The clock down below in the hall chimed. Bree shook her head again, this time with determination. One could hardly stand around like a moonling, brooding. Piers’s razors were on the dresser. She began to gather them up, adding shaving soap and a badger-bristle brush, and securing them in a linen towel. She found a neckcloth in one drawer, one of her father’s shirts in another and added them to the pile, then sat down on the end of the bed, her burst of practicality ebbing away.
Logic told her that Max was simply acting as a good friend, that he was interested in coaching and had no ulterior motive. The kisses, the hint of arousal when he held her, those were doubtless perfectly normal male responses and she was such an innocent that she was refining upon them too much.
An elder brother to confide in would be helpful, Bree thought with a rueful smile. She could hardly ask Piers how a man might be expected to react with a woman in his arms; the poor boy would be mortified, and she sincerely hoped he had no experience to draw upon.
I could ask Georgy, Bree mused, getting a grip both on herself and the bundle and heading back for Max’s room. But how discreet would Lady Lucas be? Would she guess what Bree was worrying about, even if she worded her enquiry in the most general of terms?
‘I thought we had agreed that you were not going to worry.’ Max’s voice startled her so much she almost dropped the things in her arms. She was standing outside the open door of his room and he was just inside it, in his shirtsleeves, neckcloth discarded. ‘You are frowning.’
‘Oh! No, I was not worrying. Not exactly. I was thinking about something else entirely.’ Bree thrust the shaving tackle and clothing into Max’s arms and turned on her heel. ‘I’ll see you downstairs for supper shortly.’
‘Thank you.’ She had almost made it to the end of the corridor when his voice stopped her. ‘Bree? What are you blushing about?’
‘I … absolutely nothing,’ she said with as much dignity as she could muster. ‘I am doubtless red in the face from hanging upside down in the chest in Piers’s room looking for a neckcloth.’
Oh, stop trying to fool yourself. She shut her own chamber door safely behind her and stared into the steaming bowl of water Betsy had set ready on the dresser. You’re in love with the man. If this were a fairy tale, the steam would clear and there would be some message, some guidance, visible in the clear water. All there was in her basin was a rather pretty design of roses on the bottom of the bowl. It was no help whatsoever.
Betsy, who had apparently decided to acquit Max of being a dangerous rake, or at least, to give him the benefit of the doubt, served them a supper of hot pot and vegetables. She refrained from hovering in the dining room, as Bree rather feared she would, instead leaving the door pointedly open.
‘I do wish she wouldn’t do that,’ Bree grumbled as the candles on the long oak table flickered wildly. ‘It is creating such a draught.’
‘She is ensuring that I am not going to take advantage of you and ravish you while we are alone.’ Max helped himself to the buttered cabbage hearts. ‘Foolish, of course, I am far too hungry.’
Bree smiled somewhat wanly at the sally. The way she was feeling, it was far more likely that she would do something scandalous than he would. She searched for a safe topic of conversation.
‘Where do you get your horses from, my lord?’
He raised an eyebrow at the formality, then his eyes flickered to the sturdy figure of Betsy, coming in with the mustard pot, and he nodded in comprehension.
‘From a number of sources, Miss Mallory. Some direct from Ireland—my hunters mainly—others through private sales or at Tattersalls. Do you breed all your own horses for the company here?’
‘Mostly, unless we come across something suitable at a bargain price. I have a yen for having all our horses one colour—grey would be smart, I think. No other coach company does that. But Piers and Uncle George think me frivolous for entertaining such an idea.’
‘It would be an advertisement. People would clamour to travel behind your match greys.’ Max grinned at her. ‘But I can’t quite make that fit your slogans. You don’t fancy chestnuts, do you? The Challenge Coach Company’s Champing Chestnuts has a fine ring.’
‘Chestnuts are too temperamental,’ Bree said repressively, finding her sense of humour rather lacking when he chaffed her about the company. She was missing the bustle of the yard, even after only a few days of handing much of her work to Rosa. The thought of cutting herself off entirely was painful. But her involvement with the company was yet another reason why there could never be anything between her and Max.
‘You’re looking down in the dumps Miss Bree.’ Betsy set a large rhubarb pie in front of her. ‘There’s no need to fret about Mr Mallory, you’ll see. I’ll just go and get the cream for you.’
‘It is only that I am tired,’ Bree confessed to Max, picking up a spoon to serve the dessert. ‘I do wish he would come home soon.’
‘Why not go to bed after supper?’ He accepted a portion of pie and reached for the cream. ‘I’ll sit up and wait for him and wake you up when he gets back.’
‘On the contrary, it is you who should retire and rest. There is your shoulder for one thing, and you are a guest.’
‘A self-invited one! But let us both sit up, then. Mr Mallory will come in after a pleasant evening with friends and find us both scandalously asleep on the drawing-room sofa.’
Bree had always liked Uncle George’s drawing room, but now she wondered how it would look to Max’s sophisticated gaze.
‘What a charming room.’ He wandered about peering at the walls, crammed with pictures of everything from Great-aunt Emeline to the pig that won the Best in Show at Buckingham three years ago. Piles of books were stacked everywhere, nearly all of them to do with hunting, fishing or horse breeding, and the table was littered with accounts ledgers. ‘One could never make the mistake of believing that this room belongs to a married man.’
‘Indeed not. I think it must run in the family. Papa was always in trouble with Mama for being so untidy and Piers would revert to this state in two days if I let him, but Uncle George takes no notice of Betsy’s nagging.’
She looked around the room. ‘Really, I do apologise. I feel I ought to be entertaining you in some way. In fact, there is a piano over there, under all those journals, but I fear it will be sadly out of tune.’
‘A hand or two of cards, perhaps?’
‘If we can find a pack. Uncle George does not play, but there are probably some in our drawing room.’
‘There are two packs here.’ Max held one up. ‘They look quite new.’
‘How peculiar.’ Bree came across to look. ‘Perhaps he has taken up patience. We will have to play for farthings—any more and I am certain you will bankrupt me.’
‘I would not dream of it.’ Max lifted some papers off a small side table. ‘Shall I deal? We can play for love.’
Chapter Thirteen
They were playing for love and she had won. The cards lay in wild disarray all over the baize table cover; the scores, totalled in Max’s rather sprawling hand, showed a clear victory: hers. So she could claim all the love that she wanted, everything she desired, Max was hers …
‘Bree! Wake up.’
‘Wha—?’ She jerked into consciousness and found she was curled up