Scandal in the Regency Ballroom: No Place For a Lady / Not Quite a Lady

‘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 he said about how well it was healing.

She fretted about him for a while, then came to the conclusion that she could not worry about a grown man as she could about her brother, and let herself enjoy the warm glow of knowing that he was concerned about her.

The disconcerting pang of physical attraction she felt for him had not diminished, she realised, then smiled faintly. She could hardly be more chaperoned than she was now, rattling along, jammed in with five strangers while Max was stuck on the roof. They might exchange a few words at the stops along the way, then she’d be off in a hired chaise to the farm and he would be left to find lodgings in Aylesbury. Tomorrow morning the whole exercise was be repeated.

What did he think he was protecting her against? Highwaymen? It was hardly likely that a full stage, in daylight and with a guard up, would attract an attack.

‘Do we stop at Stanmore?’ the stout woman opposite her demanded.

‘Yes. The second stop,’ Bree answered automatically, earning herself affronted looks from the four men in the coach who all obviously thought they were better fitted than a woman to respond. ‘The Bell. Then we stop at Watford, Hemel Hempstead, Berkhamsted and Tring. This is a slow coach,’ she added.

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