LITMIR.BIZ

       Chapter Three

      In the late afternoon three days later, Max Ransleigh lounged, book in hand, on a bench in the greenhouse, shaded from the setting sun by a bank of large potted palms, his nose tickled by the exotic scents of jasmine and citrus. Alastair had gone off to see about purchasing cows or hens or some such for the farms; armed with an agenda prepared by his aunt that detailed the daily activities of her guests, he’d chosen to spend his afternoon here, out of the way.

      A now-familiar restlessness filled him. Not that he wished to participate in this petticoat assembly, but Max missed, and missed acutely, being involved in the active business of government. His entire life, he’d been bred to take part in and take charge at a busy round of political dinners, discussions and house parties. To move easily among the guests, soliciting the opinions of the gentlemen about topics of current interest, drawing out the ladies, setting the shy at ease, skilfully managing the garrulous. Leaving men and women, young or old, eloquent or tongue-tied, believing he’d found their conversation engrossing and believing him intelligent, attentive, masterful and charming.

      Skills he might never need to exercise again.

      Anguish and anger stirred again in his gut. Oblivious to the amber beauties of the sunset, he stared at the narrow iron framework of the glasshouse. Somehow, somewhere, he had to find a new and worthwhile endeavour to which he could devote his energy.

      So abstracted was he, it was several minutes before he noticed the muffled pad of approaching footsteps. Expecting to see Alastair, he pasted on a smile and turned towards the sound.

      The vision confronting him made the jocular words of greeting die on his lips.

      Instead of his cousin, a young woman halted before him, garbed in a puce evening gown decorated with an eruption of lace ruffles, iridescent spangles and large knots of pink-silk roses wrapped in more lace and garnished with pearls. So over-trimmed and vulgar was the dress, it was some minutes before his affronted senses recovered enough for him to meet the female’s eyes, which were regarding him earnestly.

      ‘Mr Ransleigh?’ the lady enquired, dipping him a slight curtsy.

      Only then did he remember, being young and female, she must be one of Aunt Grace’s guests and therefore should not be here with him. Especially unchaperoned, which a quick glance towards the door of the glasshouse revealed her to be.

      ‘Have you lost your way, miss?’ he asked, giving her the practised Max smile. ‘Take the leftmost path to the terrace; the French doors will lead you into the drawing room. Hurry, now; I’m sure your chaperon must be missing you.’

      He made a little waving motion towards the door, wishing her on her way quickly before anyone could see them. But instead of turning around, she stepped closer.

      ‘No, I’m not looking for her, I’m looking for you and very elusive you’ve proven to be! It’s taken me three days to run you to ground.’

      Max stirred uneasily. Normally, when attending a gathering such as this, he’d have taken care never to wander off alone to a location that screamed ‘illicit assignation’ as loudly as this secluded conservatory. He couldn’t imagine that he and Alastair had not been the topic of a good deal of gossip among the attendees—hadn’t the girl in the atrocious gown been warned to stay away from them?

      Or perhaps she was looking for Alastair? Though he couldn’t imagine why a respectable maiden would agree to a clandestine rendezvous with as practised a rogue as his cousin—or why his cousin, whose tastes ran to sensual and sophisticated ladies well skilled in the game, would trouble himself to lead astray one of his mother’s virginal guests.

      ‘I’m sorry, miss, but I’m not who you are seeking. I’m Max Ransleigh and it would be thought highly inappropriate if anyone should discover you’d spoken alone with me. For your own good, I must insist that you depart imm—’

      ‘I know which Ransleigh you are, sir,’ the young woman interrupted. ‘That’s why I sought you out. I have a proposition for you. So to speak,’ she added, her cheeks pinking.

      Max blinked at her, sure he could not have heard her properly. ‘A “proposition”?’ he repeated.

      ‘Yes. I’m Caroline Denby, by the way; my father was the late Sir Martin Denby, of Denby Stables.’

      Thinking this bizarre meeting was getting even more bizarre, Max bowed. ‘Miss Denby. Yes, I’ve heard of your father’s excellent horses; my condolences on your loss. However, whatever it is you wish to say, perhaps Mrs Ransleigh could arrange a meeting later. Truly, it’s most imperative that you quit my presence immediately, lest you put your reputation at risk.’

      ‘But that’s exactly what I wish to do. Not just risk it, but ruin it. Irretrievably.’

      Of all the things the lady might have said, that was perhaps the most unexpected. The glib, never-at-a-loss Max found himself speechless.

      While he goggled at her, jaw dropped, she rushed on, ‘You see, the situation is rather complicated, but I don’t wish to marry. However, I have a large dowry, so any number of gentlemen want to marry me, and my stepmother believes, like most of the known world—’ her tone turned a bit aggrieved at this ‘—that marriage is the only natural state for a woman. But if I were to be found in a compromising situation with a man who then refused to marry me, I would be irretrievably ruined. My stepmother could no longer drag me about, trying to introduce me to prospective suitors, because no gentleman of honour would consider marrying me.’

      Suddenly, in a blinding flash of comprehension, he understood her intentions in seeking him out. Chagrin and outrage held him momentarily motionless. Then, with a curt nod, he spat out, ‘Good day, Miss Denby’, turned on his heel and headed for the door.

      She scurried after him and snagged his sleeve, halting his advance. ‘Please, Mr Ransleigh, won’t you hear me out? I know it’s outlandish, and perhaps insulting, but—’

      ‘Miss Denby, it is without doubt the most appalling, outlandish, insulting and crack-brained idea I’ve ever heard! Naturally, I shall say nothing of this, but if your doubtless long-suffering stepmother—who has my deepest sympathies, by the way—should ever learn of it, you’d be locked up on bread and water for a month!’

      The

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