when the butler announced him. “Mr. Ensor, my lord. He's waiting for Miss Con.”
Lord Duncan turned from the open doors to the terrace. “Ah, I didn't know my daughter was going out this evening.” He came towards his visitor, hand outstretched in greeting. “No one tells me anything in this house,” he said. “Sherry . . . or would you prefer whisky?”
“Sherry, thank you.”
“Daughters never tell you anything,” Lord Duncan reiterated. “Rather like wives.” He laughed and handed Max a glass. “So, where are you taking her? Don't mean to pry, nothing too paternal about the question . . . Con's more than capable of taking care of herself.” He sipped his sherry.
“The Café Royal, I thought,” Max replied.
“Oh, splendid choice. I took her mother there the night after our wedding . . . must be thirty years ago now.” A shadow passed across Lord Duncan's countenance and vanished as swiftly. “You're the political chappie, aren't you? One of Campbell-Bannerman's protégés?”
“Hardly a protégé, sir.”
“Up-and-coming . . . up-and-coming,” declared his lordship with a conspiratorial wink. “Cigarette?” He flipped the lid on an engraved silver box.
“Thank you, no.”
Lord Duncan lit his own and inhaled deeply. “So where did you meet my daughters? I assume that if you met one you met 'em all.”
“Yes, indeed, Lord Duncan.” Max looked restlessly towards the door. “I met them at Fortnum's, when I was having tea with Lady Armitage. She's a friend of my sister's, Lady Graham,” he added in case his host needed further enlightenment.
“Oh, yes, I know that, dear boy. Well, you must come down to the country this weekend. We're having a small house party. The girls want to play tennis . . . not a game I care for. Give me croquet any day, much more vicious . . . just when you think you've—”
“Oh, Father, you'll bore Mr. Ensor to death with your croquet obsession.” Constance made her entrance with a carefully executed swish of her black taffeta skirt. “Mr. Ensor, I hope I didn't keep you waiting long.”
“Not at all, ma'am.” He couldn't take his eyes off her. The black taffeta skirt had a bodice of a deep red that almost exactly matched the color of her hair. The neckline curved low to reveal just a hint of creamy breast, accentuated by the stunning jet collar that circled her neck. Her collarbone stood out in a way that lured his mouth and his tongue, so that he found himself curling his toes in his shoes. She was wearing heels that added at least an inch to her already noticeably tall and willowy frame. Her hair was piled high, dressed over pads, adorned with tiny jet black butterflies, and it begged to be loosened, each pin withdrawn, each lock and strand gently teased from restraint to fall to those perfect sloping shoulders.
He could not take his eyes off her.
“Con does look particularly beautiful tonight, Mr. Ensor.” Prudence spoke from behind her sister and Max mentally shook himself free of enchantment. He saw that both of Miss Duncan's sisters were regarding him over her shoulder with knowing smiles. They had read his reactions to their sister as if he'd shouted them aloud.
“Miss Duncan is lovely as always,” he said with a slight bow. “As, indeed, are her sisters.”
“Oh, prettily spoken, Mr. Ensor.” Chastity smiled and although he looked sharply he could detect no hint of mockery. “So, where are you taking Con?”
Max thought that of the three of them, Chastity was probably the most benevolent. A man needed to be a little wary of the other two, they both had a wicked edge. As it happened, he found that edge, particularly in Constance, both challenging and perversely compelling. “The Café Royal, I thought. If that pleases you, Miss Duncan?”
“Greatly,” she said. “Did I hear Father invite you to Romsey Manor for the weekend?”
Max bowed his acknowledgment and demurred, “But I'm not sure that I . . .” He let the sentence
Lord Duncan turned from the open doors to the terrace. “Ah, I didn't know my daughter was going out this evening.” He came towards his visitor, hand outstretched in greeting. “No one tells me anything in this house,” he said. “Sherry . . . or would you prefer whisky?”
“Sherry, thank you.”
“Daughters never tell you anything,” Lord Duncan reiterated. “Rather like wives.” He laughed and handed Max a glass. “So, where are you taking her? Don't mean to pry, nothing too paternal about the question . . . Con's more than capable of taking care of herself.” He sipped his sherry.
“The Café Royal, I thought,” Max replied.
“Oh, splendid choice. I took her mother there the night after our wedding . . . must be thirty years ago now.” A shadow passed across Lord Duncan's countenance and vanished as swiftly. “You're the political chappie, aren't you? One of Campbell-Bannerman's protégés?”
“Hardly a protégé, sir.”
“Up-and-coming . . . up-and-coming,” declared his lordship with a conspiratorial wink. “Cigarette?” He flipped the lid on an engraved silver box.
“Thank you, no.”
Lord Duncan lit his own and inhaled deeply. “So where did you meet my daughters? I assume that if you met one you met 'em all.”
“Yes, indeed, Lord Duncan.” Max looked restlessly towards the door. “I met them at Fortnum's, when I was having tea with Lady Armitage. She's a friend of my sister's, Lady Graham,” he added in case his host needed further enlightenment.
“Oh, yes, I know that, dear boy. Well, you must come down to the country this weekend. We're having a small house party. The girls want to play tennis . . . not a game I care for. Give me croquet any day, much more vicious . . . just when you think you've—”
“Oh, Father, you'll bore Mr. Ensor to death with your croquet obsession.” Constance made her entrance with a carefully executed swish of her black taffeta skirt. “Mr. Ensor, I hope I didn't keep you waiting long.”
“Not at all, ma'am.” He couldn't take his eyes off her. The black taffeta skirt had a bodice of a deep red that almost exactly matched the color of her hair. The neckline curved low to reveal just a hint of creamy breast, accentuated by the stunning jet collar that circled her neck. Her collarbone stood out in a way that lured his mouth and his tongue, so that he found himself curling his toes in his shoes. She was wearing heels that added at least an inch to her already noticeably tall and willowy frame. Her hair was piled high, dressed over pads, adorned with tiny jet black butterflies, and it begged to be loosened, each pin withdrawn, each lock and strand gently teased from restraint to fall to those perfect sloping shoulders.
He could not take his eyes off her.
“Con does look particularly beautiful tonight, Mr. Ensor.” Prudence spoke from behind her sister and Max mentally shook himself free of enchantment. He saw that both of Miss Duncan's sisters were regarding him over her shoulder with knowing smiles. They had read his reactions to their sister as if he'd shouted them aloud.
“Miss Duncan is lovely as always,” he said with a slight bow. “As, indeed, are her sisters.”
“Oh, prettily spoken, Mr. Ensor.” Chastity smiled and although he looked sharply he could detect no hint of mockery. “So, where are you taking Con?”
Max thought that of the three of them, Chastity was probably the most benevolent. A man needed to be a little wary of the other two, they both had a wicked edge. As it happened, he found that edge, particularly in Constance, both challenging and perversely compelling. “The Café Royal, I thought. If that pleases you, Miss Duncan?”
“Greatly,” she said. “Did I hear Father invite you to Romsey Manor for the weekend?”
Max bowed his acknowledgment and demurred, “But I'm not sure that I . . .” He let the sentence
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