Max forced himself to remain motionless, while every nerve and sense screamed at him to lower his head and take her mouth. In some distant corner of his brain, honour and common sense was nattering that he should move away, end this before it began.
But he couldn’t. He would not cross that slight boundary and touch her first, but, shutting out the little voice insisting this was madness, he waited, aflame with anticipation, confident she would close the distance between them and kiss him.
Her eyelashes feathered shut. His eyes closed, too, as her warm breath washed over him, the first tentative wave from an incoming tide of pleasure.
Just as his eager body whispered ‘now, now’, she straightened abruptly and scooted backwards on the bench.
‘I—I should go,’ she said unsteadily.
Max shook his head, trying to drown out the buzzy little voice that urged him to lure her into remaining.
And he could do it; he knew he could.
Over the protest of every outraged sense, he wrestled his desire back under control. ‘That would be wisest...if not nearly so pleasant.’
‘Wisest...yes,’ she repeated and belatedly bobbed to her feet. ‘Thank you for the, ah, chat. Good day, Mr Ransleigh.’
He stood as well and bowed. ‘Good day, Miss Denby.’
Regretfully, while his body yammered and scolded at him like a disgruntled housewife cheated by a market vendor, he watched her retreat down the pathway. Just before turning the corner to exit the glasshouse, she halted.
Looking back over her shoulder, she said softly, in tones of wonder, ‘You tempt me too, you know.’
A surge of delight and pure masculine satisfaction blazed through him. Before he could reply, she turned and hurried out.
He jumped to his feet and paced after her. Fortunately, by the time he reached the door to the glasshouse, sanity had returned.
Good grief, if he couldn’t rein in his reaction to her, he’d better avoid her altogether, lest he find himself being quickstepped to the altar. Had he not committed idiocies enough for one lifetime?
So he made himself stand there, watching her trim figure retreat through the mist down the pathway back to the house. But as she took the turn leading to the drawing-room terrace, a man stepped out.
Henshaw.
Max gritted his teeth. Frowning, he watched the exchange, too far away to hear their voices, as Henshaw bowed to Miss Denby’s curtsy. Offered his arm, which she declined with a shake of her head and a motion of her hand in the direction of the stables. Henshaw, giving a dismissive wave, offered his arm again, which, after a few more unintelligible words, she reluctantly accepted.
They’d just set off on the path to the house when Alastair came striding up. Putting a hand to his forehead, he peered into the distance and declared, ‘That looks like the chap who was watching Miss Denby ride the other morning.’
‘It is. David Henshaw. Do you know him?’
‘Ah, yes, that’s why he looked familiar. He’s a member at Brooks’s. Too concerned with the cut of his coat and the style of his cravat for my taste. He the front runner for Miss Denby’s affections?’
‘Not if she has anything to say about it.’
‘Ah, had another little chat with the lady, did you? Sure you don’t fancy her for yourself?’
He made himself give Alastair a withering look. ‘Does she look like a woman I’d fancy?’ he drawled, feeling more uncomfortable about uttering the disparaging remark this time, after he’d practically devoured her on the greenhouse bench, than when he’d been trying to throw Aunt Grace off the scent.
‘Not in your usual style,’ Alastair allowed, ‘but there is something about her. Devilishly arousing in her own way...like when riding astride in breeches! What a shame she’s an innocent; don’t forget, my friend, that the price for tasting that morsel is marriage.’
‘So I keep reminding myself,’ Max muttered, grimly aware that the moment she’d sat down beside him, his instincts for self-preservation had gone missing.
‘I’m not surprised Henshaw is on the scent,’ Alastair continued. ‘The latest word at the London clubs was he’s run so far into debt, he can’t even go back to his town house for fear of meeting the bailiffs. The Denby girl’s fat dowry would put all his financial problems to rest.’
Max had never given much thought to the fact that a husband gained control over all his wife’s wealth, but after hearing Miss Denby lament the fact, such an arrangement now struck him as little short of robbery. ‘Doesn’t seem quite sporting that he could float himself down River Tick and then use her money to paddle out of danger.’
Alastair shrugged. ‘It’s done all the time.’
The fact that it was didn’t make it any more palatable, Max thought. ‘Does Aunt Grace know about Henshaw’s current monetary difficulties?’
‘I don’t know. But he’s been angling to marry a fortune ever since he came up from Cambridge, so there’s nothing new about it, except perhaps the degree of urgency. Come now, enough about Henshaw. The man’s a pretentious, ill-dressed bore. How about a game of billiards before dinner? If any guests approach the room, I’ll have Wendell scare them off.’
Absently Max agreed, but as they walked back to the house, he couldn’t get out of his mind the image of Henshaw compelling Miss Denby to take his arm.
Were Henshaw’s circumstances difficult enough that he’d be willing to coerce an heiress into matrimony?
Most likely, he was letting his dislike for the dandified Henshaw colour his perceptions. The man was a gentleman of good family and Aunt Grace would never have invited him if there were any doubt about his integrity.
However, just to be safe, he’d ride out early tomorrow and warn Miss Denby to be on her guard with him.
Feeling better about the matter, he followed his cousin into the house and focused his mind on the best strategy for beating Alastair for the third evening in a row.
Chapter Six
The next morning, Max rose before dawn and headed to the stables before even a glimmer of dawn lightened the treeline, determined not to risk missing Miss Denby. But though he trotted his mount up and down the stable lane for so long that the grooms must have wondered what in the world he was doing, she did not appear.
Perhaps she was being prudent, abstaining from her morning ride so as not to be pounced upon by Henshaw. Alastair had told him over billiards the previous evening that his mother said the party was wrapping up; Jane had boasted to him of its successes, two matrons having managed to get offers for their daughters. Felicity, she added, had made a great new friend of Miss Denby’s stepsister, Eugenia Whitman, and was giddy about the prospect of sharing her upcoming Season with the girl.
The same Miss Whitman who, his Aunt Grace had informed him, ‘far outshines her stepsister in youth, wit and beauty’. Max still resented that comment on Miss Denby’s behalf.
In any event, it appeared she would soon be relieved of Mr Henshaw’s pursuit, Max concluded, turning his probably puzzled mount to the stable and returning to the house. But what of next spring? Would she, as she feared, have to suffer through another Season, dragged off to participate in a round of social activities for which she had no inclination, forced to neglect her beloved horses?
What a shame her childhood beau Harry was so far away. She deserved to marry a man who appreciated her unique talents and interests, who supported rather than discouraged her desire to carry on her father’s legacy.
He toyed with the idea of trying to seek her out and bid her goodbye, but couldn’t come up with a way to do so that would not shock the gathering by revealing she was well acquainted with a man she wasn’t supposed to know. Perhaps, once he had his life sorted out, he could call on her in London, maybe even seek her out at Denby Lodge and purchase some of her horses.
With Alastair away on another of his lord-of-the-manor errands, Max fetched his book and headed for what might be his last afternoon hidden away at the conservatory. He’d rather miss the place, whose w
arm scented air and soothing palm murmurs he would probably never have discovered had he not been forced to vacate the house. With the guests soon departing, he and Alastair would have free run of the estate again.
He halted just inside the threshold of the glasshouse, inhaling the tangy-sweet scent of jasmine that seemed always to hang in the air, insubstantial as a whisper. He was about to proceed to his usual bench when a murmur of voices reached his ears, the words as indistinct as the gurgling of a brook over rocks.
He halted, trying to identify the speakers. Aunt Grace, conferring with the gardener? Or one of the affianced couples, stealing one last tryst before the party broke up?
In either case, his presence would be an impediment. He was silently retracing his steps when a feminine voice reached his ears, its increased volume making the words suddenly clear.
‘Mr Henshaw, I do appreciate the honour of your offer, but I’m absolutely convinced we will not suit!’
Miss Denby’s voice, Max realised, halting in mid-step. Had Henshaw tracked her there?
His first impulse was to set off in her direction, but she’d probably not thank him for interfering. Still, though he felt confident she could handle her disappointed suitor without his assistance, some deep-seated protective instinct made him linger.
After a masculine murmur whose words he could not make out, Miss Denby said, ‘No, I shall not change my mind. You must admit, sir, that I have tried in every possible way to discourage you, so my refusal can hardly come as a surprise. You will oblige me by leaving now.’
‘Waiting here for someone else, were you?’ Henshaw replied, his angry tones now comprehensible. ‘Max Ransleigh, perhaps? He’d never marry you. Despite his father’s banishment, he has money enough, and if he ever does wed, it will be a woman from a prominent society family. In any event, his taste runs to sophisticated beauties, which you, I’m forced to say, are not. Nor are you getting any younger. If you’ve any hopes at all of marrying, you’d better accept my offer.’
Why, the mercenary little weasel, Max thought, incensed. Only the certainty that Miss Denby would not appreciate having him witness this embarrassing scene kept him from setting off down the pathway to plant a fist squarely on the jaw of that overdressed excuse for a gentleman.
‘You’re quite correct,’ she was saying. ‘I possess none of the virtues and talents a gentleman looks for in a wife. As you so kindly noted, I’m hardly a beauty and am hopeless at making the sort of polite chat that makes up society conversation. Worst of all, I fear I have no fashion sense. You can do so much better, Mr Henshaw! Why not wait until the Season and find yourself a more suitable bride?’
Despite his ire, Max had to grin. Had any female ever so thoroughly disparaged herself to a prospective suitor?
‘I’m afraid, my dear, the press of creditors don’t allow me the luxury of waiting. Though admittedly you possess neither the style nor the talents I would wish for in a wife, you do have...a certain charm of person. And wealth, of which I’m in desperate need.’
No style? No talent? His mirth rapidly dissipating, Max reconsidered the prospect of cornering Henshaw, shaking him like a dog with a ferret and then tossing him out of the glasshouse like the refuse he was.
But alerting them to his presence would not only distress Miss Denby, it might give the thwarted suitor an opportunity to claim he’d caught Max and Miss Denby alone together. His self-protective instincts on full alert now that Miss Denby wasn’t within touching distance, Max didn’t want to risk that.
His decision not to intervene, however, wavered when he heard a sharp, cracking sound that could only be a slap.
‘Keep your hands to yourself,’ Miss Denby cried. ‘You followed me without my leave or encouragement. If you will not quit this place, then I will do so. Since I do not anticipate seeing you again before the party ends, I will say goodbye, Mr Henshaw.’
‘Not so hasty, my dear. It might not be an arrangement either of us want, but you will marry me.’
‘Let go of my arm! It’s useless for you to detain me, for I promise you, nothing on earth would ever induce me to marry you!’
‘I’d hoped you would consent willingly, but if you will not, you force me to employ...other measures. Before you leave this spot, you’ll be fit to be no one’s wife but mine.’
At that threat, Max abandoned discretion and set off at a run. If he hadn’t already been prepared to tear Henshaw limb from limb, the scuffling, panting sounds of a struggle that reached him as he rounded the last corner, followed by the unmistakable rip of fabric, had him ready to do murder.
Seconds later, he lunged over a potted fern to find Henshaw trying to pin a wildly struggling Miss Denby down on the bench, his free hand clawing up her skirts. As a clay pot fell over and shattered, Henshaw looked up, his hands stilling.
The smirk on his face and the lust in his eyes turned to surprise, then alarm as he recognised Max. But before Max could seize him, Miss Denby, taking advantage of Henshaw’s distraction, kneed him in the groin, then caught him full on the nose with a roundhouse left jab of which Gentleman Jackson would have been proud.
Howling, Henshaw released Miss Denby and staggered backwards, one hand on his breeches front, the other holding his nose. Blood oozing through his fingers, he snarled, ‘Bitch! You’ll regret that!’
Max grabbed him by the arm and slammed him against the wall, regrettably with less force than he would have liked, but he didn’t want to break a glass panel in Aunt Grace’s conservatory.
Securing him against it with a stranglehold on his cravat, Max growled, ‘Miss Denby will not regret her rejection. But you, varlet, will regret this episode for the rest of your life unless you do exactly what I say. You will apologise to Miss Denby, then pack your bag and leave immediately, before I tell the world and Lady Melross how you tried to attack an innocent and unwilling young lady.’ Giving Henshaw’s cravat a final twist, he released the man.
Henshaw shook his arms free and retreated several steps, trying to repair his ruined cravat before giving it up as hopeless. ‘You dare to threaten me?’ he blustered. ‘Who will believe you? A flagrant womaniser, sent away from Vienna in disgrace, disowned by your own father!’
‘Who will believe me?’ Max echoed, his voice silky-soft. ‘Your hostess, my aunt, perhaps? Or Lady Melross, seeing your elegant attire as it now appears?’
Fury and desperation might have briefly clouded Henshaw’s judgement, but the reference to his dishevelled clothing snapped him back to reality. Obviously realising he could not hope to prevail over the nephew of his hostess, especially in his present incriminating state of disorder, he clamped his lips shut and looked down the pathway, eyeing the exit.
More concerned with assisting the lady, Max resigned himself to letting him go. ‘Are you unharmed, Miss Denby?’ he asked, stepping past Henshaw to her side.
‘Y-yes,’ she replied, her voice breaking a little.
The path to the doorway free, Henshaw backed cautiously away, his wary gaze fixed on Max. After retreating a safe distance, he tossed back, ‘I won’t forget this, Ransleigh. I’ll have retribution some day...and on the bitch, too.’
‘You don’t follow instructions very well,’ Max said softly, an icy contempt filling him. ‘Now I’m going to have to thrash you like the cur you are.’
But before he could take a step, abandoning any pretence of dignity, Henshaw bolted for the door. Much as he would have liked to give chase and thrash the man, Max concluded his more urgent duty was to see to Miss Denby, who stood trembling by the bench, holding together the ripped edges of her bodice.
Her cloak had fallen off during the struggle and her pelisse, now lacking its buttons, gaped open over her white-knuckled hands. Her beautiful dark eyes, wide with shock and outrage, looked stricken.
Max cursed under his breath, wishing he’d tossed the bounder through the glass wall after all. ‘I entered a few minutes ago and heard voices, but didn’t realise what was transpiring until...it was almost too la
te. I’m so sorry I didn’t intervene earlier and spare you that indignity. Say the word and I’ll track down Henshaw and give him the drubbing he deserves.’
‘Beating him further will serve no useful purpose,’ she said, attempting a smile, which wobbled badly. ‘Though I might wish to hit him again myself. He has ruined one of my best ugly gowns.’
Thankfully, some colour was returning to her pale cheeks and her voice sounded stronger, so Max might not have to pursue the man and rearrange his skeleton after all. ‘You did quite a capital job on your first round, though I don’t believe you succeeded in breaking his nose, more’s the pity. Who taught you to box? That roundhouse jab was worthy of a professional.’
‘Harry. He took lessons with Jackson in London while he was at Winchester. Satisfying as it was to land the blow exactly where I wished—on both parts of his anatomy—that won’t help my biggest problem now, which is how to get back to my chamber and out of this gown. My stepmother would have palpitations if she saw me like this. Not that I would mind being ruined, but I should be indignant if anyone were to try to force me to marry Henshaw.’
‘That sorry excuse for a man?’ Max said in disgust. ‘I should think not.’
‘A sorry excuse indeed, but stronger than I anticipated,’ she said, looking down at the fingers clutching her torn bodice. ‘I thought I could handle him, but...’ She took a shuddering breath, as if shaken by the evidence of how close she’d come to being ravaged. ‘If only you had accepted my first offer! I’m certain you would have c-compromised me much more g-genteelly.’
She was trying to put on a brave face, but tears had begun slipping down her cheeks and she started to tremble again.
Making a vow to seek out Henshaw wherever he went to ground and pummel him senseless, Max abandoned discretion and drew Miss Denby into his arms. ‘If I were to compromise you, I would at least make sure you enjoyed it,’ he said, trying for a teasing tone as he cradled her, gently chafing her hands and trying to use his warmth to heat her chilled body. ‘And it would have been done with much more expertise and finesse. Like this,’ he said and kissed just the freckled tip of her nose.
The Rake to Ruin Her Page 7