LITMIR.BIZ

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Mr Ransleigh.’

      He stood as well and bowed. ‘Good day, Miss Denby.’

      Regretfully, while his body yammered and scolded at him like a disgruntled housewife cheated by a market vendor, he watched her retreat down the pathway. Just before turning the corner to exit the glasshouse, she halted.

      Looking back over her shoulder, she said softly, in tones of wonder, ‘You tempt me too, you know.’

      A surge of delight and pure masculine satisfaction blazed through him. Before he could reply, she turned and hurried out.

      He jumped to his feet and paced after her. Fortunately, by the time he reached the door to the glasshouse, sanity had returned.

      Good grief, if he couldn’t rein in his reaction to her, he’d better avoid her altogether, lest he find himself being quickstepped to the altar. Had he not committed idiocies enough for one lifetime?

      So he made himself stand there, watching her trim figure retreat through the mist down the pathway back to the house. But as she took the turn leading to the drawing-room terrace, a man stepped out.

      Henshaw.

      Max gritted his teeth. Frowning, he watched the exchange, too far away to hear their voices, as Henshaw bowed to Miss Denby’s curtsy. Offered his arm, which she declined with a shake of her head and a motion of her hand in the direction of the stables. Henshaw, giving a dismissive wave, offered his arm again, which, after a few more unintelligible words, she reluctantly accepted.

      They’d just set off on the path to the house when Alastair came striding up. Putting a hand to his forehead, he peered into the distance and declared, ‘That looks like the chap who was watching Miss Denby ride the other morning.’

      ‘It is. David Henshaw. Do you know him?’

      ‘Ah, yes, that’s why he looked familiar. He’s a member at Brooks’s. Too concerned with the cut of his coat and the style of his cravat for my taste. He the front runner for Miss Denby’s affections?’

      ‘Not if she has anything to say about it.’

      ‘Ah, had another little chat with the lady, did you? Sure you don’t fancy her for yourself?’

      He made himself give Alastair a withering look. ‘Does she look like a woman I’d fancy?’ he drawled, feeling more uncomfortable about uttering the disparaging remark this time, after he’d practically devoured her on the greenhouse bench, than when he’d been trying to throw Aunt Grace off the scent.

      ‘Not in your usual style,’ Alastair allowed, ‘but there is something about her. Devilishly arousing in her own way … like when riding astride in breeches! What a shame she’s an innocent; don’t forget, my friend, that the price for tasting that morsel is marriage.’

      ‘So I keep reminding myself,’ Max muttered, grimly aware that the moment she’d sat down beside him, his instincts for self-preservation had gone missing.

      ‘I’m not surprised Henshaw is on the scent,’ Alastair continued. ‘The latest word at the London clubs was he’s run so far into debt, he can’t even go back to his town house for fear of meeting the bailiffs. The Denby girl’s fat dowry would put all his financial problems to rest.’

      Max had never given much thought to the fact that a husband gained control over all his wife’s wealth, but after hearing Miss Denby lament the fact, such an arrangement now struck him as little short of robbery. ‘Doesn’t seem quite sporting that he could float himself down River Tick and then use her money to paddle out of danger.’

      Alastair shrugged. ‘It’s done all the time.’

      The fact that it was didn’t make it any more palatable, Max thought. ‘Does Aunt Grace know about Henshaw’s current monetary difficulties?’

      ‘I don’t know. But he’s been angling to marry a fortune ever since he came up from Cambridge, so there’s nothing new about it, except perhaps the degree of urgency. Come now, enough about Henshaw. The man’s a pretentious, ill-dressed bore. How about a game of billiards before dinner? If any guests approach the room, I’ll have Wendell scare them off.’

      Absently Max agreed, but as they walked back to the house, he couldn’t get out of his mind the image of Henshaw compelling Miss Denby to take his arm.

      Were Henshaw’s circumstances difficult enough that he’d be willing to coerce an heiress into matrimony?

      Most likely, he was letting his dislike for the dandified Henshaw colour his perceptions. The man was a gentleman of good family and Aunt Grace would never have invited him if there were any doubt about his integrity.

      However, just to be safe, he’d ride out early tomorrow and warn Miss Denby to be on her guard with him.

      Feeling better about the matter, he followed his cousin into the house and focused his mind on the best strategy for beating Alastair for the third evening in a row.

       Chapter Six

      The next morning, Max rose before dawn and headed to the stables before even a glimmer of dawn lightened the treeline, determined not to risk missing Miss Denby. But though he trotted his mount up and down the stable lane for so long that the grooms must have wondered what in the world he was doing, she did not appear.

      Perhaps she was being prudent, abstaining from her morning ride so as not to be pounced upon by Henshaw. Alastair had told him over billiards the previous evening that his mother said the party was wrapping up; Jane had boasted to him of its successes, two matrons having managed to get offers for their daughters. Felicity, she added, had made a great new friend of Miss Denby’s stepsister, Eugenia Whitman, and was giddy about the prospect of sharing her upcoming Season with the girl.

      The same Miss Whitman who, his Aunt Grace had informed him, ‘far outshines her stepsister in youth, wit and beauty’. Max still resented that comment on Miss Denby’s behalf.

      In any event, it appeared she would soon be relieved of Mr Henshaw’s pursuit, Max concluded, turning his probably puzzled mount to the stable and returning to the house. But what of next spring? Would she, as she feared, have to suffer through another Season, dragged off to participate in a round of social activities for which she had no inclination, forced to neglect her beloved horses?

      What a shame her childhood beau Harry was so far away. She deserved to marry a man who appreciated her unique talents and interests, who supported rather than discouraged her desire to carry on her father’s legacy.

      He toyed with the idea of trying to seek her out and bid her goodbye, but couldn’t come up with a way to do so that would not shock the gathering by revealing she was well acquainted with a man she wasn’t supposed to know. Perhaps, once he had his life sorted out, he could call on her in London, maybe even seek her out at Denby Lodge and purchase some of her horses.

      With Alastair away on another of his lord-of-the-manor errands, Max fetched his book and headed for what might be his last afternoon hidden away at the conservatory. He’d rather miss the place, whose warm scented air and soothing palm murmurs he would probably never have discovered had he not been forced to vacate the house. With the guests soon departing, he and Alastair would have free run of the estate again.

      He halted just inside the threshold of the glasshouse, inhaling the tangy-sweet scent of jasmine that seemed always to hang in the air, insubstantial as a whisper. He was about to proceed to his usual bench when a murmur of voices reached his ears, the words as indistinct as the gurgling of a brook over rocks.

      He halted, trying to identify the speakers. Aunt Grace, conferring with the gardener? Or one of the affianced couples, stealing one last tryst before the party broke up?

      In either case, his presence would be an impediment. He was silently retracing his steps when a feminine voice reached his ears, its increased

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