“For the marble steps of St. Petersburg, anyway,” Freddie said. “My mother thinks it will be good for me to learn a profession. Poor woman! But don’t worry, Lady Waverly. I have not forgotten my tenants. If you should need anything, my cousin is at your disposal.”
“There’s no need to state the obvious,” Max said, looking very warmly at Patience.
“You’re very kind,” Patience murmured.
“I am not kind at all,” Max replied.
Freddie sniffed. “I thought there was no need to state the obvious.”
Dismissing the groom with a swift, “Shan’t need you,” Max opened the door of the curricle and offered Patience his hand.
Taking his hand, she stepped up into the car and took the reins. Max climbed up the other side. The car was so narrow it was almost impossible for two people to sit in it without touching, as she knew all too well from her experience in Lord Milford’s curricle. This time, however, she felt not the slightest desire to shrink against the side of the car.
“Do you think you can handle them?” he asked her, arranging the rug over her knees.
“Why not?” she said. “If they have been well trained?”
“I trained them myself.”
“Then you should not be afraid.”
His mouth twitched. “No, indeed. If Your Ladyship will condescend to drive us to the park, I shall endeavor to drive us back.”
“Yes, of course,” said Patience, suddenly quite flustered.
“Is something wrong?” he inquired presently.
“I can’t seem to find the brake,” Patience confessed, pink with embarrassment. “Where is it, please?”
“It is beside my right thigh,” he answered. “It is always here beside my right thigh. I would be happy to disengage it for you. But, perhaps,” he added delicately, “it would be better if I drive, after all.”
With one hand, he seized the reins. With the other he disengaged the brake. In one graceful movement, he turned the horses, and the curricle shot off in the direction of Hyde Park so swiftly it took Patience’s breath away. She was quite sure that Lord Milford could not have managed such a tight turn. Indeed, she was not entirely sure she would have been able to manage it herself.
“You’re not going to get carriage-sick, are you?” he asked sharply, glancing at her white face.
“No, indeed,” she said, hastily knotting the ribbons of her bonnet under her chin. “It feels like we’re flying.”
“That is just how it should be,” he said, pleased. “Too fast? Too much wind?”
“Oh, no!” she said breathlessly. “I’m not afraid! You can go even faster if you wish.”
He did. The stately mansions in Park Lane passed in a blur. The curricle flew around Hyde Park Corner and sailed through the gates into the park. Avoiding the riders in fashionable Rotten Row, Max turned north onto a small lane leading toward the Serpentine, where he was obliged to slow down. The swans gliding over the water glanced at the intruders, but did not fly away. Patience looked at them with pleasure.
“Swans in January!” she exclaimed.
“Their wings are clipped,” he told her.
“Oh!” she said, dismayed. “I wish you had not told me that.”
“Are you cold?”
“Not at all,” she answered. “Compared to winter in Philadelphia, this is quite temperate. And the sun is shining.” She had lowered her veil over the brim of her bonnet as he was driving, but now she folded it back, and lifted her face to the sun.
“These horses have not had their wings clipped!” she said.
“No, indeed. Tell the truth! You’ve never driven before, have you?”
Patience flushed hotly. “I have so! I have been driving since I was fourteen, sir, and I am now twenty.”
He raised his brows. “And yet, you could not find the brake!”
“In America, sir, the brake is on the left, not the right,” she told him.
“I see!” he said, laughing.
“No, really, it is,” she insisted.
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” she said crossly. “I am not a carriage maker. I can tell you don’t believe me, but it’s perfectly true!”
“I shall, of course, take your word for it,” he said gravely.
“You shall, or you will?” she muttered.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I mean, of course, that I will. I will take your word for it, with the greatest of pleasure. I meant no offense.”
“No offense was taken, Mr. Broome,” she said, shrugging. “I’m afraid I can’t tell a glimmer of difference between ‘shall’ and ‘will.’ In America, we’re not so fussy!”
“I don’t mean to be fussy,” he apologized. “In my youth, I had a tutor who was a bit of a stickler. ‘Shall’ may be used to indicate some sort of obligation, a lack of choice, or a fait accompli. Will is used to indicate desire. Will you marry me?”
Her head turned swiftly, and she looked at him. “I beg your pardon?”
“I’m giving you an example,” he explained. “It is the example my tutor gave. The gentleman says, ‘Will you marry me?’ He never says ‘Shall you marry me?’ The lady may answer ‘I will,’ or ‘I shall,’ according to her feelings. Both are perfectly acceptable.”
“And if the answer is no? Does the lady say ‘I shall not’ or ‘I will not’?”
“I never heard of such a thing,” he said. “The lady always answers in the affirmative.”
“What?” she said, laughing.
“I know of few men brave enough to propose to a lady, fewer still who would propose when the lady’s answer is in doubt. If there is the least chance the lady might refuse, we men are base cowards, I fear.”
“But American men are very different,” said Patience. “They are not afraid, certainly, of the women they hope to marry.”
Max frowned. “But you are not married.”
“No,” she said.
“Did no one in Philadelphia have the courage to ask you?”
“Yes,” she answered, after a moment. “He was from Boston, however.”
“Was he ten feet tall?”
Patience laughed. “I had no opportunity to measure him.”
He glanced at her briefly. “Did you not? I rather think you measured me with a glance. But, perhaps, I flatter myself?”
“Perhaps you do,” she said primly.
“And what did you tell the bold fellow from Boston? ‘Shall not’ or ‘will not’?”
“In America, we simply say yes or no.”
“Yes or no? How does the poor fellow know which it is?”
Patience laughed. “I told him no.”
“How cruel! And yet, I can’t help but think he deserved it.”
“If anything, I was not cruel enough,” said Patience. “The very next day, he proposed to my sister! She has never quite forgiven me, I don’t think.”
“Would she have accepted him if he had asked her first?”
“I hope not,” said Patience. “He was a fortune hunter, and he had a mustache.”
He chuckled. “Which was the more objectionable?”
“It is difficult to say,” she answered. “It was quite a vile combination.”
“Indeed,” he said gravely. “We have our share of fortune hunters, of course, but none, I think, wearing mustaches.”
“Are you a fortune hunter, Mr. Broome?” she asked.
He raised his brows. “If I were, do you think I would admit it?”
“No, but I thought, perhaps, I might catch you off guard. The look on your face then might tell me all I need to know.”
He smiled slowly. “How did you get on?”
“Not very well, I’m afraid,” she admitted. “Your face told me nothing. If you are a fortune hunter,” she went on, “I think it only fair to tell you that, in spite of what you may have heard, I am not in possession of a great fortune, and neither is my sister. We do not come into our inheritance until we are thirty.”
“But in ten years you will be rich?”
“Yes. Very.”
“I suppose it is possible that I shall be quite penniless in ten years,” he said. “I’ll be only too happy to marry you then, if you would be good enough to wait.”
“I don’t think so,” she said, trying not to laugh. “Thank you all the same.”
“Yes or no would have sufficed,” he rebuked her, and then she did laugh.
“If only you had laughed like that when first we met,” he said sadly.
“What do you mean?” she said, surprised. “How could I laugh when you were cursing me?”
“I am very sorry for that,” he said quietly. “Sorrier than I can say. I think it would have been quite something to have known you.”
“But, surely,” she said, “we will see each other again. You are not going to Russia with your cousin?”
“I might do that,” he said. “I leave the matter in your hands.”
“In my hands?” she repeated, bewildered. “I can’t tell you where to go.”
“You will,” he said grimly.
“I don’t understand you, sir,” she said.
“We have met before,” he said. “I am glad you do not remember. You will remember soon enough and then it will all be over.”
She laughed faintly. “You are very cryptic, sir. I am certain we have never met before.”
“Are you?”
“Quite sure.”
“Not even in a dream?”
“Oh, I don’t have those sorts of dreams,” she said quickly. He raised his brows. “What sort of dreams?”
“Never mind,” she said primly. “Isn’t it time we went back?”
“Not yet,” he said. “Let us go a little farther.”
Patience suddenly felt nervous. He had driven her, she realized suddenly, to quite a secluded area of the park. “I would like to go back now, sir,” she said quietly.
“First I must speak to you,” he said. “It’s about Purefoy.”
Startled, she swung her eyes up to his face. “What? I do not wish to speak of him! The mere mention of his name is enough to spoil the beauty of the day. Please take me back.”
“I shall ... presently. You have already heard from my cousin that I—that he has said some things not very flattering to your person. His behavior, certainly, has been inexcusable. But, perhaps, he is not as bad as you think. Perhaps, given a chance, he may yet redeem himself.”
“You are his advocate!” she accused him. “His friend?”
Max shook his head. “His friend? No. But I am obliged to see something of him. I cannot escape the acquaintance, as they say.”
“I am sorry for you. You say he is not as bad as I think. Let me tell you, he is worse than you could ever imagine. There is not a shred of decency about his character. He is a thorough villain. An ugly customer, as we say in America!”
“Come now,” Max said mildly. “I know something of his wild parties, Lady Waverly. I know how you came to meet him. There is no excuse, of course, for what he did. But it was his birth-night and he’d had rather a lot to drink.”
“You say there is no excuse for his behavior, and then you try to excuse it!”
“I know he is ashamed of himself. He has been a different man since that night. You would not recognize him if you saw him again. You might—you might even like him a little.”
“You are mistaken, Mr. Broome! His is one face that is burned—burned—into my memory. As for shame, he has none. I count myself quite fortunate that he merely tried to drown me! I understand that his other victims have not been so lucky!”
Considerably shocked, Max brought the curricle to a complete stop. “Other victims!” he repeated. “What can Your Ladyship possibly mean?”
Patience shook her head. “Please! Let us not discuss the matter further. You know what he has done to me, but I am not at liberty to tell you anything more about his crimes against the less fortunate members of my sex.”
“What crimes?” he demanded.
“Sir! I beg of you—!”
“You shall tell me,” he said roughly. “If he is guilty of some crime, I should like to know about it.”
She glanced up at him. “Why? When nothing can be done to stop him! You know, I suppose, that he is the nephew of a duke. Apparently, that counts for a great deal in these parts. In America,” she added with a sneer, “a man would be ashamed to be somebody’s nephew.”
“For your information, I am uniquely qualified to stop Purefoy—if indeed he must be stopped.”
“He must be stopped! But what makes you so uniquely qualified?” she asked curiously.
“I have no fear of him,” said Max. “He fears me.”
She stared at him, her cheeks quite pink. “D-does he?” she stammered, shivering.
“Oh, yes. But I can’t do anything unless you tell me what he’s done.”
“Then you will punish him?”
“If he is guilty, he will be punished, certainly. And I will not be merciful.”
Patience bit her lip, hesitating. “It means betraying a confidence.”
“Think of the greater good,” he encouraged her. “Really, you can trust me. Nothing you say will ever be repeated.”
“I believe I can trust you,” she said. “It is an ugly tale.”
“I gathered as much. Go on.”
“It is my understanding that he began his sordid career by forcing himself upon innocent servant girls.”
“That is a damnable lie!” he roared.
“It is quite true,” said Patience. “The lady who told me knew everything about it. According to her, he has ruined scores of young women—too many to count. No woman is safe from him. And if he could not seduce his victim, he did not scruple to ravish her.”
Max was gray around the mouth. “Who told you this?”
“One of his victims. I won’t give you her name, so don’t ask!”
“A servant?” he said angrily.
“What difference would that make?” she demanded. “You would not take the word of a mere servant, I suppose?”
“I am not inclined to take anyone’s word for it!” he said. “Perhaps, in your hatred for the man, in your thirst for revenge, you have invented this sordid history?”
“You accuse me of lying, sir?” she gasped. “I fear I lack the imagination, having never been exposed to such cruelty! I could not have conceived of such iniquity. I had supposed him no worse than the average corrupt European, content to pay for his pleasures.”
“You have a low opinion of the species, I see!”
“My grandfather warned me about the dangers of the fleshpots of Europe.”
“Indeed,” he drawled. “My grandfather warned me about the dangers of tooth decay.”
“Would you be more inclined to believe me if I told you my informant was a lady? The sister of a nobleman, in fact. She had no reason to lie to me, and every reason to keep it a secret.”
“Then why didn’t she?” he retorted. “And what secret am I to believe she is keeping? What does she say the fell fiend did to her?”
“He assaulted her in her carriage in broad daylight. He simply jumped in! Her maid even beat him with an umbrella but nothing could stop him from slaking his lust. Any other man would be hanged. But because his uncle is a duke, nothing can be done about it. You do not believe me,” she added unhappily, after a short silence. “You think I am making it up.”
“No,” he said slowly. “The brave little maid with her umbrella lends your story just that touch of authenticity it was lacking.”
Patience felt that he was mocking her. “I’m sorry I told you as much as I did, if you’re not going to do anything about it,” she said primly.
“Oh, but I shall do something about it,” he told her softly.
She looked at him swiftly. His gray eyes were hooded but the hardness of his mouth made her shiver. “What are you going to do?”
The hard mouth twisted into a smile. “I rather think a swift and
terrible justice is in order, don’t you?”
Patience impulsively touched his arm. “You cannot kill him!” she protested. “His uncle is a rich and powerful man. Would you not hang for it?”
He covered her hand with his own. “No harm will come to me, I do assure you.”
Patience had no doubt that Mr. Broome would prove more than equal to the nefarious Mr. Purefoy. She felt as though a terrible weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She could almost pity Mr. Purefoy.
Reluctantly, she withdrew her hand. “If we don’t return soon, Mr. Broome, your cousin will think we’ve made off with his horses.”
“Nonsense,” he said lightly. “Freddie will think I am making love to you, that’s all.”
“Now why would he think that?”
“Having met you, how could he think otherwise?”
Quite pleased with his answer, Patience lifted her face expectantly, but he made no attempt to kiss her. Instead, he turned the curricle around. More than disappointed by the snub, she was puzzled. Clearly, he liked her, and she certainly had made no attempt to hide her own attraction. And yet he did not kiss her. In her experience, American men were not so reticent.
Perhaps, she thought, European men are not as suave as they would like us to believe.
“Would you care to take the reins, Lady Waverly?” he asked, laying them across his wrist.
“Thank you,” she murmured. Taking the reins from him, she clicked her tongue at the grays. The sheer power of their first plunge caught her off guard, and she was lifted out of the seat. Max instinctively caught her waist in his hands; had he not, she very well might have been plucked bodily from the car.
“Thank you,” she said again, resuming her seat, her cheeks pink with embarrassment.
There was little conversation on the way back, Patience being obliged to concentrate on her driving. “Don’t be nervous,” he said, untangling the reins for her for the second time. “You’re doing fine. You have a nice, light touch.”
She glanced at him. “I feel so clumsy,” she confessed.
“Just relax. Horses can sense when you are anxious. It makes them anxious as well. If anything should happen—”
She turned round eyes to him. “Why?” she wanted to know. “What’s going to happen?”
The Pleasure of Bedding a Baroness Page 12
