lashes.
‘Do I have a smudge on my nose?’ Bree enquired, seemingly ignoring his comment about her hair.
‘No. I am just getting used to you without that hat.’ And without that greatcoat, and in breeches and boots, Heaven help me! Her legs were long and shapely, her figure, flattened by a waistcoat and shrouded by her coat, was more difficult to judge, but even the best efforts of men’s tailoring could not completely submerge womanly curves that had Max’s heart beating hard.
He wanted her, but not because she was beautiful, because she wasn’t exactly that, and he should know, he had kept some diamonds of the first water in his time. What is it about her? He struggled with it, trying to identify the elusive something that had shot an arrow straight under his skin in that first fleeting exchange of glances.
More for something to occupy himself than for comfort, Max took off his own greatcoat, stuffed his gloves in his pocket, and ran his hands through his hair, which had suffered from having his hat jammed down hard to keep it on against the wind.
‘Is that a Brutus, that hairstyle?’ Bree was watching him, head on one side a little. She had the faint air of a woman sizing up a purchase. Max had the uncomfortable feeling that if he were a chicken she would have inspected his feet for signs of age, or if he were a horse she would be checking his teeth. He was not at all sure he was passing muster.
‘My own variation on it, yes.’
‘I only ask because Piers says that is how he has had his hair cut. I can see the resemblance, but yours is far more successful.’
‘Thank you,’ Max said gravely. Contact with Miss Mallory handing out lukewarm compliments was chastening to one’s self-esteem. ‘How old is your brother?’
‘Just seventeen. We have a half-brother, James, who is thirty. Mama married twice.’
When she talked about Piers her voice was warm, loving; when she spoke of her other brother, it was cool. ‘Is James concerned with the business?’
‘Goodness, no.’ That was apparently funny enough to make her laugh. Max was filled with an ambition to make her laugh again, to hear the rich, amused chuckle, but his usually ready wit appeared to have deserted him. ‘James has nothing to do with it. Piers inherited my father’s half and Uncle George holds the other. He founded the company with Papa and he still runs both family farms and breeds most of our horses. I run the office.’
‘So you own nothing, but do all the work. That seems a little unjust.’
‘It is merely the lot of most women,’ Bree observed drily. ‘Piers will take over as soon as he is of age, although I suspect I will still manage things day to day. Piers is far more interested in the technical side of the business—improved springing, horse breeding for stamina, that sort of thing. And he believes that we will need to keep an eye on all the new forms of transport that will come in the next few years.’
‘Such as? Nothing will replace the horse, however improved the carriages may become.’
‘Canals, steam locomotion …’
‘Never catch on,’ Max said confidently. ‘Canals are fine for heavy transport, I’ll give you that, and steam is good for industry and mining. But these steam locomotives are nothing but dangerous gimmicks.’
That luscious chuckle again. ‘Should you ever meet Piers, I advise you not to air such opinions. I usually have to rescue the unenlightened after an hour’s lecture.’ She yawned suddenly, hugely, clapping both hands over her mouth like a guilty child. ‘Oh, I beg your pardon!’
‘Go to sleep,’ Max suggested. ‘Here.’ He stripped off his coat, folded it so the soft silk lining was outermost and offered it to her. ‘Use that as a pillow. And take your own coat off. You’ll be more comfortable. You can put one of the greatcoats over you, if you feel chilly.’
Bree regarded him, the laughter gone from her face, her eyes a little wide. Max realised that taking off his coat had probably been unwise, and expecting her to abandon herself to sleep under the circumstances was asking too much.
‘Thank you,’ she said, surprising him. She shrugged off her own coat, giving him a glimpse of the label. Not such a good tailor as his, but not contemptible either. She saw the direction of his gaze. ‘Yes, I was so brassy as to have these clothes made by a tailor, but he came to the house—I draw the line at marching into a gentleman’s establishment to order breeches, whatever James might think.’
Max sat back, his arms folded, and gazed out of the window on to darkness while Bree made herself comfortable. She placed her own greatcoat on the seat at one end, patted his coat carefully into a pillow at the other, then swung her feet up and curled on to her side.
‘Are you warm enough?’ He shook out his caped greatcoat and offered it.
‘If I take it, then you might be cold.’ She looked up at him, suddenly so vulnerable on the makeshift bed that something inside him twisted.
‘I’m warm,’ Max assured her. ‘Very warm indeed.’ Too damned hot, in fact.
‘Thank you.’ She simply closed her eyes and snuggled down as he draped the heavy cloth over her, careful not to touch her body. As if it were something she did every night, Bree fished out the golden plait and let it lie on the covering. ‘Goodnight.’ Her lips curved into a smile.
‘Goodnight.’ Max flattened his shoulders against the squabs, crossed his arms, crossed his legs and gazed fixedly at the webbing of the small luggage holder above Bree’s seat. How was that made? Netting, presumably. How was netting made? Try to work it out. Or count the number of diamonds it made. Or think about how much damage tonight’s little adventure had done to the immaculate lacquer of his drag’s sides. Or anything other than the fact that the woman opposite trusted him enough to fall asleep like this, and that he wanted to abuse that trust, very, very badly.
Why? It all seemed to go back to his musings in the club, so many hours ago: he should get married and start his nursery. He had a title, an estate, a family name to consider.
There was no one to nag him to do it except his grandmother, who on their last meeting had informed him with some asperity that if he wanted to go racketing around like a twenty-year-old instead of a man who had just had his thirtieth birthday, then she washed her hands of him. ‘Either sort out that business over Drusilla once and for all and find a suitable young woman to marry, or decide to accept Nevill as your heir. He’s a nice enough young cub,’ the Dowager had pronounced flatly. ‘I expect I can lick him into shape if I start now.’
Nevill was, indeed, nice. The word just about defined the boy. But Max didn’t want him as his heir, he wanted his own son, he realised. That decision at least seemed to have hardened since he was thinking about it last night.
A son meant a wife. He had done his best to reform his life, he assured himself. He had danced attendance at every function the Season could throw up. He had spent the summer at a number of house parties—he had even spent two weeks in Brighton.
I have been giggled at, simpered at, flirted with. I’ve chatted endlessly to tongue-tied girls, I’ve done my duty by well-bred wallflowers, I’ve risked my skin by talking to forward young madams with bold manners and overprotective brothers and I’ve done the pretty by every matchmaking mama in town. And not one of them has stirred me as much as that first sight of this woman.
The
