Free Lady Maggie's Secret Scandal by Grace Burrowes

it’s risky, as you say.” And for reasons that did not bear examining, he would be damned if he’d let her be exposed to such risks.
    “I am prudent. My family values this in me; it has been a relief to them.”
    “They’ve said as much?”
    “Her Grace has.” She glanced out the window. “We’ll be back to my house soon. Shall I have the coachman drop you off at your own address?”
    “We still have much to discuss.”
    “And yet we’ve been in constant conversation.”
    Unfortunate word choice.
    “I can call on you tomorrow.” But God in heaven, where had that brilliant notion come from? He seldom called on women, and it would be remarked by all and sundry if he started with Maggie Windham.
    “I don’t generally have callers outside my family.”
    “None?”
    “Helene, a few other women, but not… not gentlemen, and certainly not handsome single gentlemen with polished address.”
    She thought he was handsome?
    “Make an exception for me. We were seen waltzing; a follow-up social call wouldn’t be that unusual. I could meet you riding in the park, if you’d rather, but there’s less privacy.”
    “I do not keep a riding horse.”
    “Then I will call upon you at two of the clock. I will expect you to be a little more forthcoming than you were this evening.”
    “I will try. You never answered my question: Shall I have John drop you at your home?”
    “God, no. You might think he’d keep such a thing to himself, but I’ve yet to meet the coachman who didn’t enjoy his pints at the local watering hole, and that’s a situation rife with opportunity for hanging a lady’s laundry in the street, so to speak. He’ll slow on the turn into the alley, and I’ll be off.”
    “Like a thief in the night.”
    “Like a gentleman in the night.”
    He tucked into his pocket the lock of hair he’d surreptitiously cut with her knife, and as soon as the coach slowed, darted out the door without another word.
    ***
     
    “You think my wits have gone begging,” Maggie said. She didn’t blame Alice for a look of exasperation, not in the least. “I just haven’t had a caller outside family in ages, and I’m… nervous.”
    Standing in her corset and stockings, Maggie was undecided.
    “Anything in your wardrobe will be above reproach, mum. You’ll feel most confident in something you like wearing.”
    “Good advice. The bronze silk and the cream gloves.”
    “You’re stepping out with your caller?”
    “I’m not.” Maggie took the dress from Alice and pulled it over her head. “But there’s no need for informality.”
    “A coronet, then?”
    “A tidy coronet, one braid, no jewelry.” As plain and severe a toilet as she could politely manage for a morning call. Hazlit was coming to talk business, and yet Maggie’s insides were jumping around as if she were seventeen and permitted to dine at table for one of Her Grace’s formal dinners.
    There was no need for this. None.
    She sat at the vanity and passed a brush back to Alice, who went to work on the thankless task of brushing out Maggie’s hair.
    “Did you catch your hair on something last night?”
    “I did not. Why?”
    Alice dangled a coppery skein over Maggie’s shoulder. “You must have snagged it. This length is a good three inches shorter.”
    “I doubt that. The whole business is in need of a good trim, and it’s probably just getting uneven.”
    “Yes, mum.”
    Alice fell silent, her fingers deftly pinning a fat braid into a circle that coiled one and a half times around Maggie’s head. Alice loaded the thing with what felt like several dozen pins, then handed Maggie cream knit gloves.
    “Will I do?”
    Alice’s homely face creased into a smile. “Aye, mum. You’ll do. Whoever he is, he’s in for a treat.”
    “How did you know it’s a man?”
    “Because I’ve not seen you this flummoxed since your first season,” Alice said, hanging a discarded gown back in the wardrobe. “About time, if you ask