Mad About the Major (5 page)

Her aunt, on the other hand, had never concealed her feelings for her niece, looking upon Arabella as a poor recompense for the loss of a beloved sister.

And no matter how many times Papa had told her that her mother's passing hadn't been her fault, the ring had been a daily reminder that the rest of the world thought otherwise.

“Yes, well, with it gone, I needn't worry about losing it,” she told him.

Because indeed, her hand and her heart did feel lighter without it.

 

C
HAPTER 4

“S
o I have saved you from a reckoning,” her rescuer observed as he picked up the reins and began to drive again.

“Yes, I suppose so.” It nearly did Arabella in to admit as much.

“Then you owe me a boon.”

Her head swiveled. “A what?”

“A boon. A favor.” He waggled his brows at her, his eyes filled with mirth. It gave him a boyish charm that he didn't deserve. For it made him altogether irresistible.

Arabella looked away. “I know what a boon is, but I hardly see how you've earned one.” Truly, he was as insufferable as he was handsome.

“I saved you from certain doom,” he pointed out as they drove past the now disappointed pair of sharps.

“You didn't save my reticule,” she pointed out.

“I told you to stay put,” he reminded her.

“I would think as a gentleman—­which you claim to be—­that such an act would be done without expecting a favor in return.”

“I
am
a gentleman—­” he insisted.

“If you say,” she muttered under her breath, still smarting from his earlier comment about her own standing as a lady.

As it was, the rogue ignored her. “Gentleman or not, I think I am due a boon. Rescuing you from the street could very well have put me in harm's way.”

“You did nothing more than sit in this carriage and laugh at my misfortune,” she pointed out.

“Be that as it may, I was here if you truly needed me. And I might point out, you insisted you could take care of yourself.”

It was rather humiliating to realize how little she knew of being on her own. She glanced around the streets before her and knew that navigating them without protection might not be the best choice.

She needed an escort. A guide. A rogue. Looking again at the man beside her, her gaze narrowed. “What sort of favor?”

“Say we finish what we nearly started the other night at the ball.”

Arabella stilled. Certainly he wasn't suggesting . . .

Then again, this was the same man who'd traced his fingers over her with a practiced air and proposed that she . . .

Well, never mind what he'd proposed.
That
wasn't going to happen.

But she knew this: she needed him. Not that she wanted to admit as much. So she feigned an air of indifference. “You said a great many things that night. I barely remember—­”

“Liar. The blush on your cheeks says otherwise.”

She pursed her lips together. Did he have to sound so confident? So sure of himself? Never mind that he was right.

Actually, every night since the ball, she'd lain in the quiet of her lonely room and tallied up everything he'd suggested, how he'd touched her, where he'd stroked her, one by one, like one might count a string of pearls.

I'll trace my tongue over you, again and again . . . I'll fill you . . . stroke you . . . I'll tease you until you come quaking beneath me. . .

She did her best to cool the heat rising on her cheeks and when she glanced over at him she came to a shocking realization. “Now? In the middle of the day? Why, that is impossible.”

“Shows you how much you know,” he teased.

Oh, she knew. She was forever walking in on Papa and Elinor in some passionate embrace in the library or the hallway as if they were the only two ­people in the world.

Late at night, in the shadows of the halls. And in the middle of the day. As if the secret world they shared was indiscernible to anyone but them.

A world she knew nothing about, and yet the man beside her did.

Tonight, my sweet, I'll fill you, leave you gasping. . .

He couldn't expect such a boon, could he?

When Arabella slanted a glance at this fellow, what with his dark eyes and thick brown hair, all she could imagine was him finishing what he'd been about to do that night—­kiss her; no, make that devour her.

The very thought left her mouth dry, sent her very Tremont blood on its own wild course.

Heavens, if her stuffy, all-­too-­proper father was willing to have scandalous preludes in the middle of the day . . . what would a rake like this want to do?

“Do stop looking at me as if I mean to ruin you here on Oxford Street in front of everyone,” he said. “That isn't what I meant.”

“It isn't?” she asked, hoping she didn't sound as disappointed as she suddenly felt. No matter how much her curiosity tugged at her to discover just why a kiss could turn a perfectly sane person into a madcap fool.

But there was something else to consider. If she truly wanted this day, her own London holiday, she needed help.

His help.

Even as a wild, misguided plan slowly formed in her thoughts, Arabella began to speak. “I will grant you your boon—­”

“You'll wha-­a-­a-­t—­?”

Apparently not the answer he'd been expecting. “If—­” she began.

“If?”

“Yes, if you help me with a rather complicated matter.”

“Haven't I already accomplished that?”

“Yes, but I wouldn't be in the straits I am in, if the other night you hadn't—­”

“Yes, yes, we've already established my fault in all that—­”

“And because I have come to realize that I may not be as prepared as I thought—­”

“Unprepared? You? Truly?”

Her nose poked a bit higher, prodded by his teasing. “Yes,” she conceded. “It might be true that I don't know London as well as I ought—­”

This time he didn't tease. He snorted. “Might?”

“Are you going to argue with me on every point or hear the terms of my agreement?”

He chuckled a bit. “Aha! Your father isn't a
cit
, he's a lawyer.”

She sniffed with disdain and imagined the second black eye her father would give him for such an insult. “He's no such thing. Why would you say that?”

“Oh, no reason.” He chuckled. “Your terms, my fair milkmaid?”

“I have two—­no, make that three things I would like to do today. And if you are willing to escort me, then I will grant you a . . . a . . .” Oh, bother she couldn't say it.

For in her mind's eye, her imagination ran wild. At least until she squared her shoulders and did her utmost to set aside such scandalous thoughts.

Oh, bother, if she was going to take charge of her day, then she'd demmed well better be upfront about it.

“Your boon,” she forced out. When his eyes lit up with that same lascivious light that had lured her outside last night, she hastily added, “But only a kiss.”

Wasn't it as Papa always said? The devil is in the details.

One kiss and only one kiss.

Yes, that would be sufficient.

Wouldn't it?

“Three things you would like to do,” he began, adjusting the ribbons in his hands. “Sounds rather mythical.”

“I don't need a hero,” she told him. “Just an escort.”

“Good to know,” he told her. “My days of heroism are well behind me.”

K
ingsley glanced over at the gamine bit of muslin next to him and knew there was one thing he certainly couldn't do.

Let her go.

And not because he wanted her or her kiss.

Not in the least.

Oh, she was fetching enough—­those wide blue eyes, that fair skin, and worse, because he'd held her, he knew exactly the lines and curves beneath her gown. What held him back was a liveliness to her that seemed to bubble just beneath the surface, as if being held back by a low flame.

It sparked in her eyes, it teased at her lips when she smiled. And he had a feeling that when she laughed, when something truly amused her, it had that infectious sort of quality that made everyone else around her smile, want to share in her mischief.

So yes, she intrigued him. But that was all she could be.

An intriguing bit of muslin.

More to the point, he could hardly let this chit loose in London. She'd end up being robbed of everything right down to her boots, or worse, end up in some Seven Dials whorehouse.

Beside him, she was muttering again. “Oh, bother!”

“What is it?”

“You're traveling somewhere,” she said, nodding over her shoulder at the valise and trunk strapped to the back of his curricle. “And here I thought you were free for the day.”

“Yes, well—­” he began, looking at the reminders of what was ahead of him.

Kingsley did his best not to shudder—­for if he was being honest, he was in the same sort of scrape she was. He didn't want to go home.

He'd been avoiding this trip for days, but when yesterday's summons had arrived, borne in hand by his father's long-­suffering secretary—­complete with a secondhand lecture on familial duties long-­neglected—­he'd had no choice but to pack up his bags and turn his carriage toward Sussex.

That, and he was broke. His inheritance from his grandfather was gone. He'd managed to live on it all these years—­avoiding any indebtedness to his father—­though it hadn't been a fortune to begin with, and with it spent, so was his freedom.

At least the bruise around his eye was now fading, so his mother wouldn't fuss over his less-­than-­perfect appearance and give his father more evidence of his “unruly state.”

“I would never have asked, if I'd—­” she told him, making a small sigh as she looked back at the valise.

“Yes, well, it isn't all that important—­” Kingsley took another look at the trunk. After all, how long could her three tasks take? The errands of an innocent miss? Most likely he'd find himself having to endure traipsing past the animals at the Tower. Or perhaps a show at Astley's Circus. Most likely, some shopping on Bond Street. Ices at Gunter's.

He'd be done by teatime and whatever pique had set her off to abandon her home and family would be abated by then so he could set her down at her doorstep and still make it home to the Abbey before supper was finished.

His mother did like to make a long-­winded production of the evening meal.

Certainly if he arrived in the afternoon as he'd planned, that would only give his parents additional hours to go on and on about the paragon they'd chosen for him to marry.

Or he could trim away some of that needless nagging and spend the day with this troublesome minx.

And if he were willing to admit it, he rather liked the idea of spending the day with her.

“I suppose I could help you,” he offered slowly. Immediately her face brightened, that impetuous smile on her lips enticing him to consider that perhaps a day wouldn't be enough. “Yet there is one problem—­”

“There is?”

“I don't know your name.”

She stilled immediately, her smile shifting as she bit her lips shut. Even her bright eyes narrowed in alarm.

“Your name? You have one, don't you?” he teased.

This was enough to goad her into giving up some hint of who she might be. “Birdie. My family calls me Birdie.”

He supposed a nickname was better than nothing. “Birdie, then. Nice to meet you.”

She nodded, then she looked at him.

Oh, yes, he needed to give up something as well. A name. At least one of his. He certainly wasn't going to give her his real name. She could turn out to be yet another pretty face looking to raise her standing in society with an advantageous marriage. He'd been all but mobbed when he'd first come to Town years ago.

And that had been one of the myriad of reasons why he'd joined up once he'd discovered just what lengths a miss might go to gain a lofty title. At the time, the French had seemed an easier adversary.

So he used the name that had gotten him into the army without detection. The one that had served him all these years. The one his friends found so amusing.

“Kingsley,” he told her. His maternal grandfather's name. For it had been the old codger who had bought him his commission when his father had refused.

“Kingsley,” she said, as if trying it out. “Just Kingsley?”

He knew what she was asking. Was he a lordling, an honorable, a sir, or perhaps some sort of heir with an honorific attached to this moniker? Well, if she wasn't going to be forthcoming, neither was he.

“Just Kingsley will do.”

“Excellent, Just Kingsley,” she teased in return. “Do we have a bargain?”

“Indeed we do,” he told her, pulling off one of his driving gloves and sticking out his hand.

She took his great big paw in hers, her bare fingers slipping into his grasp, and he was struck with how her hand fit into his. The trust and innocence that was even now being placed into his grasp.

Into his protection.

“Let's be at it,” he told her, letting go of her hand, for suddenly the magnitude of what he was being entrusted with became a bit overwhelming. “Where to first?”

“W
here were we?” Arabella asked, smoothing her hands over her skirt. Silently his name ran through her thoughts as she recalled how it had been to have him holding her hand.

Kingsley.

Hardly the name of a desperate rogue, she had to imagine, but then again, she couldn't recall ever having heard it in Society. When she looked up, she found him gazing at her inquisitively. “Oh, yes. My three choices of where I would like to go.”

“Seven Dials?” he ventured.

“No, you ninny,” she shot back. “I want to go—­” She looked around and then spotted a broadsheet identical to the one she'd seen a day or so ago. “I want to go there,” she told him firmly, pointing at the sheet flapping in the breeze.

He looked over in that direction and squinted. “You want to go see a shipment of Danish flutes?”

Arabella did a double take, and there indeed above her choice was a listing from a recent ship, but that was hardly what she wanted to do, on this, her last day of freedom. “No, you scalawag, the advertisement below it.”