Four In Hand (Regencies 2)

e place in the corridors of Covent Garden, not on the stage.”

“Of course,” she returned, standing and shaking out her skirts. “How very provincial of me not to realize.” Her eyes twinkled. “How kind of you, dear guardian, to attend so assiduously to our education.”

Max took her hand and tucked it into his arm. As they paused to allow the others to precede them, he bent to whisper in her ear, “On the contrary, sweet Caro. While I’m determined to see your education completed, my interest is entirely selfish.”

The wicked look which danced in his dark blue eyes made Caroline blush. But she was becoming used to the highly improper conversations she seemed to have with her guardian. “Oh?” she replied, attempting to look innocent and not entirely succeeding. “Won’t I derive any benefit from my new-found knowledge?”

They were alone in the box, hidden from view of the other boxes by shadows. For a long moment, they were both still, blue eyes locked with grey-green, the rest of the world far distant. Caroline could not breathe; the intensity of that blue gaze and the depth of the passion which smouldered within it held her mesmerized. Then, his eyes still on hers, Max lifted her hand and dropped a kiss on her fingers. “My dear, once you find the key, beyond that particular door lies paradise. Soon, sweet Caro, very soon, you’ll see.”

Once in the corridor, Caroline’s cheeks cooled. They were quickly surrounded by her usual court and Max, behaving more circumspectly than he ever had before, relinquished her to the throng. Idly, he strolled along the corridors, taking the opportunity to stretch his long legs. He paused here and there to exchange a word with friends but did not stop for long. His preoccupation was not with extending his acquaintance of the ton. His ramblings brought him to the corridor serving the opposite arm of the horseshoe of boxes. The bell summoning the audience to their seats for the next act rang shrilly. Max was turning to make his way back to his box when a voice hailed him through the crush.

“Your Grace!”

Max closed his eyes in exasperation, then opened them and turned to face Lady Mordand. He nodded curtly. “Emma.”

She was on the arm of a young man whom she introduced and immediately dismissed, before turning to Max. “I think perhaps we should have a serious talk, Your Grace.”

The hard note in her voice and the equally rock-like glitter in her eyes were not lost on the Duke of Twyford. Max had played the part of the fashionable rake for fifteen years and knew well the occupational hazards. He lifted his eyes from an uncannily thorough contemplation of Lady Mortland and sighted a small alcove, temporarily deserted. “I think perhaps you’re right, my dear. But I suggest we improve our surroundings.”

His hand under her elbow steered Emma towards the alcove. The grip of his fingers through her silk sleeve and the steely quality in his voice were a surprise to her ladyship, but she was determined that Max Rotherbridge should pay, one way or another, for her lost dreams.

They reached the relative privacy of the alcove. “Well, Emma, what’s this all about?”

Suddenly, Lady Mortland was rather less certain of her strategy. Faced with a pair of very cold blue eyes and an iron will she had never previously glimpsed, she vacillated. “Actually, Your Grace,” she cooed, “I had rather hoped you would call on me and we could discuss the matter in…greater privacy.”

“Cut line, Emma,” drawled His Grace. “You knew perfectly well I have no wish whatever to be private with you.”

The bald statement ignited Lady Mortland’s temper. “Yes!” she hissed, fingers curling into claws. “Ever since you set eyes on that little harpy you call your ward, you’ve had no time for me!”

“I wouldn’t, if I were you, make scandalous statements about a young lady to her guardian,” said Max, unmoved by her spleen.

“Guardian, ha! Love, more like!”

One black brow rose haughtily.

“Do you deny it? No, of course not! Oh, there are whispers aplenty, let me tell you. But they’re as nothing to the storm there’ll be when I get through with you. I’ll tell—Ow!”

Emma broke off and looked down at her wrist, imprisoned in Max’s right hand. “L…let me go. Max, you’re hurting me.”

“Emma, you’ll say nothing.”

Lady Mortland looked up and was suddenly frightened. Max nodded, a gentle smile, which was quite terrifyingly cold, on his lips. “Listen carefully, Emma, for I’ll say this once only. You’ll not, verbally or otherwise, malign my ward—any of my wards—in any way whatever. Because, if you do, rest assured I’ll hear about it. Should that happen, I’ll ensure your stepson learns of the honours you do his father’s memory by your retired lifestyle. Your income derives from the family estates, does it not?”

Emma had paled. “You…you wouldn’t.”

Max released her. “No. You’re quite right. I wouldn’t,” he said. “Not unless you do first. Then, you may be certain that I would.” He viewed the woman before him, with understanding if not compassion. “Leave be, Emma. What Caroline has was never yours and you know it. I suggest you look to other fields.”

With a nod, Max left Lady Mortland and returned through the empty corridors to his box.

Caroline turned as he resumed his seat. She studied his face for a moment, then leaned back to whisper, “Is anything wrong?”

Max’s gaze rested on her sweet face, concern for his peace of mind the only emotion visible. He smiled reassuringly and shook his head. “A minor matter of no moment.” In the darkness he reached for her hand and raised it to his lips. With a smile, Caroline returned her attention to the stage. When she made no move to withdraw her hand, Max continued to hold it, mimicking Martin, placating his conscience with the observation that, in the dark, no one could see the Duke of Twyford holding hands with his eldest ward.

CHAPTER TEN

Execution of the first phase of the Twinnings’ master plot to rescue Amanda and Sir Ralph from the machinations of Mrs. Crowbridge fell to Sarah. An evening concert was selected as the venue most conducive to success. As Sir Ralph was tone deaf, enticing him from the real pleasure of listening to the dramatic voice of Senorita Muscarina, the Spanish soprano engaged for the evening, proved easier than Sarah had feared.

Sir Ralph was quite content to escort Miss Sarah for a stroll on the balcony, ostensibly to relieve the stuffiness in Miss Twinning’s head. In the company of the rest of the ton, he knew Sarah was pining away and thus, he reasoned, he was safe in her company. That she was one of the more outstandingly opulent beauties he had ever set eyes on simply made life more complete. It was rare that he felt at ease with such women and his time in London had made him, more than once, wish he was back in the less demanding backwoods of Gloucestershire. Even now, despite his successful courtship of the beautiful, the effervescent, the gorgeous Arabella Twinning, there were times Harriet Jenkins’s face reminded him of how much more comfortable their almost finalized relationship had been. In fact, although he tried his best to ignore them, doubts kept appearing in his mind, of whether he would be able to live up to Arabella’s expectations once they were wed. He was beginning to understand that girls like Arabella—well, she was a woman, really—were used to receiving the most specific advances from the more hardened of the male population. Sir Ralph swallowed nervously, woefully aware that he lacked the abilities to compete with such gentlemen. He glanced at the pale face of the beauty beside him. A frown marred her smooth brow. He relaxed. Clearly, Miss Sarah’s mind was not bent on illicit dalliance.