‘If I take it, then you might be cold.’ She looked up at him, suddenly so vulnerable on the makeshift bed that something inside him twisted.
‘I’m warm,’ Max assured her. ‘Very warm indeed.’ Too damned hot, in fact.
‘Thank you.’ She simply closed her eyes and snuggled down as he draped the heavy cloth over her, careful not to touch her body. As if it were something she did every night, Bree fished out the golden plait and let it lie on the covering. ‘Goodnight.’ Her lips curved into a smile.
‘Goodnight.’ Max flattened his shoulders against the squabs, crossed his arms, crossed his legs and gazed fixedly at the webbing of the small luggage holder above Bree’s seat. How was that made? Netting, presumably. How was netting made? Try to work it out. Or count the number of diamonds it made. Or think about how much damage tonight’s little adventure had done to the immaculate lacquer of his drag’s sides. Or anything other than the fact that the woman opposite trusted him enough to fall asleep like this, and that he wanted to abuse that trust, very, very badly.
Why? It all seemed to go back to his musings in the club, so many hours ago: he should get married and start his nursery. He had a title, an estate, a family name to consider.
There was no one to nag him to do it except his grandmother, who on their last meeting had informed him with some asperity that if he wanted to go racketing around like a twenty-year-old instead of a man who had just had his thirtieth birthday, then she washed her hands of him. ‘Either sort out that business over Drusilla once and for all and find a suitable young woman to marry, or decide to accept Nevill as your heir. He’s a nice enough young cub,’ the Dowager had pronounced flatly. ‘I expect I can lick him into shape if I start now.’
Nevill was, indeed, nice. The word just about defined the boy. But Max didn’t want him as his heir, he wanted his own son, he realised. That decision at least seemed to have hardened since he was thinking about it last night.
A son meant a wife. He had done his best to reform his life, he assured himself. He had danced attendance at every function the Season could throw up. He had spent the summer at a number of house parties—he had even spent two weeks in Brighton.
I have been giggled at, simpered at, flirted with. I’ve chatted endlessly to tongue-tied girls, I’ve done my duty by well-bred wallflowers, I’ve risked my skin by talking to forward young madams with bold manners and overprotective brothers and I’ve done the pretty by every matchmaking mama in town. And not one of them has stirred me as much as that first sight of this woman.
The honourable thing—the rules—were quite simple. Well-bred virgins were for courting, respectfully. Young matrons who had not yet produced their husband’s heir and spare were for avoiding. Decent middle-class women of any description and servants were out of bounds. Professionals, flighty widows and married women with a quiver full of offspring and a yen to stray—they were all for pleasure.
What he had before him was a decent, if unusual, middle-class woman. Which meant she was out of bounds for any purpose whatsoever. Except friendship. That was a startling thought. Men did not have women friends. Women were to be married to, or related to or for making love to or for employing. But this one, this Bree Mallory, made him want to talk to her, as well as reduce her to quivering ecstasy in his arms.
He thought he could talk to her about the problems with the Home Farm, his efforts to make Nevill less awkward around ladies, his search for a decent cook, his doubts about government policy and whom he should support in the House.
Talk about big things or utter trivia, both comfortably, with a friend.
For a moment, thinking about that fantasy, he had forgotten the reality. To marry, a man must be single, unattached, free. And he had no idea whether he was or not, whatever his lawyer assured him. And reforming his life in order to find himself a wife was meaningless when he was still avoiding the same issue that he had been for ten years.
Bree sighed and stirred in her sleep, and the heavy plait slithered over the rough wool, hairs snagging in it. Then it fell. Max sat watching it swing with all the focus of a cat confronted by a mouse. He wanted to catch it, pat it, stroke it, play with it. He wanted to feel the texture of it in his hands. It would be like silk, he just knew. Most of all, he wanted to see it loose.
He must not touch her. He knew that as he knew the sun came up in the morning. But the thin ribbon that tied the end of the plait, that was another matter. The bow had come undone, so only one crossing of the tie held the knot. Max bent, caught one end in his fingers and tugged gently. It was brown velvet, prickling against the pads of his fingers. The tug loosened it. He tweaked the other end, the weight and springiness of the hair working with him. The ribbon caught for a moment, then fell to the floor.
He sat upright, away from Bree, his eyes on her hair as the plait, freed, began to part and come undone, his breathing as tightly controlled as though he were about to fight a duel.
The lack of movement woke Bree, then the noise from outside. Confused, she lay with her eyes closed. It sounded like the yard of the Mermaid during a change, but she hadn’t fallen asleep at her desk … the bed she was lying on lurched slightly and her eyes flew open.
‘Oh! Oh, I’m sorry, I had forgotten where I was.’ Lord Penrith, no, Max, was sitting opposite her, the lines of his face harsh in the morning light filtering through the drawn blinds. His cheeks were darkened with stubble. ‘What time is it?’
‘Almost seven. You’ve slept through two changes and we are at an inn on the far side of Reading. I thought it might be better to stop here for breakfast.’
‘Why? Oh, you mean more discreet?’ Bree sat up, rubbing her eyes. ‘For goodness’ sake, look at my hair.’ It had managed to free itself almost entirely from its plait and the ribbon lay twisted on the floor. She pushed back the greatcoat and sat up, gathering the mass in both hands and dragging it back off her face. Max stood up abruptly and reached for his coat.
‘I’ll go and bespeak a private parlour and breakfast.’ He almost snatched up his hat and the door was banging shut behind him before she could respond. ‘Wait here.’
What is it about men and mornings? Papa was just the same, and Uncle George still is, and I cannot get a coherent or intelligent word out of Piers before at least nine. Shrugging, Bree raked her fingers through her hair and began to plait as best she could with no mirror. She pulled on her coat, then the greatcoat, jammed on her hat and got out of the chaise into a familiar scene.
The poles of the chaise were grounded, the postilions leaning against them chatting with an ostler, knowing that they had at least half an hour before their passengers finished breakfast. A pair of stable boys in breeches and waistcoats scurried across the yard carrying buckets, and a stout man with a gig was engaged in earnest conversation with a groom over a problem with the harness.
It was a small inn, not one she knew, which meant it would not accommodate a stage changing. But the horses looking over the stable doors were healthy stock, from what she could see, and the place was well kept. It was a wise choice for a discreet stop, she realised, wondering if Max knew all the inns along the Bath road where a man might halt with a woman and expect privacy and a good meal.
No one took any notice of her as she walked across the yard and in through the inn door. A maid was bustling through with a loaded tray. Bree stopped her with a query and received a startled glance when the girl realised she was a woman.
‘The privy’s through there, sir … I mean, ma’am.’
‘And the gentleman who just bespoke a private parlour for breakfast?’
The maid’s face cleared. Obviously this was an illicit liaison, which was an easy explanation for the strangely dressed woman in front of her. ‘Second on the left, ma’am, Miss … er.’
Max was brooding over a day-old news sheet when Bree came into the parlour and tossed her hat on to a chair. He got to his feet, a frown