well,’ Caroline said, sobering at the sight of her stepmother’s agitation. ‘I shall behave myself.’
‘And I shall go and make discreet enquiries of our hostess,’ Lady Denby said. ‘Eugenia, let me escort you to your room, where you should remain until dinner, while I … acquaint myself with the arrangements.’
‘Please do, Mama. I shan’t stir a foot from my chamber until you tell me it is safe!’
‘You’d best make haste,’ Caroline said, anxious to see them out of the door before her stepmother recalled her intention to ride and forbade her to leave her room. She didn’t intend to let adherence to some silly society convention get in the way of riding the best horse she’d ever trained.
The two ladies safely dispatched, Caroline tugged the bell pull to summon Dulcie to help her into her habit. Extracting the garment from the wardrobe, she sighed as she thought of the much more comfortable breeches and boots she’d sneaked into her portmanteau. Though she was sensible enough not to don them when her hostess or the guests might be about, she did intend to wear them on her daily dawn rides.
Might she encounter one of the scandalous Ransleigh men this afternoon? If Mrs Ransleigh was going to banish them from the house, the stables were a likely place for them to retreat.
Despite Eugenia’s alarm, Caroline felt no apprehension about encountering either Alastair or Max Ransleigh. She doubted either would be so overcome by her charms that they’d try to ravish her in the hayloft. As for having her reputation ruined merely by chatting with them, Harry would consider that nonsense, and his was the only opinion besides her own that mattered to her.
A knock at the door heralded Dulcie’s arrival. Caroline hurried into her habit, anxious to be changed and gone before her stepmother finished her errand and returned, possibly to ban her from riding for the duration.
She didn’t slow her pace until she’d escaped the house and made it safely down the lane leading to the stables. Curious now, she looked about the grounds as she walked and peered around the paddock, but saw no sign of anyone besides the groom who had saddled Sultan for her.
She had enjoyed the ride tremendously, thrilled as always to order Sultan through his paces and receive his swift and obliging responses. As she turned him back towards the stables, she had to admit she was a bit disappointed she hadn’t caught so much as a glimpse of the infamous Ransleigh men.
It would be interesting to come face to face with a real rogue. Her stepmother, however, would be aghast if she were to converse with either of them, given their terrible reputations and the fact that Lady Melross was now in residence. Were that woman to observe her exchanging innocuous comments about the weather with either Mr Ransleigh, she’d probably find herself branded a loose woman by nightfall.
Although, Caroline thought with a grin as she guided Sultan back into the stable yard, being pronounced ‘ruined’ in the eyes of society might be positively advantageous, if it relieved her of having to suffer through another Season and made her unacceptable as a bride to anyone save Harry.
The idea struck her then, so audacious that her heart skipped a beat and her hands jerked on the reins, causing Sultan to toss his head. Soothing him with a murmur, she took a deep breath, her pulse accelerating. But outrageous as it was, the idea caught and would not be dislodged.
For the rest of the way back to the stables and from there to her chamber, she examined the idea from every angle. Stepmother would probably be appalled at first, but soon enough, she and Eugenia would be off to London, where Caro’s small scandal would be swiftly forgotten in the excitement and bustle of Eugenia’s first Season.
By the time she’d summoned Dulcie to help her change out of her habit into one of the unattractive dinner gowns, she’d made up her mind.
Now all she needed to do was track down one of the Ransleigh Rogues and convince him to ruin her.
Chapter Three
In the late afternoon three days later, Max Ransleigh lounged, book in hand, on a bench in the greenhouse, shaded from the setting sun by a bank of large potted palms, his nose tickled by the exotic scents of jasmine and citrus. Alastair had gone off to see about purchasing cows or hens or some such for the farms; armed with an agenda prepared by his aunt that detailed the daily activities of her guests, he’d chosen to spend his afternoon here, out of the way.
A now-familiar restlessness filled him. Not that he wished to participate in this petticoat assembly, but Max missed, and missed acutely, being involved in the active business of government. His entire life, he’d been bred to take part in and take charge at a busy round of political dinners, discussions and house parties. To move easily among the guests, soliciting the opinions of the gentlemen about topics of current interest, drawing out the ladies, setting the shy at ease, skilfully managing the garrulous. Leaving men and women, young or old, eloquent or tongue-tied, believing he’d found their conversation engrossing and believing him intelligent, attentive, masterful and charming.
Skills he might never need to exercise again.
Anguish and anger stirred again in his gut. Oblivious to the amber beauties of the sunset, he stared at the narrow iron framework of the glasshouse. Somehow, somewhere, he had to find a new and worthwhile endeavour to which he could devote his energy.
So abstracted was he, it was several minutes before he noticed the muffled pad of approaching footsteps. Expecting to see Alastair, he pasted on a smile and turned towards the sound.
The vision confronting him made the jocular words of greeting die on his lips.
Instead of his cousin, a young woman halted before him, garbed in a puce evening gown decorated with an eruption of lace ruffles, iridescent spangles and large knots of pink-silk roses wrapped in more lace and garnished with pearls. So over-trimmed and vulgar was the dress, it was some minutes before his affronted senses recovered enough for him to meet the female’s eyes, which were regarding him earnestly.
‘Mr Ransleigh?’ the lady enquired, dipping him a slight curtsy.
Only then did he remember, being young and female, she must be one of Aunt Grace’s guests and therefore should not be here with him. Especially unchaperoned, which a quick glance towards the door of the glasshouse revealed her to be.
‘Have you lost your way, miss?’ he asked, giving her the practised Max smile. ‘Take the leftmost path to the terrace; the French doors will lead you into the drawing room. Hurry, now; I’m sure your chaperon must be missing you.’
He made a little waving motion towards the door, wishing her on her way quickly before anyone could see them. But instead of turning around, she stepped closer.
‘No, I’m not looking for her, I’m looking for you and very elusive you’ve proven to be! It’s taken me three days to run you to ground.’
Max stirred uneasily. Normally, when attending a gathering such as this, he’d have taken care never to wander off alone to a location that screamed ‘illicit assignation’ as loudly as this secluded conservatory. He couldn’t imagine that he and Alastair had not been the topic of a good deal of gossip among the attendees—hadn’t the girl in the atrocious gown been warned to stay away from them?
Or perhaps she was looking for Alastair? Though he couldn’t imagine why a respectable maiden would agree to a clandestine rendezvous with as practised a rogue as his cousin—or why his cousin, whose tastes ran
