Setting eyes on the vision gracing his brother’s hall, Martin’s immediate thought was that Max had taken to allowing his ladybirds to call at his house. But the attitudes of Hillshaw and Cummings put paid to that idea. The sight of a maid sitting by the door confirmed his startled perception that the vision was indeed a young lady. His boredom vanishing like a cloud on a spring day, he advanced.
Martin allowed his eyes to travel, gently, so as not to startle her, over the delicious figure before him. Very nice. His smile grew. The silence around him penetrated his mind, entirely otherwise occupied. “Hillshaw, I think you’d better introduce us.”
Hillshaw almost allowed a frown to mar his impassive countenance. But he knew better than to try to avoid the unavoidable. Exchanging a glance of fellow feeling with Mr. Cummings, he obliged in sternly disapproving tones. “Captain Martin Rotherbridge, Miss Lizzie Twinning. The young lady is His Grace’s youngest ward, sir.”
With a start, Martin’s gaze, which had been locked with Lizzie’s, flew to Hillshaw’s face. “Ward?” He had not been listening too well last night when Max had been telling him of the estates, but he was sure his brother had not mentioned any wards.
With a thin smile, Hillshaw inclined his head in assent.
Lizzie, released from that mesmerising gaze, spoke up, her soft tones a dramatic contrast to the masculine voices. “Yes. My sisters and I are the Duke’s wards, you know.” She held out her hand. “How do you do? I didn’t know the Duke had a brother. I’ve only dropped by to exchange some books His Grace lent us. Mr. Cummings was going to take care of it.”
Martin took the small gloved hand held out to him and automatically bowed over it. Straightening, he moved to her side, placing her hand on his arm and holding it there. “In that case, Hillshaw’s quite right. You should wait in the drawing-room.” The relief on Hillshaw’s and Mr. Cummings’s faces evaporated at his next words. “And I’ll keep you company.”
As Martin ushered Lizzie into the drawing-room and pointedly shut the door in Hillshaw’s face, the Duke’s butler and secretary looked at each other helplessly. Then Mr. Cummings scurried away to find the required books, leaving Hillshaw to look with misgiving at the closed door of the drawing-room.
Inside, blissfully unaware of the concern she was engendering in her guardian’s servants, Lizzie smiled trustingly up at the source of that concern.
“Have you been my brother’s ward for long?” Martin asked.
“Oh, no!” said Lizzie. Then, “That is, I suppose, yes.” She looked delightfully befuddled and Martin could not suppress a smile. He guided her to the chaise and, once she had settled, took the chair opposite her so that he could keep her bewitching face in full view.
“It depends, I suppose,” said Lizzie, frowning in her effort to gather her wits, which had unaccountably scattered, “on what you’d call long. Our father died eighteen months ago, but then the other Duke—your uncle, was he not?—was our guardian. But when we came back from America, your brother had assumed the title. So then he was our guardian.”
Out of this jumbled explanation, Martin gleaned enough to guess the truth. “Did you enjoy America? Were you there long?”
Little by little his questions succeeded in their aim and in short order, Lizzie had relaxed completely and was conversing in a normal fashion with her guardian’s brother.
Listening to her description of her home, Martin shifted, trying to settle his shoulder more comfortably. Lizzie’s sharp eyes caught the awkward movement and descried the wad of bandaging cunningly concealed beneath his coat.
“You’re injured!” She leaned forward in concern. “Does it pain you dreadfully?”
“No, no. The enemy just got lucky, that’s all. Soon be right as rain, I give you my word.”
“You were in the army?” Lizzie’s eyes had grown round. “Oh, please tell me all about it. It must have been so exciting!”
To Martin’s considerable astonishment, he found himself recounting for Lizzie’s benefit the horrors of the campaign and the occasional funny incident which had enlivened their days. She did not recoil but listened avidly. He had always thought he was a dab hand at interrogation but her persistent questioning left him reeling. She even succeeded in dragging from him the reason he had yet to leave the house. Her ready sympathy, which he had fully expected to send him running, enveloped him instead in a warm glow, a sort of prideful care which went rapidly to his head.
Then Mr. Cummings arrived with the desired books. Lizzie took them and laid them on a side-table beside her, patently ignoring the Duke’s secretary who was clearly waiting to escort her to the front door. With an ill-concealed grin, Martin dismissed him. “It’s all right, Cummings. Miss Twinning has taken pity on me and decided to keep me entertained until my brother returns.”
Lizzie, entirely at home, turned a blissful smile on Mr. Cummings, leaving that gentleman with no option but to retire.
———
An hour later, Max crossed the threshold to be met by Hillshaw, displaying, quite remarkably, an emotion very near agitation. This was instantly explained. “Miss Lizzie’s here. In the drawing-room with Mr. Martin.”
Max froze. Then nodded to his butler. “Very good, Hillshaw.” His sharp eyes had already taken in the bored face of the maid sitting in the shadows. Presumably, Lizzie had been here for some time. His face was set in grim lines as his hand closed on the handle of the drawing-room door.
The sight which met his eyes was not at all what he had expected. As he shut the door behind him, Martin’s eyes lifted to his, amused understanding in the blue depths. He was seated in an armchair and Lizzie occupied the nearest corner of the chaise. She was presently hunched forward, pondering what lay before her on a small table drawn up between them.
As Max rounded the chaise, he saw to his stupefaction that they were playing checkers.
Lizzie looked up and saw him. “Oh! You’re back. I was just entertaining your brother until you returned.” Max blinked but Lizzie showed no consciousness of the implication of her words and he discarded the notion of enlightening her.
Then Lizzie’s eyes fell on the clock on the mantelshelf. “Oh, dear! I didn’t realize it was so late. I must go. Where are those books Mr. Cummings brought?”
Martin fetched them for her and, under the highly sceptical gaze of his brother, very correctly took leave of her. Max, seeing the expression in his brother’s eyes as they rested on his youngest ward, almost groaned aloud. This was really too much.
Max saw Lizzie out, then returned to the library. But before he could launch into his inquisition, Martin got in first. “You didn’t tell me you had inherited four wards.”
“Well, I have,” said Max, flinging himself into an armchair opposite the one his brother had resumed.
“Are they all like that?” asked Martin in awe.
Max needed no explanation of what “that” meant. He answered with a groan, “Worse!”
Eyes round, Martin did not make the mistake of imagining the other Twinning sisters were antidotes. His gaze rested on his brother for a moment, then his face creased into a wide smile. “Good lord!”
Max brought his blue gaze back from the ceiling and fixed it firmly on his brother. “Precisely. That being so, I suggest you revise the plans you’ve been making for Lizzie Twinning.”
Martin’s grin, if anything, became even broader.
“Why so? It’s you who’s their guardian, not I. Besides, you don’t seriously expect me to believe that, if our situations were reversed, you’d pay any attention to such restrictions?” When Max frowned, Martin continued. “Anyway, good heavens, you must have seen it for yourself. She’s like a ripe plum, ready for the picking.” He stopped at Max’s raised hand.
“Permit me to fill you in,” drawled his older brother. “For a start, I’ve nine years on you and there’s nothing about the business you know that I don’t. However, quite aside from that, I can assure you the Twinning sisters, ripe though they may be, are highly
unlikely to fall into anyone’s palms without a prior proposal of marriage.”
A slight frown settled over Martin’s eyes. Not for a moment did he doubt the accuracy of Max’s assessment. But he had been strongly attracted to Lizzie Twinning and was disinclined to give up the idea of converting her to his way of thinking. He looked up and blue eyes met blue. “Really?”
Max gestured airily. “Consider the case of Lord Darcy Hamilton.” Martin looked his question. Max obliged. “Being much taken with Sarah, the second of the four, Darcy’s been engaged in storming her citadel for the past five weeks and more. No holds barred, I might add. And the outcome you ask? As of yesterday, he’s retired to his estates, to lick his wounds and, unless I miss my guess, to consider whether he can stomach the idea of marriage.”
“Good lord!” Although only peripherally acquainted with Darcy Hamilton, Martin knew he was one of Max’s particular friends and that his reputation in matters involving the fairer sex was second only to Max’s own.
“Exactly,” nodded Max. “Brought low by a chit of a girl. So, brother dear, if it’s your wish to tangle with any Twinnings, I suggest you first decide how much you’re willing to stake on the throw.”
As he pondered his brother’s words, Martin noticed that Max’s gaze had become abstracted. He only just caught the last words his brother said, musing, almost to himself. “For, brother mine, it’s my belief the Twinnings eat rakes for breakfast.”
———
The coach swayed as it turned a corner and Arabella clutched the strap swinging by her head. As equilibrium returned, she settled her skirts once more and glanced at the other two occupants of the carriage. The glow from a street lamp momentarily lit the interior of the coach, then faded as the four horses hurried on. Arabella grinned into the darkness.
Caroline had insisted that she and not Lizzie share their guardian’s coach. One had to wonder why. Too often these days, her eldest sister had the look of the cat caught just after it had tasted the cream. Tonight, that look of guilty pleasure, or, more specifically, the anticipation of guilty pleasure, was marked.
She had gone up to Caroline’s room to hurry her sister along. Caroline had been sitting, staring at her reflection in the mirror, idly twisting one copper curl to sit more attractively about her left ear.
“Caro? Are you ready? Max is here.”
“Oh!” Caroline had stood abruptly, then paused to cast one last critical glance over her pale sea-green dress, severely styled as most suited her ample charms, the neckline daringly décolleté. She had frowned, her fingers straying to the ivory swell of her breasts. “What do you think, Bella? Is it too revealing? Perhaps a piece of lace might make it a little less…?”
“Attractive?” Arabella had brazenly supplied. “To be perfectly frank, I doubt our guardian would approve a fichu.”
The delicate blush that had appeared on Caroline’s cheeks had been most informative. But, “Too true,” was all her sister had replied.
Arabella looked across the carriage once more and caught the gleam of warm approval that shone in their guardian’s eyes as they rested on Caroline. It was highly unlikely that the conservative Mr. Willoughby was the cause of her sister’s blushes. That being so, what game was the Duke of Twyford playing? And, even more to the point, was Caro thinking of joining in?
Heaven knew, they had had a close enough call with Sarah and Lord Darcy. Nothing had been said of Sarah’s strange affliction, yet they were all close enough for even the innocent Lizzie to have some inkling of the root cause. And while Max had been the soul of discretion in speaking privately to Caroline and Sarah in the hall before they had left, it was as plain as a pikestaff the information he had imparted had not included news of a proposal. Sarah’s pale face had paled further. But the Twinnings were made of stern stuff and Sarah had shaken her head at Caro’s look of concern.
The deep murmur of their guardian’s voice came to her ears, followed by her sister’s soft tones. Arabella’s big eyes danced. She could not make out their words but those tones were oh, so revealing. But if Sarah was in deep waters and Caro was hovering on the brink, she, to her chagrin, had not even got her toes wet yet.
Arabella frowned at the moon, showing fleetingly between the branches of a tall tree. Hugo, Lord Denbigh. The most exasperating man she had ever met. She would give anything to be able to say she didn’t care a button for him. Unfortunately, he was the only man who could make her tingle just by looking at her.
Unaware that she was falling far short of Caroline’s expectations, Arabella continued to gaze out of the window, absorbed in contemplation of the means available for bringing one large gentleman to heel.
———
The heavy Twyford coach lumbered along in the wake of the sleek Delmere carriage. Lady Benborough put up a hand to right her wig, swaying perilously as they rounded a particularly sharp corner. For the first time since embarking on her nephew’s crusade to find the Twinning girls suitable husbands, she felt a twinge of nervousness. She was playing with fire and she knew it. Still, she could not regret it. The sight of Max and Caroline together in the hall at Twyford House had sent a definite thrill through her old bones. As for Sarah, she doubted not that Darcy Hamilton was too far gone to desist, resist and retire. True, he might not know it yet, but time would certainly bring home to him the penalty he would have to pay to walk away from the snare. Her shrewd blue eyes studied the pale face opposite her. Even in the dim light, the strain of the past few days was evident. Thankfully, no one outside their party had been aware of that contretemps. So, regardless of what Sarah herself believed, Augusta had no qualms. Sarah was home safe; she could turn her attention elsewhere.
Arabella, the minx, had picked a particularly difficult nut to crack. Still, she could hardly fault the girl’s taste. Hugo Denbigh was a positive Adonis, well-born, well-heeled and easy enough in his ways. Unfortunately, he was so easy to please that he seemed to find just as much pleasure in the presence of drab little girls as he derived from Arabella’s rather more scintillating company. Gammon, of course, but how to alert Arabella to that fact? Or would it be more to the point to keep quiet and allow Hugo a small degree of success? As her mind drifted down that particular path, Augusta suddenly caught herself up and had the grace to look sheepish. What appalling thoughts for a chaperon!
Her gaze fell on Lizzie, sweet but far from demure in a gown of delicate silver gauze touched with colour in the form of embroidered lilacs. A soft, introspective smile hovered over her classically moulded lips. Almost a smile of anticipation. Augusta frowned. Had she missed something?
Mentally reviewing Lizzie’s conquests, Lady Benborough was at a loss to account for the suppressed excitement evident, now she came to look more closely, in the way the younger girl’s fingers beat an impatient if silent tattoo on the beads of her reticule. Clearly, whoever he was would be at the ball. She would have to watch her youngest charge like a hawk. Lizzie was too young, in all conscience, to be allowed the licence her more worldly sisters took for granted.
Relaxing back against the velvet squabs, Augusta smiled. Doubtless she was worrying over nothing. Lizzie might have the Twinning looks but surely she was too serious an innocent to attract the attentions of a rake? Three rakes she might land, the Twinnings being the perfect bait, but a fourth was bound to be wishful thinking.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Martin puzzled over Max’s last words on the Twinnings but it was not until he met the sisters that evening, at Lady Montacute’s drum, that he divined what had prompted his brother to utter them. He had spent the afternoon dropping in on certain old friends, only to be, almost immediately, bombarded with requests for introductions to the Twinnings. He had come away with the definite impression that the best place to be that evening would be wherever the Misses Twinning were destined. His batman and valet, Jiggins, had turned up the staggering information that Max himself usually escorted his wards to their evening engagements. Martin had found this hard to credit, but when, k
eeping an unobtrusive eye on the stream of arrivals from a vantage-point beside a potted palm in Lady Montacute’s ballroom, he had seen Max arrive surrounded by Twinning sisters, he had been forced to accept the crazy notion as truth. When the observation that the fabulous creature on his brother’s arm was, in fact, his eldest ward finally penetrated his brain all became clear.
Moving rapidly to secure a dance with Lizzie, who smiled up at him with flattering welcome, Martin was close enough to see the expression in his brother’s eyes as he bent to whisper something in Miss Twinning’s ear, prior to relinquishing her to the attention of the circle forming about her. His brows flew and he pursed his lips in surprise. As his brother’s words of that morning returned to him, he grinned. How much was Max prepared to stake?
For the rest of the evening, Martin watched and plotted and planned. He used his wound as an excuse not to dance, which enabled him to spend his entire time studying Lizzie Twinning. It was an agreeable pastime. Her silvery dress floated about her as she danced and the candlelight glowed on her sheening brown curls. With her natural grace, she reminded him of a fairy sprite, except that he rather thought such mythical creatures lacked the fulsome charms with which the Twinning sisters were so well-endowed. Due to his experienced foresight, Lizzie accommodatingly returned to his side after every dance, convinced by his chatter of the morning that he was in dire need of cheering up. Lady Benborough, to whom he had dutifully made his bow, had snorted in disbelief at his die-away airs but had apparently been unable to dissuade Lizzie’s soft heart from bringing him continual succour. By subtle degrees, he sounded her out on each of her hopeful suitors and was surprised at his own relief in finding she had no special leaning towards any.