Regency Collection 2013 Part 1. Louise Allen

even for a small country wedding. Oh, I should say at least three.’

      ‘Months?’ Max demanded, standing up and scooping Bree off his knee and on to her feet as he did so. ‘You want me to wait months?’

      Bree looked up into his stormy face and laughed from pure happiness. ‘I was teasing you, Max. Three weeks. It is a ridiculously short time, of course, but I can’t bear to wait.’

      ‘Little witch! I seem to have lost my sense of humour as far as you are concerned. I want you so much. I love you so much.’

      ‘Show me.’ She reached up, curling her fingers around his lapels and tugging. ‘Show me.’

      His mouth, leisurely and confidently sensual, slid over hers, seeking and finding, teasing and caressing. Bree snuggled closer, stood on tiptoe and reached up to play with the hair at the nape of his neck. His skin was so soft there, yet the muscles beneath were so hard, it fascinated her. Everything about his body fascinated her and she just wanted to explore.

      When he released her mouth, more so they could both breathe than for any other reason, she murmured, ‘You make me feel very wanton.’

      ‘You make me feel like picking you up and taking you straight upstairs to bed,’ he said huskily. ‘What do you think?’

      ‘That it is very tempting—and that we must not. Think what a bad example to the servants, let alone Piers. And Rosa would chase you out with the carpet beater.’

      The sound of someone fumbling with the door handle sent Bree flying back to the chaise to perch primly on the edge while Max strode over to the fireplace to admire the rather dull landscape that hung over it.

      Rosa entered. ‘You see,’ Bree observed, ‘we are both terrified of her.’

      ‘I beg your pardon, my dear?’

      ‘I was just observing to his lordship that you are an excellent chaperon.’

      ‘As we all know, that is far from the case.’ Miss Thorpe fixed Max with what was obviously intended to be a reproving stare.

      ‘But, my dear Miss Thorpe, I must disagree. Is it not the sole aim and intent of a chaperon to ensure her charge makes the best possible match?’

      ‘Why, yes, but—’

      ‘But Miss Mallory and I are to be married.’

      ‘Married? Oh, how wonderful! Oh, Bree, my dear—’ Rosa kissed Bree, spun round, hugged Max, went pink the moment she realised what she had done and sank down on the chaise, clutching her charge’s hand in hers. ‘I am so happy for you both. When? Where? How much time have we to prepare?’

      ‘In three weeks’ time, I hope. And in the country, from the farmhouse with Uncle George to give me away. I must go down there tomorrow.’

      ‘In my chaise,’ Max interrupted. The look he sent her made her feel protected, sheltered, infinitely cared for. He was going to have to learn that she was too independent to be treated like spun glass, but just now it was purest magic. ‘I’m not having you jaunting about on the stage again.’

      ‘No, Max, if you say not.’ The twinkle in his eyes made it quite clear he could see through this meekness.

      Three weeks seemed both an eternity and the most fleeting of moments. It was an age if one was aching to be in the arms of a tall, dark-eyed gentleman. It was no time at all if one was attempting to organise a ‘quiet’ country wedding.

      Piers found himself shuttling between Aylesbury and London with lists, supplies of linen and china and increasingly frantic questions and instructions from both directions.

      Rosa divided her time between assisting Bree and reorganising the coaching company office to her own satisfaction. She drove the staff to new heights of efficiency by lightning raids upon all parts of the yard and created lengthy lists of her own for when Bree was away at Longwater.

      ‘I presume his lordship will expect you to cease your involvement with the company after your marriage,’ she observed, looking up from her notes on a review of timetables.

      Bree was startled. ‘Of course he won’t!’ Would he? They had never discussed it. Bree saw a wide moat of misunderstandings opening up in front of her. Just as she had realised she could not flaunt the association with the company once her relationship with James was so well known in society, she knew she would have to be even more discreet once she was a countess. But a complete break? It was unthinkable.

      Just how dictatorial would Max be as a husband? He was unconventional now. He accepted her independent behaviour, although there were increasing incidences of him trying to shelter her. But how would things change when they married?

      For the first time Bree felt a stir of anxiety on her own behalf about his first marriage. He had expected certain standards, certain behaviour from Drusilla that she had not been able or willing to comply with, and in the end she had fled. Just how understanding and supportive had Max been? Chilled, she forced her attention back to Rosa’s suggestion about a new route to King’s Lynn, but the unease persisted.

      Max entered the Gower Street house that morning to find Peters and Lucy in the hallway struggling with a number of large trunks and Rosa halfway up the stairs with an armful of gowns. A maid he had not seen before rushed into the hall balancing a stack of what appeared to be flimsy undergarments, saw Max, gave a faint shriek and dropped them, confirming his guess. Of his betrothed there was no sign. Max regarded the frivolous bits of nonsense with interest, then smiled at Miss Thorpe.

      ‘Good morning, ma’am.’

      ‘Lord Penrith, good morning.’ The companion managed to look as composed as was possible, given that a peer of the realm was standing in the front hall with chemises and corsets strewn around his booted feet. ‘Miss Mallory is in the sitting room.’

      ‘I will remove myself then. I assume there is nothing I can do to help?’

      ‘Nothing, I thank you. Maria, stop whimpering and pick those things up so his lordship can move.’

      He pushed the door open and stood quietly watching Bree working at her desk, unaware of his presence. He felt the love washing softly through him like ripples of water at the sea’s edge. It was so new, this feeling of tenderness, of possessiveness, of desire tempered with the knowledge that this was for ever.

      Then Bree looked up and saw him and smiled and he was across the room, pulling her out of the chair and into his arms so he could look down into her face and just marvel at his own good fortune.

      Her body tensed a little in his embrace, she turned her face so that his lips found her cheek and not her mouth and her eyes held a hint of anxiety.

      Max guided her to one of the armchairs and urged her to sit, taking the one opposite at a distance from which he could study her face. Ten days until the wedding—perhaps, despite her passion in his arms, she was becoming apprehensive about the wedding night. Or perhaps it was just that she was overworked and tired.

      ‘I have brought what I promise is positively the last version of my guest list,’ he said, pulling it from his inside pocket. ‘I have annotated it with notes on who will be travelling from where, and who needs rooms. That last, I am glad to say, has not changed since the previous list.’

      ‘In that case, we will be all right.’ Bree nodded briskly. It did not appear to be the practical issues that were worrying her. ‘Uncle George can put up all those members of my family who will be staying over in his half of the house. All of yours can stay in either my and Piers’s half, or at the Eagle and Child in Aylesbury. I have engaged the Queen’s Head in the village for the extra servants.’

      She took his list and scanned it, giving Max the opportunity to watch her more closely. She was losing weight, he thought, anxious that he was leaving too much on her shoulders.

      ‘If this is final, then I will write to Betsy and we can make the firm lists of everything needed. I think the biggest problem is chairs and trestles