Four In Hand

by Stephanie Laurens

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Caroline smiled. His potted histories were entertaining.

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

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

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

  “A friend of yours?”

  “Precisely.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ———

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Caroline’s eyes danced. She nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ———

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “I trust everything meets with your approval?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Max smiled his lazy smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Your sisters?” asked Max.

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

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

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