suggestion, my ward. Tell me, how long does it take to pin up a flounce?"
Caroline blinked at this startling question.
"The reason I ask," said Max as they glided to a halt, ''is that Arabella deserted the room some minutes before the music started and, as far as I can see, has yet to return."
A frown appeared in Caroline's fine eyes but, in deference to the eyes of others, she kept her face free
of care and her voice light. "Can you see if Lord Denbigh is in the room?"
Max did not need to look. "Not since I entered it." After a pause, he asked, "Is she seriously pursuing
that line? If so, I fear she'll all too soon reach point non plus."
Caroline followed his lead as he offered her his arm and calmly strolled towards the supper-room. A
slight smile curled her lips as, in the increasing crowd, she leaned closer to him to answer. "With
Arabella, it's hard to tell. She seems so obvious, with her flirting. But that's really all superficial. In
reality, she's rather reticent about such things."
Max smiled in reply. Her words merely confirmed his own reading of Arabella. But his knowledge of the relationship between Caroline and her sisters prompted him to add, "Nevertheless, you'd be well-advised to sound her out on that score. Hugo Denbigh, when all is said and done, is every bit as dangerous as…" He paused to capture her eyes with his own before, smiling in a devilish way, he continued, "I am."
Conscious of the eyes upon them, Caroline strove to maintain her composure. "How very…reassuring,
to be sure," she managed.
The smile on Max's face broadened. They had reached the entrance of the supper-room and he paused
in the doorway to scan the emptying ballroom. "If she hasn't returned in ten minutes, we'll have to go looking. But come, sweet ward, the lobster patties await."
With a flourish, Max led her to a small table where they were joined, much to his delight, by
Mr. Willoughby and a plain young lady, a Miss Spence. Mr. Willoughby's transparent intention of engaging the delightful Miss Twinning in close converse, ignoring the undemanding Miss Spence and
Miss Twinning's guardian, proved to be rather more complicated than Mr. Willoughby, for one, had imagined. Under the subtle hand of His Grace of Twyford, Mr. Willoughby found himself the centre of
a general discussion on philosophy. Caroline listened in ill-concealed delight as Max blocked every move poor Mr. Willoughby made to polarise the conversation. It became apparent that her guardian understood only too well Mr. Willoughby's state and she found herself caught somewhere between embarrassment and relief. In the end, relief won the day.
Eventually, routed, Mr. Willoughby rose, ostensibly to return Miss Spence to her parent. Watching his retreat with laughing eyes, Caroline returned her gaze to her guardian, only to see him look pointedly
at the door from the ballroom. She glanced across and saw Arabella enter, slightly flushed and with a too-bright smile on her lips. She made straight for the table where Sarah was sitting with a number of others and, with her usual facility, merged with the group, laughing up at the young man who leapt to his feet to offer her his chair.
Caroline turned to Max, a slight frown in her eyes, to find his attention had returned to the door. She followed his gaze and saw Lord Denbigh enter.
To any casual observer, Hugh was merely coming late to the supper-room, his languid gaze and sleepy smile giving no hint of any more pressing emotion than to discover whether there were any lobster
patties left. Max Rotherbridge, however, was a far from casual observer. As he saw the expression in his lordship's heavy-lidded eyes as they flicked across the room to where Arabella sat, teasing her company unmercifully, His Grace of Twyford's black brows rose in genuine astonishment. Oh, God! Another one?
Resigned to yet another evening spent with no progress in the matter of his eldest ward, Max calmly escorted her back to the ballroom and, releasing her to the attentions of her admirers, not without a particularly penetrating stare at two gentlemen of dubious standing who had had the temerity to attempt
to join her circle, he prepared to quit the ballroom. He had hoped to have persuaded Miss Twinning to view the moonlight from the terrace. There was a useful bench he knew of, under a concealing willow, which would have come in handy. However, he had no illusions concerning his ability to make love to
a woman who was on tenterhooks over the happiness of not one but two sisters. So he headed for the card-room.
On his way, he passed Arabella, holding court once again in something close to her usual style. His blue
gaze searched her face. As if sensing his regard, she turned and saw him. For a moment, she looked lost. He smiled encouragingly. After a fractional pause, she flashed her brilliant smile back and, putting up her chin, turned back to her companions, laughing at some comment.
Max moved on. Clearly, Caroline did have another problem on her hands. He paused at the entrance to the card-room and, automatically, scanned the packed ballroom. Turning, he was about to cross the threshold when a disturbing thought struck him. He turned back to the ballroom.
"Make up your mind! Make up your mind! Oh, it's you, Twyford. What are you doing at such an occasion? Hardly your style these days, what?"
Excusing himself to Colonel Weatherspoon, Max moved out of the doorway and checked the room again. Where was Lizzie? He had not seen her at supper, but then again he had not looked. He had mentally dubbed her the baby of the family but bis rational mind informed him that she was far from too young. He was about to cross the room to where his aunt Augusta sat, resplendent in bronze bombazine, when
a movement by the windows drew his eyes.
Lizzie entered from the terrace, a shy and entirely guileless smile on her lips. Her small hand rested with easy assurance on his brother's arm. As he watched, she turned and smiled up at Martin, a look so full
of trust that a newborn lamb could not have bettered it. And Martin, wolf that he was, returned the
smile readily.
Abruptly, Max turned on his heel and strode into the card-room. He needed a drink.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Arabella swatted at the bumble-bee blundering noisily by her head. She was lying on her stomach on
the stone surround of the pond in the courtyard of Twyford House, idly trailing her fingers in the cool green water. Her delicate mull muslin, petal-pink in hue, clung revealingly to her curvaceous form while
a straw hat protected her delicate complexion from the afternoon sun. Most other young ladies in a
similar pose would have looked childish. Arabella, with her strangely wistful air, contrived to look mysteriously enchanting.
Her sisters were similarly at their ease. Sarah was propped by the base of the sundial, her bergere hat shading her face as she threaded daisies into a chain. The dark green cambric gown she wore emphasized her arrestingly pale face, dominated by huge brown eyes, darkened now by the hint of misery. Lizzie sat beside the rockery, poking at a piece of embroidery with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm. Her sprigged mauve muslin proclaimed her youth yet its effect was ameliorated by her far from youthful figure.
Caroline watched her sisters from her perch in a cushioned hammock strung between two cherry trees.
If her guardian could have seen her, he would undoubtedly have approved of the simple round gown
of particularly fine amber muslin she had donned for the warm day. The fabric clung tantalizingly to her mature figure while the neckline revealed an expanse of soft ivory breasts.
The sisters had gradually drifted here, one by one, drawn by the warm spring afternoon and the heady scents rising from the rioting flowers which crammed the beds and overflowed on to the stone flags.