accounts for it.’
That provoked more mirth. ‘I don’t believe you—and I’ll wager next month’s allowance that Avery has already asked you for a dance. He always asks the prettiest girls. I just wish he’d marry one. Would you like to marry him? He’s very nice and badly in need of a wife to make him settle down.’
‘He seems charming, but I am quite ineligible for such a match.’ Despite the shocking frankness of Lady Georgiana’s conversation, Bree couldn’t help liking her. Whatever did she make of dear James?
‘Why?’ Georgy demanded.
‘My father was a farmer. My brother and uncle own a stagecoach company,’ Bree confessed.
‘Oh!’ Georgy laughed delightedly. ‘I know who you are—you are the black sheep!’
‘I believe so. I am Bree Mallory, and that’s my brother over there, the tall blond youth on the right of the fireplace. I think, to be accurate, we are the skeletons in James’s cupboard. Our mother married the second time for love, you see.’
‘Then you will be my sister-in-law. We will be the greatest friends. What fun I will have matchmaking,’ Georgy announced. ‘Admittedly, a country squire and a stagecoach company is just a teensiest bit of a handicap if you want an eldest son at the very top end of the aristocracy, but I’m sure I can find you a nice baron, or the second son of a viscount. In fact, I’ve got just the man in mind. Are you poor? I hope you don’t mind my asking, only that does make a difference.’
‘No, I’m not,’ Bree said frankly, half-fascinated, half-appalled by this frankness. ‘I’m very comfortably off, I’m happy to say.’ And she was. She had money in her own right from her parents, Piers and Uncle George insisted she take a fair share of the company profits and she managed her money with care. A top-flight coiffeur and a fashionable evening ensemble had not caused her a moment’s financial worry. ‘But I am not—truly—in search of a husband. I’m not at all sure I could give up my independence now.’
‘It will have to be a love match then. I do not despair.’ Georgy got to her feet in a flurry of amber silk. ‘Come along and meet people.’
Bree worried that Georgy would make the most embarrassing introductions, but she flitted amongst the growing crowd, talking to everyone, introducing Bree with a cry of, ‘You must meet my new sister-in-law to be! Isn’t she lovely?’ Everyone seemed friendly, no one drew aside their skirts in horror at meeting Farleigh’s embarrassing relative and she began to enjoy herself.
‘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
