LITMIR.BIZ

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quiet space there was nothing to come between her and her disturbing thoughts, and the memory of that moment in the park kept recurring, of his hand, strong and firm and warm, grasping hers and the way her nerves had flared, a striking of a tinderbox. It was absurd and unwanted. This abrupt, unpredictable man came from a very different world from hers, no matter how respectable her birth. Everything about him spoke of wealth and influence and a degree of comfort in this foreign world that she would never understand. She should not be foolish enough to let herself be drawn to him simply because she was lonely and he and his sister were the only people who had treated her with any degree of sympathy, though on his part quite a cold and sardonic sympathy.

      This was not the first time she had been attracted to a man, after all. Why, she had spent three whole months thoroughly enthralled with the squire’s middle son John when he had come down from Cambridge before realising he was a pompous, oily snake, hardly any better than Cousin Arthur. Her fascination with him had then sputtered and faded pretty quickly which had been very lucky since he had actually considered offering for her until he, too, had come to accept his parents’ viewpoint that she was completely unsuitable. No doubt this silly attraction would fare just the same as soon as she found out a little more about this strange man.

      It was just that he was so very handsome. And then there was that contrast between the cold mask and his sudden, almost intimate smile. No doubt it had done very well for him with dozens of gullible women. Well, she might not know London rules, but she was not gullible and she knew when a man was very used to commanding attention and getting what he wanted from women. In fact, now that she thought about it, she could hardly believe she had actually asked if she could sketch him. What must he think of her? His abrupt withdrawal made it quite clear what he thought of her offer. She should remember she was not back at home with people who had already come to terms, of sorts, with her strange ways. She would never find her way in this town if she did not learn to mind her tongue. Not that there was any chance of finding her way here in any event. In a matter of days she, too, would be sent packing back to Devon and all this would seem nothing more than a passing dream. She should do her best to just enjoy the remaining days of blessed solitude. It would be over all too soon.

      * * *

      Max walked into the drawing room where Hetty was seated at the escritoire, writing a letter.

      ‘Here, this is for you.’ He handed her the sketch and watched her face light up in delight as she scanned the simple, evocative drawing.

      ‘Max! What on earth? Where did you get this? Oh, I look quite lovely!’

      ‘Lady Huntley’s madcap niece drew it. I came across her sketching that pug in the park and she made me...or rather you, a gift of this, in recognition of the collar and leash we sent. It is good, isn’t it?’

      ‘It’s marvellous, though I suppose I shouldn’t say so since it is almost a compliment to myself. It is certainly more like me than that stiff portrait Mama commissioned before Ned and I married. Now I certainly must go and storm the mausoleum and thank her. How sweet of her!’

      Max sat down, his eyes on the drawing. The absurdity of the whole encounter was still raw and he had no idea whether to be annoyed or amused by the girl. It had been many years since anyone had managed to disconcert him. Her voice and even her proper but outmoded dresses might mark her as another of the multitude of well-born young women who invaded London from the country, but the resemblance stopped there. Women of her birth and age usually knew how to conduct themselves with proper modesty and certainly did not engage strange men in conversations that were not only peculiar, but bordered on an unspoken intimacy, as if she knew and trusted him. It was absurd that for a brief moment he had taken her at face value and had been imprudent enough to even sit down beside her in the first place. He couldn’t imagine doing that with someone like Lady Penny without having been properly introduced. And Lady Penny would not be wandering alone in the gardens in the first place with no better chaperon than that pug. Or asking if she could draw a man’s face, even had she been introduced to him with all formality. It was little wonder he had been so disconcerted.

      ‘She asked to sketch me. She said I have a “sketchable” face.’

      Hetty’s giggle caught on a little hiccup as she tried to rein it in.

      ‘My goodness, she is an original, isn’t she? Did you agree?’

      He frowned.

      ‘Of course not!’

      ‘Oh, why not? You could send it to Mama; you know she has always wanted you to sit for a portrait. And by the looks of it she would do a very creditable job.’

      For a moment Max contemplated the possibility. It was true their mother had begged him repeatedly to sit at least for a watercolour she could hang in her drawing room in the Dower House alongside the portraits she had commissioned of his five sisters. A quick sketch would be much less painful. Or should be. But the thought of sitting while the girl’s expressive blue eyes surveyed and catalogued him wasn’t something he was comfortable with. There was something too...intimate in it. If he had to be painted by someone, he preferred it to be someone who knew how to respect boundaries.

      There had been no reason to even stop to speak with her and he still didn’t understand why he had. He certainly hadn’t intended to when he had seen her while crossing the gardens, but her total concentration on her sketch had made him curious. And once he stopped behind her it had been hard to move, as if doing so would disturb some unfamiliar wild animal he had come across in the parks on the Harcourt estates. Or one of the wood sprites his sisters had insisted appeared at dusk in the deepest reaches of the woods. He had watched her hand moving lightly but firmly over the page, her head slightly canted, the sun casting a warm line down the side of her neck and along a strand of light brown hair that had escaped her bonnet and curved round her neck and downwards. It was only when she had spoken to that dog of hers that he had shifted back into reality. But not enough to continue on his way.

      It was his own foolishness that he had spoken with her, but it had been just curiosity. At least until he had touched her hand. It was ridiculous that such an accidental and inconsequential contact had sparked the same kind of sensation like those galvanic contraptions he had seen at the Royal Academy. He was too old and experienced for such a raw physical reaction. It was probably the surprise and that peculiar sensation of having a place as familiar to him as the gardens transformed into something where he was the interloper and not she. Yes. That must be it.

      ‘Are you coming to the Carmichael soirée tonight?’ Hetty asked as the silence stretched.

      Max knew what she was asking and sighed.

      ‘I can’t do it, Hetty. Lady Penny is everything you said she would be, but she is just too...compliant. I would wish her at the devil before the ceremony was over. Who’s next on the list? There has to be someone who can have a conversation without deferring to everything I say.’

      Hetty sighed as well.

      ‘You are probably right. Lady Penny’s first impression is unfortunately her best. Perhaps Clara Bannerman, she is very sweet and...’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘Her laugh.’

      ‘Oh, dear. You’re right, that would be hard to bear day in and day out. Then what of Lady Melissa Arkwright?’

      Max considered Lady Melissa, his gaze straying to the sketch Hetty held in her lap. She might do. She was certainly beautiful and poised and already showed signs of becoming a very skilful hostess. She could preside quite easily over his properties. It was worth examining.

      ‘She is suitable on the face of it. Why didn’t you suggest her before Lady Penny? She seems more the part.’

      ‘I know, but Penny is...nicer. I thought she might be a better mother. I don’t know. It’s not easy choosing a sister-in-law for my only and very dear brother, you know!’ she said severely and Max laughed, relaxing.

      ‘And I appreciate your help very much, Hetty. I know it’s not easy taking time from your family because

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