Mad About the Major (12 page)

But Arabella had the suspicion the lady didn't really believe what she was saying.

“Now, back to Major Kingsley and his poor heart—­”

“Oh, you must be wrong, Mrs. Spenser. He cannot be . . .” For even if Kingsley did love her, it was all so impossible. And then the truth tumbled out. “He's to marry another.”

“Is he now?” Mrs. Spenser, who had gone back to rearranging her dressing table, glanced over her shoulder, sounding only skeptical. “Then what is he doing with you?”

Giving me the day of my life
, she wanted to say. And with it had come hints of a life full of adventure and, dare she desire it, passion, and something else she didn't dare hope for.

A word she didn't want to utter. Admit.

Especially now that she could see how the temptation of loving Kingsley might be her ruin.

Might? Make that
would
.

“It isn't possible.” Arabella paused for a second. “Oh, if only it were.” The words came out in a soft confession and a sheen of tears.

Mrs. Spenser folded her into her arms and gave her a hug. “Yes, I know, my dear girl. I know only too well.”

“My father would kill him,” she sniffled.

“There is that possibility,” Mrs. Spenser agreed. “Or worse, something will change. Kingsley's opinions will change. And then . . .” Her words trailed off with a note of regret.

Arabella jerked back, dashing at the moisture in her eyes. “He wouldn't. He isn't like that.”

“How do you know? You've only just met the man,” the more experienced lady pointed out.

Shaking her head, Arabella dismissed it all as foolishness. “I daresay you haven't got the right of it. He's not in love with me—­for it is as you say—­too soon to fall in love.”

But she didn't believe it, for she knew that her own heart had taken a terrible turn. And her desires. Oh, her desires for Kingsley . . .

They had her considering the impossible. How that kiss earlier shouldn't have ended. If he did love her . . .

She stopped herself right there.

Oh, bother! She needed to be sensible. But such a notion was so very much against everything inside her. Tremonts were reckless and willful.
Damn the consequences
should have been their motto.

For look how even her staid, dull father had become a very devil when he'd fallen in love with Elinor.

But if Kingsley loved her . . . Had fallen in love with her . . .

Visions of Paris and Venice and beyond danced in her imagination. Days of adventure. Nights of . . . Oh, yes, nights of passion that she had just tasted.

And if her father could be persuaded to let her follow her heart . . .

Impossible . . . Utterly impossible
, she tried telling herself.

An opinion being echoed aloud by Mrs. Spenser. “Birdie, if you are gone too long . . . if things could become irreversible . . .”

“What do you mean by irreversible?” she asked, though she knew the answer to that. “That is to say, we haven't—­”

Mrs. Spenser reached over and plucked at her hair, and then showed her the evidence: a small leaf from the hedge . . . The lady sighed and put it down on the tabletop beside a portrait. After a slight pause, she picked up the miniature, her finger running around the edge as if it had traced that path many times over.

“Go home,” she said softly, firmly.

A chill ran along Arabella's spine as she looked not at the courtesan, but at the portrait of a small boy. Then her gaze swept over the table and she realized all the miniatures held the same image—­at various ages—­of this boy. As a bundled baby, a toddler in curls, and lastly as a handsome young adolescent.

A flicker of sadness crossed Mrs. Spenser's pretty features. The sort that spoke of a heartbreak that would never find healing.

This child, his child—­whoever
he
was—­had been everything to the lady, but no more.

Like the perfume in the jar, her heart had been stoppered away, hidden, lost.

With only a faint, fleeting moment captured in watercolor to remind her, to haunt her for the rest of her days.

Mrs. Spenser had made her choice. Once. Long ago.

And now it was Arabella's turn to make hers.

“T
here you go,” Major Kingsley said, as he handed Arabella up into his waiting carriage.

She stole a glance at him as he strode around the carriage.

He couldn't be falling in love with her. The notion was ridiculous.

Impossible.

He went around to his side and climbed in, smiling at her with that wicked, boyish grin of his.

Oh, heavens, how her heart pattered. What if he was?

In an instant, Mrs. Spenser's warning rang anew.
You'll be unable to separate . . . Bound together . . . He'll refuse you nothing until. . .

She shook her head, tossing out the horrible reckoning that would follow such a scenario.

Instead, she began to scold herself with a litany meant to rattle her back into a sensible state.

Kingsley wasn't in love with her.
There it was.

He was far too sensible of a gentleman.

Yet would a sensible gentleman have agreed to her madcap scheme?

Certainly not.

Had the major been of a sensible nature, she most likely would never have met him. He wouldn't have come seeking her company at the Setchfield ball, mistaken identity or not.

More to the point, he wouldn't have even attended such a scandal-­ridden event. Not ever.

She shivered and drew her pelisse tighter around her shoulders.

Nor would he have kissed her earlier if he were the sensible sort. For it had hardly been a proper sort of kiss.

He'd kissed her hungrily . . . Like he'd never desired any woman more than he had her. . .

Oh, good heavens! Mrs. Spenser might be right.

Arabella peeked out from beneath the brim of her bonnet. She hadn't realized it before now, but she'd been hiding beneath it, rolled up into a tight knot of alarm.

Kingsley in love with her? That would never do. As she'd told Mrs. Spenser, it was impossible.

Perfectly impossible for them to be in love. And she knew it right down to her toes. Just as she knew what needed to be done.

Kingsley caught her looking over at him and grinned again. That charming air stopped her heart, left her enchanted.

If she inhaled right now, she knew she'd wake up from this dreamy state as entwined, as captivated as if he'd bound her in chains.

And yet, here he was asking her the one question that would reveal everything. If he was willing to refuse her nothing, then . . .

“So what is it to be, my little Birdie? Home or one last adventure?”

So she told him.

 

C
HAPTER 9

K
ingsley turned and gaped at the lady beside him. Surely he hadn't heard her correctly. “You want to do what?”

“You heard me perfectly well,” Birdie told him, nose tipping in the air with an imperious tilt. “I want to break into a house.”

“You want to take up a life of crime?”

“Haven't you ever wanted to?”

“No!” An answer to her question and her outlandish request.

Housebreaking, indeed! Whatever would she suggest next?

Make love to me, Kingsley
, came an irreverent thought.

No, no! Not that, he realized with a bit of panic. He might be able to refuse her larcenous inclinations, but the other?

He didn't think he had the will to say what needed to be said.

No. Never. Absolutely not.

But oh, the devil take him, Augie's bullet or not, he wanted her.

Meanwhile, she'd crossed her arms over her chest and had made a matronly and defiant
harrumph
over his refusal. “And here I thought you were an adventurous sort.”

Something about her words pricked at his pride ever so slightly, but it was enough to get him to rise to her bait—­even against his better judgment. “I'll have you know there is
adventure
and then there is
crime
. And crime, such as you are suggesting, my pretty little filching mort, will see you standing in the Old Bailey being consigned to a hanging.”

“Then I daresay it would be best if we weren't caught.”

“Not caught!” He shook his head. “At least now I know where you live.”

“However do you know that?”

“Because I'm quite certain the place you escaped from earlier was Bedlam.”

“Bedlam, indeed,” she sniffed.

“Whyever would you want to break into someone's house?”

She shrugged. “I just merely want to try. It can't be that difficult. Thieves do it all the time.”

“And are hung all the time.”

“You are quite preoccupied with the state of your neck.”

“I rather like my neck,” he told her. “And I must confess, I'm a bit alarmed by the fact that it seems you've spent a considerable amount of time planning this ridiculous scheme.”

“I have,” she admitted rather proudly. “When one isn't allowed any sort of freedom, one has plenty of time to imagine all sorts of things.”

“Larceny and petty crime are hardly suitable subjects to be pondering.”

“You sound as stuffy as my father,” she declared. “Besides, having given this considerable thought—­as you were so kind to point out—­it is more than obvious, I have no intention of being caught. I've considered all the difficulties and know exactly how it ought to be done properly.”

“Properly?” he scoffed. “Have you ever met a criminal?”

Her mouth opened and she looked to be about to declare that she had, but then her mouth closed as if, under a bit of consideration, she thought better of answering.

“Suffice it to say, I have every confidence in my plan,” she finally said. “We need only find an empty house.”

Oh, was that all?

“In the middle of the Season?”

“There are several that are empty now,” she replied. “Why, there are at least half a dozen house parties over the next fortnight and they've all but emptied the
ton
—­a number of which have very large houses.”

“How do you know—­?”

“Major Kingsley, everyone knows. Especially if one isn't invited,” she told him, glancing away. “Or is.”

There was some truth in that. Why, his mother's house party was responsible for a good half a dozen or more vacancies.

“Now I've told you my third and final request,” Birdie continued, “and if you don't mind, I would like to be about it as quickly as possible.”

She made it sound like all she wanted him to do was track down the right shade of green thread. Or fetch some new candles from the shop across the way.

Oh, of all the madness! Breaking into empty houses.

Kingsley paused as a madcap idea—­as ridiculous as her request—­came to him.
An empty house.

Oh, good God. He didn't dare. Then again . . .

He had to press his lips together not to laugh.

“I might know of a house,” he managed, trying his best to sound helpful.

Her glance was nothing but suspicion.

“I have it on good authority the owner has gone to a house party—­just as you suggested.”

“Some bachelor residence?” She shook her head. “No, no, that will never do. It has to be a house of some size, significance.”

“I think you will find this house exactly to your liking.”

Her gaze narrowed.

“Have I disappointed you yet, minx?”

Her admission took a while to come out. “No.”

Grinning, he turned the horses toward Mayfair.

“I
f we are going to do this, you must do exactly as I say,” Kingsley began.

“Oh, not this again,” Birdie complained as they stood in the shadows of the mews behind a house just off Grosvenor Square. Dusk had finally come upon them and now night was drawing a thick curtain over London. Here and there candles were being lit and the street lighters were making their rounds. But here, behind a large house, the alleyway was all shadows. “I doubt me being a Flemish housebreaker is going to save my neck if we get nicked.”

He turned and faced her. “If we get ‘nicked.' Listen to you. Next you'll be telling me your family is full of smugglers and spies.”

An odd look passed over her face, but then she laughed a little and shrugged his suggestion off. “Listen to me? Listen to you! Smugglers, indeed.” She glanced away as she finished, “Of all the ridiculous notions.”

“Still, you'll do exactly as I say,” he continued. “Or else I will cart you back to the carriage and deposit you in the middle of Seven Dials . . . Where I am inclined to believe you most likely belong.”

“Of all the insulting—­” She began to move past him toward the gate, but he caught her by the arm and pulled her up short.

“My way or else,” he told her.

“This is my plan,” she continued, doggedly refusing to give in.

“Your plan, but I would remind you it is my neck you are risking.” He took a furtive glance up and down the dark mews.
And his reputation . . . And his familial relations. . .

“My neck as well,” she pointed out.

“And a pretty one it is. I would prefer not to see it stretched.”

“No wonder you don't have a mistress,” she whispered. “That was a terrible compliment.”

“It wasn't intended as one. When I compliment you, you'll know it.” He edged up to the gate and opened the door. “Now, no more arguments. Agreed?”

She nodded.

“Good. I shall go first, and you will do exactly as I say.”

“If I must,” she muttered as he slid silently into the shadowed yard beyond.

“You must,” he shot over his shoulder.

“Tyrant.”

“I heard that,” he replied as he made his way along the wall to the side of the house.

She followed, and to her credit, quietly and without any further arguments. It was almost as if stealth and thievery were in her blood.

When they got to a window, he paused, studying the frames that ran on either side and the ones above them—­all of which were dark.

“No one appears to be home,” she said, albeit a bit begrudgingly.

“No one is,” he told her, as he ever so slowly began opening the window before them.

“However did you know—­?”

As he pushed it open the rest of the way, he explained, “I noticed the window wasn't barred a few nights ago during a supper party.”

“You know the owner?” she asked, trying not to sound overly scandalized.

“You might say that,” he admitted, as he hoisted himself up and through the now open window. Then he leaned over the sill and offered her his hand.

Her fingers wound around his—­she was such a contradiction in so many ways, but the strength in her hands spoke of a fortitude behind her impulsive, madcap notions—­and he pulled her up and in.

Of course she landed right in his arms, tumbling into his grasp like a whirlwind.

How was it Birdie always ended up so? In his arms . . . Up against him . . .

Where she belongs
, Fate seemed to whisper in his ear.

Damn Mrs. Spenser and her confounding assurances of Fate.

Birdie took her time finding her footing, one hand clinging to the sleeve of his coat, the other shaking out her skirt. Every time she rustled against him, his body seemed to grow tighter.

This demmed clamoring need to have her was waking up and making unreasonable demands.

The house is empty, after all.

Kingsley gulped for a bit of air.

“Hardly seems like much of a break-­in when you know the owner,” she was saying, “knew the window was unlocked, and have it on good authority that no one is home.”

Yes, well, there was that. He had rather hoped she'd just be satisfied getting into the house and having a bit of a look around and wouldn't start putting that sharp and inquisitive mind of hers to work.

“Excellent planning is what I call it,” he told her. Better that than the truth.

He had no doubts there would be the devil to pay if she realized whose house she'd just broken into.

Oh, yes, he could very well imagine the choice words she'd have for his deception.

Right now he had a few words of his own—­for having her in his arms was working its own dangerous witchery on his senses, and he couldn't help himself as he brushed a stray strand of her hair off her cheek, carefully tucking it back up into the loose knot at the back of her neck.

She stilled as his fingers traced a lazy trail down the line of her jaw; he paused there and let his finger curl under her chin, tipping it up and dipping his head down to take the one thing he wanted more than anything.

Her
.

A
rabella dodged Kingsley's seductive attempt, slipping from his arms. For a moment, she'd stood there mesmerized, like a sleeping princess awaiting a knight's kiss to awaken her, but Mrs. Spenser's haunting warning was what prodded her to step away.

. . .
once you've lost your heart, you won't have the resolve to do what must be done.

She just wouldn't let it come to that. Truly, it was that simple.

“If the house is empty,” she began, hoping her voice didn't tremble in the same uneven way her heart was pattering, “then perhaps we should take a look around before we leave.”

“You want a tour?” He needn't sound so incredulous. “That is all you meant to do once you got in here? Look around like a country tourist?”

“Hardly,” she replied, because, in all honesty, she truly hadn't thought much beyond just getting in. “But I have no need for someone else's silver or jewels. Or whatever it is thieves take.”

“Then what do you want, my mysterious little minx,” he said in a deep, husky voice that purred down her spine. Every note, every word teased her to confess.

What do you want?

Arabella laid her hand on the edge of the grand table and steadied herself. Holland cloths covered everything else in the room, hiding them away from prying eyes.

What do you want?
The question prodded at her.

For what she really, truly wanted was impossible.

Wasn't it?

“As I said, we aren't here to commit any crimes,” she pointed out. “I merely asked you to help me break in.”

Kingsley laughed at her. “Some thief you make. And I would note, breaking in is a crime.”

“I suppose it might be viewed that way,” she admitted, realizing now the utter folly of her request. For here they were, in what appeared to be an elegantly appointed house, all alone.

Alone.

Oh, that was folly indeed. Dangerous and reckless.

Arabella panicked a bit. “Well, if we aren't going to take a tour, I suppose there is nothing left to do but have you return me home.” She turned back toward the open window. The one that led to a much safer place.

A cold, dark alleyway.

Behind her, Kingsley's reply was a tempting whisper. “If that really is what you want.”

It wasn't.
The realization hit her so hard, she was glad she was still close enough to the table to reach for it. For once the major returned her, she'd never see him again. He'd drive away, turn a corner, and be nothing more than a memory.

Like the fading notes of Mrs. Spenser's rare perfume. There, and then gone.

Suddenly Arabella knew exactly what the lady had been telling her. Warning her.

The deeper one inhales, the more one is entwined. Caught. Trapped.

“You do realize the house is empty,” he was saying as he came a bit closer. “Ours for as long as we want.”

“
Want?
” Oh, bother! There was that word again. Arabella tried to breathe. Tried to tell herself, convince herself, she wanted for nothing.

Yet that was no longer the case. She'd spent the entire day with Kingsley, brushing up against him in the narrow seat of the curricle, strolling about the field at the match, her fingers curled into the curve of his muscled arm, and then there had been the bower . . .

No. She mustn't think about the bower, his kiss . . .

But how could she not when it had awakened her to something as rare as that bewitching concoction in that bejeweled pot.

Her gaze flew up to meet Kingsley's. His dark, moody eyes pulled her deeper into a dangerous abyss. “I think a tour wouldn't be amiss. We've come this far, haven't we?”

“Adding to the terms of our agreement?” he teased, stalking around the table.