‘And this is Mr Brice Latymer.’ Georgy halted in front of a saturnine gentleman of average height and exquisite tailoring.
Latymer, the man from the inn yard, the man who was racing Max’s cousin that night. Did he see me? Bree could feel the blood leaving her cheeks and forced a smile to match his.
‘Miss Mallory, I am delighted. And I understand I have the pleasure of taking you in to dinner.’ He was very suave, his eyes on her appreciative, without being in any way offensive. Bree felt herself relax. Of course he did not recognise her. He made her an immaculate bow. ‘I shall seek you out again when dinner is announced, Miss Mallory. I look forward to it.’
‘Phew, he is so smooth,’ Georgy remarked once they were out of earshot. ‘Really good company, and he makes an excellent escort, but I wouldn’t waste time with him, Bree, dear. Not quite enough money.’ She steered them firmly towards the fireplace. ‘Now, introduce me to your handsome brother.’
‘Miss Mallory?’ It was Mr Latymer again, this time offering his arm to escort her in. She let him lead her, enjoying the sensation, just for once, of being comprehensively looked after. It would pall after a time, she knew, but it was quite fun, once in a while, to be treated like a fragile being.
The Duke took the head of the table and the party began to settle themselves. Just as the footman tucked the chair under Bree’s knees there was a slight flurry as another couple arrived opposite. Beside her she felt Mr Latymer stiffen and glanced across to see what had caught his attention.
There, staring right back at her, was Max Dysart, arrested in the act of sitting. The earl looked blankly at her, and she realised, with an inward tremor of mischief, that he couldn’t decide whether she really was the woman he had rescued in the inn yard.
It was unthinkable to speak across the table. Wickedly, Bree gave not the slightest hint of recognition. Doubt flickered in his eyes and there was a frown line between his dark brows. Bree fussed a little with her napkin, and turned her head sideways, allowing Lord Penrith—should he still be looking—the picture of upswept hair, elegant jewellery and the line of a white throat.
Then it occurred to her that, amusing as it might be to tease his lordship, he was now almost certain to approach her after dinner in an attempt to decide whether his eyes were deceiving him or not. And, if he said the wrong thing in this crowded assembly, she could find herself in a very difficult position indeed.
‘Penrith’s taking an inordinate amount of interest in this side of the table,’ Mr Latymer observed, directing a hard look back. ‘Are you acquainted with him?’
‘Lord Penrith?’ Bree laughed, hoping it was not as shrill as it sounded inside her head. ‘Good heavens, no!’ Now she had done it. Damn, damn … I should have thought, said I had some slight acquaintance. Now if he seems at all familiar Mr Latymer may assume the worst.
Bree Mallory. It has to be her. But how can it be? ‘Miss Robinson, allow me.’ Max handed his dinner partner the napkin that had slipped from her grasp.
The slender brunette at his side batted sweeping lashes and gazed at him admiringly as she prattled on.
Max smiled and nodded and murmured agreement with her inanities. And Avery promised me a nice girl as a partner! Like the one opposite. Just what has Brice Latymer done to deserve her? It has to be Bree.…
Surely there was no mistaking that glorious wheaten-gold hair, the weight of it caught up into a masterpiece of the coiffeur’s art? And surely there was no mistaking that generous, lush mouth or those eyes, the colour of bluebells in a beech wood? A blue you could drown in.
But the elegant society lady across the table looked back at him without a glimmer of recognition. And besides, what would practical businesswoman Miss Mallory in her breeches and boots have to do with this gorgeous creature?
He realised he was staring as he caught Latymer’s sharp green eyes glancing in his direction. Time enough to solve the mystery, Max decided, turning to show an interest in Miss Robinson’s intensely tedious recital of her feelings upon being invited to this event. There was a sense of anticipation flowing through his veins, like the feeling before hounds draw first cover on a crisp autumn morning—it would more than support him for the duration of this meal.
As the covers were removed after the first course Max took the opportunity to scan the couple opposite. The blond woman reached out her right hand to pick up her wine glass. She misjudged the distance and the back of her wrist knocked against the heavy cut-glass flagon of drinking water. Max saw, more than heard, her sharp intake of breath. Small white teeth caught on the fullness of her lower lip and she closed her eyes briefly before lifting the wine glass.
That clinched it—hair, eyes, mouth might all be some amazing chance likeness, but all that and a painfully injured right wrist, that was beyond coincidence.
He caught her eye and mouthed Bree? For a moment he thought she might continue to cut him, then a twinkle of mischief lit her eyes and she nodded slightly before raising one gloved finger to her lips in a fleeting warning.
How the Devil did she get in here? Max jerked his attention back to the young lady on his left who, unfortunately, showed no sign of wanting to prattle mindlessly, unlike Miss Robinson. He was going to have to exert himself to entertain this one, when all he wanted to do was speculate wildly about Bree’s presence under the Dowager Duchess of Matchingham’s roof. Admittedly, it was the current Duke’s roof, but no one, let alone that nobleman, believed he had any chance of ruling it while the Dowager lived.
He offered peas to the young lady, agreed that the latest gossip about the Prince Regent was too intriguing for words and asked her opinion of the latest exhibition at the Royal Academy.
That at least gave him a chance to think about Bree. How had she obtained the entrée into such a gathering? And where, for goodness’ sake, had she obtained a gown that was the work of a top-flight modiste?
The meal dragged on interminably, the passage of time doing nothing but build the tension in his nerves and the disconcerting feeling of arousal in his loins. How could he have guessed that the enchantingly different girl in her man’s clothing was the possessor of an elegant neck, of white, sloping shoulders and the most deliciously rounded bosom? The gown she was wearing was apparently designed to make the very best of all these features and, unlike the very young ladies in their first Season, she had dispensed with the froth of tulle or lace that disguised them. If he had wanted her before, now the need was painful.
The ladies, called together by the Duchess rising, began to file out amidst a scraping of chairs. At the door Bree glanced back over her shoulder. Their eyes met. Was he imagining things or had she motioned with her head towards the terrace?
Chapter Six
Max waited a moment. Several guests rose and made their way out. He joined them, making his way out through the long windows on to the terrace that ran the full width of the gardens. At intervals steps went down to the lawns and at the far end there was a charming summerhouse.
Max strolled along. Where is she? Had he misunderstood? Then he glimpsed a flutter of pale draperies behind one of the pillars of the summerhouse. ‘Bree?’
‘In here, my lord. Thank you for coming. I could only hope you would understand my meaning. How is your shoulder?’ Some light reached them from the house where every room blazed with illumination, but it was not intense and he moved close to study her face. Her voice was a touch breathless, but otherwise she was remarkably composed for a young lady in such a compromising position.
‘A little sore, but healing well, thank you. I did not expect to find you at such a party.