Mad About the Major (6 page)

“Scalawag?” He didn't appear affronted. More like amused.

“Yes, most decidedly.”

“Did you just come to that conclusion?” he asked.

“No,” she hemmed a bit. “My father referred to you as such.” She paused for a moment. “Actually, he did so several times over the last week. And having become reacquainted with you, I think he is correct. Scalawag rather fits.”

She thought once again of her lost reticule.

“My father would probably agree. He thinks me quite the—­”

“Are you changing the subject?”

“Am I?” Apparently he'd thought she wouldn't notice.

“Yes. I want to go there”—­she pointed again at the sheet—­“and you promised. That is my first choice for the day.”

“You can't be serious?” He glanced over at the broadsheet.

Wilson the Irish Bulldog v. Cormack the Giant

Boxing Match of the Century

Crampton Downs

Now it was her turn to raise a lofty pair of brows in challenge.

“You are.” He sank in his seat a bit as if he wasn't too sure what to do next. “Might I point out that ladies are not seen in such places? A boxing match, indeed!”

“You asked me where I wanted to go, and I told you. Are you going back on our agreement?”

His jaw worked back and forth and she could tell he didn't like his honor being called into question. “You can't go like that,” he said, waving a hand over her.

“What? Without my gloves?”

“No, like a lady,” he told her. “You'll stand out. Proper ladies do not go to such places.”

“Oh, so now I am proper lady?” She crossed her arms over her chest.

“If you weren't, we'd have settled the matter of my boon a sennight ago.”

Yes, well, he had her there.

Nor was he done. “The only women who go to boxing matches are the ones who are . . . are  . . .” Now it was his turn to stammer over semantics.

“Are?”

“Available,” he finally said.

“Available?”

He waggled his brows at her and leaned over as if he were going to steal a kiss.

Her eyes widened. “Oh, no!” She shoved her elbow into his ribs, sending him back to his side of the carriage. “Truly, I can't go dressed in this gown?”

He shook his head.

“Oh, bother. It is the first stare of fashion, but then I suppose at a boxing match, fashion is hardly of interest.”

“No, decidedly not.” How much a man could mill his opponent, how much one had wagered on the champ, and who had a ready bottle, yes, those were of interest.

“Then I suppose there is no way around it,” she said with a sigh, as she glanced down at her gown.

“No, I'm afraid in that rig you would stand out,” he agreed, his smug tone implying she should choose a more sedate adventure.

“Stand out? No, I mustn't do that,” she agreed, looking around. “Oh, do stop the carriage—­right over there.” She pointed at the nearby corner. And once again, he barely had the horses paused before she jumped down. “Don't go anywhere. I'll be right back.”

K
ingsley shook his head. What sort of trouble was she up to now?

Then he took a good look at the establishment she'd rushed to enter and he had one of those moments of premonition that had served him so well all those years in Spain.

That sense that disaster was right at hand.

She wouldn't
, he told himself.
No, she wouldn't dare. . .

Then he remembered, she hadn't any money—­her reticule had been taken, as had her ring. He sat back in his seat and smiled, feeling both relief and a bit of triumph.

Penniless, there was little she could do in such a shop. She'd be exiting any moment.

At least he kept telling himself that as he waited . . . and waited . . . and waited.

Then just when he was about to climb down and go inside to see what trouble she'd gotten herself mired into this time, a stunning creature in a red-­trimmed gown stepped out the door.

If the red color wasn't enough to catch the eye, it was the lady herself who left him breathless—­a red and paisley hat with a wide lacy brim that left him unable to make out her features, but he could see her full lips set in a wry smile. And why shouldn't this magnificent creature be smiling—­for she very well knew how her gown dipped low to reveal a full bosom. One that teased a man to take a second glance.

Then this unlikely Paragon stopped before him. “Well, Kingsley, are you going to help me up?”

He blinked. Then he stared. Then he just gaped in shock.

Good God! She hadn't?

Oh, but she had.

“Birdie?”

“Well, who else would I be, you goose? Now be a gentleman, come down and help me up. This gown wasn't made for dashing about.”

No, it was made for catching a man's eye. Inviting him to let his gaze linger and his thoughts consider what it would be like to remove it.

“How did you . . . I mean, you hadn't any . . . Good God, Birdie! What did you do?”

He scrambled down and came around the carriage, glancing around to see if anyone else had seen her. Then he handed her up and got back in his seat even as she was tucking a bundle beneath the seat. “Whatever are you wearing?”

“You said my gown wasn't proper for a boxing match, so I acquired one that is. This will do, won't it? I look quite the Cyprian.” She tipped her head just so, and smiled so her lips rose only slightly, a knowing sort of glance that no innocent miss should have mastered.

“How . . . How?” he managed.

“My pearl ear bobs,” she confided, one hand rising to her now bare earlobe. “I traded them.” She shrugged at their loss, but then adjusted her grand hat and smiled anew. “I've never worn red before.”

“You should,” he said without thinking, immediately regretting the hasty confession for it only managed to encourage her.

“I should?” she asked, preening a bit.

“Assuredly,” he muttered.

“False compliments will not gain you any additional boons,” she informed him, once again the proper miss.

“Believe me, in that gown you will be fending off compliments of all sorts. And believe me, they will all be seeking boons.”

A
s they left the cobbled streets and close-­knit houses of London, Kingsley's companion brightened noticeably. She tipped her hat back to let the sun fall on her face—­having no missish reserve about a chance of freckles. When all that could heard was the clip-­clop of the horses' hooves, and larks and robins singing in the hedges, she leaned back and grinned, as content as a cat in the creamery.

But not so content as to remain silent.

“What sort of heroisms did you perpetuate?”

The question came out of nowhere and took Kingsley aback. “Excuse me?”

“You said earlier your days of heroism were behind you.”

He glanced over at her. “I did, didn't I?” Then he went back to driving.

And for a while, they ambled along in silence, the road continuing to give way to the green English countryside.

“Care to elaborate?” she prodded.

Kingsley turned to her. “Care to tell me where you live?”

Her lips pursed together. But not for long. “We cannot drive along in complete silence.”

“Whyever not?”

Birdie heaved a sigh. “If one is to be considered good company, they should provide some sort of conversation.”

“Excellent,” he agreed. “Shall we discuss who your father is? Or perhaps, where we might find him?”

Her brow furrowed into a dark line. Apparently not a subject she approved of. So he tried again.

“What? Don't those subjects meet with your approval?”

She shot him a hot, scathing glance.

Kingsley shrugged. “Very well then. What finishing school in Bath did you attend?”

“However did you know—­” she admitted, before she realized what she had just said.

“Aha!” he barked in triumph. “You went to finishing school, Miss Birdie. Three years of curtsying and—­”

“I only went for a year,” she huffed.

“A year? What happened?” He grinned at her. “Landed in the suds, did we?”

“I don't care to discuss the matter.”

“I would. Whatever did you do?” Now he was the one who not only warmed to the subject but brightened.

“Perhaps you were right before. Silence
is
a better companion.”

“Hardly. Not when you have such a secret.”

She glanced away, as if the passing scenery had taken a delightful and engaging turn.

“You argued with the mistress,” he ventured.

She waved him off, as if such a thing was trifling and far beneath her.

“You got caught trying to sneak out,” he proposed.

She sniffed. “I never got caught.”

“Never?”

Again, the only answer he received was a scathing glance.

“Now, whyever would a young lady sneak out of her proper school? I can't think of a single reason,” he posed, tugging at his chin as if the answer, any answer, eluded him.

“Excellent,” she replied. “Then shall we discuss your heroics?”

Kingsley snorted. “Not until you tell me who it was you were sneaking out to meet.”

Her mouth fell open and just as quickly snapped shut. But the most telling evidence was the deep blush that rose up on her cheeks.

They were coming around a sharp bend in the road and as they turned, the infamous view of Sir Hubert's grand mansion rose before them like the Taj Mahal.

“The horror of that monstrosity never ceases to amaze me,” Birdie declared, making a point of looking in the opposite direction.

Kingsley had the sense that she was testing him, for in some circles Sir Hubert's house was considered a masterpiece of luxury. The knighted merchant, who'd made his fortune in India and returned to England wealthy beyond imagination and completely lacking in taste, was fond of saying about his homage to every architectural style from the Nile to Peking, from the Greeks to the current Romantic mania, “It is the finest erection to be found.”

“He had the right notion with the columns,” Kingsley told her. “At least with the first four.”

Her brow furrowed as she looked back at the house and then at him. As she realized exactly what he was saying, she grinned. “It's unfortunate he didn't stop at the fourth. For they are the finest columns to be found.”

They laughed together and quickly launched into a discussion of all that was wrong with Sir Hubert's hubris and architecture and art, and the miles fell away as Kingsley related some of the fantastic and wild structures he had seen in his travels. Paris. The Alps. Venice. Rome.

“I would love to see the sun rise over the mountains, like you described,” Birdie said, a wistful note to her words.

“Don't think to add that to your list,” he teased. Yet despite his own warning, his imagination conjured up an image of her standing there atop a ridge, smiling coyly over her shoulder as the first rays of morning light burst over the ragged horizon. Kingsley tamped such a tempting vision down. “We haven't time today.”

“No, I suppose not,” she agreed, slanting an equally wistful glance up at him as if she had been pondering just that notion.

Take her to the Alps, indeed. “Not even to Paris,” he added.

And that time it was more for himself.

 

C
HAPTER 5

A
s they pulled into the field where the boxing match was to be held, Arabella rose up in her seat and surveyed the grand sight before her, images of Paris and the Alps fading from her thoughts.

For here it was, her first adventure. And such a sight it was.

The wide downs were filled with carriages and men, along with an array of canopies that had been thrown up here and there. It was like a large country fair, and her heart hammered with excitement.

And something else. She couldn't help glancing over her shoulder at the road that had brought them here—­the one that led back to London. Where her family was most likely sick with worry over her disappearance. She bit her lips together and suppressed a sharp feeling of guilt.

Then again, how many times had Great-­Aunt Josephine disappeared on her own and everyone always assumed she'd find her way home. Had for decades.

Yes, that was it, she told herself. She was merely following in her scandalous relation's footsteps.

Still, looking around the vast crowds, Arabella felt a frisson of something else.

A shiver of fear.

She'd never been anywhere where she wasn't surrounded by family or servants or close friends. And now all she had with her was this man. This stranger. This Kingsley.

She supposed this would be nothing to her independent milkmaid, but to her—­the daughter of a duke, sheltered and kept well away from anything that could be called common—­well, Arabella suspected she might be in over her head.

Oh, not in the same way she'd been at the bakeshop, but . . .

“I cannot wait to see Wilson's uppercut,” she told Kingsley, tamping aside her fears and regrets. “It is said he learned it from Dutch Sam. Well, he experienced it at the hands of Dutch Sam. That wily fellow planted a most excellent facer on Wilson last year that left him down after forty-­seven rounds.”

“Truly?” Kingsley remarked absently, for he was, as she had been, surveying the scene, and from the way his brow was drawn together, it was obvious he was not as pleased by the sight before them as she was.

“No, I won't,” he said, adjusting the reins in his grasp. “I cannot.”

She caught hold of his sleeve. “Whatever do you mean, ‘I cannot'? Why, I hardly think a single afternoon of boxing will be my undoing—­” Then she glanced down at her own hand atop his sleeve and pulled it back.

“It isn't the match,” he told her sharply, “but the company.” He waved his hand out over the crowd before them

“What? A bunch of London toffs?” Arabella sniffed.

“Those toffs are going to take one look at you and decide you are a much more interesting sight than the one in the ring.”

“Bah!” she scoffed. “In your company, no one will dare bother me.” She nodded toward an opening in the line of waiting carriages.

He still didn't look convinced.

“I will do whatever you ask, Kingsley,” she told him. Pleaded, really. Oh, to be so close to an actual boxing match and not be able to see it—­well, that was worse than just having to content herself with reading about the matches in
The Sporting Magazine
.

“Whatever I say?” he asked.

“Oh, yes!” she promised. “I will be a paragon of obedience.”

Again he snorted, but he did move the carriage off the road and handed the reins to one of the local lads who came to the matches just to manage the horses and make a few extra coins. After flipping the lad a bob, Kingsley climbed down and caught hold of her, swinging her free from the carriage.

Arabella landed against him—­her feet tangling in her elaborate hem—­and she had to catch hold of his jacket until she could find her footing.

It was a dangerous place to find herself. Back in his arms, her hands splayed across his chest.

She could feel his heart, beating soundly beneath her palm. Strong and sure.

His heat, a whiff of bay soap, leather, and horses, and all the things that made a man so very different from a woman surrounded her. Left her feeling far more vulnerable than she ever had.

She was trusting this man with . . . well, with everything. Her reputation. Her safety.

Her heart.

Her breath stopped in her chest. Where had that thought come from?

She didn't dare look up at him. Get lost in those eyes of his—­the way they seemed to smoke with desire. With tempting lights from faraway places meant to lure her onto paths into the unknown.

His arm curved around her hip as he steadied her, his other hand playfully batting at the ridiculous collection of plumes atop her bonnet. She wanted to lean in so their bodies were nearly joined. She wanted . . .

Oh, goodness, she didn't know what she wanted.

All this was so intimate and playful, as if they were meant to be thus—­together. Together traveling about the Continent. Exploring Paris. Pottering about Rome.

Just them. Just the two of them where no one could dictate their future, their days, their hearts.

But that was impossible and best not dwelt upon, Arabella realized.

Instead, with a determined air, she stepped back and away from him. Shook out her skirt and straightened her bonnet, all the while willing her heart to stop pounding in such a haphazard fashion.

“Whatever could go wrong?” she managed, her mouth dry and the fateful words nearly choking her, even as she finally got the nerve to look up at him, caught instantly in the heat of his gaze.

Trapped. Bound. Yes, that was it.
Bound
.

For she felt as if there was an invisible thread between them, weaving them closer, pulling with it desires unknown.

As she shivered, she changed her mind. No, make it a chain. A heavy, unbreakable binding.

A thread she could snap. But this . . .

This heat, this promise, it would not go unanswered for long. For here he was, stepping closer to her, his head tipping down as if he was about to kiss her, his hand reaching for hers . . .

Not that they had much time to discover what could come next, for Kingsley's arrival hadn't gone unnoticed.

“Ho there!” called out a voice. “Kingsley! Is that truly you?”

Arabella felt, rather than saw, Kingsley flinch.

“Or should I say Major Kingsley?” came the query.

Major?
she mouthed at him.

“Not a word out of you,” he told her. More like warned her. More to the point, he stepped back from her, putting a bit of distance between them, so that whatever had bound them together moments earlier snapped.

“Not a word,” he repeated.

Arabella shivered. There was so much she didn't know about him. “But—­”

Kingsley's dark brow furrowed into a hard line. “Speak a word and we go back to London.”

She pressed her lips together and nodded.

Kingsley, make that Major Kingsley, turned around. “Rollins? You devil, whatever are you doing here?”

“Rare luck,” Rollins declared, extending a hand and taking Kingsley's in a furious and exuberant shake. “Not often I come up to London, but had a need to see my man of business and a certain lady—­” the fellow said with a laugh, until his glance lit on Arabella. Then, if it was possible, the newcomer's smile widened, his eyes glowing with mischief. “What have we here, Kingsley?”

Kingsley glanced over his shoulder at Arabella. “An acquaintance of mine.”

“Acquaintance, indeed. She's a Diamond, you devil. Madame, I am Rollins,” he said pushing Kingsley aside and taking up Arabella's hand, bringing her fingers to his eager lips. “Whoever might you be?”

She was about to open her mouth, but Kingsley stopped that.

“Don't bother, my good man. Doesn't speak a bit of English.”

Rollins drew back at this news. “Doesn't—­”

“Not a word,” Kingsley lied convincingly, adding a woeful shake of his head that would have served him well on the stage.

“You are a rare one,” Rollins laughed. “Most fellows who were at Waterloo brought back French sabers or some gaudy piece of art they claim is a Rubens, but not you.” Again Rollins whistled. “You bring back a French masterpiece.” He turned to her. “Excuse my confusion before. Oh, mademoiselle—­” he began, launching into a long-­winded speech in schoolboy French which he obviously hadn't used since his university days, given the way he mangled his pronunciation.

Again Arabella went to open her mouth, for she did speak fluent French, but Kingsley was too quick for her.

“Stop torturing that poor tongue of yours,” he told Rollins. “She doesn't speak French either.”

Now both Rollins and Arabella shot him puzzled glances.

“This is Klara, and she's Flemish. You don't speak Flemish, do you?” Kingsley asked his friend, taking Arabella's fingers out of the man's grasp and winding her hand around his forearm.

“Not a demmed word,” the man admitted. “Still, she must have learned a few—­”

Kingsley shook his head, but his eyes were all merriment, as if he was letting his friend in on the latest
on dit
. “Happily, she hasn't a bit of wit to her. Finds English utterly baffling.”

Oh, the wretched devil! Arabella's eyes flew open and her mouth was about to as well, but Kingsley's brows arched ever so slightly at her.

Do as I say
, he silently reminded her.

Arabella had a thousand retorts just blistering her tongue, but the lure of the boxing match held her from unleashing them. That, and her estimation of this man continued to shift.

Major Kingsley
.

He'd fought at Waterloo.

This rogue wouldn't be able to put off a discussion on heroics now that she had the truth of it. Well, a piece. A hint.

She slanted another glance at him, holding back a peppering of questions, for he had caught hold of her hand and folded it into the crook of his arm.

“Surprised to see you here,” Rollins began as the three of them started across the downs. He spoke over Arabella's head as if she was the witless and English-­challenged piece Kingsley claimed her to be. “Had heard you were to be married.”

If being called witless wasn't enough, this was news of another sort. It was all she could do not to swivel her gaze up to his and then demand answers.

Kingsley was to be married? Was that where he had been going when she'd bumped into him earlier?

To his wedding?

She and Rollins both looked to him for answers.

“Country gossip,” Kingsley told Rollins in a lofty, offhanded manner.

“Good news that,” his friend declared. “Would be sad to see you have to set up your nursery so soon after returning. Though did expect you back sooner.”

“I stayed for the peace talks then did a bit of poking about. France, the Alps, Rome.”

“Old ruins, I imagine,” Rollins said with a laugh. “Fusty art. Hiking with the natives. You've always been an odd one.”

To Arabella it hadn't sounded odd—­no, it had sounded heavenly.

“Also heard you were shot,” Rollins remarked.

“I was.”

Arabella nearly tripped, but Kingsley held her steady. He'd been shot? Where? When?

That he'd recovered was obvious, but Arabella's heart clenched at the thought of him being struck by a bullet.

Yet the finality behind his brief answer made it clear it wasn't a subject that Kingsley was going to explain, and Rollins was enough of a gentleman not to ask.

But that didn't stop a whirlwind of questions from turning inside Arabella.

So Kingsley was Major Kingsley . . . which meant he was a gentleman.

He'd fought at Waterloo. Been wounded. And now was slated to be married.

And given the flinch that had rippled through him like a slice from a saber, she had to imagine it wasn't a union of his choosing.

Whoever was he supposed to be marrying?

Hardly anyone of substance since she hadn't heard of him or any prattle of a match to him.

Her mouth pressed together. What a vexing puzzle.

But no more vexing than this Rollins, who persisted in their company. For as long as he remained beside them, Arabella was forced to hold her tongue.

“So she's Flemish, you say,” Rollins remarked, examining Arabella again like one might a racing filly.

If he put his hand on her withers, or anywhere else, she was going to demonstrate exactly what she knew of an uppercut.

“Yes, Flemish,” Kingsley said, winking at her as if it were the grandest joke he'd ever heard.

Oh, he could grin and flirt all he wanted, but she was going to pay him back for all this.

With interest.

Even if she had promised to follow his lead.

Though she certainly hadn't promised to be a witless Flemish prostitute.

“Probably much cheaper than some French bird,” Rollins noted.

Well, she couldn't stop her cheeks from flaming, but she could tip her hat so the wide brim hid the telltale scarlet of her embarrassment.

Oh, of all the humiliations to suffer. Now she was to be a bargain piece as well?

“That is yet to be seen,” Kingsley said over her enormous bonnet, once again swatting at the plumes, and both men laughed.

Arabella did not. After all, she didn't speak English. Besides that, she was fuming so hotly, she wondered if she could have gotten out a coherent sentence as it was.

But then she had her revenge. “Must go place my bet on Cormack,” Rollins said, as if suddenly remembering why he was here. “Have it on good authority that is where the winning purse will fall.”

Rollins gave her one more look, then did the unbelievable; he slapped her on her backside, and grinned at her. “You are a most excellent piece, Klara” he said, loudly, as if his added volume would make it intelligible to her. “Flemish!” the man declared to no one in particular with a delighted bit of wonder. “Who knew?” Then Rollins laughed again and hurried toward one of the tables where bets were being tallied.