No Place For a Lady. Louise Allen

      ‘I am not a rake,’ he ground out between clenched teeth.

      ‘Well, you certainly aren’t a monk! Women must have seen your chest before now. Lots of them. Oh, have it your own way—just sit still.’

      He should have realised, if he had been thinking clearly, that the only way to secure a pad on his shoulder was to place the middle of the long neckcloth on top, cross it under his armpit and then bring one end across his chest and the other around his back, to tie under the opposite armpit.

      But it did not occur to him until her right hand was diving under the front of his shirt, pushing his own hand out of the way.

      ‘What on earth?’

      Oh, Lord. If she laughed, he’d strangle her. Reluctantly Max unbuttoned the wreck of his shirt and pulled it off. ‘Before you ask, I was very drunk, very young and it was a bet.’

      ‘But…’ She was staring, obviously fascinated. The effect of her wide-eyed, innocent regard was damnably arousing. He concentrated grimly on the embarrassment. ‘It’s pierced, only not like earrings. It’s a sort of stud.’ She reached one exploratory finger towards his right nipple, realised what she was doing, flushed as red as he knew he was, and snatched her hand back. He thought he might simply faint from lust, there and then. ‘What is it?’

      ‘I was nineteen,’ Max said, determined to get this said and finished with. ‘We went to a house of…a place…’

      ‘A brothel?’

      ‘Yes, a brothel. And there was a tableau…’

      ‘Really?’ Bree’s eyebrows shot up. ‘What of?’

      ‘Never you mind. Anyway, the man had his nipple pierced, and there was an argument about how much it hurt to have it done, and like an idiot I said it couldn’t be that bad, women had their ears pierced all the time—I did mention that I was very drunk, didn’t I?—and one thing led to another, and there was a bet. And there I was.’

      ‘Did it hurt?’ Her eyes were enormous.

      ‘I cannot begin to describe it.’ He winced even now at the memory. ‘This shoulder is nothing in comparison.’

      ‘Can’t you have it removed?’ She was staring, openly fascinated despite her blushes.

      ‘No. It’s shaped like a tiny dumbbell with ends that seem to self-lock. I went to my doctor. When he’d finished falling about hooting with laughter he said I risked losing significant bits of flesh if he tried to cut it off, so I’m stuck.’

      Bree was still staring, transfixed, and the blush was ebbing away to leave her looking positively intrigued. ‘Does it still hurt?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Why do people do it, though?’

      ‘It’s considered erotic.’ And I hope to Heaven she doesn’t ask me what I mean. ‘And don’t you dare laugh.’

      ‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ Bree assured him, biting the inside of her cheeks in an effort to keep a straight face. The poor man was mortified—who wouldn’t be? But it was very endearing to see such a very male creature reduced to blushing confusion. She busied herself with catching the ends of the makeshift bandage and tying it, which was not at all easy without brushing against the unmentionable stud.

      But erotic? Why would such a thing be erotic? she wondered as Max rearranged the shredded shirt as best he could and then eased the coat back on.

      She knew what the word meant. She understood in principle what went on between men and women—you didn’t grow up on a farm and run a public hostelry without working that out—but what on earth had nipples to do with it?

      The problem was, just thinking about it made her own begin to tingle in a most extraordinary way. In fact, they were positively aching and she was finding it very difficult to meet Max’s eyes and her breath felt as though it was tight in her throat and something of the dizziness she had felt when he had caught her in his arms in the inn yard returned.

      So, this was sexual attraction. Oh, my goodness! Well, thankfully I haven’t felt this way until this stage in the journey and Max is doubtless too embarrassed, and in too much discomfort, to notice anything odd about my manner. Am I blushing? He’s stopped blushing. That’s all right then.

      Max crossed his legs abruptly, making Bree certain he was in more pain than he was admitting. He was fiddling with the tails of his coat, flipping them across his lap and turning in the seat away from her.

      ‘I should have asked you,’ he said suddenly. ‘Are you all right? The shock of the highwaymen must have been considerable.’

      ‘No, I’m absolutely fine,’ Bree said brightly, well aware that she was overdoing the cheerfulness by several degrees. She glanced out of the window and saw the glint of water to the right. ‘The Thames—we’re nearly at Kew.’

      ‘I told the postilions to take me home first, to Berkeley Square. Then they can take you on to your home. I thought that would be more discreet.’

      ‘Yes, of course. How thoughtful.’ She was sounding like one of the ninnies he said he disliked. But what did it matter? Bree realised with a sinking heart what should have been obvious from the start of this adventure: she was never going to see Max Dysart, Earl of Penrith, again.

      This attraction was too new, too strange to handle. If she said anything, she’d be sure to betray herself, she was certain. Better to be safe than sorry. With an artistically contrived yawn Bree turned her head into the corner squabs and pretended to settle down and sleep.

      The rumble of carriage wheels over cobbles signalled their return to town and gave Bree an excuse to wake up. It was a relief—sitting with one’s eyes closed, and nothing to think about but a disturbing gentleman only inches away, was not a comfortable way to pass the time. Especially when the man in question was about to become nothing but a daydream.

      The imposing houses around the square were a far cry from the modest respectability of Gower Street, but Bree had a fair idea of what they looked like inside. James’s own town house was just a stone’s throw away in Mount Street.

      Max looked very much more himself, she noted. Doubtless relief at seeing the back of this inconvenient adventure acted as a powerful tonic. ‘Miss Mallory.’ He was being very formal all of a sudden. ‘It has been a pleasure.’

      ‘I am quite sure it hasn’t,’ Bree retorted, smiling. ‘Your handsome drag is no doubt scratched all over, you’ve lost a night’s sleep and been shot in the shoulder—you must have a very strange idea of pleasure if the past twelve hours have been entertaining.’

      ‘It all depends on the company,’ he said, surprising her by catching up her hand and touching his lips to her fingers where they emerged from their makeshift bandage.

      ‘That, my lord, is very gallant.’ Ye gods! What must he be like if he sets out to flirt in earnest? The women must fall at his feet in droves. Those dark brown eyes were melting something inside her in a way that was, strangely, both painful and enjoyable.

      ‘Gallantry does not come into it. What direction shall I give the men?’

      ‘Oh, um—’ She almost said Gower Street, then thought rapidly. ‘The Mermaid Inn, High Holborn.’

      ‘Home of the Challenge Coach Company? Of course. Good day, Miss Mallory.’

      Not goodbye. ‘Good day, my lord. And thank you.’ Impulsively Bree leaned forward and kissed his cheek, and sat back, flustered, as he stared at her, a smile just curving the corner of his mouth. Then he had stepped back, the door was closing and the chaise moved off.

      Piers came bounding out of the office as she climbed down from the chaise and thanked the postilions. ‘What on earth are you doing in that? It’s not like you to spend that sort of money. Still, I don’t blame you. You must be exhausted. How did it go? Tell