Making enquiries of Aunt Grace might seem odd, but while Alastair was otherwise occupied, he probably ought to risk it. If he discovered that the gentleman guests included none but paragons of honour and virtue, he could stop worrying about Miss Denby and dismiss her situation from his mind.
Decision made, he knocked and was bid to enter. ‘Max! This is a pleasant surprise!’ Mrs Ransleigh cried, her expression of mild curiosity warming to one of genuine pleasure. ‘Will you take chocolate with me, or some coffee? I confess, I do feel terrible, I’ve been so poor a hostess to you.’
‘Nonsense,’ he said, waving away her offer. ‘I’ll not stay long enough for coffee; we’re just back from the river, and I’m sure you’d as lief I not leave fish slime on your sofa. You know Alastair and I are quite able to keep ourselves well entertained.’
She flushed. ‘I do appreciate your...discretion. Even as I absolutely deplore the necessity for it! Is there truly no hope of your finding another diplomatic position?’
‘I have some ideas, but there’s no point initiating anything yet while Father is still so angry. You know he has the influence to block whatever I attempt, should he wish to.’
‘That’s so James!’ she cried. ‘Brilliant orator and skilled politician your father may be, but he can be so bull-headed and unreasonable sometimes, I’d like to shake him!’
Though he appreciated his aunt’s sympathy, he’d just as soon not dwell on the painful topic of his ruined prospects. ‘I didn’t stop by to talk about me,’ he parried. ‘How goes your party? Has Jane succeeded in leg-shackling any of the guests? Has Lissa found her ideal mate?’
‘Felicity is enjoying herself immensely, which is all I wished for her, since I have no desire to give her up to a husband just yet! Among the other guests, there are some promising developments, though it’s too early to tell yet whether they will result in engagements.’
Trying for a nonchalant tone, Max said, ‘I happened to encounter one of your young ladies. No, nothing scandalous about it,’ he assured her hastily before, her eyes widening in alarm, she could speak. ‘I met her briefly and by chance one afternoon in the conservatory, where she darted in, she told me, to escape some suitor. A most unusual young woman.’
Aunt Grace laughed. ‘Oh, dear! That must have been Miss Denby! Poor Diana—her stepmother, Lady Denby, an old friend of mine—is quite in despair over the girl. Perhaps you didn’t notice in your quick meeting, but the lady is rather...old.’
Were he pressed to describe what he’d noticed about Miss Denby during that first meeting, Max thought, ‘old’ would not be among the adjectives that came to mind. ‘I must confess, I didn’t notice,’ he replied in perfect truth.
‘She should have had her first Season years ago,’ his aunt continued. ‘But she was her widowed father’s only child. Now that I face having my last chick leave home, I can perfectly understand why he didn’t wish to lose her. She’s a great heiress, though, so Diana hasn’t given up hope yet of her making an acceptable match, even though at five-and-twenty she’s practically on the shelf.’
‘A doddering old age, to be sure.’
‘For a female of good birth and fortune to remain unwed at such an age is unusual,’ his aunt said reprovingly. ‘With her being practically an ape-leader, you’d think she’d be eager to wed, but apparently it’s quite the opposite! Though the poor dear seems intelligent enough, she’s terribly shy in company and possesses not a particle of conversation unrelated to hunting and horses. To make matters worse, though I hesitate to say something so uncharitable about a guest, her taste in clothing is atrocious. I expect, arbiter of fashion that you are, you did notice the dreadful gown.’
‘I did,’ he said drily. Though my attention focused more on the neckline than the trimming. ‘So, there is no one here who wishes to coax her into matrimony?
‘I had high hopes of Lord Stantson. A very knowledgeable horseman, he’s a mature man with a calm demeanour I thought might appeal to her.’ At Max’s raised eyebrow, she said, ‘Many young ladies prefer to entrust their future to the steady hand of an older gentleman, rather than risk all with such dashing young rakes as some I might mention! Mr Henshaw has also been pursuing her, though I have to admit,’ his aunt concluded, ‘she has given neither man any encouragement.’
Henshaw! That was the man who’d been watching her in the paddock this morning, Max realised.
Aunt Grace sighed. ‘Lady Denby is quite determined to get her settled before her own daughter Eugenia makes her début next spring. The poor girl’s chances for making a good match will diminish drastically if she must share her Season with her stepsister, for Eugenia Whitman is nearly as wealthy as Miss Denby and far outshines her in youth, wit and beauty.’
Miss Denby was hardly an antidote, Max thought, indignant on her behalf before he recalled the great pains she’d been taking to ensure she created just the sort of negative impression his aunt was describing.
‘If she seems so unwilling and unsuitable, I wonder that her stepmother keeps pushing her to wed. Why not let her remain at Denby Lodge, with her horses?’
‘Well, she must marry some time,’ Mrs Ransleigh said. ‘What else is she to do? And she’s very, very rich.’
‘Which explains the gentlemen’s pursuit of someone who gives them no encouragement.’ Max had been feeling more hopeful, but some niggle of memory made him frown.
Having spent so much time away with the army, he hadn’t visited London very often the last few years, but he vaguely recalled from his clubs the tattle that Henshaw was always pursuing some heiress or other. ‘Is Henshaw a fortune hunter?’
Aunt Grace coloured. ‘I should never describe him in such uncomplimentary terms. Mr Henshaw comes from a very good family and is perfectly respectable. If he wishes to marry a wealthy girl, such a desire is hardly unusual.’
Definitely a fortune hunter, Max concluded. ‘Anyone else angling for the reluctant Miss Denby?’
His aunt fixed him with an assessing look. ‘Did the young lady catch your interest?’
‘Does she look like a lady who would attract me?’ Max asked, feeling somehow guilty for disparaging a woman he admired even as he imbued his voice with the right note of disdain.
Fortunately, his previous flirts had always been acknowledged beauties, so the hopeful light in his aunt’s eyes died. ‘No,’ she admitted.
‘I merely found her amusingly unconventional.’
Aunt Grace laughed ruefully. ‘She is certainly that! Poor Lady Denby! One can only sympathise with her difficulties in trying to get the girl married.’
Having discovered what he’d come for, he’d best take his leave, before Aunt Grace tried to spin some matrimonial web around him. ‘I’ll leave you to your dresser and return to my breakfast, which Cook is now preparing.’
‘Go enjoy your fish, then. I’m so glad you stopped by. I do hope you’ll stay long enough that we can have a good visit, after all the guests leave. Felicity and Jane are eager to have more from you than a few hurried words.’
‘I would like that.’
‘Enjoy your day, then, my dear.’
Max kissed her hand. ‘Enjoy your guests.’
After bowing himself out, Max walked towards the study he and Alastair had turned into their private parlour, running over in his mind what he’d learned from Aunt Grace about Miss Denby.
So none but Stantson and Henshaw had set their sights on the heiress. If Aunt Grace believed both to be gentlemen, he had nothing to worry about. He might enquire and see what Alastair knew about the men, just to be sure, but unless his cousin disclosed something to their discredit, he had no reason to involve himself any further in the matter of her future.
Though, as he’d assured his aunt, the lady was nothing at all like the women who usually attracted him, he had to admit to a feeling of regret at the idea that he’d seen the last of Miss Denby, the only unusual member of what was otherwise a stultifyingly conventional gathering of females.
* * *
Several days later, while Alastair occupied himself in the estate office, Max repaired to his bench in the conservatory to while away the afternoon with some reading.
No sun gilded the tropical plants today, but the morning’s rain had left a soft mist dewing the grass, greying the greens of the trees, shrubs and vines. Within the warm, heated expanse of the glasshouse, the soft swish of swaying palms and ferns and the sweet exotic scent of citrus and jasmine were infinitely soothing.
Alastair had informed him the previous evening that he’d heard the colonel of Max’s former regiment had just returned from Paris. He’d recommended that Max speak with him about a position, sound advice Max meant to follow. The calm and beauty surrounding him here further lifted his spirits, filling him with the sense that much was still possible, if he were patient and persistent enough.
He was absorbed in his book when, some time later, a lavender scent tickled his nose. At the same moment, a soft ‘Oh!’ of surprise brought his head up, just in time to see Miss Denby halt abruptly a few yards away down the pathway.
A warm wave of anticipation suffused him, even as she hastily backed away. ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Ransleigh! I didn’t mean to disturb you!’
‘Then you didn’t come here to seek me out?’ he asked, his tone teasing.
‘Oh, no! I wouldn’t have intruded on your privacy, sir. Your cousin Miss Felicity, who has become great friends with my stepsister, Eugenia, told her you and Mr Alastair would be away all day.’
‘You truly are not pursuing me, then?’ He clapped a hand to his chest theatrically. ‘What a blow to my self-esteem.’
For an instant, her brow furrowed in concern, before her ear caught his ironic tone and she grinned. ‘I dare say your self-esteem can withstand the injury. But I told you I would not tease you and I meant it. I shall leave you to your book.’
It was only prudent that she leave at once...but he didn’t want her to, not just yet.
‘Since you’ve already interrupted my study, do stay for a moment, Miss Denby.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘For a chat that will become another of our little secrets?’
He grinned, pleased that she would joke with him. ‘Exactly.’ Come, sit.’
He motioned her to the bench...and found himself holding his breath, hoping she would come to him. Already his pulse had kicked up and all his senses sharpened, his body quickening at her nearness—which should have been warning enough that urging her to linger was not wise. He thrust the cautionary thought aside.
And then in a graceful swish of fabric, she sat down beside him. Max inhaled deeply as her faint lavender scent washed over him. It must be soap; he’d be astonished if she wore perfume. She was garbed against the misty chill in a cloak that covered her from head to toe, masking whatever hideous gown she’d selected along with, alas, that fine bosom. Even so, close up, he was able to drink in the fine texture of her face, the soft glow of her skin, the perfect shell of ear outlined by a mass of auburn-highlighted brown curls, tamed under her hat on this occasion. She tilted her face up to him and he lost himself in her extraordinary eyes, watching the golden centres shimmer within their dark-velvet depths.
Her lips, full and shapely, bore no trace of artificial gloss or colour. Would her mouth taste of wine, of apple, of mint?
Make conversation, he reminded himself, pulling back abruptly when he realised he’d been lowering his head toward their tempting surface. Devil’s teeth, why did this young woman of no outstanding beauty evoke such a strong response from him?
‘How goes your campaign?’ he managed.
She made a moue of distaste, curving back the ripe fullness of her mouth. He wanted to trace the twin dimples that flanked it with his tongue.
‘Not well, I’m afraid. As one might expect, all the men—the ones your aunt invited, in any event,’ she added, tossing him a mischievous glance, ‘are unmistakably gentlemen. I’ve considered each of them, but some are actively pursuing other ladies. Of the two pursuing me, neither is likely to refuse to marry, should I find some way to get myself compromised. Then there’s the inhibiting presence of Lady Melross, whom I suspect Lady Claringdon inveigled to be present just to ensure that if any gentleman coaxed a maiden to stroll with him where she shouldn’t, he’d be fairly caught—unless he was too dishonourable to do the proper thing and abandoned the girl to her ruin.’ She sighed. ‘Would that I might be!’
‘Lady Melross is a dreadful woman, who delights in spreading bad news,’ Max said feelingly. She’d been the first to trumpet the rumours of his disgrace, even before he reached London after leaving Vienna, then to whisper that his father had banished him. Though he knew she was zealous about reporting the failings of anyone of prominence whose missteps happened to reach her ears, it seemed to him she took a particularly malevolent interest in his affairs.
If he ever managed to secure a prominent position in government, hers would be the first name he would see struck from the invitation list at any function he attended.
Miss Denby drummed her fingers absently on the bench. ‘I wish I could marry my horse. He’s the most interesting male here, present company excepted, of course. Even if he has, ah, been deprived of the tools of his manhood.’
Surprised into a bark of laughter, Max shook his head. ‘You really do say the most outlandish things for a lady.’
She shrugged. ‘Because I’m not one, really. I wish I could convince all the pursing gentlemen of the fact that I’d make them a sadly deficient wife.’
With her seated there, tantalising his nose with her subtle lavender scent and his body by her nearness, Max thought that, for certain of a wife’s duties, she would do admirably.
Before his thoughts could stampede down that lane, he reined himself back to more proper conversational paths. ‘Still training your gelding every morning?’
‘Yes.’
‘In breeches and boots?’ A lovely image, that!
‘No more breeches and boots, alas; you and your cousin taught me to be more cautious. Though I still ride early, it’s getting more difficult to avoid company. Lord Stantson has been pressing me to let him ride with me of a morning, but thus far has honoured my wishes when I firmly decline. He’s a fine enough gentleman, but I’ve heard he came here specifically looking for a second wife. Since I’m not angling for the position, I’m trying to give him no encouragement.’
Wrinkling her nose in distaste, she continued, ‘Mr Henshaw, however, not only requires no encouragement, he positively refuses to be discouraged! He’s turned up each of the last two mornings, despite my continued insistence that I prefer to ride alone. How am I to train Sultan properly, with him interrupting us?’
For a moment, her eyes focused unseeing on the glasshouse wall and she shivered. ‘Though I was garbed in a stiflingly proper habit, he seems to be always staring at me. I don’t care for his expression when he does so, either—as if I were a favourite pudding he meant to devour.’
Max frowned. She might have worn a proper habit every day since that first one, but she hadn’t been the morning he’d seen Henshaw watching her. How close a look at her had the man got? Close enough to get an eyeful of the shapely form he and Alastair had so appreciated?
If so, Max could hardly fault any man for staring at her like a ‘pudding one meant to devour’. Which didn’t reduce one whit the strong desire rising in him to blacken both Henshaw’s eyes for making her feel uncomfortable.
‘He insisted on riding with me, despite the fact that I was quite obviously trying to work with Sultan,’ Miss Denby continued. ‘Honestly, he possesses terrible hands and the worst seat I’ve ever been forced to observe. I’ve taken to riding even earlier to avoid him.’
‘I’ve never seen him astride, only observed his...remarkably inventive dress. He must make his tailors very rich.’
She chuckled. ‘A man milliner indeed. One would think, with his exacting tastes in garments, sheer disgust over my atrocious gowns would be enough to dissuade him from pu
rsuing me.’
She looked up at him, smiling faintly, those great dark eyes inviting him to share her amusement. Her lavender scent wrapped itself around him like a silken scarf, pulling him closer. He wanted to trace the scent to its origin, lick it from her neck and ears and the hollows of the collarbones he’d seen that day she’d ridden in an open-collared shirt and breeches.
As he gazed raptly, her dark eyes widened and her smile faded. She seemed as mesmerised as he, her lips parting slightly, giving him the tiniest glimpse of pink tongue within the warmth of her mouth.
Desire shot through him, pulsing in his veins, curling his fingers with the itch to cup her chin and taste her.
‘Well,’ she said, her voice a bit breathless, ‘I suppose I should leave you now, lest someone come by and see us. Unless...’ she smiled tremulously, brushing a curl back from her forehead as her cheeks pinked ‘...you’d like to...reconsider my proposition?’
Her cloak fell open at that movement. Beneath the fabric of another overtrimmed, pea-green gown, he saw the rapid rise and fall of her breasts as her breathing accelerated.
His certainly had. All over his body, things were accelerating and rising and pulsing. The need to kiss her, learn the taste of her mouth, the contour of her ears and shoulders and the hollow of her throat, thrummed in his blood. His gaze wandered back to the mesmerizing shimmer of gold in her eyes and halted.
In his head, that persistent fly of temptation buzzed louder, almost drowning out good sense.
Almost.
It took him a full minute to shoo it away and find his voice.
‘A tempting offer. But I fear I must still decline.’
Despite the words, he couldn’t make himself stand, bow, put an end to this interlude, as prudence demanded.
She, too, remained motionless, her eyes studying his, the current of attraction pulsing between them almost palpable. As he watched intently, the embarrassment she’d displayed upon repeating her offer changed to uncertainty and then, yes, he was certain, to desire. Confirming that assessment, slowly she leaned towards him and tilted her face up, bringing her lips tantalisingly close.
The Rake to Ruin Her Page 6