LITMIR.BIZ

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but ten years ago, he withdrew from society!’ Georgy whispered, her voice thrilling. ‘In the height of the Season, he vanished off down to Longwater. That must have been when it happened.’

      ‘Well, who was she?’ Bree demanded. Max’s words at the ball came back: What would you say if I told you that I had a secret that would scandalise society? No, it couldn’t be that. A broken heart was sad, but not a scandal.

      ‘I have no idea,’ Georgy said, breathless with the excitement of a mystery. ‘But you can unfreeze his heart …’

      ‘Yuck! I shall do no such thing, even if I were capable of it. And even if it were frozen, which I am sure it is not.’

      ‘Then why has he not married?’

      ‘Because he has not found someone he loves enough.’ And when he does, he is going to court them properly, not promise to take them driving and then forget all about it!

      ‘You are horribly sensible,’ Georgy grumbled. ‘Just like darling Charles.’

      ‘Think of the négligée,’ Bree whispered to distract her, and was rewarded with a gurgle of laughter and a quick hug.

      Now Mr Latymer had called to take her out in his high-perch phaeton. It was a more showy vehicle than Lord Lansdowne’s, but she did not feel Mr Latymer’s pair was the equivalent in quality of the Viscount’s match bays, so honours so far were even.

      On hearing that she had been in Hyde Park yesterday, Mr Latymer had offered to take her again, or for her to name her choice, congratulating her when she decided on Green Park. ‘So much more tranquil,’ he observed, turning in out off the hubbub of Piccadilly and skirting the reservoir with its promenaders.

      ‘This is delightful. I have walked here often, of course, but I had not realised how pleasant it is for driving—so much less crowded than Hyde Park with everyone on the strut.’

      ‘Do you keep a carriage, Miss Mallory?’

      ‘No. Not in town. When we are at home in Buckinghamshire, then I drive a gig.’ She regarded Mr Latymer from under the shelter of the brim of her bonnet. He was not as good-looking as Lord Lansdowne, with dark looks which bordered on the sardonic, but he had an edge about him that was quite stimulating, she decided. It wasn’t in anything he said, more in the way that he said it. Sometimes he could deliver a compliment with a glint in his black eyes that made her suspect this was all a game to him. It certainly put a girl on her mettle.

      ‘Would you care to drive now?’

      ‘Why …’

      ‘Unless you are unsure about driving more than a single horse.’ He made it sound like a challenge.

      ‘Oh, no, I can drive four in—’ Oh, Lord!

      ‘Four in hand, Miss Mallory? What a very unusual skill for a woman.’

      Drat, double drat! ‘Farm wagons,’ she improvised hastily. ‘Only at a walk, of course, for fun, in the summer.’

      ‘Ah, I see. For a moment there I thought you were going to tell me you could drive a stagecoach.’

      Bree fought the temptation to look at him and try to read his expression. ‘Goodness, what a shocking thing to suggest, Mr Latymer!’ She laughed brightly. ‘But I would like to try a pair—under your guidance, of course.’

      ‘Certainly.’ He pulled up and began to hand her the reins. They both saw her gloves at the same time.

      ‘Oh, bother. I should have worn something more sensible to come out driving.’ Bree regarded the almond-green glacé kid gloves ruefully. ‘I bought them this morning, and could not resist. But I will surely split or stain them if I try to drive.’

      ‘Why not take them off and wear mine?’ Brice Latymer stripped off his gloves as he spoke. ‘They’ll be too big, of course, but the leather is very fine. They should protect your hands.’

      ‘Thank you.’ She really ought to refuse until another day when she could come prepared, but the temptation of the quiet park in the sunshine was too much. ‘Oh, dear, I knew I should have bought a larger size.’ Bree tugged, but the thin leather clung tenaciously to her warm skin.

      ‘Let me. I think you need to pull finger by finger.’ Mr Latymer wrapped his reins around the whip in its stand and shifted on the seat until he was facing her. ‘Give me a hand.’

      Obediently Bree held out her right hand and sat patiently while he caught each fingertip in turn, tugging the tight leather a fraction at a time. Finally the glove slid off and he caught her hand in his own bare one. ‘There, you see? Patience and care.’ He began on the other.

      It was, she realised, a very intimate act. He was having to sit close, her hand held in his while he used the other hand to fret at each fingertip. He made no move to touch her in any other way, nor did he say anything the slightest bit flirtatious, but Bree was visited by the realisation that he was finding this an arousing experience. There was colour on his cheekbones and his breathing was slightly ragged. She swallowed, her own colour rising.

      ‘Here it comes.’ The second glove slid off, the fragile kid insubstantial in his hand. Bree found she could not take her eyes off it; it seemed like a crushed leaf. Latymer lifted her hand and kissed her fingers. ‘Such a very hot little hand.’

      ‘Good afternoon.’ A deep voice had Bree jerking her hand out of Latymer’s grip and sitting bolt upright, her cheeks scarlet. ‘Undressing, Miss Mallory?’

      She gasped. Of course, it just had to be Max Dysart regarding her with raised eyebrows from the back of a very fine black gelding.

      What the devil is she doing, letting Latymer make love to her in the middle of Green Park? He’ll be starting on her garters next. Max recognised the look of heavy-lidded concentration—Latymer was hunting, whether Bree in her innocence knew it or not. However, dismounting, dragging him out of the phaeton and punching him, while it would be satisfying, was not acceptable behaviour in public parks, especially as Bree was showing no signs of distress at his actions.

      The gelding sidled, picking up his mood. Max steadied it with hands and the pressure of his thighs, without conscious thought.

      ‘Mr Latymer was lending me his gloves as he was kind enough to offer to let me drive, and I was foolish enough to come in the most impractical ones imaginable.’

      Max fought a brisk battle with his own temper, and won. He had made no claim on her—if one discounted a scandalously indiscreet kiss—and he had no right to be jealous if he found her in a public place with another man. But it was damned hard to be rational and fair about this when the other man was Brice Latymer, whom he trusted about as far as he could throw him.

      ‘I was not aware that you wished for driving lessons, Miss Mallory.’

      ‘Hardly lessons, my lord, although I am sure Mr Latymer will be able to give me many useful pointers. Is it not kind of him to remember his promise to take me driving? Lord Lansdowne did as well, and Lady Lucas.’

      Hell, I promised to take her driving too! And she’s furious that I haven’t, Max realised with a flash of insight. Is that just pique, or is she disappointed? He should be apologetic that he had forgotten; instead, he cheerfully heaped coals on the flames to see if that produced a reaction.

      ‘Yes, most thoughtful of them,’ he agreed cordially. ‘You see how much fun you are having since you began to follow my advice, Miss Mallory?’ He tipped his hat to her, and nodded to her companion. ‘Latymer. Enjoy your drive.’ He turned the gelding’s head and cantered off towards the park entrance, fully conscious of two pairs of eyes glaring at his back.

      ‘Advice?’ Bree was conscious of Brice Latymer’s own hostility, even through her own chagrin. There was something between the two men, something she had noticed, but not given any thought to, in the inn yard in Hounslow. Whatever it was, Max had not liked seeing her with Mr Latymer. Infuriating

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