having managed to get offers for their daughters. Felicity, she added, had made a great new friend of Miss Denby’s stepsister, Eugenia Whitman, and was giddy about the prospect of sharing her upcoming Season with the girl.
The same Miss Whitman who, his Aunt Grace had informed him, ‘far outshines her stepsister in youth, wit and beauty’. Max still resented that comment on Miss Denby’s behalf.
In any event, it appeared she would soon be relieved of Mr Henshaw’s pursuit, Max concluded, turning his probably puzzled mount to the stable and returning to the house. But what of next spring? Would she, as she feared, have to suffer through another Season, dragged off to participate in a round of social activities for which she had no inclination, forced to neglect her beloved horses?
What a shame her childhood beau Harry was so far away. She deserved to marry a man who appreciated her unique talents and interests, who supported rather than discouraged her desire to carry on her father’s legacy.
He toyed with the idea of trying to seek her out and bid her goodbye, but couldn’t come up with a way to do so that would not shock the gathering by revealing she was well acquainted with a man she wasn’t supposed to know. Perhaps, once he had his life sorted out, he could call on her in London, maybe even seek her out at Denby Lodge and purchase some of her horses.
With Alastair away on another of his lord-of-the-manor errands, Max fetched his book and headed for what might be his last afternoon hidden away at the conservatory. He’d rather miss the place, whose warm scented air and soothing palm murmurs he would probably never have discovered had he not been forced to vacate the house. With the guests soon departing, he and Alastair would have free run of the estate again.
He halted just inside the threshold of the glasshouse, inhaling the tangy-sweet scent of jasmine that seemed always to hang in the air, insubstantial as a whisper. He was about to proceed to his usual bench when a murmur of voices reached his ears, the words as indistinct as the gurgling of a brook over rocks.
He halted, trying to identify the speakers. Aunt Grace, conferring with the gardener? Or one of the affianced couples, stealing one last tryst before the party broke up?
In either case, his presence would be an impediment. He was silently retracing his steps when a feminine voice reached his ears, its increased volume making the words suddenly clear.
‘Mr Henshaw, I do appreciate the honour of your offer, but I’m absolutely convinced we will not suit!’
Miss Denby’s voice, Max realised, halting in mid-step. Had Henshaw tracked her there?
His first impulse was to set off in her direction, but she’d probably not thank him for interfering. Still, though he felt confident she could handle her disappointed suitor without his assistance, some deep-seated protective instinct made him linger.
After a masculine murmur whose words he could not make out, Miss Denby said, ‘No, I shall not change my mind. You must admit, sir, that I have tried in every possible way to discourage you, so my refusal can hardly come as a surprise. You will oblige me by leaving now.’
‘Waiting here for someone else, were you?’ Henshaw replied, his angry tones now comprehensible. ‘Max Ransleigh, perhaps? He’d never marry you. Despite his father’s banishment, he has money enough, and if he ever does wed, it will be a woman from a prominent society family. In any event, his taste runs to sophisticated beauties, which you, I’m forced to say, are not. Nor are you getting any younger. If you’ve any hopes at all of marrying, you’d better accept my offer.’
Why, the mercenary little weasel, Max thought, incensed. Only the certainty that Miss Denby would not appreciate having him witness this embarrassing scene kept him from setting off down the pathway to plant a fist squarely on the jaw of that overdressed excuse for a gentleman.
‘You’re quite correct,’ she was saying. ‘I possess none of the virtues and talents a gentleman looks for in a wife. As you so kindly noted, I’m hardly a beauty and am hopeless at making the sort of polite chat that makes up society conversation. Worst of all, I fear I have no fashion sense. You can do so much better, Mr Henshaw! Why not wait until the Season and find yourself a more suitable bride?’
Despite his ire, Max had to grin. Had any female ever so thoroughly disparaged herself to a prospective suitor?
‘I’m afraid, my dear, the press of creditors don’t allow me the luxury of waiting. Though admittedly you possess neither the style nor the talents I would wish for in a wife, you do have … a certain charm of person. And wealth, of which I’m in desperate need.’
No style? No talent? His mirth rapidly dissipating, Max reconsidered the prospect of cornering Henshaw, shaking him like a dog with a ferret and then tossing him out of the glasshouse like the refuse he was.
But alerting them to his presence would not only distress Miss Denby, it might give the thwarted suitor an opportunity to claim he’d caught Max and Miss Denby alone together. His self-protective instincts on full alert now that Miss Denby wasn’t within touching distance, Max didn’t want to risk that.
His decision not to intervene, however, wavered when he heard a sharp, cracking sound that could only be a slap.
‘Keep your hands to yourself,’ Miss Denby cried. ‘You followed me without my leave or encouragement. If you will not quit this place, then I will do so. Since I do not anticipate seeing you again before the party ends, I will say goodbye, Mr Henshaw.’
‘Not so hasty, my dear. It might not be an arrangement either of us want, but you will marry me.’
‘Let go of my arm! It’s useless for you to detain me, for I promise you, nothing on earth would ever induce me to marry you!’
‘I’d hoped you would consent willingly, but if you will not, you force me to employ … other measures. Before you leave this spot, you’ll be fit to be no one’s wife but mine.’
At that threat, Max abandoned discretion and set off at a run. If he hadn’t already been prepared to tear Henshaw limb from limb, the scuffling, panting sounds of a struggle that reached him as he rounded the last corner, followed by the unmistakable rip of fabric, had him ready to do murder.
Seconds later, he lunged over a potted fern to find Henshaw trying to pin a wildly struggling Miss Denby down on the bench, his free hand clawing up her skirts. As a clay pot fell over and shattered, Henshaw looked up, his hands stilling.
The smirk on his face and the lust in his eyes turned to surprise, then alarm as he recognised Max. But before Max could seize him, Miss Denby, taking advantage of Henshaw’s distraction, kneed him in the groin, then caught him full on the nose with a roundhouse left jab of which Gentleman Jackson would have been proud.
Howling, Henshaw released Miss Denby and staggered backwards, one hand on his breeches front, the other holding his nose. Blood oozing through his fingers, he snarled, ‘Bitch! You’ll regret that!’
Max grabbed him by the arm and slammed him against the wall, regrettably with less force than he would have liked, but he didn’t want to break a glass panel in Aunt Grace’s conservatory.
Securing him against it with a stranglehold on his cravat, Max growled, ‘Miss Denby will not regret her rejection. But you, varlet, will regret this episode for the rest of your life unless you do exactly what I say. You will apologise to Miss Denby, then pack your bag and leave immediately, before I tell the world and Lady Melross how you tried to attack an innocent and unwilling
