light-headed, Bree thought, flexing her fingers within Max’s grip and fighting the urge to lean into his body. It was deliciously like being drunk.
The sensation lasted as long as it took William Huggins, otherwise known as Bonebreaker Bill, to come striding out into the yard of the Plume of Feathers and see who was driving his coach through the arch.
‘Miss Bree! What do you think you are doing?’ He glowered up at the box of the coach, meaty fists on his bulky hips, booted feet apart.
‘We didn’t have a driver to send out, Bill,’ she said placatingly. Bill had known her since she was six and had proved a far stricter guardian than either of her parents ever had.
‘Who’s this flash cove, then?’ he demanded, swivelling his bloodshot eyes to Max. ‘Some break-o’day boy who’s cozened you into letting him take the ribbons for a thrill?’
‘This is Lord Penrith, Bill. My lord, allow me to introduce William Huggins, the finest coachman on this, or any other, road.’
Bill brushed aside the compliment, taking it as his due, but his eyes narrowed. ‘Penrith? From the Nonesuch Whips?’
‘For my sins.’ Sensibly, Max was staying on the box where he had the advantage of height. But the coachman had lost all his hostility.
‘Well, I’ll be damned! If half they say about you is true, my lord, then it’s a privilege to have you drive my coach, that it is! Why, you can take it all the way to Bath if you be so wishful.’
‘Thank you, but no, Mr Huggins.’ Max began to climb down. ‘This was a long enough stage for me—I had no idea those box seats were so hard.’
‘Hah! You should fold your coat tails under you, my lord. That’s the way to save your bum bones.’
‘It doesn’t work, Bill,’ Bree said, causing him to go scarlet. ‘I tried. Now, come and lift me down, please. I’m as stiff as a board.’
The ostlers, spurred on by the presence of their severest critic, completed the change in under two minutes and Bill took the coach out on to the highway with a roar of farewell and a flourish of his hat. Poor Jem, expected like all guards to work the whole distance, was back up on the box beside him.
‘There you are,’ Max said, fishing his pocket watch out. ‘Dead on time. The Challenge Coach Company never compromises with the clock,’ he added with satisfaction. ‘You may have it engraved on your stationery with my compliments.’
‘Thank you so much.’ Bree turned to him, tipping her head back to smile up into his face. It was one part of him, she realised, that she hadn’t been able to study during the last four hours. She knew the feel of his hands on hers, the range of his voice, and the height and breadth of his body had bulwarked hers like a rock all night.
It was difficult to make out colours in the lamplight, but his eyes were dark under dark brows, his cheekbones pronounced, his chin rather too decided for her taste, and his mouth—which was within a fraction of a smile as he watched her—was generous. It was a good face, she decided. A tough face, but in a good way. He made her feel safe.
‘Thank you,’ she said again. ‘Goodbye, my lord.’
‘And just where do you think you are going now, Miss Mallory?’
‘To bespeak a room, of course.’
‘With no maid, no luggage and at four in the morning?’
‘They will know who I am when I introduce myself.’
‘It is not the inn staff I am concerned about. Really, Miss Mallory, you cannot stay here—goodness knows who you might encounter. Think of your reputation.’
‘I do not have one!’ Really, he was as bad as James. ‘Not that sort of reputation. I am not in society, I am not in the marriage mart. I am in trade, my lord. Besides, what alternative do I have, other than to wait for the next stage back and be jolted for another five sleepless hours? I have, I regret to say, no convenient maiden aunt in Newbury.’
His mouth twitched. She could not tell, in this light, whether he was annoyed that she was arguing with him, or amused by the maiden aunt. ‘I was going to take a private parlour for you to rest in for a while and I will hire a chaise to take us back to London.’
‘A chaise? A closed carriage? For the two of us? All the way back to London? And just what will that do for my reputation, pray?’
‘Ruin it, I imagine,’ Max said amiably.
Chapter Three
Max watched the expressions chase across what little he could see of Bree’s face. Oh, to get that damned hat off her head. ‘At least, it would ruin you if you were the young society lady you speak of, with vouchers for Almack’s and a position in the marriage mart to defend. Then, if it should be known that you had spent five hours in a closed carriage with a man, it would be a disaster.
‘But you aren’t, are you? You are much safer being whisked home in comfort by me than you are sitting in a public house where you will be recognised by anyone who does business with your company, and at the mercy of any passing rakes and bucks who chose to prey on unprotected women.’
‘And you aren’t, I suppose? A rake, I mean.’ That lush mouth looked gorgeous even when it was thinned to a suspicious line.
‘No, I am not, if by that you imagine I will take the opportunity to ravish you. But I cannot prove it—you will have to make your own judgment on my character.’ He studied Bree’s face, expecting anything from anger to the vapours, and was taken aback when she laughed.
‘My lord, if you feel moved to ravish any woman looking as I do now, and after driving through the night, then I both pity your need and admire your stamina. I would appreciate the comfort of a chaise very much. Thank you.’
Enchanting. Oh, enchanting, he thought, returning the smile. ‘Let us find you a room for half an hour, for I am sure you would want to wash your hands, have a cup of tea and have your wrist better dressed. I will hire a chaise. Even stopping for breakfast along the way, we will be home for luncheon.’
When he tapped on her door she emerged promptly, discreetly wearing the voluminous greatcoat and with the low-crowned beaver down over her eyebrows. But as soon as the chaise turned out on to the highway she tossed the hat into the corner and shrugged off the weighty coat with a sigh of relief.
‘Max? What are you staring at?’ she asked, watching him with narrowed eyes in the light of the two spermaceti oil lamps that lit the interior.
‘I … I … your hair. I was not expecting it to be so long.’ God, I’m babbling like some green boy. Even Nevill would be showing more address.
Bree flipped the thick braid back over her shoulder. ‘I should have it cut, but it is easier to manage plaited.’
‘Don’t cut it,’ he said abruptly. It was a lovely, unusual, wheaten gold without any hint of red in it. Not brassy or silvery or any of the usual shades of blonde. Where it escaped from the severity of the braid tiny wisps curled at her temples and across her forehead, which was smooth and touched with just a hint of the sun. So unfashionable to have blonde hair. So unladylike to allow oneself
