LITMIR.BIZ

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sent her to the window. There was a phaeton at the kerb, but she did not recognise the horses. Perhaps it was Max.

      ‘Mr Latymer, Miss Mallory.’ Peters stood waiting. ‘Are you at home?’

      ‘Oh. Yes, yes, I am. Peters, show him in and ask Lucy to come down, please. He can wait in here. I just need to get something from the breakfast room.’ After the incident with the gloves she had better be on her best behaviour, and that included chaperonage. Bree slipped out of the connecting door and went to collect the gloves from the table. When she got back Lucy was perched on a hard chair in the corner and Brice Latymer was studying the landscape over the fireplace.

      ‘Miss Mallory, good morning. I see you have received my little gift.’

      ‘Please, sit down, Mr Latymer. Yes, it arrived safely. The gloves are delightful, but I am afraid I cannot accept them.’ She held out the package, but he made no move to take it.

      ‘But the merest trifle, Miss Mallory, please, relent.’ The black eyes held a trace of the heat she recalled from the day before.

      ‘I must insist, sir. I cannot accept articles of apparel.’ She continued to hold out the gloves until he had no choice but to get up and take them.

      Bree knew she was blushing. Knew, too, that he could see that and that he knew that she knew the significance of the gift. It made her feel decidedly hot and bothered. ‘My chaperon is adamant, I am afraid,’ she added.

      ‘A pity.’ He folded them away into his pocket with a wry smile. ‘Perhaps I can persuade you to come for a drive anyway?’

      Bree shook her head regretfully. ‘I am sorry, but I would be poor company today.’

      ‘My dear Miss Mallory, are you in some distress? What can I do to assist you?’ His black eyes were sharp and interested.

      ‘A family matter, sir. A relative who seems … unwell. There is nothing you can do, but thank you for your concern.’

      ‘I can listen,’ he said softly. ‘Sometimes that helps. Is it a close relative?’

      ‘Yes, my uncle. My late father’s brother who lives near Aylesbury in Buckinghamshire.’

      ‘Mmm?’ He nodded encouragingly.

      ‘He is the co-owner with my brother of the stagecoach company, and breeds our horses.’

      ‘And Mr Mallory senior is unwell?’ Latymer prompted, leaning forwards with his forearms on his knees, sleek and elegant. It all seemed so easy, just to confide in him.

      ‘We had an odd letter from him today. He sounded—I suppose distracted is the word.’

      ‘How disconcerting. His family is looking after him, I suppose?’

      ‘No, he is unmarried. I intend to go down to visit him tomorrow. It is probably nothing, but I want to set my mind at rest.’

      ‘Of course, I can quite see that you would want to do that. Perhaps the burden of the business is too much for him?’

      ‘I do not think it is that. I … I mean, Piers runs the business, although Uncle George owns half.’

      ‘You are obviously concerned and a visitor cannot fail to be a distraction from your thoughts.’ He got to his feet and held out his hand. ‘Miss Mallory, I will remove myself and hope to persuade you to a drive when you return to town. Good day, and I trust you find your uncle in the best of health.’

      Bree said all that was expected and sat down onto her sofa as he left. She really ought to think about what to take tomorrow, and there was Cook to speak to about menus for two days.

      ‘That’s what I call a proper gentleman,’ Lucy observed, getting up and making her way to the door. ‘Ever so good-looking and nice manners with it.’

      ‘Mmm,’ Bree agreed absently.

      ‘Shall I pack a bag for tomorrow, Miss Bree? And do you want me to come too?’

      ‘No, I will be fine on the stage, Lucy. If you can pack an overnight bag, please, that would be helpful.’ Feeling as though her feet were lead, Bree stood up and went to interview Cook. Pleasant as Mr Latymer was, he was not the gentleman she was yearning to talk to, and the realisation that she had so little control over her emotions was as depressing as anything.

      ‘Miss Mallory!’

      Bree looked around, half-expecting to see an ostler from the Mermaid running after her up the crowded pavements of High Holborn. Then she glanced towards the road and saw Max pushing the reins of his curricle into the hands of a groom and jumping down into the traffic.

      ‘My lord, do take a care!’ she scolded as he arrived at her side. ‘I am sure jumping about like that is not good for your shoulder.’ But the sight of him was good for her spirits, however ambivalent her feelings towards him were. Bree felt her heartbeat quicken and she had to struggle to keep the smile off her lips.

      ‘Thanks to the exceptional care I received, my shoulder is almost healed,’ he assured her. The memory of his smooth, hot, hard-muscled skin under her palms flashed through Bree’s thoughts and she made herself smile politely.

      ‘Excellent.’

      ‘Where are you off to with that bag, all by yourself?’ Max demanded, seeing the portmanteau in her hand for the first time.

      ‘Just to the King’s Head in Snow Hill to take the Aylesbury stage, my lord. Will you excuse me? It leaves at two and I must hurry.’

      ‘What are you doing, trying out the opposition?’ He took the bag from her hand and began to stride along beside her.

      ‘No, just visiting my uncle in Aylesbury.’

      ‘By yourself? On the common stage?’ She shot him a look and he tipped his head to one side in rueful acknowledgment that, to her, travel by stage was no particular adventure. ‘Let me drive you.’

      ‘In what, my lord?’ Bree kept walking briskly as she talked. She had booked her ticket and had not thought it necessary to allow much time to walk the short distance between the two inns. ‘Your curricle will take perhaps six hours, almost as long as the stage, and both that, or a chaise, would be equally shocking for me to be seen in.’

      ‘Of course. I was forgetting that you are the respectable Miss Mallory now, not my stagecoach-driving Bree.’

      ‘You made me become respectable,’ Bree pointed out, trying not to analyse his words too carefully.

      ‘So I did,’ Max agreed. ‘So the least I can do is to give you my escort.’

      ‘On the stage? I am in no need of escort, I assure you.’ Bree turned into the yard of the King’s Head, her eyes automatically assessing the state of the place, comparing and learning. Max was still firmly by her side. ‘You will not get an inside ticket, my lord.’

      ‘I will travel in the basket if necessary,’ he vowed, turning aside to the ticket office while Bree handed her bag to the guard.

      It seemed things were not that bad, for Max emerged with a ticket for the roof. ‘But what about your carriage? And your plans? It takes seven hours to Aylesbury—we arrive at nine at night. You must stay over and leave at seven in the morning to get back.’ She regarded him helplessly. ‘My lord, there is absolutely no need for this.’

      ‘All aboard the Despatch for Aylesbury!’ The guard began to chivvy the passengers.

      ‘My groom will sort things out—my people are quite used to me taking off with no notice. I fancy another stagecoach adventure. Let me help you inside.’

      Bree gave up, let herself be handed in, and wedged herself into a corner seat along with the other five passengers who made for a full inside complement. She just hoped that Max was not too uncomfortable on the roof and that the Despatch was not carrying its maximum of twelve outside passengers. It really was no place for a man with an injured shoulder, whatever

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