear, the truth is, this scandal could ruin Eugenia’s Season as well!’

‘Surely not! She’s not even a Denby! Once Lady Gilford and Mrs Ransleigh learn the truth, I’m certain they will enlist their friends to ensure my difficulties do not reflect badly on my stepsister.’

That hope seemed to reassure Lady Denby, for she nodded. ‘Yes, perhaps you are right. Grace and Jane would think it monstrous for poor Eugenia to suffer for Henshaw’s villainy. But how are we to salvage your position, my dear?’

‘I don’t know yet,’ Caro evaded, guiltily aware that she had no desire to ‘salvage’ it. ‘Will you allow me to discuss this alone with Mr Ransleigh first, before he speaks with you? I expect him at any moment.’

‘Very well,’ Lady Denby agreed with a sigh. ‘It’s all so very distressing! I must go and comfort Eugenia.’

After giving her a final hug, Lady Denby walked out. Knowing that she would be meeting Max Ransleigh again any moment set every nerve on edge.

The fact that, despite her agitation, an insidious little voice was whispering that wedding Max might not be so disastrous after all filled her with a panicky agitation that drove her once again to pace the room.

From the very first, he’d affected her differently than any other man she’d ever met. Being near him filled her with a tingling physical immediacy, a consciousness of her breasts and lips and body she’d never previously experienced.

Yesterday in the conservatory, that strange but powerful attraction had urged her to touch him, kiss him, feel his mouth and hands on her. Thought and reason vaporised into heat and need, into a burning, irresistible desire to know him, to let him know her. She’d craved that contact with a force and single-mindedness she would never have believed possible.

Even with the threat of the Curse hanging over her, she wasn’t sure she would have been able to bring her rioting senses under control and walk away if he’d made any move at all to entice her to stay.

The power Henshaw had exerted over her while she struggled to escape him had frightened her, but what Max inspired in her was even more terrifying … because she hadn’t wanted to escape it. Indeed, recalling him poised motionless on the bench, inviting her kiss, making no move to cajole or entice, letting her own desire propel her to him, was more coercive than any force he could have employed.

She’d been as powerfully in his thrall as … as her cousin Elizabeth had once been to Spencer Russell, the reprobate she’d married. The man who’d charmed and wed and betrayed, and almost bankrupted her cousin before a fortuitous racing accident had brought to an end Elizabeth’s humiliating existence as a disdained and abandoned wife.

Caro did not want to be ensnared by an emotion that dazzled her out of her common sense, nor be held captive by a lust so strong it paralysed will and smothered rational thinking.

Just as she reached that conclusion, a rap sounded at the door.

Her heartbeat stopped, then recommenced at a rapid pace as a stinging shock rippled through her, setting her stomach churning. Wiping her suddenly sweaty palms on her gown, she took a deep breath and walked to open the door.

Chapter Eight

As expected, Max Ransleigh stood on the threshold. Looking solemn, he took her hand and kissed her fingers.

A second wave of sensation blazed through her. Clenching her fists and jaw to try to dampen the effect, she mumbled an incoherent welcome and led him to a chair. Though she was still too agitated to want to sit, knowing he would not unless she did so, she forced herself into the place opposite him.

‘I’m so sorry to have involved you in this,’ she began before he could speak. ‘Though I did invite you to compromise me, I hope you realise I had no part in setting up the situation in the conservatory today! I would never have gone behind your back to create a scandal in which you’d already assured me you wanted no part.’

‘I believe you,’ he said, calming her fears on that matter, at least. ‘I expect it was Henshaw who sent Lady Melross the note, wanting her to find you with him in a state dishevelled enough to ensure you’d be coerced to wed him.’

‘Thank you. I would hate to have you think I’d use you so shabbily. Lady Denby has agreed to let me speak with you privately before she comes in, so shall we discuss what is to be done?’

‘Let us do so. You did get your wish, you know. You are quite effectively ruined.’

‘Yes, I know. I certainly didn’t enjoy being mauled by Henshaw, but it might turn out for the best. We need only tell people what really happened, establishing that you had no part in it, and all will be well. I’ll still be ruined, but with Henshaw showing his character to be so despicable, no one could fault me for refusing to marry him.’

Frowning, Ransleigh shook his head. ‘I’m afraid that is not the case. Society would still believe the only way to salvage your reputation would be for you to marry your seducer. However deplorable his present conduct, Henshaw was born a gentleman, so much would be forgiven as long as you end up wed.’

‘But that’s appalling!’ Caro cried. ‘The victim is expected to marry her attacker?’

‘Rightly or wrongly, the blame usually attaches itself to the female. But it won’t come to that. Accusing Henshaw isn’t possible; he’s already left Barton Abbey. Any evidence that might confirm he was your attacker—bloody nose, ruined cravat—will have been put to rights by the time I could run him to ground. Since he can now have no doubt that you’d refuse to marry him, he has no reason to corroborate the truth, especially since Lady Melross is circulating a version of events that relieves him of responsibility. Indeed, he will probably think it a fine revenge to see me blamed for his transgressions.’

Caro nodded, distressed but not surprised that Ransleigh’s assessment of Henshaw’s character matched her own. ‘I imagine he would, though I have no intention of allowing him the satisfaction. Whether he admits his guilt or not, I still intend to accuse him. Why should you, who intervened only to help me, suffer for his loathsome behaviour?’

‘I don’t think accusing him would be wise.’

Puzzled, Caro frowned at him. ‘Why not?’

‘You were discovered in my embrace. I’m the son of an earl who exerts a powerful influence in government; you are the orphaned daughter of a rural baron. If you accuse Henshaw, who will justly claim he was in his room, preparing to depart when Lady Melross found us, there will be many who will whisper that I coerced you into naming another man to cover up my own bad conduct. Lady Melross in particular will be delighted to embellish the details of my supposed ravishment and assert such behaviour is only to be expected after my … previous scandal.’

‘You really think no one would believe me if I tell the truth?’ Caro asked incredulously.

‘What, allow such a salacious act to be blamed on some insignificant member of the ton rather than titillate the masses by accusing the well-known son of a very important man? No, I don’t think anyone would believe you. I can see the scurrilous cartoons in the London print-shop windows now,’ he finished bitterly.

‘But that’s so … unfair!’ she burst out.

He laughed shortly, no humour in the sound. ‘I have learned of late just how unfair life can be. Believe me, I like the solution as little as you do, but with your reputation destroyed and the blame for it laid at my door, the only way to salvage your position is for you to marry me.’

Alarmed as she was by his conclusion, Caro felt a flash of admiration for his willingness to do what he saw as right. ‘A noble offer and I do honour you for it. But I think it ridiculous to allow society’s expectations—based on a lie!—to force us into something neither of us desire.’

‘Miss Denby, let me remind you that you are ruined,’ he repeated, his tone now edged with an undercurrent of anger and frustration. ‘Fail to marry and you risk being exiled altogether from respectable society. Being cast out of the company of those with whom you have always associated is not a pleasant condition, as I have good reason to know.’

‘First, I’ve never really “associated” with the ton,’ she countered, ‘and, as I’ve assured you several times, polite society’s opinion does not matter to me. Certainly not when compared with losing the freedom to live life how—and with whom—I choose.’

‘But Lady Denby does live and move in that society and Miss Whitman’s future may well depend upon its opinions. We may be far removed from London here, but I assure you, Lady Melross will delight in dredging up every detail of this scandal when your relations arrive in London next spring.’

Caroline shook her head. ‘I’ve already discussed that problem with my stepmother. If they band together, I’m certain Lady Denby, your aunt and Lady Gilford can manage this affair so that no harm comes to Eugenia’s prospects. Since you are already accounted a rake, it shouldn’t much affect your reputation and ruining mine has been my goal from the outset.’

She’d hoped to persuade Max to accept her argument. Far from looking convinced, though, his expression turned even grimmer and his jaw flexed, as if he were trying not to grit his teeth.

‘Miss Denby,’ he began again after a moment, ‘I don’t mean to seem overbearing or argumentative, but the very fact that you have not much associated with society means you are in no position to accurately predict its reaction. I have lived all my life under its scrutiny and I promise you, once Lady Denby has thought through the matter, she will agree with me that our marriage is the only solution that will safeguard the reputations of everyone involved.’

He paused and took a deep breath, as if armouring himself. ‘So you may assure her that I have done the proper thing and made a formal offer for your hand.’

If the situation had not been so serious, Caro might have laughed, for he spat out the declaration as if each word were a hot coal that burned his tongue as he uttered it. His obvious reluctance might even have been considered insulting, if her own desire to avoid marriage hadn’t exceeded his.

But then, as if realising that his grudging offer was hardly lover-like, he shook his head and sighed. ‘Let me try this again,’ he said, then reached over to tangle his fingers with hers.

Immediately, heat rushed up her arm, while her heart accelerated so rapidly, she felt dizzy.

‘Won’t you honour me by giving me your hand?’ he said. ‘I know neither of us came to Barton Abbey with marriage in mind. But during our brief acquaintance, I’ve come to admire and respect you. I flatter myself that you’ve come to like me, too, at least a little.’

‘I do like and … and admire you,’ she replied disjointedly, wishing he’d release her fingers. They seemed somehow connected to her chest and her brain, for she was finding it hard to breathe and even harder to think as he retained them.

His thumb was rubbing lazy circles of wonderment around her palm, setting off little shocks of sensation that seemed to radiate straight to the core of her.

She should pull free, but she didn’t seem able to move. So he continued, his touch mesmerising, until all the clear reasons against marriage dissolved into a porridge-like muddle in her brain. She couldn’t seem to concentrate on anything but the press of his thumb and the delights it created.

‘I think we could rub together tolerably well,’ he went on, obviously not at all affected by the touch that was wreaking such havoc in her. ‘I admire you, too, and from what I’ve seen of your Sultan, you are excellent with horses. You could run Denby Stud with my blessing.’

That assurance was as seductively appealing as the thumb caressing her palm, which was now making her body hot and her nipples ache. An insidious longing welled up within her, a yearning for him to kiss her, for her to kiss him back.

Without question, he knew society better than she did, and, for a moment, her certainty that she ought to refuse him wavered. She struggled to recapture her purpose and remember why marrying him was such a bad idea.

Unable to order her thoughts in Max’s disturbing presence, she pulled her fingers free, sprang up and paced to the window.

How could she become his wife and not let him touch her? Was she really ready to test the power of the Curse for a man who merely ‘admired’ her? Besides, the experience of their last two meetings suggested that her ability to resist him, if he did make overtures toward her, would be feeble at best, regardless of how tepid his feelings for her might be.

She could tell him why she was so opposed to marriage. But after his courage in rescuing her and resolutely facing the consequences, she really didn’t wish to appear a coward by admitting that it was the strong probability that she would die in childbed, as so many of her maternal relations had, that made her leery of wedlock.

No, the very fact that he affected her so strongly was reason enough not to marry Max Ransleigh.

Reminding herself of her conviction that Lady Denby could protect Eugenia, she said, ‘I know you make your offer hastily and under duress. If you will but think longer about it, you will agree that it isn’t wise to take a step that will permanently compromise our futures in order to avoid a scandal that will soon enough be overshadowed by some other.’

‘It will have to be some scandal,’ he said drily.

‘Only think if I were to accept you!’ she continued, avoiding his gaze in the hope that not meeting his eyes might lessen the disturbing physical hold he exerted over her. ‘I’m not being modest when I assert that a huge divide exists between Miss Denby, countrified, unfashionable daughter of minor gentry, and Max Ransleigh, an earl’s son accustomed to moving in the first circles of society. I have neither the skills nor the background to be the sort of wife you deserve.’

Before he could insert some patently false reassurance, she rushed on, ‘Nor, frankly, do I wish to acquire them. My world isn’t Drury Lane, but the lane that leads from the barns to the paddocks. Not the odour of expensive perfume, but the scent of leather polish, sawdust and new hay. Not the murmur of political conversation, but the jingle of harness, the neighing of horses, the clang of the blacksmith’s hammer. I have no desire to give that up for your world, London’s parlours and theatre boxes and its endless round of dinner parties, routs and balls.’

His expression softened to a smile. ‘You are quite eloquent in defence of “your world”, Miss Denby.’

‘I don’t mean to disparage yours!’ she said quickly. ‘Only to point out how different we are. All I want is to remain at Denby Lodge, where I belong, sharing my life with someone who loves and appreciates that world as I do.’ Someone to whom, she added silently, I have long been bound by a comfortable affection, not a man as disturbing and far-too-insidiously appealing as you.

Turning from the window, she said, ‘Though I am fully conscious of the honour of your offer, as I told you from the beginning, I wish to marry Harry. By the time he returns from India, this furore will have calmed. And even if it has not, Harry will not care.’

‘I don’t know that you can be certain about that,’ he objected. ‘If it doesn’t, and he marries you, he will share in your notoriety. Being banished from society is no little thing. Would you choose exile for him? Would he suffer it for you?’

‘Harry would suffer anything for me.’

‘How can you commit Harry to such a course without giving him a choice?’

‘How can you ask me to give him up without giving him a chance? No, Mr Ransleigh, I will not do it. I will leave it to ladies better placed than I to protect my stepsister and to Harry to settle my future when he returns. And lest you think to argue your position with her, Lady Denby would not compel me to marry against my will.’

Hoping to finally convince him, she chanced gazing into his eyes. ‘It really is more sensible this way, surely you can see that! Some day you, too, will encounter a lady you wish to marry, one who can be the perfect helpmate and government hostess. You’ll be happy then that I did not allow you to sway me. So, though I am sorry to be disobliging, I must refuse your very flattering offer.’

He studied her a long moment; she couldn’t tell from his face whether he felt relief or exasperation. ‘You needn’t give me a final answer now. Why not think on the matter for a few days?’

‘That won’t be necessary; I am resolved on this. As soon as my stepmother recovers from the shock, we will pack and leave for Denby Lodge.’

For another long moment he said nothing. ‘I am no Henshaw to try to force your hand, even though I believe your leaving here without the protection of an engagement is absolutely the wrong course of action. However, if you insist on refusing it, know that if at any time you decide to reconsider, my offer will remain open.’

Truly, he was the kindest of men. The shock and outrage and dismay of the day taking its toll, she felt an annoyingly missish desire to burst into tears.

‘I will do so. Thank you.’

He bowed. ‘I will send a note to Lady Denby, offering to call and tender my apologies if she permits. Will you let me know before you leave, so I might bid you goodbye?’

‘It would probably be wiser if we go our separate ways as quickly as possible.’

‘As you wish.’ He approached her then, halting one step away. Her body quivered in response to his nearness.

‘It has been a most … interesting association, Miss Denby.’ He held out his hand and reluctantly she laid hers in his as he brought her fingers to his lips. Little sparks danced and tingled and shivered from her fingernails outwards.

‘I will remain always your most devoted servant.’

Snatching back the hand that didn’t want to follow her instructions to remove itself from his grasp, she curtsied and watched him stride out of the room, telling herself this was for the best.

And the sooner she got back to Denby Lodge, the better.

Chapter Nine

Max stalked from Lady Denby’s sitting room towards the library, anger, outrage and frustration churning in his gut. Encountering one of the guests in the hallway, avid curiosity in his eyes, Max gave him such a thunderous glare, the man pivoted without speaking and fled in the opposite direction.

Stomping into his haven, he went straight to the brandy decanter, poured and downed a glass, then poured another, welcoming the burn of the liquor down his throat.

What a calamity of a day.

Throwing himself into one of the wing chairs by the fire, he wondered despairingly how everything could have gone so wrong. It seemed impossible that, just a few bare hours ago, he’d halted on the threshold of the conservatory and breathed deeply of the fragrant air, his spirits rising on its scented promise that life was going to get better.

Instead, events had taken a turn that could end up anywhere from worse to disastrous.

Reviewing the scene in the glasshouse, he swore again. Hadn’t Vienna taught him not to embroil himself in the problems of females wholly unrelated to him? Apparently not, for though, unlike Madame Lefevre, he acquitted the Denby girl of deliberately drawing him into this fiasco, by watching over her he’d been dragged in anyway.

And might very well be forced into wedding a lady with whom, by her own admission, he had virtually nothing in common.

True, Miss Denby had turned down his offer. But he placed no reliance on her continuing to do so, once her stepmother brought home to her just how difficult her situation would be if they didn’t marry.

His wouldn’t be as dire, but the resulting scandal certainly wouldn’t be helpful. With a sardonic curl of his lip, he recalled Miss Denby’s blithe assumption that since he already had a reputation as a rake, the scandal wouldn’t affect him at all. He’d been on the point of explaining that, even for a rake, there were limits to acceptable behaviour and ruining a young lady of quality went rather beyond them.

But if the danger to her own reputation wasn’t enough to convince her, he wasn’t about to whine to her about the damage not wedding her would do to his own.

There might be some small benefit to be squeezed from disaster: if he were thought to be a heartless seducer, he’d no longer be a target for the schemes of matchmaking mamas and their devious daughters. However, for someone about to go hat in hand looking for a government posting, the timing couldn’t be worse. Being branded as a man unable to regulate his behaviour around women certainly wouldn’t help his chances of finding a sponsor … or winning back Wellington’s favour.

He seized his empty glass and threw it into the fireplace.

He was still brooding over what to do when Alastair came in.

‘Devil’s teeth, Max, what fandango occurred while I was out today? Even the grooms are buzzing with it—some crazy tale of you trying to ravish some chit in the conservatory?’

Max debated telling Alastair the truth, but his hot-headed cousin would probably head out straight away to track down Henshaw and challenge him to a duel, pressing the issue until the man was forced to face him or leave the country in disgrace.

Of course, being an excellent shot as well as a superior swordsman, if Alastair prevailed upon Henshaw to meet him, his cousin would kill the weasel for certain—and then he’d be forced to leave England.

He’d complicated his own life sufficiently; he didn’t intend to ruin Alastair’s as well.

‘I … got a bit carried away. Lady Melross and her crony came running in before I could set the young lady to rights.’

Alastair studied his face. ‘I heard the chit’s bodice was torn to her bosom, the buttons of her pelisse scattered all over the floor. Devil take it, Max, don’t try to gammon me. You’ve infinitely more finesse than that … and if you wanted a woman, you wouldn’t have to rip her out of her gown—in a public place, no less!’

Wishing he hadn’t tossed away his perfectly good glass, Max rummaged for one on the sideboard and poured himself another brandy. ‘I’m really not at liberty to say any more.’

‘Damn and blast, you can’t think I’d believe that Banbury tale! Did the Denby chit deliberately try to trap you? Dammit, I liked her! Surely you’re not going to let her get away with this!’

‘If by “getting away with it”, you mean forcing me to marry her, you’re out there. I made her an offer, as any gentleman of honour would in such a situation, but thus far, she’s refused it.’

Alastair stared at him for a long moment, then poured himself a brandy. ‘This whole story,’ he said, downing a large swallow, ‘makes no sense at all.’

‘With that, I can agree,’ Max said.

Suddenly, Alastair threw back his head and laughed. ‘Won’t need to worry about the Melross hag blackening your character in town. After bringing her party to such a scandalous conclusion, Jane’s going to murder you.’

‘Maybe I’ll hand her the pistol,’ Max muttered.

‘To women!’ Alastair held up his glass before tossing down the rest of the brandy. ‘One of the greatest scourges on the face of the earth. I don’t know what in hell happened today in the conservatory and, if you don’t want to tell me, that’s an end to it. But I do know you’d never do anything to harm a female and I’ll stand beside you, no matter what lies that dragon Melross and her pack of seditious gossips spread.’

Suddenly a wave of weariness come over Max … as it had in the wake of the Vienna disaster, when he’d wandered back to his rooms, numbed by shock, disbelief and a sense of incredulity that things could possibly have turned out so badly when he’d done nothing wrong. ‘Thank you,’ he said, setting down his glass.

Alastair poured them both another. ‘Ransleigh Rogues,’ he said, touching his glass to Max’s.

Before Max could take another sip, a footman entered, handing him a note written on Barton Abbey stationery. A flash of foreboding filled him—had Miss Denby already reconsidered?

But when he broke the seal, he discovered the note came from Lady Denby.

After thanking him for his offer to apologise and his assurance that he stood by his proposal to marry her stepdaughter, since Miss Denby informed her she had no intention of accepting him, there was really nothing else to be said. As both Miss Denby and her own daughter were most anxious to depart as soon as possible, she intended to leave immediately, but reserved the privilege of writing to him again when she’d had more opportunity to Sort Matters Out, at which time she trusted he would still be willing, as a Man of Honour, to Do The Right Thing.

An almost euphoric sense of relief filled Max. Apparently Lady Denby hadn’t managed to convince her stepdaughter to ‘Do the Right Thing’ before leaving Barton Abbey. With Miss Denby about to get everything she wanted—a return to her beloved Denby Lodge and a ruination that would allow her to wait in peace for the return of her Harry—Max was nearly certain no amount of Sorting Things Out later would convince Miss Denby to reconsider.

He’d remain a free man after all.

The misery of the day lightened just a trifle. Now he must concentrate on trying to limit the damage to his prospects of a career.

‘Good news?’ Alastair asked.

Max grinned at him. ‘The best. It appears I will not have to get leg-shackled after all. Amazingly, Miss Denby has resisted her stepmother’s attempts to convince her to marry me.’

Alastair whistled. ‘Amazing indeed! She must be dicked in the nob to discard a foolproof hand for forcing the Magnificent Max Ransleigh into marriage, but no matter.’

‘There’s an army sweetheart she’s waiting to marry.’

‘Better him than you,’ Alastair said as he refilled their glasses. ‘Here’s to Miss Denby’s resistance and remaining unwed!’

‘Add a government position to that and I’ll be a happy man.’

Max knew the worst wasn’t over yet. Whispers about the scandal in the conservatory would doubtless have raced through the rest of the company like a wildfire through parched grass. At some point, Aunt Grace would summon him in response to the note he’d sent her, wanting to know why he’d created such an uproar at her house party.

The two cousins remained barricaded in the library, from which stronghold they occasionally heard the thumps and bangs of footmen descending the stairs with the baggage of departing guests. But as the hour grew later without his aunt summoning him, Max guessed that some guests had chosen to remain another night, doubtless eager to grill their hostess for every detail over dinner, embarrassing Felicity, making Jane simmer and contemplate murder.

Alastair, ever loyal, kept him company, playing a few desultory hands of cards after he’d declined the offer of billiards. He wasn’t sure he’d trust himself with a cue in hand without trying to break it over someone’s head.

Probably his own.

So it was nearly midnight when a footman bowed himself in to tell him Mrs Ransleigh begged the indulgence of a few words with him in her sitting room.

Max swallowed hard. Now he must face the lady who’d stood by him, disparaging his father’s conduct and insisting he deserved better. And just like Vienna, though all he had done was assist a woman in distress, this time he’d ended up miring not just himself, but also his aunt, in embarrassment and scandal.

He’d not whined to Miss Denby about the black mark that would be left on his character by her refusal to wed; he wasn’t going to make excuses to his aunt, either. Girding himself to endure anger and recriminations, he crossed the room.

Alastair, who knew only too well what he’d face, gave him an encouraging slap on the shoulder as he walked by.

He found his aunt reclining on her couch in a dressing gown, eyes closed. She sat up with a start as the footman announced him, her eyes shadowed with fatigue, filling with tears as he approached.

His chest tightening, he felt about as miserable as he’d ever felt in his life. Rather than cause his aunt pain, he almost wished he’d fallen with the valiant at Hougoumont.

‘Aunt Grace,’ he murmured, kissing her outstretched fingers. ‘I am so sorry.’

But instead of the reproaches he’d steeled himself to endure, she pushed herself from her seat and enveloped him in a hug. ‘Oh, my poor Max, under which unlucky star were you born that such trouble has come into your life?’

Hugging her back, he muttered. ‘Lord knows. If I were one of the ancients, I’d think I’d somehow offended Aphrodite.’

‘Come, sit by me,’ she said, patting the sofa beside her.

Heartened by her unexpectedly sympathetic reception, he took a seat. ‘I’d been prepared to have you abuse my character and order me from the house. I cannot imagine why you have not, after I’ve unleashed such a sordid scandal at your house party.’

‘I imagine Anita Melross was delighted,’ she said drily. ‘She will doubtless dine out for weeks on the story of how she found you in the conservatory. Dreadful woman! How infuriating that she is so well connected, one cannot simply cut her. But enough about Anita. Oh, Max, what are we to do now?’

‘There isn’t much that can be done. Lady Melross and her minions will have already set the gossip mill in motion, thoroughly shredding my character. Frankly, I expected you to take part in the process.’

‘Frankly, I might have,’ his aunt retorted, ‘had Miss Denby not insisted upon speaking with me before she left.’

Surprise rendered him momentarily speechless. ‘Miss Denby spoke with you?’ he echoed an instant later.

‘I must admit, I was so angry with both of you, I had no desire whatsoever to listen to any excuses she wished to offer. But she was quite adamant.’ His aunt laughed. ‘Indeed, she told Wendell she would not quit the passage outside my chamber until she was permitted to see me. I’m so glad now that she persisted, for she confessed the whole to me—something I expect that you, my dear Max, would not have done.’

‘She … told you everything?’ Max asked, that news surprising him even more than his aunt’s unexpected sympathy.

His aunt nodded. ‘How Mr Henshaw made her an offer, so insistent upon her acceptance he was ready to attack her to force it! I was never so distressed!’ she cried, putting a hand on her chest. ‘Is there truly no way to lay the blame for that shocking attack where it belongs, at Henshaw’s feet?’

‘If Miss Denby disclosed the whole of what happened, you must see that there is virtually no chance we could fix the responsibility on him.’

‘Poor child! I feel wretched that someone I invited into my home would take such unspeakable liberties! With her shyness and lack of polish, she would never have found much success in the Marriage Mart, but to have her ruined by that … that infamous blackguard! And then, to have you wrongfully accused for her disgrace! ‘Tis monstrous, all of it!’

Max sat back, his emotions in turmoil. Though he hadn’t truly blamed Miss Denby for what had happened, he’d resented the fact that, at the end of it all, she had got what she wanted, while he was left a position that made obtaining his goal much more difficult.

Still, he could work relentlessly until he achieved what he wanted; her ruination couldn’t be undone. It had taken courage to insist on braving the contempt of her hostess so she might explain what had really transpired, thereby exonerating him to a woman whose good opinion she must know he treasured.

In refusing to allow herself to be forced into something she did not want, regardless of the personal cost, and in remaining steadfastly loyal to her childhood love, she’d displayed a sense of honour as unshakeable as his own. He couldn’t help admiring that.

‘I hardly expected her to tell you the truth … but I’m glad she did,’ he said at last.

‘Oh, Max, you would have said nothing and simply shouldered all the blame, would you not?’ she asked, seizing his hands.

He shrugged. ‘With Henshaw showing himself too dishonourable to admit to his actions, I don’t see how I could avoid it. There was no point making accusations we have no way of proving.’

‘Are you certain that’s the right course? It seems monstrous that you both must suffer, while the guilty party escapes all blame!’

‘We’ll have to endure it, at least for the present. I intend to quietly search for evidence that might incriminate Henshaw, but I’m not hopeful anything useful will turn up. In the interim, I’d rather Alastair not learn the truth. He’s already suspicious of Lady Melross’s story. If he were to find out what really happened, he might go after Henshaw and—’

‘—tear him limb from limb, or something equally rash,’ Mrs Ransleigh finished for him. ‘Although it will chafe him to be kept in the dark, I appreciate your doing it. Ever since … That Woman, he’s been so reckless and bitter. Even after all those years in the army, he’s still spoiling for a fight, still heedless of the consequences.’

‘It shall remain our secret, then.’

She sighed. ‘If there is any way I might be of assistance, let me know. I can think of little that would give me more pleasure than being able to show up Anita Melross for the idle, malicious gossip she is.’

‘If the opportunity arises, I will certainly call on your help. By the way … did Miss Denby also tell you I’d asked for her hand and she’d refused me?’

‘She did. Bless the child, she even said that after you had been everything that was gentlemanly, preventing Henshaw from ravishing her and comforting her afterwards, she simply could not repay your kindness by shackling you to a girl you didn’t want. She insisted you must remain free to take a wife of your own choosing, who would be the suitable hostess and companion to a man in high position that she could never be.’

Max smiled, his spirits lightened by the first glimmer of amusement he’d felt since Lady Melross burst into the conservatory. ‘Difficult to be angry with someone who rejects you with such glowing compliments.’

‘And such absolute sincerity! It was the longest and most eloquent speech I’ve got from her since her arrival. Perhaps she isn’t quite as hopeless as I’d thought.’

Max resisted the impulse to defend Miss Denby. How well she’d cultivated the image of an awkward, ill-spoken spinster! If only his aunt could have seen her, fierce determination in her eyes as she’d vividly described her world at Denby Lodge.

She’d been quite magnificent. Even had he wished to wed her, he would have felt compelled to let her go.

‘I must say, I was relieved to discover she has an army beau who will marry her when he returns,’ Mrs Ransleigh continued. ‘Having been the unwitting instrument of her disgrace, it makes me feel a bit better to know she won’t be condemned for ever to live without the care and protection of a good man.’

Max nodded. ‘That’s the only reason I didn’t push her harder to marry me. Not that I’d ever force myself on a woman.’

‘Of course you would not. Well, I’m off to bed. Calamities such as the events that transpired today exhaust me! But I did not wish to sleep before telling you I knew everything, lest you take it in your head to lope off somewhere in the night, still believing I thought ill of you.’

‘I’m so glad you do not. And I’ve no plans to take myself off as yet.’

‘Stay as long as you like,’ his aunt said as she offered him her cheek to kiss. ‘By the way, I should like to reveal the truth to Jane. She is perfectly discreet and, as she is now quite an influential hostess in London, she might find the means to be of some help.’

‘Miss Denby already mentioned that Lady Denby hoped to enlist you and Jane in defending her stepsister; I’d appreciate anything you might do to assist Miss Denby as well. Of all the unwilling participants in this débâcle, she is the one who loses the most.’

Mrs Ransleigh nodded. ‘We will certainly give it our best efforts.’

‘I’ll leave you to your slumber, then. Thank you, Aunt Grace. For still believing in me.’

‘You’re quite welcome,’ she replied with a smile. ‘You might want to thank Miss Denby, too, for believing in you as well.’

Bidding her goodnight, Max walked out. Though he hadn’t yet worked out how he was going to work around this check to his governmental aspirations, he felt immeasurably better to know that he had not, after all, disappointed and alienated his aunt.

That happy outcome he owed to Miss Denby. He found her courage in risking censure to defend him to his family as amazing as her fortitude in refusing a convenient marriage.

Aunt Grace was right. He did owe her thanks. But given the disastrous events that seemed to happen when she came near him, he didn’t think he’d risk delivering it in person any time soon.

Chapter Ten

In the late afternoon a month later, Caroline Denby turned the last gelding over to the stable boy and walked out of the barn. After returning from the disaster at Barton Abbey, she’d thrown herself into working with the horses, readying them for the upcoming autumn sale. But as she’d suspected, though she’d left the scandal behind, its repercussions continued to follow her.

In the last two weeks, several gentlemen who’d not previously purchased mounts from the stud had journeyed into Kent, claiming they wished to view and evaluate the stock. Since the gentlemen had spent more time gawking at her than at the horses, she suspected their real interest had been to inspect for themselves the subject of Lady Melross’s most titillating gossip—the hoyden who’d been discovered half-naked with Max Ransleigh.

If they’d been expecting some seductive siren, she’d doubtless sent them away disappointed, Caro thought with a sigh.

At least there was no question of her returning to London for another Season, and after a week of fruitless attempts, Lady Denby had given up trying to convince her to marry Max Ransleigh as well. Though Eugenia still hadn’t entirely forgiven her for the débâcle which had put such an unpleasant end to the house party, when Caro had explained during the drive home what had really happened, her stepsister had been first shocked, then indignant, then had wept at the outrage she had suffered.

So it now appeared, Caro thought with satisfaction as she paced up the steps into the manor and tossed her gloves and crop to the butler, that she’d gained what she’d wanted all along: to be left in peace to run her farm.

She was hopeful that Eugenia would also get what she wanted, the successful Season she’d dreamed of for so long. While Caro worked with her horses, Lady Denby had been busy with correspondence, consulting with Lady Gilford and Mrs Ransleigh and writing to her many friends to ensure enough support for Eugenia’s début that her prospects would not suffer because of Caro’s scandal.

Grateful for that, Caroline refused to regret what had happened. And if she sometimes woke in the night, her soul awash with yearning as she recalled being cradled against a broad chest, while a strong finger gently caressed her cheek and a deep masculine voice murmured soothingly against her hair, she would, in time, get over it.

Garbed in her usual working attire of breeches and boots, she intended to tiptoe quietly up to her chamber and change into more conventional clothing before dinner. But as she crept past the parlour, Lady Denby called out, ‘Caroline, is that you? I must speak to you at once!’

Wondering what she could have done now to distress Lady Denby, she changed course and proceeded into the room. ‘Yes, Stepmama?’

In her agitation, Lady Denby didn’t so much as frown at Caro’s breeches. ‘Oh, my dear, I fear I may have inadvertently done you a grave disservice!’

Foreboding slammed like a fist into her chest. ‘What are you talking about?’

Lady Denby gave her a guilty look. ‘Well, you see, after the events at Barton Abbey, I wrote to the trustees of your father’s estate, informing them you were to be married and asking that the solicitors begin working on marriage settlements.’ Before Caroline could protest, she rushed on, ‘I was so very sure you would, in the end, be convinced to marry! Then last week, after finally conceding there would be no wedding, I wrote back to them, telling them you had refused Mr Ransleigh’s offer. In today’s post, I received a reply from Lord Woodbury.’

‘Woodbury?’ Caro gave a contemptuous snort. ‘I can only imagine what he had to say about it. How I wish Papa had not made him head of the trustees!’

‘Well, dear, he was one of your papa’s closest friends and his estate at Mendinhall is very prosperous, so it’s not unreasonable that Papa thought Woodbury would take equal care of yours.’

‘I won’t deny that he’s a good steward,’ Caro replied, ‘but Woodbury never approved of my working the stud. The last time they met, he told Papa he thought it well past time for me to put on proper dress and start behaving like a woman of my rank, instead of racketing about the stables, hobnobbing with grooms and coachmen.’

When Lady Denby remained tactfully silent—probably more in agreement with Lord Woodbury’s views than with her own—Caroline said, ‘What did Lord Woodbury write, then?’

Her stepmother sighed. ‘You’re not going to like it. Apparently he heard about the events at Barton Abbey. He claims the shock of it must have unbalanced your mind for, he wrote, no young lady of breeding in her right senses, caught in such a dire situation, would ever turn down a respectable offer of marriage. He’s convinced your, um, “unnatural preoccupation” with running the stud has made you unable to realise how badly the scandal reflects upon you and the entire family. So, to protect you and the Denby name, he’s convinced the other trustees to agree to something he’s long been urging: the sale of the stud.’

Shock froze her in place, while her heart stood still and blood seemed to drain from her head and limbs. Dizzy, she grabbed the back of a wing chair to steady herself. ‘The sale of the stud?’ she repeated, stunned. ‘He wants to sell my horses?’

‘Y-yes, my dear.’

It was impossible. It was outrageous. Aside from Lady Denby’s generous widow’s portion, the rest of the estate, including Denby Lodge, the Denby Stud and the income to operate it, had been willed to her. Papa had always promised the farm and the land would remain hers, for her use and then as part of her dowry.

She shook her head to clear the faintness. ‘Can they do that?’ she demanded, her voice trembling.

‘I don’t know. Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry! I know how much the stud means to you.’

‘How much … Why, it means everything,’ Caro said, feeling returning to her limbs in a rush of fury. ‘Everything I’ve worked for these last ten years! Has it been done yet? May I see the note?’

Silently, her stepmother held it out. Caroline snatched and read it through rapidly.

‘It does not appear the sale has gone through yet,’ she said, when she had finished it. ‘There must be some way to stop it. The stud belongs to me!’

But even as she made the bold declaration, doubt and dread rose up to check her like a ten-foot gate before a novice jumper.

Did she have control of the stud? Numb, shocked and trying to cope with the immensity of her father’s sudden death, she’d sat silent and vacant-headed during the reading of his will. Thinking back, she knew the assets of the estate had been turned over to trustees to manage for her, but no details about how the trust was to be administered, or the extent of the powers granted the trustees, had penetrated her pall of grief and pain.

‘What will you do?’ Lady Denby asked.

‘I shall leave for London tomorrow at first light and consult Papa’s solicitor. Mr Henderson will know if anything can be done.’

Lady Denby shook her head. ‘I’m so sorry, Caroline. I would never have written if I’d had any suspicion Lord Woodbury would do such a thing.’

Absently Caroline patted her hand. ‘It’s not your fault. According to the note, Woodbury has been trying to convince the other trustees to sell the stud for some time.’

Anguish twisted in her gut as the scene played out in her head: some stranger arriving to lead away Sultan, whom she’d eased from his mother’s body the night he was born. She’d put on him his first halter, his first saddle. Turning over Sultan, or Sheik’s Ransom or Arabian Lady or Cleveland’s Hope or any of the horses she’d worked with from foal to weaning to training, would be like having someone confiscate her brothers and sisters.

‘Thank you for telling me at once,’ she said, brisk purpose submerging her anxiety—at least for the moment. ‘Now, you will please excuse me. I must confer with Newman in the stables, so he may continue the training while I’m gone.’ She dismissed the flare of panic in her belly at the thought that when she came back, she might no longer be giving the orders. ‘Would you ring Dulcie for me and ask her to pack some things?’

‘While you’re at the stables, be sure to tell John Coachman to ready the travelling barouche.’

Already pacing towards the door, Caro shook her head impatiently. ‘No, I’ll go by mail coach; it will be faster.’

‘By mail coach!’ Lady Denby gasped. ‘But … that will not be at all proper! If you don’t wish to take the barouche, at least hire a carriage.’

‘My dear Stepmama, I don’t wish to make the journey in the easy stages required if I’m forced to hire horses along the way! I’ll take Dulcie to lend me some countenance,’ she added. Despite her agitation, she had to grin at the dismay the maid would doubtless feel upon being informed she would be rattling around in a public vehicle, probably stuffed full of other travellers, that broke its journey at the inns along the route only for the few minutes required to change the horses.

‘Where will you stay in London?’ Lady Denby cried, following her out into the passage.

‘With Cousin Elizabeth. Or at a hotel, if she’s not in town. If necessary, Mr Henderson will find me something suitable. Now I must go. I have a hundred things to do before the Royal Mail leaves tomorrow.’

Giving her stepmother’s hand a quick squeeze, Caro strode through the entry, trotted down the steps and, once out of her stepmother’s sight, set off at a run for the stables.

It was long past dark by the time she’d concluded her rounds of the stalls with Newman, her head trainer, reviewing with him the regimen she wished him to follow with each horse.

‘Don’t you worry, Miss Caroline,’ he told her when they’d finished. ‘Your late father, God rest ‘im, trained me and every groom at Denby Stables. We’ll do whatever’s needful to carry on. You go up to London and do what you must. And, miss …’ he added gruffly, giving her arm an awkward pat, ‘best of luck to you.’

With a wisp of a smile, Caro watched him go. Even after so many years of living in a large household, it never ceased to amaze her how quickly news travelled through invisible servants’ networks. Although she’d told Newman nothing beyond the fact that urgent business called her away to London, somehow he must have discovered the true reason behind her journey.

Her final stop before returning to the house was Sultan’s box. ‘No, my handsome boy, I’ll not take you with me this time,’ she told him as she stroked the velvet nose. ‘You’re too fine a horse to risk having you turn an ankle in some pothole, racing through the dark to London. Though you would fly to take me there, if I asked you.’

The gelding nosed her hand and nickered his agreement.

The darkness seemed to close around her, magnifying the fear and anxiety she’d been struggling to hold at bay. Sensing her distress, Sultan nosed her again and rubbed his neck against her hand. Trying to give her comfort, it seemed.

What comfort would she have, if she lost him, lost them all? She had no siblings, no close neighbours other than Harry, and he was off in India. All her life, her horses had been her friends and playmates. She’d poured out her problems and told them her secrets, while they listened, nickering encouragement and sympathy.

Denby Lodge was a vast holding, its wealth derived from farms, cattle and fields planted in corn and other crops. Like her father, she’d been content to let the estate manager—and then the trustees in London—concern themselves with the other businesses, as she let the housekeeper manage the manor itself and its servants, while she focused solely on managing the stud.

She’d not been dissembling when she told Henshaw she possessed no feminine talents. She didn’t sew or embroider, paint, sing, or play an instrument.

What was she to do with herself without her horses to birth, raise and train?

It was all she knew. All she had ever done. All she had ever wanted to do. What could she find to replace the long hours spent in these immaculately kept barns with their rows of box stalls, where every breath brought the familiar scents of hay and bran and horse, saddle leather and polished brass? What could replace the thrill of feeling a thousand pounds of stallion thundering under her as he galloped across a meadow, responding to signals she’d ingrained in him after hours and hours of patient, careful training?

After all she had done to keep the stud, it was intolerable that some self-important peer, who wished to dictate to her what a woman’s place should be, might have the power to strip it all from her.

What was to become of her if Woodbury succeeded?

Weary, anxious, desperate, she wrapped her arms around Sultan’s neck and wept.

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