Книга - Four in Hand

Four in Hand
Stephanie Laurens


From the sparkling ballrooms of Regency London to the wealthy glamour of the country house – let Stephanie Laurens be your guide! Max Rotherbridge had unexpectedly inherited the wardship of four beautiful and spirited young sisters. But he certainly hadn’t bargained on beholding the embodiment of his dreams in his eldest and most lovely ward.Society was stunned when the Duke of Twyford introduced four beautiful debutantes to the ton. The wicked duke was more likely to seduce the innocents than protect them! As the Season continued, Max guarded his protégées, fending off his fellow rakehells.But one by one, the most confirmed bachelors fell at the feet of the Twinning sisters. And Max knew that he couldn’t long escape his destiny – marriage to Miss Caroline Twinning!‘Laurens’ writing shines’ Publishers Weekly







Stephanie Laurens lives in a suburb of Melbourne, Australia, with her husband and two daughters. To learn more about Stephanie’s books visit her website at www.stephanielaurens.com.




Also by Stephanie Laurens


THE REASONS FOR MARRIAGE

AN UNWILLING CONQUEST

A COMFORTABLE WIFE

A LADY OF EXPECTATIONS

TANGLED REINS

FAIR JUNO

FOUR IN HAND

IMPETUOUS INNOCENT



STEPHANIE

LAURENS




Four in

Hand





www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk/)



Four in Hand


Chapter One






The rattle of the curtain rings sounded like thunder. The head of the huge four-poster bed remained wreathed in shadow yet Max was aware that for some mysterious reason Masterton was trying to wake him. Surely it couldn’t be noon already?

Lying prone amid his warm sheets, his stubbled cheek cushioned in softest down, Max contemplated faking slumber. But Masterton knew he was awake. And knew that he knew, so to speak. Sometimes, the damned man seemed to know his thoughts before he did. And he certainly wouldn’t go away before Max capitulated and acknowledged him.

Raising his head, Max opened one very blue eye. His terrifyingly correct valet was standing, entirely immobile, plumb in his line of vision. Masterton’s face was impassive. Max frowned.

In response to this sign of approaching wrath, Masterton made haste to state his business. Not that it was his business, exactly. Only the combined vote of the rest of the senior staff of Delmere House had induced him to disturb His Grace’s rest at the unheard-of hour of nine o’clock. He had every reason to know just how dangerous such an undertaking could be. He had been in the service of Max Rotherbridge, Viscount Delmere, for nine years. It was highly unlikely his master’s recent elevation to the estate of His Grace the Duke of Twyford had in any way altered his temper. In fact, from what Masterton had seen, his master had had more to try his temper in dealing with his unexpected inheritance than in all the rest of his thirty-four years.

“Hillshaw wished me to inform you that there’s a young lady to see you, Your Grace.”

It was still a surprise to Max to hear his new title on his servants’ lips. He had to curb an automatic reaction to look about him for whomever they were addressing. A lady. His frown deepened. “No.” He dropped his head back into the soft pillows and closed his eyes.

“No, Your Grace?”

The bewilderment in his valet’s voice was unmistakable. Max’s head ached. He had been up until dawn. The evening had started badly, when he had felt constrained to attend a ball given by his maternal aunt, Lady Maxwell. He rarely attended such functions. They were too tame for his liking; the languishing sighs his appearance provoked among all the sweet young things were enough to throw even the most hardened reprobate entirely off his stride. And while he had every claim to that title, seducing débutantes was no longer his style. Not at thirty-four.

He had left the ball as soon as he could and repaired to the discreet villa wherein resided his latest mistress. But the beautiful Carmelita had been in a petulant mood. Why were such women invariably so grasping? And why did they imagine he was so besotted that he’d stand for it? They had had an almighty row, which had ended with him giving the luscious ladybird her congé in no uncertain terms.

From there, he had gone to White’s, then Boodles. At that discreet establishment, he had found a group of his cronies and together they had managed to while the night away. And most of the morning, too. He had neither won nor lost. But his head reminded him that he had certainly drunk a lot.

He groaned and raised himself on his elbows, the better to fix Masterton with a gaze which, despite his condition, was remarkably lucid. Speaking in the voice of one instructing a dimwit, he explained. “If there’s a woman to see me, she can’t be a lady. No lady would call here.”

Max thought he was stating the obvious but his henchman stared woodenly at the bedpost. The frown, which had temporarily left his master’s handsome face, returned.

Silence.

Max sighed and dropped his head on to his hands. “Have you seen her, Masterton?”

“I did manage to get a glimpse of the young lady when Hillshaw showed her into the library, Your Grace.”

Max screwed his eyes tightly shut. Masterton’s insistence on using the term “young lady” spoke volumes. All of Max’s servants were experienced in telling the difference between ladies and the sort of female who might be expected to call at a bachelor’s residence. And if both Masterton and Hillshaw insisted the woman downstairs was a young lady, then a young lady she must be. But it was inconceivable that any young lady would pay a nine o’clock call on the most notorious rake in London.

Taking his master’s silence as a sign of commitment to the day, Masterton crossed the large chamber to the wardrobe. “Hillshaw mentioned that the young lady, a Miss Twinning, Your Grace, was under the impression she had an appointment with you.”

Max had the sudden conviction that this was a nightmare. He rarely made appointments with anyone and certainly not with young ladies for nine o’clock in the morning. And particularly not with unmarried young ladies. “Miss Twinning?” The name rang no bells. Not even a rattle.

“Yes, Your Grace.” Masterton returned to the bed, various garments draped on his arm, a deep blue coat lovingly displayed for approval. “The Bath superfine would, I think, be most appropriate?”

Yielding to the inevitable with a groan, Max sat up.



ONE FLOOR BELOW, Caroline Twinning sat calmly reading His Grace of Twyford’s morning paper in an armchair by his library hearth. If she felt any qualms over the propriety of her present position, she hid them well. Her charmingly candid countenance was free of all nervousness and, as she scanned a frankly libellous account of a garden party enlivened by the scandalous propensities of the ageing Duke of Cumberland, an engaging smile curved her generous lips. In truth, she was looking forward to her meeting with the Duke. She and her sisters had spent a most enjoyable eighteen months, the wine of freedom a heady tonic after their previously monastic existence. But it was time and more for them to embark on the serious business of securing their futures. To do that, they needs must enter the ton, that glittering arena thus far denied them. And, for them, the Duke of Twyford undeniably held the key to that particular door.

Hearing the tread of a masculine stride approach the library door, Caroline raised her head, then smiled confidently. Thank heavens the Duke was so easy to manage.

By the time he reached the ground floor, Max had exhausted every possible excuse for the existence of the mysterious Miss Twinning. He had taken little time to dress, having no need to employ extravagant embellishments to distract attention from his long and powerful frame. His broad shoulders and muscular thighs perfectly suited the prevailing fashion. His superbly cut coats looked as though they had been moulded on to him and his buckskin breeches showed not a crease. The understated waistcoat, perfectly tied cravat and shining top-boots which completed the picture were the envy of many an aspiring exquisite. His hair, black as night, was neatly cropped to frame a dark face on which the years had left nothing more than a trace of worldly cynicism. Disdaining the ornamentation common to the times, His Grace of Twyford wore no ring other than a gold signet on his left hand and displayed no fobs or seals. In spite of this, no one setting eyes on him could imagine he was other than he was—one of the most fashionable and wealthy men in the ton.

He entered his library, a slight frown in the depths of his midnight-blue eyes. His attention was drawn by a flash of movement as the young lady who had been calmly reading his copy of the morning Gazette in his favourite armchair by the hearth folded the paper and laid it aside, before rising to face him. Max halted, blue eyes suddenly intent, all trace of displeasure vanishing as he surveyed his unexpected visitor. His nightmare had transmogrified into a dream. The vision before him was unquestionably a houri. For a number of moments he remained frozen in rapturous contemplation. Then, his rational mind reasserted itself. Not a houri. Houris did not read the Gazette. At least, not in his library at nine o’clock in the morning. From the unruly copper curls clustering around her face to the tips of her tiny slippers, showing tantalisingly from under the simply cut and outrageously fashionable gown, there was nothing with which he could find fault. She was built on generous lines, a tall Junoesque figure, deep-bosomed and wide-hipped, but all in the most perfect proportions. Her apricot silk gown did justice to her ample charms, clinging suggestively to a figure of Grecian delight. When his eyes returned to her face, he had time to take in the straight nose and full lips and the dimple that peeked irrepressibly from one cheek before his gaze was drawn to the finely arched brows and long lashes which framed her large eyes. It was only when he looked into the cool grey-green orbs that he saw the twinkle of amusement lurking there. Unused to provoking such a response, he frowned.

“Who, exactly, are you?” His voice, he was pleased to find, was even and his diction clear.

The smile which had been hovering at the corners of those inviting lips finally came into being, disclosing a row of small pearly teeth. But instead of answering his question, the vision replied, “I was waiting for the Duke of Twyford.”

Her voice was low and musical. Mentally engaged in considering how to most rapidly dispense with the formalities, Max answered automatically. “I am the Duke.”

“You?” For one long moment, utter bewilderment was writ large across her delightful countenance.

For the life of her, Caroline could not hide her surprise. How could this man, of all men, be the Duke? Aside from the fact he was far too young to have been a crony of her father’s, the gentleman before her was unquestionably a rake. And a rake of the first order, to boot. Whether the dark-browed, harsh-featured face with its aquiline nose and firm mouth and chin or the lazy assurance with which he had entered the room had contributed to her reading of his character, she could not have said. But the calmly arrogant way his intensely blue eyes had roved from the top of her curls all the way down to her feet, and then just as calmly returned by the same route, as if to make sure he had missed nothing, left her in little doubt of what sort of man she now faced. Secure in the knowledge of being under her guardian’s roof, she had allowed the amusement she felt on seeing such decided appreciation glow in the deep blue eyes to show. Now, with those same blue eyes still on her, piercingly perceptive, she felt as if the rug had been pulled from beneath her feet.

Max could hardly miss her stunned look. “For my sins,” he added in confirmation.

With a growing sense of unease, he waved his visitor to a seat opposite the huge mahogany desk while he moved to take the chair behind it. As he did so, he mentally shook his head to try to clear it of the thoroughly unhelpful thoughts that kept crowding in. Damn Carmelita!

Caroline, rapidly trying to gauge where this latest disconcerting news left her, came forward to sink into the chair indicated.

Outwardly calm, Max watched the unconsciously graceful glide of her walk, the seductive swing of her hips as she sat down. He would have to find a replacement for Carmelita. His gaze rested speculatively on the beauty before him. Hillshaw had been right. She was unquestionably a lady. Still, that had never stopped him before. And, now he came to look more closely, she was not, he thought, that young. Even better. No rings, which was odd. Another twinge of pain from behind his eyes lent a harshness to his voice. “Who the devil are you?”

The dimple peeped out again. In no way discomposed, she answered, “My name is Caroline Twinning. And, if you really are the Duke of Twyford, then I’m very much afraid I’m your ward.”

Her announcement was received in perfect silence. A long pause ensued, during which Max sat unmoving, his sharp blue gaze fixed unwaveringly on his visitor. She bore this scrutiny for some minutes, before letting her brows rise in polite and still amused enquiry.

Max closed his eyes and groaned. “Oh, God.”

It had only taken a moment to work it out. The only woman he could not seduce was his own ward. And he had already decided he very definitely wanted to seduce Caroline Twinning. With an effort, he dragged his mind back to the matter at hand. He opened his eyes. Hopefully, she would put his reaction down to natural disbelief. Encountering the grey-green eyes, now even more amused, he was not so sure. “Explain, if you please. Simple language only. I’m not up to unravelling mysteries at the moment.”

Caroline could not help grinning. She had noticed twinges of what she guessed to be pain passing spasmodically through the blue eyes. “If your head hurts that much, why don’t you try an ice-pack? I assure you I won’t mind.”

Max threw her a look of loathing. His head felt as if it was splitting, but how dared she be so lost to all propriety as to notice, let alone mention it? Still, she was perfectly right. An ice-pack was exactly what he needed. With a darkling look, he reached for the bell pull.

Hillshaw came in answer to his summons and received the order for an ice-pack without noticeable perturbation. “Now, Your Grace?”

“Of course now! What use will it be later?” Max winced at the sound of his own voice.

“As Your Grace wishes.” The sepulchral tones left Max in no doubt of his butler’s deep disapproval.

As the door closed behind Hillshaw, Max lay back in the chair, his fingers at his temples, and fixed Caroline with an unwavering stare. “You may commence.”

She smiled, entirely at her ease once more. “My father was Sir Thomas Twinning. He was an old friend of the Duke of Twyford—the previous Duke, I imagine.”

Max nodded. “My uncle. I inherited the title from him. He was killed unexpectedly three months ago, together with his two sons. I never expected to inherit the estate, so am unfamiliar with whatever arrangements your parent may have made with the last Duke.”

Caroline nodded and waited until Hillshaw, delivering the requested ice-pack on a silver salver to his master, withdrew. “I see. When my father died eighteen months ago, my sisters and I were informed that he had left us to the guardianship of the Duke of Twyford.”

“Eighteen months ago? What have you been doing since then?”

“We stayed on the estate for a time. It passed to a distant cousin and he was prepared to let us remain. But it seemed senseless to stay buried there forever. The Duke wanted us to join his household immediately, but we were in mourning. I persuaded him to let us go to my late stepmother’s family in New York. They’d always wanted us to visit and it seemed the perfect opportunity. I wrote to him when we were in New York, telling him we would call on him when we returned to England and giving him the date of our expected arrival. He replied and suggested I call on him today. And so, here I am.”

Max saw it all now. Caroline Twinning was yet another part of his damnably awkward inheritance. Having led a life of unfettered hedonism from his earliest days, a rakehell ever since he came on the town, Max had soon understood that his lifestyle required capital to support it. So he had ensured his estates were all run efficiently and well. The Delmere estates he had inherited from his father were a model of modern estate management. But his uncle Henry had never had much real interest in his far larger holdings. After the tragic boating accident which had unexpectedly foisted on to him the responsibilities of the dukedom of Twyford, Max had found a complete overhaul of all his uncle’s numerous estates was essential if they were not to sap the strength from his more prosperous Delmere holdings. The last three months had been spent in constant upheaval, with the old Twyford retainers trying to come to grips with the new Duke and his very different style. For Max, they had been three months of unending work. Only this week, he had finally thought that the end of the worst was in sight. He had packed his long-suffering secretary, Joshua Cummings, off home for a much needed rest. And now, quite clearly, the next chapter in the saga of his Twyford inheritance was about to start.

“You mentioned sisters. How many?”

“My half-sisters, really. There are four of us, altogether.”

The lightness of the answer made Max instantly suspicious. “How old?”

There was a noticeable hesitation before Caroline answered, “Twenty, nineteen and eighteen.”

The effect on Max was electric. “Good Lord! They didn’t accompany you here, did they?”

Bewildered, Caroline replied, “No. I left them at the hotel.”

“Thank God for that,” said Max. Encountering Caroline’s enquiring gaze, he smiled. “If anyone had seen them entering here, it would have been around town in a flash that I was setting up a harem.”

The smile made Caroline blink. At his words, her grey eyes widened slightly. She could hardly pretend not to understand. Noticing the peculiar light in the blue eyes as they rested on her, it seemed a very good thing she was the Duke’s ward. From her admittedly small understanding of the morals of his type, she suspected her position would keep her safe as little else might.

Unbeknown to her, Max was thinking precisely the same thing. And resolving to divest himself of his latest inherited responsibility with all possible speed. Aside from having no wish whatever to figure as the guardian of four young ladies of marriageable age, he needed to clear the obstacles from his path to Caroline Twinning. It occurred to him that her explanation of her life history had been curiously glib and decidedly short on detail. “Start at the beginning. Who was your mother and when did she die?”

Caroline had come unprepared to recite her history, imagining the Duke to be cognizant of the facts. Still, in the circumstances, she could hardly refuse. “My mother was Caroline Farningham, of the Staffordshire Farninghams.”

Max nodded. An ancient family, well-known and well-connected.

Caroline’s gaze had wandered to the rows of books lining the shelves behind the Duke. “She died shortly after I was born. I never knew her. After some years, my father married again, this time to the daughter of a local family who were about to leave for the colonies. Eleanor was very good to me and she looked after all of us comfortably, until she died six years ago. Of course, my father was disappointed that he never had a son and he rarely paid any attention to the four of us, so it was all left up to Eleanor.”

The more he heard of him, the more Max was convinced that Sir Thomas Twinning had had a screw loose. He had clearly been a most unnatural parent. Still, the others were only Miss Twinning’s half-sisters. Presumably they were not all as ravishing as she. It occurred to him that he should ask for clarification on this point but, before he could properly phrase the question, another and equally intriguing matter came to mind.

“Why was it none of you was presented before? If your father was sufficiently concerned to organize a guardian for you, surely the easiest solution would have been to have handed you into the care of husbands?”

Caroline saw no reason not to satisfy what was, after all, an entirely understandable curiosity. “We were never presented because my father disapproved of such…oh, frippery pastimes! To be perfectly honest, I sometimes thought he disapproved of women in general.”

Max blinked.

Caroline continued, “As for marriage, he had organized that after a fashion. I was supposed to have married Edgar Mulhall, our neighbour.” Involuntarily, her face assumed an expression of distaste.

Max was amused. “Wouldn’t he do?”

Caroline’s gaze returned to the saturnine face. “You haven’t met him or you wouldn’t need to ask. He’s…” She wrinkled her nose as she sought for an adequate description. “Righteous,” she finally pronounced.

At that, Max laughed. “Clearly out of the question.”

Caroline ignored the provocation in the blue eyes. “Papa had similar plans for my sisters, only, as he never noticed they were of marriageable age and I never chose to bring it to his attention, nothing came of them either.”

Perceiving Miss Twinning’s evident satisfaction, Max made a mental note to beware of her manipulative tendencies. “Very well. So much for the past. Now to the future. What was your arrangement with my uncle?”

The grey-green gaze was entirely innocent as it rested on his face. Max did not know whether to believe it or not.

“Well, it was really his idea, but it seemed a perfectly sensible one to me. He suggested we should be presented to the ton. I suspect he intended to find us suitable husbands and so bring his guardianship to an end.” She paused, thinking. “I’m not aware of the terms of my father’s will, but I assume such arrangements terminate should we marry?”

“Very likely,” agreed Max. The throbbing in his head had eased considerably. His uncle’s plan had much to recommend it, but, personally, he would much prefer not to have any wards at all. And he would be damned if he would have Miss Twinning as his ward—that would cramp his style far too much. There were a few things even reprobates such as he held sacred and guardianship was one.

He knew she was watching him but made no further comment, his eyes fixed frowningly on his blotter as he considered his next move. At last, looking up at her, he said, “I’ve heard nothing of this until now. I’ll have to get my solicitors to sort it out. Which firm handles your affairs?”

“Whitney and White. In Chancery Lane.”

“Well, at least that simplifies matters. They handle the Twyford estates as well as my others.” He laid the ice-pack down and looked at Caroline, a slight frown in his blue eyes. “Where are you staying?”

“Grillon’s. We arrived yesterday.”

Another thought occurred to Max. “On what have you been living for the last eighteen months?”

“Oh, we all had money left us by our mothers. We arranged to draw on that and leave our patrimony untouched.”

Max nodded slowly. “But who had you in charge? You can’t have travelled halfway around the world alone.”

For the first time during this strange interview, Max saw Miss Twinning blush, ever so slightly. “Our maid and coachman, who acted as our courier, stayed with us.”

The airiness of the reply did not deceive Max. “Allow me to comment, Miss Twinning, as your potential guardian, that such an arrangement will not do. Regardless of what may have been acceptable overseas, such a situation will not pass muster in London.” He paused, considering the proprieties for what was surely the first time in his life. “At least you’re at Grillon’s for the moment. That’s safe enough.”

After another pause, during which his gaze did not leave Caroline’s face, he said, “I’ll see Whitney this morning and settle the matter. I’ll call on you at two to let you know how things have fallen out.” A vision of himself meeting a beautiful young lady and attempting to converse with her within the portals of fashionable Grillon’s, under the fascinated gaze of all the other patrons, flashed before his eyes. “On second thoughts, I’ll take you for a drive in the Park. That way,” he continued in reply to the question in her grey-green eyes, “we might actually get a chance to talk.”

He tugged the bell pull and Hillshaw appeared. “Have the carriage brought around. Miss Twinning is returning to Grillon’s.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Oh, no! I couldn’t put you to so much trouble,” said Caroline.

“My dear child,” drawled Max, “my wards would certainly not go about London in hacks. See to it, Hillshaw.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Hillshaw withdrew, for once in perfect agreement with his master.

Caroline found the blue eyes, which had quizzed her throughout this exchange, still regarding her, a gently mocking light in their depths. But she was a lady of no little courage and smiled back serenely, unknowingly sealing her fate.

Never, thought Max, had he met a woman so attractive. One way or another, he would break the ties of guardianship. A short silence fell, punctuated by the steady ticking of the long case clock in the corner. Max took the opportunity afforded by Miss Twinning’s apparent fascination with the rows of leather-bound tomes at his back to study her face once more. A fresh face, full of lively humour and a brand of calm self-possession which, in his experience, was rarely found in young women. Undoubtedly a woman of character.

His sharp ears caught the sound of carriage wheels in the street. He rose and Caroline perforce rose, too. “Come, Miss Twinning. Your carriage awaits.”

Max led her to the front door but forbore to go any further, bowing over her hand gracefully before allowing Hillshaw to escort her to the waiting carriage. The less chance there was for anyone to see him with her the better. At least until he had solved this guardianship tangle.



AS SOON AS the carriage door was shut by the majestic Hillshaw, the horses moved forward at a trot. Caroline lay back against the squabs, her gaze fixed unseeingly on the near-side window as the carriage traversed fashionable London. Bemused, she tried to gauge the effect of the unexpected turn their futures had taken. Imagine having a guardian like that!

Although surprised at being redirected from Twyford House to Delmere House, she had still expected to meet the vague and amenable gentleman who had so readily acquiesced, albeit by correspondence, to all her previous suggestions. Her mental picture of His Grace of Twyford had been of a man in late middle age, bewigged as many of her father’s generation were, distinctly past his prime and with no real interest in dealing with four lively young women. She spared a small smile as she jettisoned her preconceived image. Instead of a comfortable, fatherly figure, she would now have to deal with a man who, if first impressions were anything to go by, was intelligent, quick-witted and far too perceptive for her liking. To imagine the new Duke would not know to a nicety how to manage four young women was patently absurd. If she had been forced to express an opinion, Caroline would have said that, with the present Duke of Twyford, managing women was a speciality. Furthermore, given his undoubted experience, she strongly suspected he would be highly resistant to feminine cajoling in any form. A frown clouded her grey-green eyes. She was not entirely sure she approved of the twist their fates had taken. Thinking back over the recent interview, she smiled. He had not seemed too pleased with the idea himself.

For a moment, she considered the possibility of coming to some agreement with the Duke, essentially breaking the guardianship clause of her father’s will. But only for a moment. It was true she had never been presented to the ton but she had cut her social eyeteeth long ago. While the idea of unlimited freedom to do as they pleased might sound tempting, there was the undeniable fact that she and her half-sisters were heiresses of sorts. Her father, having an extremely repressive notion of the degree of knowledge which could be allowed mere females, had never been particularly forthcoming regarding their eventual state. Yet there had never been any shortage of funds in all the years Caroline could remember. She rather thought they would at least be comfortably dowered. Such being the case, the traps and pitfalls of society, without the protection of a guardian, such as the Duke of Twyford, were not experiences to which she would willingly expose her sisters.

As the memory of a certain glint in His Grace of Twyford’s eye and the distinctly determined set of his jaw drifted past her mind’s eye, the unwelcome possibility that he might repudiate them, for whatever reasons, hove into view. Undoubtedly, if there was any way to overset their guardianship, His Grace would find it. Unaccountably, she was filled with an inexplicable sense of disappointment.

Still, she told herself, straightening in a purposeful way, it was unlikely there was anything he could do about it. And she rather thought they would be perfectly safe with the new Duke of Twyford, as long as they were his wards. She allowed her mind to dwell on the question of whether she really wanted to be safe from the Duke of Twyford for several minutes before giving herself a mental shake. Great heavens! She had only just met the man and here she was, mooning over him like a green girl! She tried to frown but the action dissolved into a sheepish grin at her own susceptibility. Settling more comfortably in the corner of the luxurious carriage, she fell to rehearsing her description of what had occurred in anticipation of her sisters’ eager questions.



WITHIN MINUTES of Caroline Twinning’s departure from Delmere House, Max had issued a succession of orders, one of which caused Mr. Hubert Whitney, son of Mr. Josiah Whitney, the patriarch of the firm Whitney and White, Solicitors, of Chancery Lane, to present himself at Delmere House just before eleven. Mr. Whitney was a dry, desiccated man of uncertain age, very correctly attired in dusty black. He was his father’s son in every way and, now that his sire was no longer able to leave his bed, he attended to all his father’s wealthier clients. As Hillshaw showed him into the well-appointed library, he breathed a sigh of relief, not for the first time, that it was Max Rotherbridge who had inherited the difficult Twyford estates. Unknown to Max, Mr. Whitney held him in particular esteem, frequently wishing that others among his clients could be equally straightforward and decisive. It really made life so much easier.

Coming face-to-face with his favourite client, Mr. Whitney was immediately informed that His Grace, the Duke of Twyford, was in no way amused to find he was apparently the guardian of four marriageable young ladies. Mr. Whitney was momentarily at a loss. Luckily, he had brought with him all the current Twyford papers and the Twinning documents were among these. Finding that his employer did not intend to upbraid him for not having informed him of a circumstance which, he was only too well aware, he should have brought forward long ago, he applied himself to assessing the terms of the late Sir Thomas Twinning’s will. Having refreshed his memory on its details, he then turned to the late Duke’s will.

Max stood by the fire, idly watching. He liked Whitney. He did not fluster and he knew his business.

Finally, Mr. Whitney pulled the gold pince-nez from his face and glanced at his client. “Sir Thomas Twinning predeceased your uncle, and, under the terms of your uncle’s will, it’s quite clear you inherit all his responsibilities.”

Max’s black brows had lowered. “So I’m stuck with this guardianship?”

Mr. Whitney pursed his lips. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. The guardianship could be broken, I fancy, as it’s quite clear Sir Thomas did not intend you, personally, to be his daughters’ guardian.” He gazed at the fire and solemnly shook his head. “No one, I’m sure, could doubt that.”

Max smiled wryly.

“However,” Mr. Whitney continued, “should you succeed in dissolving the guardianship clause, then the young ladies will be left with no protector. Did I understand you correctly in thinking they are presently in London and plan to remain for the Season?”

It did not need a great deal of intelligence to see where Mr. Whitney’s discourse was heading. Exasperated at having his usually comfortably latent conscience pricked into life, Max stalked to the window and stood looking out at the courtyard beyond, hands clasped behind his straight back. “Good God, man! You can hardly think I’m a suitable guardian for four sweet young things!”

Mr. Whitney, thinking the Duke could manage very well if he chose to do so, persevered. “There remains the question of who, in your stead, would act for them.”

The certain knowledge of what would occur if he abandoned four inexperienced, gently reared girls to the London scene, to the mercies of well-bred wolves who roamed its streets, crystallised in Max’s unwilling mind. This was closely followed by the uncomfortable thought that he was considered the leader of one such pack, generally held to be the most dangerous. He could hardly refuse to be Caroline Twinning’s guardian, only to set her up as his mistress. No. There was a limit to what even he could face down. Resolutely thrusting aside the memory, still vivid, of a pair of grey-green eyes, he turned to Mr. Whitney and growled, “All right, dammit! What do I need to know?”

Mr. Whitney smiled benignly and started to fill him in on the Twinning family history, much as Caroline had told it. Max interrupted him. “Yes, I know all that! Just tell me in round figures—how much is each of them worth?”

Mr. Whitney named a figure and Max’s brows rose. For a moment, the Duke was entirely bereft of speech. He moved towards his desk and seated himself again.

“Each?”

Mr. Whitney merely inclined his head in assent. When the Duke remained lost in thought, he continued, “Sir Thomas was a very shrewd businessman, Your Grace.”

“So it would appear. So each of these girls is an heiress in her own right?”

This time, Mr. Whitney nodded decisively.

Max was frowning.

“Of course,” Mr. Whitney went on, consulting the documents on his knee, “you would only be responsible for the three younger girls.”

Instantly he had his client’s attention, the blue eyes oddly piercing. “Oh? Why is that?”

“Under the terms of their father’s will, the Misses Twinning were given into the care of the Duke of Twyford until they attained the age of twenty-five or married. According to my records, I believe Miss Twinning to be nearing her twenty-sixth birthday. So she could, should she wish, assume responsibility for herself.”

Max’s relief was palpable. But hard on its heels came another consideration. Caroline Twinning had recognised his interest in her—hardly surprising as he had taken no pains to hide it. If she knew he was not her guardian, she would keep him at arm’s length. Well, try to, at least. But Caroline Twinning was not a green girl. The aura of quiet self-assurance which clung to her suggested she would not be an easy conquest. Obviously, it would be preferable if she continued to believe she was protected from him by his guardianship. That way, he would have no difficulty in approaching her, his reputation notwithstanding. In fact, the more he thought of it, the more merits he could see in the situation. Perhaps, in this case, he could have his cake and eat it too? He eyed Mr. Whitney. “Miss Twinning knows nothing of the terms of her father’s will. At present, she believes herself to be my ward, along with her half-sisters. Is there any pressing need to inform her of her change in status?”

Mr. Whitney blinked owlishly, a considering look suffusing his face as he attempted to unravel the Duke’s motives for wanting Miss Twinning to remain as his ward. Particularly after wanting to dissolve the guardianship altogether. Max Rotherbridge did not normally vacillate.

Max, perfectly sensible of Mr. Whitney’s thoughts, put forward the most acceptable excuses he could think of. “For a start, whether she’s twenty-four or twenty-six, she’s just as much in need of protection as her sisters. Then, too, there’s the question of propriety. If it was generally known she was not my ward, it would be exceedingly difficult for her to be seen in my company. And as I’ll still be guardian to her sisters, and as they’ll be residing in one of my establishments, the situation could become a trifle delicate, don’t you think?”

It was not necessary for him to elaborate. Mr. Whitney saw the difficulty clearly enough. It was his turn to frown. “What you say is quite true.” Hubert Whitney had no opinion whatever in the ability of the young ladies to manage their affairs. “At present, there is nothing I can think of that requires Miss Twinning’s agreement. I expect it can do no harm to leave her in ignorance of her status until she weds.”

The mention of marriage brought a sudden check to Max’s racing mind but he resolutely put the disturbing notion aside for later examination. He had too much to do today.

Mr. Whitney was continuing, “How do you plan to handle the matter, if I may make so bold as to ask?”

Max had already given the thorny problem of how four young ladies could be presented to the ton under his protection, without raising a storm, some thought. “I propose to open up Twyford House immediately. They can stay there. I intend to ask my aunt, Lady Benborough, to stand as the girls’ sponsor. I’m sure she’ll be only too thrilled. It’ll keep her amused for the Season.”

Mr. Whitney was acquainted with Lady Benborough. He rather thought it would. A smile curved his thin lips.

The Duke stood, bringing the interview to a close.

Mr. Whitney rose. “That seems most suitable. If there’s anything further in which we can assist Your Grace, we’ll be only too delighted.”

Max nodded in response to this formal statement. As Mr. Whitney bowed, prepared to depart, Max, a past master of social intrigue, saw one last hole in the wall and moved to block it. “If there’s any matter you wish to discuss with Miss Twinning, I suggest you do it through me, as if I was, in truth, her guardian. As you handle both our estates, there can really be no impropriety in keeping up appearances. For Miss Twinning’s sake.”

Mr. Whitney bowed again. “I foresee no problems, Your Grace.”


Chapter Two






After Mr. Whitney left, Max issued a set of rapid and comprehensive orders to his majordomo Wilson. In response, his servants flew to various corners of London, some to Twyford House, others to certain agencies specializing in the hire of household staff to the élite of the ton. One footman was despatched with a note from the Duke to an address in Half Moon Street, requesting the favour of a private interview with his paternal aunt, Lady Benborough.

As Max had intended, his politely worded missive intrigued his aunt. Wondering what had prompted such a strange request from her reprehensible nephew, she immediately granted it and settled down to await his coming with an air of pleasurable anticipation.

Max arrived at the small house shortly after noon. He found his aunt attired in a very becoming gown of purple sarsenet with a new and unquestionably modish wig perched atop her commanding visage. Max, bowing elegantly before her, eyed the wig askance.

Augusta Benborough sighed. “Well, I suppose I’ll have to send it back, if that’s the way you feel about it!”

Max grinned and bent to kiss the proffered cheek. “Definitely not one of your better efforts, Aunt.”

She snorted. “Unfortunately, I can hardly claim you know nothing about it. It’s the very latest fashion, I’ll have you know.” Max raised one laconic brow. “Yes, well,” continued his aunt, “I dare say you’re right. Not quite my style.”

As she waited while he disposed his long limbs in a chair opposite the corner of the chaise where she sat, propped up by a pile of colourful cushions, she passed a critical glance over her nephew’s elegant figure. How he contrived to look so precise when she knew he cared very little how he appeared was more than she could tell. She had heard it said that his man was a genius. Personally, she was of the opinion it was Max’s magnificent physique and dark good looks that carried the day.

“I hope you’re going to satisfy my curiosity without a great deal of roundaboutation.”

“My dear aunt, when have I ever been other than direct?”

She looked at him shrewdly. “Want a favour, do you? Can’t imagine what it is but you’d better be quick about asking. Miriam will be back by one and I gather you’d rather not have her listening.” Miriam Alford was a faded spinster cousin of Lady Benborough’s who lived with her, filling the post of companion to the fashionable old lady. “I sent her to Hatchard’s when I got your note,” she added in explanation.

Max smiled. Of all his numerous relatives, his Aunt Benborough, his father’s youngest sister, was his favourite. While the rest of them, his mother included, constantly tried to reform him by ringing peals over him, appealing to his sense of what was acceptable, something he steadfastly denied any knowledge of, Augusta Benborough rarely made any comment on his lifestyle or the numerous scandals this provoked. When he had first come on the town, it had rapidly been made plain to his startled family that in Max they beheld a reincarnation of the second Viscount Delmere. If even half the tales were true, Max’s great-grandfather had been a thoroughly unprincipled character, entirely devoid of morals. Lady Benborough, recently widowed, had asked Max to tea and had taken the opportunity to inform him in no uncertain terms of her opinion of his behaviour. She had then proceeded to outline all his faults, in detail. However, as she had concluded by saying that she fully expected her tirade to have no effect whatsoever on his subsequent conduct, nor could she imagine how anyone in their right mind could think it would, Max had borne the ordeal with an equanimity which would have stunned his friends. She had eventually dismissed him with the words, “Having at least had the politeness to hear me out, you may now depart and continue to go to hell in your own fashion and with my good will.”

Now a widow of many years’ standing, she was still a force to be reckoned with. She remained fully absorbed in the affairs of the ton and continued to be seen at all the crushes and every gala event. Max knew she was as shrewd as she could hold together and, above all, had an excellent sense of humour. All in all, she was just what he needed.

“I’ve come to inform you that, along with all the other encumbrances I inherited from Uncle Henry, I seem to have acquired four wards.”

“You?” Lady Benborough’s rendering of the word was rather more forceful than Miss Twinning’s had been.

Max nodded. “Me. Four young ladies, one, the only one I’ve so far set eyes on, as lovely a creature as any other likely to be presented this Season.”

“Good God! Who was so besotted as to leave four young girls in your care?” If anything, her ladyship was outraged at the very idea. Then, the full impact of the situation struck her. Her eyes widened. “Oh, good lord!” She collapsed against her cushions, laughing uncontrollably.

Knowing this was an attitude he was going to meet increasingly in the next few weeks, Max sighed. In an even tone suggestive of long suffering, he pointed out the obvious. “They weren’t left to me but to my esteemed and now departed uncle’s care. Mind you, I can’t see that he’d have been much use to ’em either.”

Wiping the tears from her eyes, Lady Benborough considered this view. “Can’t see it myself,” she admitted. “Henry always was a slow-top. Who are they?”

“The Misses Twinning. From Hertfordshire.” Max proceeded to give her a brief résumé of the life history of the Twinnings, ending with the information that it transpired all four girls were heiresses.

Augusta Benborough was taken aback. “And you say they’re beautiful to boot?”

“The one I’ve seen, Caroline, the eldest, most definitely is.”

“Well, if anyone should know it’s you!” replied her ladyship testily. Max acknowledged the comment with the slightest inclination of his head.

Lady Benborough’s mind was racing. “So, what do you want with me?”

“What I would like, dearest Aunt,” said Max, with his sweetest smile, “is for you to act as chaperon to the girls and present them to the ton.” Max paused. His aunt said nothing, sitting quite still with her sharp blue eyes, very like his own, fixed firmly on his face. He continued. “I’m opening up Twyford House. It’ll be ready for them tomorrow. I’ll stand the nonsense—all of it.” Still she said nothing. “Will you do it?”

Augusta Benborough thought she would like nothing better than to be part of the hurly-burly of the marriage game again. But four? All at once? Still, there was Max’s backing, and that would count for a good deal. Despite his giving the distinct impression of total uninterest in anything other than his own pleasure, she knew from experience that, should he feel inclined, Max could and would perform feats impossible for those with lesser clout in the fashionable world. Years after the event, she had learned that, when her youngest son had embroiled himself in a scrape so hideous that even now she shuddered to think of it, it had been Max who had rescued him. And apparently for no better reason than it had been bothering her. She still owed him for that.

But there were problems. Her own jointure was not particularly large and, while she had never asked Max for relief, turning herself out in the style he would expect of his wards’ chaperon was presently beyond her slender means. Hesitantly, she said, “My own wardrobe…”

“Naturally you’ll charge all costs you incur in this business to me,” drawled Max, his voice bored as he examined through his quizzing glass a china cat presently residing on his aunt’s mantelpiece. He knew perfectly well his aunt managed on a very slim purse but was too wise to offer direct assistance which would, he knew, be resented, not only by the lady herself but also by her pompous elder son.

“Can I take Miriam with me to Twyford House?”

With a shrug, Max assented. “Aside from anything else, she might come in handy with four charges.”

“When can I meet them?”

“They’re staying at Grillon’s. I’m taking Miss Twinning for a drive this afternoon to tell her what I’ve decided. I’ll arrange for them to move to Twyford House tomorrow afternoon. I’ll send Wilson to help you and Mrs. Alford in transferring to Mount Street. It would be best, I suppose, if you could make the move in the morning. You’ll want to familiarize yourself with the staff and so on.” Bethinking himself that it would be wise to have one of his own well-trained staff on hand, he added, “I suppose I can let you have Wilson for a week or two, until you settle in. I suggest you and I meet the Misses Twinning when they arrive—shall we say at three?”

Lady Benborough was entranced by the way her nephew seemed to dismiss complications like opening and staffing a mansion overnight. Still, with the efficient and reliable Wilson on the job, presumably it would be done. Feeling a sudden and unexpected surge of excitement at the prospect of embarking on the Season with a definite purpose in life, she drew a deep breath. “Very well. I’ll do it!”

“Good!” Max stood. “I’ll send Wilson to call on you this afternoon.”

His aunt, already engrossed in the matter of finding husbands for the Twinning chits, looked up. “Have you seen the other three girls?”

Max shook his head. Imagining the likely scene should they be on hand this afternoon when he called for Miss Twinning, he closed his eyes in horror. He could just hear the on-dits. “And I hope to God I don’t see them in Grillon’s foyer either!”

Augusta Benborough laughed.



WHEN HE CALLED AT Grillon’s promptly at two, Max was relieved to find Miss Twinning alone in the foyer, seated on a chaise opposite the door, her bonnet beside her. He was not to know that Caroline had had to exert every last particle of persuasion to achieve this end. And she had been quite unable to prevent her three sisters from keeping watch from the windows of their bedchambers.

As she had expected, she had had to describe His Grace of Twyford in detail for her sisters. Looking up at the figure striding across the foyer towards her, she did not think she had done too badly. What had been hardest to convey was the indefinable air that hung about him—compelling, exciting, it immediately brought to mind a whole range of emotions well-bred young ladies were not supposed to comprehend, let alone feel. As he took her hand for an instant in his own, and smiled down at her in an oddly lazy way, she decided she had altogether underestimated the attractiveness of that sleepy smile. It was really quite devastating.

Within a minute, Caroline found herself on the box seat of a fashionable curricle drawn by a pair of beautiful but restive bays. She resisted the temptation to glance up at the first-floor windows where she knew the other three would be stationed. Max mounted to the driving seat and the diminutive tiger, who had been holding the horses’ heads, swung up behind. Then they were off, tacking through the traffic towards Hyde Park.

Caroline resigned herself to silence until the safer precincts of the Park were reached. However, it seemed the Duke was quite capable of conversing intelligently while negotiating the chaos of the London streets.

“I trust Grillon’s has met with your approval thus far?”

“Oh, yes. They’ve been most helpful,” returned Caroline. “Were you able to clarify the matter of our guardianship?”

Max was unable to suppress a smile at her directness. He nodded, his attention temporarily claimed by the offside horse which had decided to take exception to a monkey dancing on the pavement, accompanied by an accordion player.

“Mr. Whitney has assured me that, as I am the Duke of Twyford, I must therefore be your guardian.” He had allowed his reluctance to find expression in his tone. As the words left his lips, he realised that the unconventional woman beside him might well ask why he found the role of protector to herself and her sisters so distasteful. He immediately went on the attack. “And, in that capacity, I should like to know how you have endeavoured to come by Parisian fashions?”

His sharp eyes missed little and his considerable knowledge of feminine attire told him Miss Twinning’s elegant pelisse owed much to the French. But France was at war with England and Paris no longer the playground of the rich.

Initially stunned that he should know enough to come so close to the truth, Caroline quickly realised the source of his knowledge. A spark of amusement danced in her eyes. She smiled and answered readily, “I assure you we did not run away to Brussels instead of New York.”

“Oh, I wasn’t afraid of that!” retorted Max, perfectly willing to indulge in plain speaking. “If you’d been in Brussels, I’d have heard of it.”

“Oh?” Caroline turned a fascinated gaze on him.

Max smiled down at her.

Praying she was not blushing, Caroline strove to get the conversation back on a more conventional course. “Actually, you’re quite right about the clothes, they are Parisian. But not from the Continent. There were two couturières from Paris on the boat going to New York. They asked if they could dress us, needing the business to become known in America. It was really most fortunate. We took the opportunity to get quite a lot made up before we returned—we’d been in greys for so long that none of us had anything suitable to wear.”

“How did you find American society?”

Caroline reminded herself to watch her tongue. She did not delude herself that just because the Duke was engaged in handling a team of high-couraged cattle through the busy streets of London he was likely to miss any slip she made. She was rapidly learning to respect the intelligence of this fashionable rake. “Quite frankly, we found much to entertain us. Of course, our relatives were pleased to see us and organised a great many outings and entertainments.” No need to tell him they had had a riotous time.

“Did the tone of the society meet with your approval?”

He had already told her he would have known if they had been in Europe. Did he have connections in New York? How much could he know of their junketing? Caroline gave herself a mental shake. How absurd! He had not known of their existence until this morning. “Well, to be sure, it wasn’t the same as here. Many more cits and half-pay officers about. And, of course, nothing like the ton.”

Unknowingly, her answer brought some measure of relief to Max. Far from imagining his new-found wards had been indulging in high living abroad, he had been wondering whether they had any social experience at all. Miss Twinning’s reply told him that she, at least, knew enough to distinguish the less acceptable among society’s hordes.

They had reached the gates of the Park and turned into the carriage drive. Soon, the curricle was bowling along at a steady pace under the trees, still devoid of any but the earliest leaves. A light breeze lifted the ends of the ribbons on Caroline’s hat and playfully danced along the horses’ dark manes.

Max watched as Caroline gazed about her with interest. “I’m afraid you’ll not see many notables at this hour. Mostly nursemaids and their charges. Later, between three and five, it’ll be crowded. The Season’s not yet begun in earnest, but by now most people will have returned to town. And the Park is the place to be seen. All the old biddies come here to exchange the latest on-dits and all the young ladies promenade along the walks with their beaux.”

“I see.” Caroline smiled to herself, a secret smile as she imagined how she and her sisters would fit into this scene.

Max saw the smile and was puzzled. Caroline Twinning was decidedly more intelligent than the women with whom he normally consorted. He could not guess her thoughts and was secretly surprised at wanting to know them. Then, he remembered one piece of vital information he had yet to discover. “Apropos of my uncle’s plan to marry you all off, satisfy my curiosity, Miss Twinning. What do your sisters look like?”

This was the question she had been dreading. Caroline hesitated, searching for precisely the right words with which to get over the difficult ground. “Well, they’ve always been commonly held to be well to pass.”

Max noted the hesitation. He interpreted her careful phrasing to mean that the other three girls were no more than average. He nodded, having suspected as much, and allowed the subject to drop.

They rounded the lake and he slowed his team to a gentle trot. “As your guardian, I’ve made certain arrangements for your immediate future.” He noticed the grey eyes had flown to his face. “Firstly, I’ve opened Twyford House. Secondly, I’ve arranged for my aunt, Lady Benborough, to act as your chaperon for the Season. She’s very well-connected and will know exactly how everything should be managed. You may place complete confidence in her advice. You will remove from Grillon’s tomorrow. I’ll send my man, Wilson, to assist you in the move to Twyford House. He’ll call for you at two tomorrow. I presume that gives you enough time to pack?”

Caroline assumed the question to be rhetorical. She was stunned. He had not known they existed at nine this morning. How could he have organised all that since ten?

Thinking he may as well clear all the looming fences while he was about it, Max added, “As for funds, I presume your earlier arrangements still apply. However, should you need any further advances, as I now hold the purse-strings of your patrimonies, you may apply directly to me.”

His last statement succeeded in convincing Caroline that it would not be wise to underestimate this Duke. Despite having only since this morning to think about it, he had missed very little. And, as he held the purse-strings, he could call the tune. As she had foreseen, life as the wards of a man as masterful and domineering as the present Duke of Twyford was rapidly proving to be was definitely not going to be as unfettered as they had imagined would be the case with his vague and easily led uncle. There were, however, certain advantages in the changed circumstances and she, for one, could not find it in her to repine.

More people were appearing in the Park, strolling about the lawns sloping down to the river and gathering in small groups by the carriageway, laughing and chatting.

A man of slight stature, mincing along beside the carriage drive, looked up in startled recognition as they passed. He was attired in a bottle-green coat with the most amazing amount of frogging Caroline had ever seen. In place of a cravat, he seemed to be wearing a very large floppy bow around his neck. “Who on earth was that quiz?” she asked.

“That quiz, my dear ward, is none other than Walter Millington, one of the fops. In spite of his absurd clothes, he’s unexceptionable enough but he has a sharp tongue so it’s wise for young ladies to stay on his right side. Don’t laugh at him.”

Two old ladies in an ancient landau were staring at them with an intensity which in lesser persons would be considered rude.

Max did not wait to be asked. “And those are the Misses Berry. They’re as old as bedamned and know absolutely everyone. Kind souls. One’s entirely vague and the other’s sharp as needles.”

Caroline smiled. His potted histories were entertaining.

A few minutes later, the gates came into view and Max headed his team in that direction. Caroline saw a horseman pulled up by the carriage drive a little way ahead. His face clearly registered recognition of the Duke’s curricle and the figure driving it. Then his eyes passed to her and stopped. At five and twenty, Caroline had long grown used to the effect she had on men, particularly certain sorts of men. As they drew nearer, she saw that the gentleman was impeccably attired and had the same rakish air as the Duke. The rider held up a hand in greeting and she expected to feel the curricle slow. Instead, it flashed on, the Duke merely raising a hand in an answering salute.

Amused, Caroline asked, “And who, pray tell, was that?”

Max was thinking that keeping his friends in ignorance of Miss Twinning was going to prove impossible. Clearly, he would be well-advised to spend some time planning the details of this curious seduction, or he might find himself with rather more competition than he would wish. “That was Lord Ramsleigh.”

“A friend of yours?”

“Precisely.”

Caroline laughed at the repressive tone. The husky sound ran tingling along Max’s nerves. It flashed into his mind that Caroline Twinning seemed to understand a great deal more than one might expect from a woman with such a decidedly restricted past. He was prevented from studying her face by the demands of successfully negotiating their exit from the Park.

They were just swinging out into the traffic when an elegant barouche pulled up momentarily beside them, heading into the Park. The thin, middle-aged woman, with a severe, almost horsy countenance, who had been languidly lying against the silken cushions, took one look at the curricle and sat bolt upright. In her face, astonishment mingled freely with rampant curiosity. “Twyford!”

Max glanced down as both carriages started to move again. “My lady.” He nodded and then they were swallowed up in the traffic.

Glancing back, Caroline saw the elegant lady remonstrating with her coachman. She giggled. “Who was she?”

“That, my ward, was Sally, Lady Jersey. A name to remember. She is the most inveterate gossip in London. Hence her nickname of Silence. Despite that, she’s kindhearted enough. She’s one of the seven patronesses of Almack’s. You’ll have to get vouchers to attend but I doubt that will be a problem.”

They continued in companionable silence, threading their way through the busy streets. Max was occupied with imagining the consternation Lady Jersey’s sighting of them was going to cause. And there was Ramsleigh, too. A wicked smile hovered on his lips. He rather thought he was going to spend a decidedly amusing evening. It would be some days before news of his guardianship got around. Until then, he would enjoy the speculation. He was certain he would not enjoy the mirth of his friends when they discovered the truth.



“OOOH, CARO! Isn’t he magnificent?” Arabella’s round eyes, brilliant and bright, greeted Caroline as she entered their parlour.

“Did he agree to be our guardian?” asked the phlegmatic Sarah.

And, “Is he nice?” from the youngest, Lizzie.

All the important questions, thought Caroline with an affectionate smile, as she threw her bonnet aside and subsided into an armchair with a whisper of her stylish skirts. Her three half-sisters gathered around eagerly. She eyed them fondly. It would be hard to find three more attractive young ladies, even though she did say so herself. Twenty-year-old Sarah, with her dark brown hair and dramatically pale face, settling herself on one arm of her chair. Arabella on her other side, chestnut curls rioting around her heart-shaped and decidedly mischievous countenance, and Lizzie, the youngest and quietest of them all, curling up at her feet, her grey-brown eyes shining with the intentness of youth, the light dusting of freckles on the bridge of her nose persisting despite the ruthless application of Denmark lotion, crushed strawberries and every other remedy ever invented.

“Commonly held to be well to pass.” Caroline’s own words echoed in her ears. Her smile grew. “Well, my loves, it seems we are, incontrovertibly and without doubt, the Duke of Twyford’s wards.”

“When does he want to meet us?” asked Sarah, ever practical.

“Tomorrow afternoon. He’s opening up Twyford House and we’re to move in then. He resides at Delmere House, where I went this morning, so the properties will thus be preserved. His aunt, Lady Benborough, is to act as our chaperon—she’s apparently well-connected and willing to sponsor us. She’ll be there tomorrow.”

A stunned silence greeted her news. Then Arabella voiced the awe of all three. “Since ten this morning?”

Caroline’s eyes danced. She nodded.

Arabella drew a deep breath. “Is he…masterful?”

“Very!” replied Caroline. “But you’ll be caught out, my love, if you think to sharpen your claws on our guardian. He’s a deal too shrewd, and experienced besides.” Studying the pensive faces around her, she added. “Any flirtation between any of us and Max Rotherbridge would be doomed to failure. As his wards, we’re out of court, and he won’t stand any nonsense, I warn you.”

“Hmm.” Sarah stood and wandered to the windows before turning to face her. “So it’s as you suspected? He won’t be easy to manage?”

Caroline smiled at the thought and shook her head decisively. “I’m afraid, my dears, that any notions we may have had of setting the town alight while in the care of a complaisant guardian have died along with the last Duke.” One slim forefinger tapped her full lower lip thoughtfully. “However,” she continued, “provided we adhere to society’s rules and cause him no trouble, I doubt our new guardian will throw any rub in our way. We did come to London to find husbands, after all. And that,” she said forcefully, gazing at the three faces fixed on hers, “is, unless I miss my guess, precisely what His Grace intends us to do.”

“So he’s agreed to present us so we can find husbands?” asked Lizzie.

Again Caroline nodded. “I think it bothers him, to have four wards.” She smiled in reminiscence, then added, “And from what I’ve seen of the ton thus far, I suspect the present Duke as our protector may well be a distinct improvement over the previous incumbent. I doubt we’ll have to fight off the fortune-hunters.”

Some minutes ticked by in silence as they considered their new guardian. Then Caroline stood and shook out her skirts. She took a few steps into the room before turning to address her sisters.

“Tomorrow we’ll be collected at two and conveyed to Twyford House, which is in Mount Street.” She paused to let the implication of her phrasing sink in. “As you love me, you’ll dress demurely and behave with all due reticence. No playing off your tricks on the Duke.” She looked pointedly at Arabella, who grinned roguishly back. “Exactly so! I think, in the circumstances, we should make life as easy as possible for our new guardian. I feel sure he could have broken the guardianship if he had wished and can only be thankful he chose instead to honour his uncle’s obligations. But we shouldn’t try him too far.” She ended her motherly admonitions with a stern air, deceiving her sisters not at all.

As the other three heads came together, Caroline turned to gaze unseeingly out of the window. A bewitching smile curved her generous lips and a twinkle lit her grey-green eyes. Softly, she murmured to herself, “For I’ve a definite suspicion he’s going to find us very trying indeed!”



THUP, THUP, THUP. The tip of Lady Benborough’s thin cane beat a slow tattoo, muffled by the pile of the Aubusson carpet. She was pleasantly impatient, waiting with definite anticipation to see her new charges. Her sharp blue gaze had already taken in the state of the room, the perfectly organised furniture, everything tidy and in readiness. If she had not known it for fact, she would never have believed that, yesterday morn, Twyford House had been shut up, the knocker off the door, every piece of furniture shrouded in Holland covers. Wilson was priceless. There was even a bowl of early crocus on the side-table between the long windows. These stood open, giving access to the neat courtyard, flanked by flowerbeds bursting into colourful life. A marble fountain stood at its centre, a Grecian maiden pouring water never-endingly from an urn.

Her contemplation of the scene was interrupted by a peremptory knock on the street door. A moment later, she heard the deep tones of men’s voices and relaxed. Max. She would never get used to thinking of him as Twyford—she had barely become accustomed to him being Viscount Delmere. Max was essentially Max—he needed no title to distinguish him.

The object of her vagaries strode into the room. As always, his garments were faultless, his boots beyond compare. He bowed with effortless grace over her hand, his blue eyes, deeper in shade than her own but alive with the same intelligence, quizzing her. “A vast improvement, Aunt.”

It took a moment to realise he was referring to her latest wig, a newer version of the same style she had favoured for the past ten years. She was not sure whether she was pleased or insulted. She compromised and snorted. “Trying to turn me up pretty, heh?”

“I would never insult your intelligence so, ma’am,” he drawled, eyes wickedly laughing.

Lady Benborough suppressed an involuntary smile in response. The trouble with Max was that he was such a thorough-going rake that the techniques had flowed into all spheres of his life. He would undoubtedly flirt outrageously with his old nurse! Augusta Benborough snorted again. “Wilson’s left to get the girls. He should be back any minute. Provided they’re ready, that is.”

She watched as her nephew ran a cursory eye over the room before selecting a Hepplewhite chair and elegantly disposing his long length in it.

“I trust everything meets with your approval?”

She waved her hand to indicate the room. “Wilson’s been marvellous. I don’t know how he does it.”

“Neither do I,” admitted Wilson’s employer. “And the rest of the house?”

“The same,” she assured him, then continued, “I’ve been considering the matter of husbands for the chits. With that sort of money, I doubt we’ll have trouble even if they have spots and squint.”

Max merely inclined his head. “You may leave the fortune-hunters to me.”

Augusta nodded. It was one of the things she particularly appreciated about Max—one never needed to spell things out. The fact that the Twinning girls were his wards would certainly see them safe from the attentions of the less desirable elements. The new Duke of Twyford was a noted Corinthian and a crack shot.

“Provided they’re immediately presentable, I thought I might give a small party next week, to start the ball rolling. But if their wardrobes need attention, or they can’t dance, we’ll have to postpone it.”

Remembering Caroline Twinning’s stylish dress and her words on the matter, Max reassured her. “And I’d bet a monkey they can dance, too.” For some reason, he felt quite sure Caroline Twinning waltzed. It was the only dance he ever indulged in; he was firmly convinced that she waltzed.

Augusta was quite prepared to take Max’s word on such matters. If nothing else, his notorious career through the bedrooms and bordellos of England had left him with an unerring eye for all things feminine. “Next week, then,” she said. “Just a few of the more useful people and a smattering of the younger crowd.”

She looked up to find Max’s eye on her.

“I sincerely hope you don’t expect to see me at this event?”

“Good Lord, no! I want all attention on your wards, not on their guardian!”

Max smiled his lazy smile.

“If the girls are at all attractive, I see no problems at all in getting them settled. Who knows? One of them might snare Wolverton’s boy.”

“That milksop?” Max’s mind rebelled at the vision of the engaging Miss Twinning on the arm of the future Earl of Wolverton. Then he shrugged. After all, he had yet to meet the three younger girls. “Who knows?”

“Do you want me to keep a firm hand on the reins, give them a push if necessary or let them wander where they will?”

Max pondered the question, searching for the right words to frame his reply. “Keep your eye on the three younger girls. They’re likely to need some guidance. I haven’t sighted them yet, so they may need more than that. But, despite her advanced years, I doubt Miss Twinning will need any help at all.”

His aunt interpreted this reply to mean that Miss Twinning’s beauty, together with her sizeable fortune, would be sufficient to overcome the stigma of her years. The assessment was reassuring, coming as it did from her reprehensible nephew, whose knowledge was extensive in such matters. As her gaze rested on the powerful figure, negligently at ease in his chair, she reflected that it really was unfair he had inherited only the best from both his parents. The combination of virility, good looks and power of both mind and body was overwhelming; throw the titles in for good measure and it was no wonder Max Rotherbridge had been the target of so many matchmaking mamas throughout his adult life. But he had shown no sign whatever of succumbing to the demure attractions of any débutante. His preference was, always had been, for women of far more voluptuous charms. The litany of his past mistresses attested to his devotion to his ideal. They had all, every last one, been well-endowed. Hardly surprising, she mused. Max was tall, powerful and vigorous. She could not readily imagine any of the delicate debs satisfying his appetites. Her wandering mind dwelt on the subject of his latest affaire, aside, of course, from his current chère amie, an opera singer, so she had been told. Emma, Lady Mortland, was a widow of barely a year’s standing but she had returned to town determined, it seemed, to make up for time lost through her marriage to an ageing peer. If the on-dits were true, she had fallen rather heavily in Max’s lap. Looking at the strikingly handsome face of her nephew, Augusta grinned. Undoubtedly, Lady Mortland had set her cap at a Duchess’s tiara. Deluded woman! Max, for all his air of unconcern, was born to his position. There was no chance he would offer marriage to Emma or any of her ilk. He would certainly avail himself of their proffered charms. Then when he tired of them, he would dismiss them, generously rewarding those who had the sense to play the game with suitable grace, callously ignoring those who did not.

The sounds of arrival gradually filtered into the drawing-room. Max raised his head. A spurt of feminine chatter drifted clearly to their ears. Almost immediately, silence was restored. Then, the door opened and Millwade, the new butler, entered to announce, “Miss Twinning.”

Caroline walked through the door and advanced into the room, her sunny confidence cloaking her like bright sunshine. Max, who had risen, blinked and then strolled forward to take her hand. He bowed over it, smiling with conscious charm into her large eyes.

Caroline returned the smile, thoroughly conversant with its promise. While he was their guardian, she could afford to play his games. His strong fingers retained their clasp on her hand as he drew her forward to meet his aunt.

Augusta Benborough’s mouth had fallen open at first sight of her eldest charge. But by the time Caroline faced her, she had recovered her composure. No wonder Max had said she would need no help. Great heavens! The girl was…well, no sense in beating about the bush—she was devilishly attractive. Sensually so. Responding automatically to the introduction, Augusta recognised the amused comprehension in the large and friendly grey eyes. Imperceptibly, she relaxed.

“Your sisters?” asked Max.

“I left them in the hall. I thought perhaps…” Caroline’s words died on her lips as Max moved to the bell pull. Before she could gather her wits, Millwade was in the room, receiving his instructions. Bowing to the inevitable, Caroline closed her lips on her unspoken excuses. As she turned to Lady Benborough, her ladyship’s brows rose in mute question. Caroline smiled and, with a swish of her delicate skirts, sat beside Lady Benborough. “Just watch,” she whispered, her eyes dancing.

Augusta Benborough regarded her thoughtfully, then turned her attention to the door. As she did so, it opened again. First Sarah, then Arabella, then Lizzie Twinning entered the room.

A curious hiatus ensued as both Max Rotherbridge and his aunt, with more than fifty years of town bronze between them, stared in patent disbelief at their charges. The three girls stood unselfconsciously, poised and confident, and then swept curtsies, first to Max, then to her ladyship.

Caroline beckoned and they moved forward to be presented, to a speechless Max, who had not moved from his position beside his chair, and then to a flabbergasted Lady Benborough.

As they moved past him to make their curtsy to his aunt, Max recovered the use of his faculties. He closed his eyes. But when he opened them again, they were still there. He was not hallucinating. There they were: three of the loveliest lovelies he had ever set eyes on—four if you counted Miss Twinning. They were scene-stealers, every one—the sort of young women whose appearance suspended conversations, whose passage engendered rampant curiosity, aside from other, less nameable emotions, and whose departure left onlookers wondering what on earth they had been talking about before. All from the same stable, all under one roof. Nominally his. Incredible. And then the enormity, the mind-numbing, all-encompassing reality of his inheritance struck him. One glance into Miss Twinning’s grey eyes, brimming with mirth, told him she understood more than enough. His voice, lacking its customary strength and in a very odd register, came to his ears. “Impossible!”

His aunt Augusta collapsed laughing.


Chapter Three






“No!” Max shook his head stubbornly, a frown of quite dramatic proportions darkening his handsome face.

Lady Benborough sighed mightily and frowned back. On recovering her wits, she had sternly repressed her mirth and sent the three younger Twinnings into the courtyard. But after ten minutes of carefully reasoned argument, Max remained adamant. However, she was quite determined her scapegrace nephew would not succeed in dodging his responsibilities. Aside from anything else, the situation seemed set to afford her hours of entertainment and, at her age, such opportunities could not be lightly passed by. Her lips compressed into a thin line and a martial light appeared in her blue eyes.



Max, recognising the signs, got in first. “It’s impossible! Just think of the talk!”

Augusta’s eyes widened to their fullest extent. “Why should you care?” she asked. “Your career to date would hardly lead one to suppose you fought shy of scandal.” She fixed Max with a penetrating stare. “Besides, while there’ll no doubt be talk, none of it will harm anyone. Quite the opposite. It’ll get these girls into the limelight!”

The black frown on Max’s face did not lighten.

Caroline wisely refrained from interfering between the two principal protagonists, but sat beside Augusta, looking as innocent as she could. Max’s gaze swept over her and stopped on her face. His eyes narrowed. Caroline calmly returned his scrutiny.

There was little doubt in Max’s mind that Caroline Twinning had deliberately concealed from him the truth about her sisters until he had gone too far in establishing himself as their guardian to pull back. He felt sure some retribution was owing to one who had so manipulated him but, staring into her large grey-green eyes, was unable to decide which of the numerous and varied punishments his fertile imagination supplied would be the most suitable. Instead, he said, in the tones of one goaded beyond endurance, “‘Commonly held to be well to pass’, indeed!”

Caroline smiled.

Augusta intervened. “Whatever you’re thinking of, Max, it won’t do! You’re the girls’ guardian—you told me so yourself. You cannot simply wash your hands of them. I can see it’ll be a trifle awkward for you,” her eyes glazed as she thought of Lady Mortland, “but if you don’t concern yourself with them, who will?”

Despite his violent response to his first sight of all four Twinning sisters, perfectly understandable in the circumstances, Max had not seriously considered giving up his guardianship of them. His behaviour over the past ten minutes had been more in the nature of an emotional rearguard action in an attempt, which his rational brain acknowledged as futile, to resist the tide of change he could see rising up to swamp his hitherto well-ordered existence. He fired his last shot. “Do you seriously imagine that someone with my reputation will be considered a suitable guardian for four…?” He paused, his eyes on Caroline, any number of highly apt descriptions revolving in his head. “Excessively attractive virgins?” he concluded savagely.

Caroline’s eyes widened and her dimple appeared.

“On the contrary!” Augusta answered. “Who better than you to act as their guardian? Odds are you know every ploy ever invented and a few more besides. And if you can’t keep the wolves at bay, then no one can. I really don’t know why you’re creating all this fuss.”

Max did not know either. After a moment of silence, he turned abruptly and crossed to the windows giving on to the courtyard. He had known from the outset that this was one battle he was destined to lose. Yet some part of his mind kept suggesting in panic-stricken accents that there must be some other way. He watched as the three younger girls—his wards, heaven forbid!—examined the fountain, prodding and poking in an effort to find the lever to turn it on. They were a breathtaking sight, the varied hues of their shining hair vying with the flowers, their husky laughter and the unconsciously seductive way their supple figures swayed this way and that causing him to groan inwardly. Up to the point when he had first sighted them, the three younger Twinnings had figured in his plans as largely irrelevant entities, easily swept into the background and of no possible consequence to his plans for their elder sister. One glimpse had been enough to scuttle that scenario. He was trapped—a guardian in very truth. And with what the Twinning girls had to offer he would have no choice but to play the role to the hilt. Every man in London with eyes would be after them!

Lady Benborough eyed Max’s unyielding back with a frown. Then she turned to the woman beside her. She had already formed a high opinion of Miss Twinning. What was even more to the point, being considerably more than seven, Augusta had also perceived that her reprehensible nephew was far from indifferent to the luscious beauty. Meeting the grey-green eyes, her ladyship raised her brows. Caroline nodded and rose.

Max turned as Caroline laid her hand on his arm. She was watching her sisters, not him. Her voice, when she spoke, was tactfully low. “If it would truly bother you to stand as our guardian, I’m sure we could make some other arrangement.” As she finished speaking, she raised her eyes to his.

Accustomed to every feminine wile known to woman, Max nevertheless could see nothing in the lucent grey eyes to tell him whether the offer was a bluff or not. But it only took a moment to realise that if he won this particular argument, if he succeeded in withdrawing as guardian to the Twinning sisters, Caroline Twinning would be largely removed from his orbit. Which would certainly make his seduction of her more difficult, if not impossible. Faced with those large grey-green eyes, Max did what none of the habitués of Gentleman Jackson’s boxing salon had yet seen him do. He threw in the towel.



HAVING RESIGNED himself to the inevitable, Max departed, leaving the ladies to become better acquainted. As the street door closed behind him, Lady Benborough turned a speculative glance on Caroline. Her lips twitched. “Very well done, my dear. Clearly you need no lessons in how to manage a man.”



Caroline’s smile widened. “I’ve had some experience, I’ll admit.”

“Well, you’ll need it all if you’re going to tackle my nephew.” Augusta grinned in anticipation. From where she sat, her world looked rosy indeed. Not only did she have four rich beauties to fire off, and unlimited funds to do it with, but, glory of glories, for the first time since he had emerged from short coats her reprehensible nephew was behaving in a less than predictable fashion. She allowed herself a full minute to revel in the wildest of imaginings, before settling down to extract all the pertinent details of their backgrounds and personalities from the Twinning sisters. The younger girls returned when the tea-tray arrived. By the time it was removed, Lady Benborough had satisfied herself on all points of interest and the conversation moved on to their introduction to the ton.

“I wonder whether news of your existence has leaked out yet,” mused her ladyship. “Someone may have seen you at Grillon’s.”

“Lady Jersey saw me yesterday with Max in his curricle,” said Caroline.

“Did she?” Augusta sat up straighter. “In that case, there’s no benefit in dragging our heels. If Silence already has the story, the sooner you make your appearance, the better. We’ll go for a drive in the Park tomorrow.” She ran a knowledgeable eye over the sisters’ dresses. “I must say, your dresses are very attractive. Are they all like that?”

Reassured on their wardrobes, she nodded. “So there’s nothing to stop us wading into the fray immediately. Good!” She let her eyes wander over the four faces in front of her, all beautiful yet each with its own allure. Her gaze rested on Lizzie. “You—Lizzie, isn’t it? You’re eighteen?”

Lizzie nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

“If that’s so, then there’s no reason for us to be missish,” returned her ladyship. “I assume you all wish to find husbands?”

They all nodded decisively.

“Good! At least we’re all in agreement over the objective. Now for the strategy. Although your sudden appearance all together is going to cause a riot. I rather think that’s going to be the best way to begin. At the very least, we’ll be noticed.”

“Oh, we’re always noticed!” returned Arabella, hazel eyes twinkling.

Augusta laughed. “I dare say.” From any other young lady, the comment would have earned a reproof. However, it was impossible to deny the Twinning sisters were rather more than just beautiful, and as they were all more than green girls it was pointless to pretend they did not fully comprehend the effect they had on the opposite sex. To her ladyship’s mind, it was a relief not to have to hedge around the subject.



“Aside from anything else,” she continued thoughtfully, “your public appearance as the Duke of Twyford’s wards will make it impossible for Max to renege on his decision.” Quite why she was so very firmly set on Max fulfilling his obligations she could not have said. But his guardianship would keep him in contact with Miss Twinning. And that, she had a shrewd suspicion, would be a very good thing.



THEIR DRIVE in the Park the next afternoon was engineered by the experienced Lady Benborough to be tantalisingly brief. As predicted, the sight of four ravishing females in the Twyford barouche caused an immediate impact. As the carriage sedately bowled along the avenues, heads rapidly came together in the carriages they passed. Conversations between knots of elegant gentlemen and the more dashing of ladies who had descended from their carriages to stroll about the well-tended lawns halted in midsentence as all eyes turned to follow the Twyford barouche.

Augusta, happily aware of the stir they were causing, sat on the maroon leather seat and struggled to keep the grin from her face. Her charges were attired in a spectrum of delicate colours, for all the world like a posy of gorgeous blooms. The subtle peach of Caroline’s round gown gave way to the soft turquoise tints of Sarah’s. Arabella had favoured a gown of the most delicate rose muslin while Lizzie sat, like a quiet bluebell, nodding happily amid her sisters. In the soft spring sunshine, they looked like refugees from the fairy kingdom, too exquisite to be flesh and blood. Augusta lost her struggle and grinned widely at her fanciful thoughts. Then her eyes alighted on a landau drawn up to the side of the carriageway. She raised her parasol and tapped her coachman on the shoulder. “Pull up over there.”

Thus it happened that Emily, Lady Cowper and Maria, Lady Sefton, enjoying a comfortable cose in the afternoon sunshine, were the first to meet the Twinning sisters. As the Twyford carriage drew up, the eyes of both experienced matrons grew round.

Augusta noted their response with satisfaction. She seized the opportunity to perform the introductions, ending with, “Twyford’s wards, you know.”

That information, so casually dropped, clearly stunned both ladies. “Twyford’s?” echoed Lady Sefton. Her mild eyes, up to now transfixed by the spectacle that was the Twinning sisters, shifted in bewilderment to Lady Benborough’s face. “How on earth…?”

In a few well-chosen sentences, Augusta told her. Once their ladyships had recovered from their amusement, both at once promised vouchers for the girls to attend Almack’s.

“My dear, if your girls attend, we’ll have to lay on more refreshments. The gentlemen will be there in droves,” said Lady Cowper, smiling in genuine amusement.



“Who knows? We might even prevail on Twyford himself to attend,” mused Lady Sefton.

While Augusta thought that might be stretching things a bit far, she was thankful for the immediate backing her two old friends had given her crusade to find four fashionable husbands for the Twinnings. The carriages remained together for some time as the two patronesses of Almack’s learned more of His Grace of Twyford’s wards. Augusta was relieved to find that all four girls could converse with ease. The two younger sisters prettily deferred to the elder two, allowing the more experienced Caroline, ably seconded by Sarah, to dominate the responses.

When they finally parted, Augusta gave the order to return to Mount Street. “Don’t want to rush it,” she explained to four enquiring glances. “Much better to let them come to us.”



TWO DAYS LATER, the ton was still reeling from the discovery of the Duke of Twyford’s wards. Amusement, from the wry to the ribald, had been the general reaction. Max had gritted his teeth and borne it, but the persistent demands of his friends to be introduced to his wards sorely tried his temper. He continued to refuse all such requests. He could not stop their eventual acquaintance but at least he did not need directly to foster it. Thus, it was in a far from benign mood that he prepared to depart Delmere House on that fine April morning, in the company of two of his particular cronies, Lord Darcy Hamilton and George, Viscount Pilborough.

As they left the parlour at the rear of the house and entered the front hallway, their conversation was interrupted by a knock on the street door. They paused in the rear of the hall as Hillshaw moved majestically past to answer it.

“I’m not at home, Hillshaw,” said Max.

Hillshaw regally inclined his head. “Very good, Your Grace.”

But Max had forgotten that Hillshaw had yet to experience the Misses Twinning en masse. Resistance was impossible and they came swarming over the threshold, in a frothing of lace and cambrics, bright smiles, laughing eyes and dancing curls.

The girls immediately spotted the three men, standing rooted by the stairs. Arabella reached Max first. “Dear guardian,” she sighed languishingly, eyes dancing, “are you well?” She placed her small hand on his arm.

Sarah, immediately behind, came to his other side. “We hope you are because we want to ask your permission for something.” She smiled matter-of-factly up at him.

Lizzie simply stood directly in front of him, her huge eyes trained on his face, a smile she clearly knew to be winning suffusing her countenance. “Please?”

Max raised his eyes to Hillshaw, still standing dumb by the door. The sight of his redoubtable henchman rolled up by a parcel of young misses caused his lips to twitch. He firmly denied the impulse to laugh. The Misses Twinning were outrageous already and needed no further encouragement. Then his eyes met Caroline’s.

She had hung back, watching her sisters go through their paces, but as his eyes touched her, she moved forward, her hand outstretched. Max, quite forgetting the presence of all the others, took it in his.

“Don’t pay any attention to them, Your Grace; I’m afraid they’re sad romps.”

“Not romps, Caro,” protested Arabella, eyes fluttering over the other two men, standing mesmerized just behind Max.

“It’s just that we heard it was possible to go riding in the Park but Lady Benborough said we had to have your permission,” explained Sarah.

“So, here we are and can we?” asked Lizzie, big eyes beseeching.

“No,” said Max, without further ado. As his aunt had observed, he knew every ploy. And the opportunities afforded by rides in the Park, where chaperons could be present but sufficiently remote, were endless. The first rule in a seduction was to find the opportunity to speak alone to the lady in question. And a ride in the Park provided the perfect setting.

Caroline’s fine brows rose at his refusal. Max noticed that the other three girls turned to check their elder sister’s response before returning to the attack.

“Oh, you can’t mean that! How shabby!”

“Why on earth not?”

“We all ride well. I haven’t been out since we were home.”

Both Arabella and Sarah turned to the two gentlemen still standing behind Max, silent auditors to the extraordinary scene. Arabella fixed Viscount Pilborough with pleading eyes. “Surely there’s nothing unreasonable in such a request?” Under the Viscount’s besotted gaze, her lashes fluttered almost imperceptibly, before her lids decorously dropped, veiling those dancing eyes, the long lashes brushing her cheeks, delicately stained with a most becoming blush.

The Viscount swallowed. “Why on earth not, Max? Not an unreasonable request at all. Your wards would look very lovely on horseback.”

Max, who was only too ready to agree on how lovely his wards would look in riding habits, bit back an oath. Ignoring Miss Twinning’s laughing eyes, he glowered at the hapless Viscount.

Sarah meanwhile had turned to meet the blatantly admiring gaze of Lord Darcy. Not as accomplished a flirt as Arabella, she could nevertheless hold her own, and she returned his warm gaze with a serene smile. “Is there any real reason why we shouldn’t ride?”



Her low voice, cool and strangely musical, made Darcy Hamilton wish there were far fewer people in Max’s hall. In fact, his fantasies would be more complete if they were not in Max’s hall at all. He moved towards Sarah and expertly captured her hand. Raising it to his lips, he smiled in a way that had thoroughly seduced more damsels than he cared to recall. He could well understand why Max did not wish his wards to ride. But, having met this Twinning sister, there was no way in the world he was going to further his friend’s ambition.

His lazy drawl reached Max’s ears. “I’m very much afraid, Max, dear boy, that you’re going to have to concede. The opposition is quite overwhelming.”

Max glared at him. Seeing the determination in his lordship’s grey eyes and understanding his reasons only too well, he knew he was outnumbered on all fronts. His eyes returned to Caroline’s face to find her regarding him quizzically. “Oh, very well!”

Her smile warmed him and at the prompting lift of her brows he introduced his friends, first to her, and then to her sisters in turn. The chattering voices washed over him, his friends’ deeper tones running like a counterpoint in the cacophony. Caroline moved to his side.

“You’re not seriously annoyed by us riding, are you?”

He glanced down at her. The stern set of his lips reluctantly relaxed. “I would very much rather you did not. However,” he continued, his eyes roving to the group of her three sisters and his two friends, busy with noisy plans for their first ride that afternoon, “I can see that’s impossible.”

Caroline smiled. “We won’t come to any harm, I assure you.”

“Allow me to observe, Miss Twinning, that gallivanting about the London ton is fraught with rather more difficulty than you would have encountered in American society, nor yet within the circle to which you were accustomed in Hertfordshire.”

A rich chuckle greeted his warning. “Fear not, dear guardian,” she said, raising laughing eyes to his. Max noticed the dimple, peeking irrepressibly from beside her soft mouth. “We’ll manage.”



NATURALLY, MAX FELT obliged to join the riding party that afternoon. Between both his and Darcy Hamilton’s extensive stables, they had managed to assemble suitable mounts for the four girls. Caroline had assured him that, like all country misses, they could ride very well. By the time they gained the Park, he had satisfied himself on that score. At least he need not worry over them losing control of the frisky horses and being thrown. But, as they were all as stunning as he had feared they would be, elegantly gowned in perfectly cut riding habits, his worries had not noticeably decreased.



As they ambled further into the Park, by dint of the simple expedient of reining in his dappled grey, he dropped to the rear of the group, the better to keep the three younger girls in view. Caroline, riding by his side, stayed with him. She threw him a laughing glance but made no comment.

As he had expected, they had not gone more than two hundred yards before their numbers were swelled by the appearance of Lord Tulloch and young Mr. Mitchell. But neither of these gentlemen seemed able to interrupt the rapport which, to Max’s experienced eye, was developing with alarming rapidity between Sarah Twinning and Darcy Hamilton. Despite his fears, he grudgingly admitted the Twinning sisters knew a trick or two. Arabella flirted outrageously but did so with all gentlemen, none being able to claim any special consideration. Lizzie attracted the quieter men and was happy to converse on the matters currently holding the interest of the ton. Her natural shyness and understated youth, combined with her undeniable beauty, was a heady tonic for these more sober gentlemen. As they ventured deeper into the Park, Max was relieved to find Sarah giving Darcy no opportunity to lead her apart. Gradually, his watchfulness relaxed. He turned to Caroline.

“Have you enjoyed your first taste of life in London?”

“Yes, thank you,” she replied, grey eyes smiling. “Your aunt has been wonderful. I can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done.”



Max’s brow clouded. As it happened, the last thing he wanted was her gratitude. Here he was, thinking along lines not grossly dissimilar from Darcy’s present preoccupation, and the woman chose to thank him. He glanced down at her as she rode beside him, her face free of any worry, thoroughly enjoying the moment. Her presence was oddly calming.

“What plans do you have for the rest of the week?” he asked.

Caroline was slightly surprised by his interest but replied readily. “We’ve been driving in the Park every afternoon except today. I expect we’ll continue to appear, although I rather think, from now on, it will be on horseback.” She shot him a measuring glance to see how he would take that. His face was slightly grim but he nodded in acceptance. “Last evening, we went to a small party given by Lady Malling. Your aunt said there are a few more such gatherings in the next week which we should attend, to give ourselves confidence in society.”

Max nodded again. From the corner of his eye, he saw Sarah avoid yet another of Darcy’s invitations to separate from the group. He saw the quick frown which showed fleetingly in his friend’s eyes. Serve him right if the woman drove him mad. But, he knew, Darcy was made of sterner stuff. The business of keeping his wards out of the arms of his friends was going to be deucedly tricky. Returning to contemplation of Miss Twinning’s delightful countenance, he asked, “Has Aunt Augusta got you vouchers for Almack’s yet?”

“Yes. We met Lady Sefton and Lady Cowper on our first drive in the Park.”

Appreciating his aunt’s strategy, Max grinned. “Trust Aunt Augusta.”

Caroline returned his smile. “She’s been very good to us.”

Thinking that the unexpected company of four lively young women must have been a shock to his aunt’s system, Max made a mental note to do anything in his power to please his aunt Benborough.

They had taken a circuitous route through the Park and only now approached the fashionable precincts. The small group almost immediately swelled to what, to Max, were alarming proportions, with every available gentleman clamouring for an introduction to his beautiful wards. But, to his surprise, at a nod from Caroline, the girls obediently brought their mounts closer and refused every attempt to draw them further from his protective presence. To his astonishment, they all behaved with the utmost decorum, lightened, of course, by their natural liveliness but nevertheless repressively cool to any who imagined them easy targets. Despite his qualms, he was impressed. They continued in this way until they reached the gates of the Park, by which time the group had dwindled to its original size and he could relax again.

He turned to Caroline, still by his side. “Can you guarantee they’ll always behave so circumspectly, or was that performance purely for my benefit?” As her laughing eyes met his, he tried to decide whether they were greeny-grey or greyish-green. An intriguing question.

“Oh, we’re experienced enough to know which way to jump, I assure you,” she returned. After a pause, she continued, her voice lowered so only he could hear. “In the circumstances, we would not willingly do anything to bring disrepute on ourselves. We are very much aware of what we owe to you and Lady Benborough.”

Max knew he should be pleased at this avowal of good intentions. Instead, he was aware of a curious irritation. He would certainly do everything in his power to reinforce her expressed sentiment with respect to the three younger girls, but to have Caroline Twinning espousing such ideals was not in keeping with his plans. Somehow, he was going to have to convince her that adherence to all the social strictures was not the repayment he, at least, would desire. The unwelcome thought that, whatever the case, she might now consider herself beholden to him, and would, therefore, grant him his wishes out of gratitude, very nearly made him swear aloud. His horse jibbed at the suddenly tightened rein and he pushed the disturbing thought aside while he dealt with the grey. Once the horse had settled again, he continued by Caroline’s side as they headed back to Mount Street, a distracted frown at the back of his dark blue eyes.



AUGUSTA BENBOROUGH flicked open her fan and plied it vigorously. Under cover of her voluminous skirts, she slipped her feet free of her evening slippers. She had forgotten how stifling the small parties, held in the run-up to the Season proper, could be. Every bit as bad as the crushes later in the Season. But there, at least, she would have plenty of her own friends to gossip with. The mothers and chaperons of the current batch of débutantes were a generation removed from her own and at these small parties they were generally the only older members present. Miriam Alford had elected to remain at Twyford House this evening, which left Augusta with little to do but watch her charges. And even that, she mused to herself, was not exactly riveting entertainment.

True, Max was naturally absent, which meant her primary interest in the entire business was in abeyance. Still, it was comforting to find Caroline treating all the gentlemen who came her way with the same unfailing courtesy and no hint of partiality. Arabella, too, seemed to be following that line, although, in her case, the courtesy was entirely cloaked in a lightly flirtatious manner. In any other young girl, Lady Benborough would have strongly argued for a more demure style. But she had watched Arabella carefully. The girl had quick wits and a ready tongue. She never stepped beyond what was acceptable, though she took delight in sailing close to the wind. Now, convinced that no harm would come of Arabella’s artful play, Augusta nodded benignly as that young lady strolled by, accompanied by the inevitable gaggle of besotted gentlemen.

One of their number was declaiming,



‘“My dearest flower,

More beautiful by the hour,

To you I give my heart.’”



Arabella laughed delightedly and quickly said, “My dear sir, I beg you spare my blushes! Truly, your verses do me more credit than I deserve. But surely, to do them justice, should you not set them down on parchment?” Anything was preferable to having them said aloud.

The budding poet, young Mr. Rawlson, beamed. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure, Miss Arabella. I’ll away and transcribe them immediately. And dedicate them to your inspiration!” With a flourishing bow, he departed precipitately, leaving behind a silence pregnant with suppressed laughter.

This was broken by a snigger from Lord Shannon. “Silly puppy!”



As Mr. Rawlson was a year or two older than Lord Shannon, who himself appeared very young despite his attempts to ape the Corinthians, this comment itself caused some good-natured laughter.

“Perhaps, Lord Shannon, you would be so good as to fetch me some refreshment?” Arabella smiled sweetly on the hapless youngster. With a mutter which all interpreted to mean he was delighted to be of service to one so fair, the young man escaped.

With a smile, Arabella turned to welcome Viscount Pilborough to her side.

Augusta’s eyelids drooped. The temperature in the room seemed to rise another degree. The murmuring voices washed over her. Her head nodded. With a start, she shook herself awake. Determined to keep her mind active for the half-hour remaining, she sought out her charges. Lizzie was chattering animatedly with a group of débutantes much her own age. The youngest Twinning was surprisingly innocent, strangely unaware of her attractiveness to the opposite sex, still little more than a schoolgirl at heart. Lady Benborough smiled. Lizzie would learn soon enough; let her enjoy her girlish gossiping while she might.

A quick survey of the room brought Caroline to light, strolling easily on the arm of the most eligible Mr. Willoughby.

“It’s so good of you to escort your sister to these parties, sir. I’m sure Miss Charlotte must be very grateful.” Caroline found conversation with the reticent Mr. Willoughby a particular strain.

A faint smile played at the corners of Mr. Willoughby’s thin lips. “Indeed, I believe she is. But really, there is very little to it. As my mother is so delicate as to find these affairs quite beyond her, it would be churlish of me indeed to deny Charlotte the chance of becoming more easy in company before she is presented.”





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