Four In Hand

by Stephanie Laurens

  Returning to their carriage, drawn up beside the elegant equipage bearing the Delmere crest, the three youngest Twinnings smiled serenely at their guardian, who watched them from the box seat of his curricle, a far from complaisant look in his eyes.

  Max was, in fact, convinced that something was in the wind but had no idea what. His highly developed social antennae had picked up the undercurrents of his wards’ plotting and their innocent smiles merely confirmed his suspicions. He was well aware that Caroline, seated beside him in a fetching gown of figured muslin, was not privy to their schemes. As he headed his team from the field, he smiled. His eldest ward had had far too much on her mind recently to have had any time free for scheming.

  Beside him, Caroline remained in blissful ignorance of her sisters’ aims. She had spent a thoroughly enjoyable day in the company of her guardian and was in charity with the world. They had had an excellent view of the ascent itself from the height of the box seat of the curricle. And when she had evinced the desire to stroll among the crowds, Max had readily escorted her, staying attentively by her side, his acerbic comments forever entertaining and, for once, totally unexceptionable. She looked forward to the drive back to Mount Street with unimpaired cahn, knowing that in the curricle, she ran no risk of being subjected to another of His Grace’s “lessons.” In fact, she was beginning to wonder how many more lessons there could possibly be before the graduation ceremony. The thought brought a sleepy smile to her face. She turned to study her guardian.

  His attention was wholly on his horses, the bays, as sweet a pair as she had ever seen. Her eyes fell to his hands as they tooled the reins, strong and sure. Remembering the sensations those hands had drawn forth as they had knowledgeably explored her body, she caught her breath and rapidly looked away. Keeping her eyes fixed on the passing landscape, she forced her thoughts into safer fields.

  The trouble with Max Rotherbridge was that he invaded her thoughts, too, and, as in other respects, was wellnigh impossible to deny. She was fast coming to the conclusion that she should simply forget all else and give herself up to the exquisite excitements she found in his arms. All the social and moral strictures ever intoned, all her inhibitions seemed to be consumed to ashes in the fire of her desire. She was beginning to feel it was purely a matter of time before she succumbed. The fact that the idea did not fill her with trepidation but rather with a pleasant sense of anticipation was in itself, she felt, telling.

  As the wheels hit the cobbles and the noise that was London closed in around them, her thoughts flew ahead to Lady Benborough, who had stayed at home recruiting her energies for the ball that night. It was only this morning, when, with Max, she had bid her ladyship goodbye, that the oddity in Augusta’s behaviour had struck her. While the old lady had been assiduous in steering the girls through the shoals of the acceptable gentlemen of the ton, she had said nothing about her eldest charge’s association with her nephew. No matter how Caroline viewed it, invoke what reason she might, there was something definitely odd about that. As she herself had heard the rumours about His Grace of Twyford’s very strange relationship with his eldest ward, it was inconceivable that Lady Benborough had not been edified with their tales. However, far from urging her to behave with greater discretion towards Max, impossible task though that might be, Augusta continued to behave as if there was nothing at all surprising in Max Rotherbridge escorting his wards to a balloon ascent. Caroline wondered what it was that Augusta knew that she did not.

  ———

  The Twinning sisters attended the opera later that week. It was the first time they had been inside the ornate structure that was the Opera House; their progress to the box organized for them by their guardian was perforce slow as they gazed about them with interest. Once inside the box itself, in a perfect position in the first tier, their attention was quickly claimed by their fellow opera-goers. The pit below was a teeming sea of heads; the stylish crops of the fashionable young men who took perverse delight in rubbing shoulders with the masses bobbed amid the unkempt locks of the hoi polloi. But it was upon the occupants of the other boxes that the Twinnings’ principal interest focused. These quickly filled as the time for the curtain to rise approached. All four were absorbed in nodding and waving to friends and acquaintances as the lights went out.

  The first act consisted of a short piece by a little-known Italian composer, as the prelude to the opera itself, which would fill the second and third acts, before another short piece ended the performance. Caroline sat, happily absorbed in the spectacle, beside and slightly in front of her guardian. She was blissfully content. She had merely made a comment to Max a week before that she would like to visit the opera. Two days later, he had arranged it all. Now she sat, superbly elegant in a silver satin slip overlaid with bronzed lace, and revelled in the music, conscious, despite her preoccupation, of the warmth of the Duke of Twyford’s blue gaze on her bare shoulders.

  Max watched her delight with satisfaction. He had long ago ceased to try to analyze his reactions to Caroline Twinning; he was besotted and knew it Her happiness had somehow become his happiness; in his view, nothing else mattered. As he watched, she turned and smiled, a smile of genuine joy. It was, he felt, all the thanks he required for the effort organizing such a large box at short notice had entailed. He returned her smile, his own lazily sensual. For a moment, their eyes locked. Then, blushing, Caroline turned back to the stage.

  Max had little real interest in the performance, his past experiences having had more to do with the singer than the song. He allowed his gaze to move past Caroline to dwell on her eldest half-sister. He had not yet fathomed exactly what Sarah’s ambition was, yet felt sure it was not as simple as it appeared. The notion that any Twinning would meekly accept unwedded solitude as her lot was hard to swallow. As Sarah sat by Caroline’s side, dramatic as ever in a gown of deepest green, the light from the stage lit her face. Her troubles had left no mark on the classical lines of brow and cheek but the peculiar light revealed more clearly than daylight the underlying determination in the set of the delicate mouth and chin. Max’s lips curved in a wry grin. He doubted that Darcy had heard the last of Sarah Twinning, whatever the outcome of his self-imposed exile.

  Behind Sarah sat Lord Tulloch and Mr. Swanston, invited by Max to act as squires for Sarah and Arabella respectively. Neither was particularly interested in the opera, yet both had accepted the invitations with alacrity. Now, they sat, yawning politely behind their hands, waiting for the moment when the curtain would fall and they could be seen by the other attending members of the ton, escorting their exquisite charges through the corridors.

  Arabella, too, was fidgety, settling and resettling her pink silk skirts and dropping her fan. She appeared to be trying to scan the boxes on the tier above. Max smiled. He could have told her that Hugo Denbigh hated opera and had yet to be seen within the portals of Covent Garden.

  Lady Benborough, dragon-like in puce velvet, sat determinedly following the aria. Distracted by Arabella’s antics, she turned to speak in a sharp whisper, whereat Arabella grudgingly subsided, a dissatisfied frown marring her delightful visage.

  At the opposite end of the box sat Martin, with Lizzie by the parapet beside him. She was enthralled by the performance, hanging on every note that escaped the throat of the soprano performing the lead. Martin, most improperly holding her hand, evinced not the slightest interest in the buxom singer but gazed solely at Lizzie, a peculiar smile hovering about his lips. Inwardly, Max sighed. He just hoped his brother knew what he was about

  The aria ended and the curtain came down. As the applause died, the large flambeaux which lit the pitwere brought forth and reinstalled in their brackets. Noise erupted around them as everyone talked at once.

  Max leaned forward to speak by Caroline’s ear. “Come. Let’s stroll.”

  She turned to him in surprise and he smiled. “That’s what going to the opera is about, my dear. To see and be seen. Despite appearances, the most important performances tak
e place in the corridors of Covent Garden, not on the stage.”

  “Of course,” she returned, standing and shaking out her skirts. “How very provincial of me not to realize.” Her eyes twinkled. “How kind of you, dear guardian, to attend so assiduously to our education.”

  Max took her hand and tucked it into his arm. As they paused to allow the others to precede them, he bent to whisper in her ear, “On the contrary, sweet Caro. While I’m determined to see your education completed, my interest is entirely selfish.”

  The wicked look which danced in his dark blue eyes made Caroline blush. But she was becoming used to the highly improper conversations she seemed to have with her guardian. “Oh?” she replied, attempting to look innocent and not entirely succeeding. “Won’t I derive any benefit from my new-found knowledge?”

  They were alone in the box, hidden from view of the other boxes by shadows. For a long moment, they were both still, blue eyes locked with grey-green, the rest of the world far distant. Caroline could not breathe; the intensity of that blue gaze and the depth of the passion which smouldered within it held her mesmerized. Then, his eyes still on hers, Max lifted her hand and dropped a kiss on her fingers. “My dear, once you find the key, beyond that particular door lies paradise. Soon, sweet Caro, very soon, you’ll see.”

  Once in the corridor, Caroline’s cheeks cooled. They were quickly surrounded by her usual court and Max, behaving more circumspectly than he ever had before, relinquished her to the throng. Idly, he strolled along the corridors, taking the opportunity to stretch his long legs. He paused here and there to exchange a word with friends but did not stop for long. His preoccupation was not with extending his acquaintance of the ton. His ramblings brought him to the corridor serving the opposite arm of the horseshoe of boxes. The bell summoning the audience to their seats for the next act rang shrilly. Max was turning to make his way back to his box when a voice hailed him through the crush.

  “Your Grace!”

  Max closed his eyes in exasperation, then opened them and turned to face Lady Mordand. He nodded curtly. “Emma.”

  She was on the arm of a young man whom she introduced and immediately dismissed, before turning to Max. “I think perhaps we should have a serious talk, Your Grace.”

  The hard note in her voice and the equally rock-like glitter in her eyes were not lost on the Duke of Twyford. Max had played the part of the fashionable rake for fifteen years and knew well the occupational hazards. He lifted his eyes from an uncannily thorough contemplation of Lady Mortland and sighted a small alcove, temporarily deserted. “I think perhaps you’re right, my dear. But I suggest we improve our surroundings.”

  His hand under her elbow steered Emma towards the alcove. The grip of his fingers through her silk sleeve and the steely quality in his voice were a surprise to her ladyship, but she was determined that Max Rotherbridge should pay, one way or another, for her lost dreams.

  They reached the relative privacy of the alcove. “Well, Emma, what’s this all about?”

  Suddenly, Lady Mortland was rather less certain of her strategy. Faced with a pair of very cold blue eyes and an iron will she had never previously glimpsed, she vacillated. “Actually, Your Grace,” she cooed, “I had rather hoped you would call on me and we could discuss the matter in…greater privacy.”

  “Cut line, Emma,” drawled His Grace. “You knew perfectly well I have no wish whatever to be private with you.”

  The bald statement ignited Lady Mortland’s temper. “Yes!” she hissed, fingers curling into claws. “Ever since you set eyes on that little harpy you call your ward, you’ve had no time for me!”

  “I wouldn’t, if I were you, make scandalous statements about a young lady to her guardian,” said Max, unmoved by her spleen.

  “Guardian, ha! Love, more like!”

  One black brow rose haughtily.

  “Do you deny it? No, of course not! Oh, there are whispers aplenty, let me tell you. But they’re as nothing to the storm there’ll be when I get through with you. I’ll tell—Ow!”

  Emma broke off and looked down at her wrist, imprisoned in Max’s right hand. “L…let me go. Max, you’re hurting me.”

  “Emma, you’ll say nothing.”

  Lady Mortland looked up and was suddenly frightened. Max nodded, a gentle smile, which was quite terrifyingly cold, on his lips. “Listen carefully, Emma, for I’ll say this once only. You’ll not, verbally or otherwise, malign my ward—any of my wards—in any way whatever. Because, if you do, rest assured I’ll hear about it. Should that happen, I’ll ensure your stepson learns of the honours you do his father’s memory by your retired lifestyle. Your income derives from the family estates, does it not?”

  Emma had paled. “You…you wouldn’t.”

  Max released her. “No. You’re quite right. I wouldn’t,” he said. “Not unless you do first. Then, you may be certain that I would.” He viewed the woman before him, with understanding if not compassion. “Leave be, Emma. What Caroline has was never yours and you know it. I suggest you look to other fields.”

  With a nod, Max left Lady Mortland and returned through the empty corridors to his box.

  Caroline turned as he resumed his seat. She studied his face for a moment, then leaned back to whisper, “Is anything wrong?”

  Max’s gaze rested on her sweet face, concern for his peace of mind the only emotion visible. He smiled reassuringly and shook his head. “A minor matter of no moment.” In the darkness he reached for her hand and raised it to his lips. With a smile, Caroline returned her attention to the stage. When she made no move to withdraw her hand, Max continued to hold it, mimicking Martin, placating his conscience with the observation that, in the dark, no one could see the Duke of Twyford holding hands with his eldest ward.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Execution of the first phase of the Twinnings’ master plot to rescue Amanda and Sir Ralph from the machinations of Mrs. Crowbridge fell to Sarah. An evening concert was selected as the venue most conducive to success. As Sir Ralph was tone deaf, enticing him from the real pleasure of listening to the dramatic voice of Senorita Muscarina, the Spanish soprano engaged for the evening, proved easier than Sarah had feared.

  Sir Ralph was quite content to escort Miss Sarah for a stroll on the balcony, ostensibly to relieve the stuffiness in Miss Twinning’s head. In the company of the rest of the ton, he knew Sarah was pining away and thus, he reasoned, he was safe in her company. That she was one of the more outstandingly opulent beauties he had ever set eyes on simply made life more complete. It was rare that he felt at ease with such women and his time in London had made him, more than once, wish he was back in the less demanding backwoods of Gloucestershire. Even now, despite his successful courtship of the beautiful, the effervescent, the gorgeous Arabella Twinning, there were times Harriet Jenkins’s face reminded him of how much more comfortable their almost finalized relationship had been. In fact, although he tried his best to ignore them, doubts kept appearing in his mind, of whether he would be able to live up to Arabella’s expectations once they were wed. He was beginning to understand that girls like Arabella—well, she was a woman, really—were used to receiving the most specific advances from the more hardened of the male population. Sir Ralph swallowed nervously, woefully aware that he lacked the abilities to compete with such gentlemen. He glanced at the pale face of the beauty beside him. A frown marred her smooth brow. He relaxed. Clearly, Miss Sarah’s mind was not bent on illicit dalliance.

  In thinking this, Sir Ralph could not have been further from the truth. Sarah’s frown was engendered by her futile attempts to repress the surge of longing that had swept through her—a relic of that fateful evening in Lady Overton’s shrubbery, she felt sure—when she had seen Darcy Hamilton’s tall figure negligently propped by the door. She had felt the weight of his gaze upon her and, turning to seek its source, had met his eyes across the room. Fool that she was! She had had to fight to keep herself in her seat and not run across the room and throw herself int
o his arms. Then, an arch look from Arabella, unaware of Lord Darcy’s return, had reminded her of her duty. She had put her hand to her head and Lizzie had promptly asked if she was feeling the thing. It had been easy enough to claim Sir Ralph’s escort and leave the music-room. But the thunderous look in Darcy’s eyes as she did so had tied her stomach in knots.

  Pushing her own concerns abruptly aside, she transferred her attention to the man beside her. “Sir Ralph, I hope you won’t mind if I speak to you on a matter of some delicacy?”

  Taken aback, Sir Ralph goggled.

  Sarah ignored his startled expression. Harriet had warned her how he would react. It was her job to lead him by the nose. “I’m afraid things have reached a head with Arabella. I know it’s not obvious; she’s so reticent about such things. But I feel it’s my duty to try to explain it to you. She’s in such low spirits. Something must be done or she may even go into a decline.”

  It was on the tip of Sir Ralph’s tongue to say that he had thought it was Sarah who was going into the decline. And the suggestion that Arabella, last seen with an enchanting sparkle in her big eyes, was in low spirits confused him utterly. But Sarah’s next comment succeeded in riveting his mind. “You’re the only one who can save her.”

  The practical tone in which Sarah brought out her statement lent it far greater weight than a more dramatic declaration. In the event, Sir Ralph’s attention was all hers. “You see, although she would flay me alive for telling you, you should know that she was very seriously taken with a gentleman earlier in the Season, before you arrived. He played on her sensibilities and she was so vulnerable. Unfortunately, he was not interested in marriage. I’m sure I can rely on your discretion. Luckily, she learned of his true intentions before he had time to achieve them. But her heart was sorely bruised, of course. Now that she’s found such solace in your company, we had hoped, my sisters and I, that you would not let her down.”