Regency Collection 2013 Part 1. Louise Allen

The man was a superlative whip.

      ‘You had better blow for the gate,’ Max remarked, jerking her out of her reverie. ‘The next toll bar’s coming up.’

      ‘I can’t. I’ve tried and tried to master the horn, but I can’t do it.’

      ‘Fine guard you are,’ Max grumbled. ‘Here, take the reins.’

      He held his left hand towards her and she slid her own into it, fingers slipping down his wrist and over his palm until the ribbons lay between the correct fingers and he could pull his own free. The team pecked a little at the strange position, then settled.

      Max lifted the horn and blew, the long notes echoing through the clear night. ‘Just in time,’ Bree said as the toll gate keeper stumbled out in his nightgown to drag open the wide gate.

      ‘We’re going to have to do this for every gate, you realise,’ Max commented, his big hand sliding into hers as he took back the reins. It brought them close together again and the fleeting memory of his arms around her in the inn yard made Bree catch her breath.

      ‘We could stop a moment and pass the horn back to Jem,’ Bree suggested reluctantly. It was the sensible thing to do, of course, but that had been rather fun.

      ‘And lose more time?’ Max flicked the whip close to the ear of the offside wheeler that seemed to have decided it didn’t want to share the work. ‘I’m sure the Challenge Coach Company is always punctual. Hmm, not enough cs. I shall have to think of a slogan.’ Bree chuckled. ‘Besides,’ he added, echoing her own thoughts, ‘it was rather fun.’

      ‘In what way, exactly?’ she enquired repressively. It might be very stimulating to be sitting here enjoying a master class in four-in-hand driving, but one had to recall that she was also alone, unchaperoned, with a man she was certain James would stigmatise as a rake. On the other hand, if James would disapprove, it made it all much more pleasurable.

      ‘It’s a form of trick driving in its way. And, of course, there’s the opportunity to hold hands with a pretty girl. Now, what have I said to make you snort?’

      ‘I do not snort. And if you find any female dressed as I am pretty, my lord, there is something wrong with you.’

      ‘I have exceptionally good eyesight.’

      ‘And a vivid imagination,’ she muttered. He probably was a rake, and flirting with anything female under the age of ninety was doubtless a prerequisite.

      Max smiled, but all he said was, ‘We shall see.’

      By the time they reached the last toll gate before Newbury Bree thought she had never been so stiff, nor so exhilarated, in her life. She seemed to have passed through some barrier of exhaustion and now, at almost four in the morning, she felt wide awake.

      Probably because my bottom-bones are bruised black and blue, she concluded ruefully. The old coachman’s trick of making a cushion with her coat tails was not as effective as she had been led to believe, or perhaps she simply had less natural padding than they did.

      It was time to sound the horn again. They had the rhythm of it now. Bree felt the warmth of Max’s large hand slide over hers, then she had the reins and he was blowing for the gate. But when they were through and he reached for her in his turn he did not slip his fingers across her palm; instead, he closed his hand around hers and held it lightly.

      ‘We’ll drive the last bit together,’ he said simply, and she wondered at the warm rush of pleasure the words and the action brought her.

      I’m getting light-headed, Bree thought, flexing her fingers within Max’s grip and fighting the urge to lean into his body. It was deliciously like being drunk.

      The sensation lasted as long as it took William Huggins, otherwise known as Bonebreaker Bill, to come striding out into the yard of the Plume of Feathers and see who was driving his coach through the arch.

      ‘Miss Bree! What do you think you are doing?’ He glowered up at the box of the coach, meaty fists on his bulky hips, booted feet apart.

      ‘We didn’t have a driver to send out, Bill,’ she said placatingly. Bill had known her since she was six and had proved a far stricter guardian than either of her parents ever had.

      ‘Who’s this flash cove, then?’ he demanded, swivelling his bloodshot eyes to Max. ‘Some break-o’day boy who’s cozened you into letting him take the ribbons for a thrill?’

      ‘This is Lord Penrith, Bill. My lord, allow me to introduce William Huggins, the finest coachman on this, or any other, road.’

      Bill brushed aside the compliment, taking it as his due, but his eyes narrowed. ‘Penrith? From the Nonesuch Whips?’

      ‘For my sins.’ Sensibly, Max was staying on the box where he had the advantage of height. But the coachman had lost all his hostility.

      ‘Well, I’ll be damned! If half they say about you is true, my lord, then it’s a privilege to have you drive my coach, that it is! Why, you can take it all the way to Bath if you be so wishful.’

      ‘Thank you, but no, Mr Huggins.’ Max began to climb down. ‘This was a long enough stage for me—I had no idea those box seats were so hard.’

      ‘Hah! You should fold your coat tails under you, my lord. That’s the way to save your bum bones.’

      ‘It doesn’t work, Bill,’ Bree said, causing him to go scarlet. ‘I tried. Now, come and lift me down, please. I’m as stiff as a board.’

      The ostlers, spurred on by the presence of their severest critic, completed the change in under two minutes and Bill took the coach out on to the highway with a roar of farewell and a flourish of his hat. Poor Jem, expected like all guards to work the whole distance, was back up on the box beside him.

      ‘There you are,’ Max said, fishing his pocket watch out. ‘Dead on time. The Challenge Coach Company never compromises with the clock,’ he added with satisfaction. ‘You may have it engraved on your stationery with my compliments.’

      ‘Thank you so much.’ Bree turned to him, tipping her head back to smile up into his face. It was one part of him, she realised, that she hadn’t been able to study during the last four hours. She knew the feel of his hands on hers, the range of his voice, and the height and breadth of his body had bulwarked hers like a rock all night.

      It was difficult to make out colours in the lamplight, but his eyes were dark under dark brows, his cheekbones pronounced, his chin rather too decided for her taste, and his mouth—which was within a fraction of a smile as he watched her—was generous. It was a good face, she decided. A tough face, but in a good way. He made her feel safe.

      ‘Thank you,’ she said again. ‘Goodbye, my lord.’

      ‘And just where do you think you are going now, Miss Mallory?’

      ‘To bespeak a room, of course.’

      ‘With no maid, no luggage and at four in the morning?’

      ‘They will know who I am when I introduce myself.’

      ‘It is not the inn staff I am concerned about. Really, Miss Mallory, you cannot stay here—goodness knows who you might encounter. Think of your reputation.’

      ‘I do not have one!’ Really, he was as bad as James. ‘Not that sort of reputation. I am not in society, I am not in the marriage mart. I am in trade, my lord. Besides, what alternative do I have, other than to wait for the next stage back and be jolted for another five sleepless hours? I have, I regret to say, no convenient maiden aunt in Newbury.’

      His mouth twitched. She could not tell, in this light, whether he was annoyed that she was arguing with him, or amused by the maiden aunt. ‘I was going to take a private parlour for you to rest in for a while and I will hire a chaise to take us back to London.’

      ‘A chaise? A closed carriage? For the two of us? All the way