‘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 pinkening.

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.’

THE RANSLEIGH ROGUES

Where these notorious rakes go, scandal always follows …

Max, Will, Alastair and Dominic Ransleigh—cousins, friends … and the most wickedly attractive men in Regency London. Between war, betrayal and scandal, love has never featured in the Ransleighs’ destinies—until now!

Don’t miss this enthralling new quartet from Julia Justiss, starting with Max’s story

THE RAKE TO RUIN HER

Look for Will Ransleigh’s story

Available April 2013

About the Author

JULIA JUSTISS wrote her first plot ideas for a Nancy Drew novel in the back of her third-grade notebook, and has been writing ever since. After such journalistic adventures as publishing poetry and editing an American Embassy newsletter she returned to her first love: writing fiction. Her Regency historical novels have been winners or finalists in the Romance Writers of America’s Golden Heart™, RT Book Reviews magazine’s Best First Historical, Golden Quill, National Readers’ Choice and Daphne Du Maurier contests. She lives with her husband, three children and two dogs in rural east Texas, where she also teaches high school French. For current news and contests, please visit her website at www.juliajustiss.com

Novels by the same author:

THE WEDDING GAMBLE

THE PROPER WIFE

MY LADY’S TRUST

MY LADY’S PLEASURE

MY LADY’S HONOUR

A SCANDALOUS PROPOSAL

SEDUCTIVE STRANGER

THE COURTESAN

THE THREE GIFTS

(part of A Regency Lords & Ladies Christmas anthology)

THE UNTAMED HEIRESS

ROGUE’S LADY

CHRISTMAS WEDDING WISH

(part of Regency Candlelit Christmas anthology)

THE SMUGGLER AND THE SOCIETY BRIDE

(part of Silk & Scandal mini-series)

A MOST UNCONVENTIONAL MATCH

WICKED WAGER

FROM WAIF TO GENTLEMAN’S WIFE

SOCIETY’S MOST DISREPUTABLE GENTLEMAN

Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

AUTHOR NOTE

The 2012 London summer games are unfolding as I write this note, and as the athletes tell their stories I’m repeatedly reminded of how many years of hard work and single-minded dedication are necessary to earn them a place among the best of the best. Yet sometimes, after devoting all one’s energies to achieving an aim, some totally unexpected catastrophe destroys in an instant the possibility of reaching that goal. Standing shocked and disbelieving amid the wreckage of that dream, the survivor is forced to find a different path.

Such is the case with ‘Magnificent Max’ Ransleigh, the earl’s son and charismatic leader of a group of cousins known as The Ransleigh Rogues. With his father a force in the House of Lords, Max has prepared all his life for a high diplomatic position, and seems well on his way when he’s chosen as one of the Duke of Wellington’s aides at the Congress of Vienna. But when an assassination attempt on the Duke is perpetrated by relatives of a Frenchwoman Max has befriended, even his valour at Waterloo can’t resurrect the tatters of his career.

Returning after the battle, with none of his former associates—including his father—willing to see him, he turns to the Rogues. He stops at Alastair’s country home, unaware that his aunt, Alastair’s mother, is hostessing a house party to acquaint her youngest daughter, soon to make her London debut, with other young ladies of the Ton.

While Max mourns the loss of a conventional future, Caroline Denby schemes to destroy her own. Sole heiress of a wealthy baron, she has good reasons for avoiding wedlock, and is actively resisting her stepmother’s attempts to marry her off—what future is there for a woman but marriage? Lady Denby argues—so she may return to Kent and run the horse-breeding farm she established with her father.

When Caro discovers the infamous Max Ransleigh has dropped in on her hostess’s house party, she decides he is just the rogue to ruin her. With her reputation in tatters, her suitors will depart, her stepmother will refocus her matrimonial schemes on her own daughter, and Caro will be left in peace to tend her horses.

But sometimes the goal we yearn for turns out not to be the path for which we’re destined. And a love we never expected to find becomes the most precious blessing of our life.

I hope you’ll enjoy Max and Caro’s journey.

Soon to follow in 2013 and 2014 will be the stories of the other Rogues: ‘Wagering Will’, illegitimate son of the earl’s brother, who never met a game of chance he couldn’t win, ‘Ingenious Alastair’, philosopher and poet who thinks to best Byron until a humiliating betrayal turns him into the worst rake in England, and ‘Dandy Dominic’, handsomest man in the Regiment, who returns from Waterloo maimed, scarred, and searching for meaning in the ruins of his life.

I love to hear from readers! Find me at my website, www.juliajustiss.com, for excepts, updates and background bits about my books, on Facebook at www.facebook.com/juliajustiss and on Twitter @juliajustiss.

The Rake to Ruin Her
Julia Justiss

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

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.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.