"So he's agreed to present us so we can find husbands?" asked Lizzie.
Again Caroline nodded. "I think it bothers him, to have four wards." She smiled in reminiscence, then added, "And from what I've seen of the ton thus far, I suspect the present Duke as our protector may well be a distinct improvement over the previous incumbent. I doubt we'll have to fight off the fortune-hunters."
Some minutes ticked by in silence as they considered their new guardian. Then Caroline stood and
shook out her skirts. She took a few steps into the room before turning to address her sisters.
"Tomorrow we'll be collected at two and conveyed to Twyford House, which is in Mount Street." She paused to let the implication of her phrasing sink in. "As you love me, you'll dress demurely and behave with all due reticence. No playing off your tricks on the Duke." She looked pointedly at Arabella, who grinned roguishly back. "Exactly so! I think, in the circumstances, we should make life as easy as possible for our new guardian. I feel sure he could have broken the guardianship if he had wished and can only
be thankful he chose instead to honour his uncle's obligations. But we shouldn't try him too far." She ended her motherly admonitions with a stern air, deceiving her sisters not at all.
As the other three heads came together, Caroline turned to gaze unseeingly out of the window. A bewitching smile curved her generous lips and a twinkle lit her grey-green eyes. Softly, she murmured
to herself, "For I've a definite suspicion he's going to find us very trying indeed!"
Thup, thup, thup. The tip of Lady Benborough's thin cane beat a slow tattoo, muffled by the pile of
the Aubusson carpet She was pleasantly impatient, waiting with definite anticipation to see her new charges. Her sharp blue gaze had already taken in the state of the room, the perfectly organised
furniture, everything tidy and in readiness. If she had not known it for fact, she would never have believed that, yesterday morn, Twyford House had been shut up, the knocker off the door, every piece
of furniture shrouded in Holland covers. Wilson was priceless. There was even a bowl of early crocus
on the side-table between the long windows. These stood open, giving access to the neat courtyard, flanked by flowerbeds bursting into colourful life. A marble fountain stood at its centre, a Grecian
maiden pouring water never-endingly from an urn.
Her contemplation of the scene was interrupted by a peremptory knock on the street door. A moment later, she heard the deep tones of men's voices and relaxed. Max. She would never get used to thinking
of him as Twyford-she had barely become accustomed to him being Viscount Delmere. Max was essentially Max-he needed no title to distinguish him.
The object of her vagaries strode into the room. As always, his garments were faultless, his boots
beyond compare. He bowed with effortless grace over her hand, his blue eyes, deeper in shade than
her own but alive with the same intelligence, quizzing her. "A vast improvement, Aunt."
It took a moment to realise he was referring to her latest wig, a newer version of the same style she
had favoured for the past ten years. She was not sure whether she was pleased or insulted. She compromised and snorted. "Trying to turn me up pretty, heh?"
"I would never insult your intelligence so, ma'am," he drawled, eyes wickedly laughing.
Lady Benborough suppressed an involuntary smile in response. The trouble with Max was that he was such a thorough-going rake that the techniques had flowed into all spheres of his life. He would undoubtedly flirt outrageously with his old nurse! Augusta Benborough snorted again. "Wilson's left
to get the girls. He should be back any minute. Provided they're ready, that is."
She watched as her nephew ran a cursory eye over the room before selecting a Hepplewhite chair and elegantly disposing his long length in it.
"I trust everything meets with your approval?"
She waved her hand to indicate the room. "Wilson's been marvellous. I don't know how he does it."
"Neither do I," admitted Wilson's employer. "And the rest of the house?"
"The same," she assured him, then continued, "I've been considering the matter of husbands for the
chits. With that sort of money, I doubt we'll have trouble even if they have spots and squint."
Max merely inclined his head. "You may leave the fortune-hunters to me."
Augusta nodded. It was one of the things she particularly appreciated about Max-one never needed
to spell things out. The fact that the Twinning girls were his wards would certainly see them safe from
the attentions of the less desirable elements. The new Duke of Twyford was a noted Corinthian and a crack shot.
"Provided they're immediately presentable, I thought I might give a small party next week, to start the
ball rolling. But if their wardrobes need attention, or they can't dance, we'll have to postpone it."
Remembering Caroline Twinning's stylish dress and her words on the matter, Max reassured her.
"And I'd bet a monkey they can dance, too." For some reason, he felt quite sure Caroline Twinning waltzed. It was the only dance he ever indulged in; he was firmly convinced that she waltzed.
Augusta was quite prepared to take Max's word on such matters. If nothing else, his notorious career through the bedrooms and bordellos of England had left him with an unerring eye for all things
feminine. "Next week, then," she said. "Just a few of the more useful people and a smattering of the younger crowd.''
She looked up to find Max's eye on her.
"I sincerely hope you don't expect to see me at this event?"
''Good Lord, no! I want all attention on your wards, not on their guardian!"
Max smiled his lazy smile.
"If the girls are at all attractive, I see no problems at all in getting them settled. Who knows? One of
them might snare Wolverton's boy."
"That milksop?" Max's mind rebelled at the vision of the engaging Miss Twinning on the arm of the
future Earl of Wolverton. Then he shrugged. After all, he had yet to meet the three younger girls.
"Who knows?"
"Do you want me to keep a firm hand on the reins, give them a push if necessary or let them wander where they will?"
Max pondered the question, searching for the right words to frame his reply. "Keep your eye on the
three younger girls. They're likely to need some guidance. I haven't sighted them yet, so they may need more than that. But, despite her advanced years, I doubt Miss Twinning will need any help at all."
His aunt interpreted this reply to mean that Miss Twinning's beauty, together with her sizeable fortune, would be sufficient to overcome the stigma of her years. The assessment was reassuring, coming as it
did from her reprehensible nephew, whose knowledge was extensive in such matters. As her gaze rested on the powerful figure, negligently at ease in his chair, she reflected that it really was unfair he had inherited only the best from both his parents. The combination of virility, good looks and power of both mind and body was overwhelming; throw the titles in for good measure and it was no wonder Max Rotherbridge had been the target of so many matchmaking mamas throughout his adult life. But he had shown no sign whatever of succumbing to the demure attractions of any debutante. His preference was, always had been, for women of far more voluptuous charms. The litany of his past mistresses attested
to his devotion to his ideal. They had all, every last one, been well-endowed. Hardly surprising, she mused. Max was tall, powerful and vigorous. She could not readily imagine any of the delicate debs satisfying his appetites. Her wandering mind dwelt on the subject of his latest affaire, aside, of course, from his current chére amie, an opera singer, so she had been told. Emma, Lady Mortland, was a widow of barely a year's standing but she had returned to town determined, it seemed, to make up for time lost through her marriage to an ageing peer. If the on-dits were true, she had fallen rather heavily in Max's