Mad About the Major (7 page)

Kingsley doubled over. Not with just a friendly chuckle, but a deep, rolling bark of a laugh that rumbled out of him in delighted triumph.

Meanwhile, Arabella rubbed her stinging backside. “Was that necessary?” she demanded now that Rollins was well out of earshot.

“I thought so,” Kingsley told her between guffaws.

“Truly?” Arabella struck a puffed-­up pose and did her best imitation of him. “She doesn't speak a word of English.”

“I thought it quite inspired.”

“You would.” She huffed a bit. “And if anyone is witless, it is your friend. Cormack, indeed! Anyone with a lick of sense knows Wilson has more stamina. Your Rollins is going to lose his shirt.”

“Should we go save him from his folly?”

“Not in the least. Vulgar man!”

“I warned you.” Kingsley took up her hand again. “A boxing match is not a place for a lady. You are a lady, are you not, Lady—­” He left the last part open for her to provide the answer.

“I'm sorry, I don't speak English,” she reminded him. “Were you saying something?”

He laughed again and as they continued to stroll through the crowd, Arabella quickly realized that Kingsley, no, make that Major Kingsley, had been right about one thing. There weren't very many women about.

And the ones who were there were, as he'd claimed, hardly proper.

A blowzy lady in a bright yellow gown strolled by with a tall rake at her side, his arm curled most improperly around her waist.

But it was the look in the man's eyes that stopped Arabella, for she'd never seen a man look at a woman quite like that.

Intimately. Longingly. Wickedly.

He looked at the lady as if he knew all her delights and couldn't wait to discover them once again.

And the woman? She laughed without a care in the world. Brightly and happily.

Arabella wondered if this demoiselle could whistle. Of course she could. She supposed such a woman could whistle and do a whole lot more, given her companion's admiring gaze.

What would it be like to hold a man's attention thusly? As if he wanted to do nothing more than devour you?

“Am I to remain silent the entire day?” she asked.

“That depends,” Kingsley said, leading them to a good vantage point.

“On what?”

“How much Flemish you know.”

She glanced over her shoulder at the woman, and considered that perhaps speech was highly overrated.

She leaned closer until her hip rested against Kingsley's, and then hitched herself right up against him, both hands curling possessively around his arm. “How is this? Flemish enough for you?”

K
ingsley didn't know if he'd ever seen anything more amusing than Birdie's outraged expression when he'd introduced her to Rollins.

Flemish! What a fine joke.

Until now.

For here she was, curled into his side, her fingers wound onto his forearm, her hip nestled up against him. He could even feel her breast pressed to him.

And she fit. Perfectly to his side. As she had in his arms the night of the ball.

Flirt like a coquette, will she? He'd show her the consequences by pulling her right into his arms and kissing her senseless—­right here, right now.

Oh, that would put an end to her charade.

But he didn't dare. He'd nearly kissed her by the carriage—­holding her up against him. And if he had . . . Well, perhaps Rollins's arrival had been a bit of luck.

Or misfortune.

Kissing Birdie would be a disaster. For it would lead to something far more tempting, something that would take time he could ill afford.

Unfortunately, he must keep reminding himself of the necessity of being at the Abbey no later than . . . tomorrow.

Never mind that he had vowed to be there this very afternoon. Well, a few more hours wouldn't be the end of his parent's scheme.

But in the meantime . . .

He glanced around and spied a man selling food nearby. “Are you hungry?” he asked, recalling her lost purchase at the bakeshop.

She paused and then grinned. “Famished.”

They strolled over to the booth and he bought them both sausage rolls and they ate in happy companionship, the sort of life Kingsley had always longed for. Loved, when he'd dropped being someone else's son and taken his grandfather's name.

And at some point—­he truly didn't know when—­he'd become Kingsley.

Just Kingsley
, as he'd told her. Oh, how he'd reveled in the freedom of it.

“Would you ever go back?” she was asking, a bit of grease rolling down her chin.

He reached over and wiped it clean with his thumb. “Back?”

“To all the places you've visited?”

The names ran through his thoughts. Paris . . . Rome . . . Venice.

The memories were like the stars in her eyes. Now too far away to grasp.

“I don't know.”

“I suppose you needn't go,” she remarked, finishing the last bite and heaving a contented sigh. “You've seen it all.”

Kingsley laughed. “No one could do that. Not even in a lifetime.”

“You could try,” she suggested, her chin tipping upward, a defiant tilt that said she'd surely give her best effort, or an offer.

I'd help.

Help was not what he needed. “I must see to my obligations,” he said, more to himself than her.

“Bother them,” she declared. But he suspected she was speaking of her own encumbrances.

“Yes, indeed,” he agreed. “At least for today.”

She smiled in agreement and he did his best to ignore the curve of her sweet lips.

This is what came of spending three years on his own.

Blessedly, simply alone, he reminded himself.

When Waterloo had been won, the blood and mud all washed away, he'd longed only to see beauty.

To put the horrific images of that battle well behind him. To hear only the songs of birds, the lowing of cattle, the beat of hooves, anything but the anguished cries of the dying.

He'd sold out his commission as soon as he could, and taken his horse and ridden east from Paris.

No valet, no batman. None of the trappings a man of his birth and rank could summon.

And it had never occurred to him that he'd done all this because he could. At least not until today.

Even earlier when she'd complained of her lack of freedom, he'd been rather dismissive.

Conditioned to think that young ladies belonged only in London drawing rooms.

A fate he wouldn't have consigned on the lowliest of ensigns.

Yet he could see now this slip of muslin never would have such freedom. Not as a miss, nor as a wife.

Not unless she became a widow before her dotage, and even then she'd be trailed about by some fawning hired companion, a maid, a footman, a driver, and all the other accouterments that came with encumbered travels.

She wouldn't see the sun rise over the Alps. The catacombs beneath Rome. Walk barefoot on an empty beach where it was rumored Aphrodite had once frolicked.

He had done all that, free to make his own choices. A state he thought he preferred until now. And no, it wasn't the moment when she'd curled into him like a cloying little kitten that he'd realized that, but when Rollins had teased him for his travels.

He hadn't mistaken the light in her eyes when he'd described the gondolas in Venice.

Birdie, who had never learned to whistle, also longed to fly.

He might have shown her all that. If they had met before.

The magnitude of Notre Dame. The canals in Venice. The mysteries of Rome. The breathtaking mountains to be climbed in the Alps.

He'd have unfettered her wings and taken her to new heights.

But it was too late. He could no more whisk her off to the Continent than she could fly. By tomorrow, at the very latest, he had to be on his way home.

Today, though, today he'd open her cage as far as he dared.

His as well, he realized when she slanted a sly smile up at him.

The sort that wound around inside him and had him at sixes and sevens. Had him remembering the curves that were rather hard to ignore in that outlandish red gown she was wearing.

“What if—­” he began, even as a cheer rose up from the crowd ahead and she tugged at his arm, bringing him back to solid ground.

“Come along or we won't find a good spot for the match,” she urged.

Kingsley nodded and left his woolgathering behind as they made their way through the crush. Then he led her to a small rise where she could see over the crowds. “Will this do?”

“Oh, most excellent.” Birdie rose up on her toes, her bright blue eyes all sparkle.

He could feel her quivering with excitement, and her joy became his. The shouts, the fervor of the crowd around them, and the sunshine spilling down upon them.

As the first round began, the cheers were deafening, and while Kingsley had been to many a match in his day, there was something about being here with Birdie.

“Use the hook!” she shouted, her hands cupped to her mouth. “HOOK!”

Her small hands fisted and swung at the air. She booed when Cormack made a hard hit and sent her favorite, Wilson, careening over.

When she'd talked of the match, he had taken her interest as more of a rebellious streak than a true passion for sports, but for Birdie boxing was a madness.

Something about her enthusiasm, her eager delight in the sport, told him more about her than her address, name, and lineage ever could have. It was a side of her that would never be seen in a drawing room, or at a ball, or at a formal picnic.

He was looking at the very heart of this woman, and her fire ignited him.

Kingsley shook his head as she called out another set of instructions to the infamous Wilson, and wondered how he was ever going to get her away from this match.

And how he was ever going to let her go.

 

C
HAPTER 6

A
rabella had never seen the likes of a real boxing match. Oh, it was far superior to anything she'd ever imagined, especially when an apparently defeated Wilson rose from the turf and pummeled Cormack, tapping the man's claret and sending a shower of blood over the onlookers in front. Arabella couldn't have been more thrilled.

A real, live boxing match. She'd remember this day for the rest of her life.

And she had Kingsley to thank for it.
Major
Kingsley, she reminded herself.

Oh, she could spend all day thusly, and so she would, until, that is, she looked up and spied a familiar face staring at her from across the match.

No, make that gaping at her.

Her breath stopped, for despite her costume, her flamboyant hat, and all her trappings, there was no mistaking the look of shock on the face of Lord Augustus Charles Hustings.

Nor was there any mistaking Lord Augustus, what with his outlandish choice of a bright purple waistcoat and a jaunty hat that towered over his diminutive height.

Augie! Oh, good heavens, no!

Arabella whirled around and put her back to him, her thoughts racing as to what to do first. Run? Duck into the crowd? Plead a megrim?

“Had enough?” Kingsley teased.

“Um, no. Not in the least,” she told him, even as the crowd roared into a cacophony of catcalls and shouts. She couldn't help herself, she turned around only to find Wilson once again down and Cormack crowing about like a cock—­really the man was as vain as
The
Sporting Magazine
declared—­and worse, when she glanced over the crowd again, there was no sign of Augie.

“Where the devil has he gone?” she muttered under her breath. While Arabella was not usually one to use strong language, today of all days was one when she was setting aside everything that was expected of her.

That, and she knew Augie.

He wouldn't give up until he was at her side and had a full accounting.

Trying to appear calm, she searched for her friend and then to her horror spied him pushing his way through the crush.

Oh, bother! He was making a determined beeline for her.

He would. And he'd ruin everything, Augie would. Insist she go home—­immediately! Insist she change her clothes. Immediately!

And she hadn't even gotten to the two remaining things on her list.

Now she might not ever.

She whirled around to the major. “Yes, well, that was exciting,” she told Kingsley, “but if we are to complete our adventures today, I fear we must get going.” She caught his hand and tugged him into the crush.

“So soon?” he asked. “Look! Cormack just took a devil of a hit.”

“Yes, yes, that is well and good. I have every confidence in Wilson, but we really must be going,” she told him emphatically, knowing full well without even looking that Augie was at their heels.

“Well, if you insist,” Kingsley was saying. “This is your day, isn't it?'

“Yes, it is.” Or it was until Augie had arrived.

They pressed through the worst of the throng and made their way toward the major's curricle. Arabella was about to sigh with relief that she had escaped detection, when out of the fringe of the crowd came Augie—­blocking their path.

Well, as much as a man that small could obstruct anyone.

“Kingsley!” he said in his usual grand style. “Whatever are you doing here with—­?”

Arabella panicked and went into a fit of coughing. “Oh, my, excuse me,” she choked out between coughs, and in English, forgetting that she was Flemish, and forgetting that she was supposed to be silent.

But the one thing she couldn't do was let Augie finish that sentence.

Whatever are you doing here with Lady Arabella?

She continued to cough and choke, clutching at Kingsley's sleeve. “A drink of something, if you can,” she managed, looking up at the man with her best and most practiced flutter of lashes.

This was a moment when the experience of four Seasons came in most handy.

“Aye, Kingsley,” Augie echoed. “The lady appears quite parched. Don't you usually keep a flask of wine in your carriage?”

Then it finally struck her. Augie knew him? Oh, this
was
a disaster.

Kingsley glanced over at her and then back at his friend, his face a mix of consternation and dismay. “Yes, I suppose I do. Birdie, do you mind waiting here with an old friend of mine, Lord Augustus Hustings. He's a vagrant and a scoundrel, but he'll keep you safe until I can bring round the carriage.”

After a warning glance from Arabella, Augie grinned and told Kingsley, “I would be delighted to be of assistance to your most enchanting and surprising friend.”

The major turned to go after the carriage, but not before sending a speculative glance at Arabella. She coughed again for good measure and fluttered her hand at him to hurry along.

Quickly. Before Augie blurted out something telling. Like her real name.

Arabella smiled encouragingly at Kingsley until he was well out of earshot. Then she whirled about on one of her oldest friends. “Augie! What are you doing here?”

He took an affronted step back. “Me? Birdie, what the devil are you doing here? And in
his
company?”

“Whatever is wrong with him?” Her gaze strayed back over her shoulder at Kingsley's retreating figure. “Oh, I grant you he's common enough . . .”

“Common?” Augie sort of choked out.

“Yes, of course,” she replied. Truly, sometimes Augie's choices of friends blinded him. Yet in Kingsley's case, she was willing to make an exception. “Though he seems a gentleman of sorts. He was a major after all. I don't suppose they make just anyone a major.”

Augie gaped, openmouthed, like a freshly landed trout. “Does your father know about this?” he finally managed to get out, even as he searched his inside coat pockets for a handkerchief, which he used to swab at his damp brow.

Arabella pressed in close and covered his mouth with her hand. “Oh, do be quiet. Of course my father doesn't know about this. My father is dreadful. He's forcing me to wed.”

“I know. Marbury's heir.”

“Yes, that's the horridly dull fellow.” She shuddered and glanced back at Kingsley. Now why couldn't he be the heir to a dukedom?

“That's the—­” Augie shook his head as if clearing out an attic's worth of cobwebs. “I do say, Birdie, whyever is that a problem?”

“A problem? I've never even met the man!”

“Never met—­” Augie's eyes narrowed. “But Birdie—­”

“Oh, please do not ‘but Birdie' me!”

“But if you would just let me—­”

Arabella had no desire to listen to his admonishments. “Augie, no more. I know my own mind.”

He took a step back, his brow furrowed as if he had plenty to say, but to her surprise, managed to agree with her. “Yes, I suppose you do.”

Then the man's gaze narrowed and fixed on Kingsley, as if he were laying all the blame on the major's shoulders.

“You know him,” Arabella said. “The major, that is.”

“Yes.” The answer came out in a short clip. “However did you two come to this place?”

She quickly explained how they'd met and what she had asked of the major.

“Asked?” Now it was Augie's turn to laugh. “You most likely demanded his attendance and I'm surprised you didn't ask for the moon as well.”

“And why shouldn't I? I've been held like a prisoner all my life.” Arabella knew Augie would appreciate a dash of the dramatic. But not today.

“A gilded one, I would point out,” he said, his arms folding over his chest as if he thought her better served to be locked back in it.

“You sound like my father.”

He ruffled at this, his brow crinkling in outrage. “I'm hardly as stuffy as all that.”

“Then don't scold,” she advised him. “And you won't tell him that you saw me, will you?”

Augie stepped back, aghast. “Lie to your father?” He shook his head.
Adamantly.
Nor was he done protesting. “He'll skin me alive if he discovers I've aided and abetted all this.”

“Not if he doesn't find out,” she told him most confidently.

“Your father always finds out,” he reminded her. “No, no, I won't hear of this. Birdie, you must go home now or I'll have no choice but to—­”

Arabella caught hold of his sleeve. “You tell my father and I'll tell your mother about the redhead you visit in Bloomsbury. Gwen, isn't it? An opera dancer, isn't she?”

His eyes widened in horror. “How the devil do you know—­?”

“You were more than squiffy last month at the Bastion ball.”

Augie's jaw worked back and forth. For he knew—­just as Arabella did—­that Lady Prendwick would make her son's life miserable over such a
mésalliance
.

“The consequences of today are all mine,” she told him. “Augie, dearest, you are my oldest friend. My best friend. Well, besides your sisters. Please, don't tell my father.”

Augie's jaw worked back and forth. “Oh, stuff and bother, Birdie. You will be the death of me.”

She clapped her hands together and laughed. “So you will keep my secret?”

He made a tight, short nod. For he was very fond of Gwen.

“And not tell my father? Or Kingsley? It would never do if he knew who I was. He'd take me home in a thrice.”

Augie muttered something about “—­that, or pack you away to Bedlam,” but she ignored him.

She hugged him quickly. “Once I've had my fun, then I shall go home,” she promised faithfully, though that didn't stop that now all-­too-­familiar pang of guilt over the worry her disappearance was most likely causing.

Though weighed against a lifetime married to the dull prospect her father proposed, it seemed a fair trade.

“There is no harm in all this, truly—­” she rushed to assure Augie, who appeared to be wavering yet again. “I only want to learn to whistle before I must pay the piper.”

“Oh, is that all? If it was whistling you wanted, you need only have asked me,” Augie teased. “I can make quite a merry tune.” To prove his point, he whistled a naughty ditty.

It was an old joke between them, and Arabella couldn't help herself, she laughed as well.

“Whatever are these three tasks you've charmed Kingsley into doing for you? I won't have you getting him in over his head. Always the Hercules, that one, ready to dash into danger. He's done enough.”

The wistful note to Augie's voice gave her pause and she remembered what Rollins had said. “Kingsley was at Waterloo, wasn't he?”

Augie looked up at the major, a light of loyalty and admiration in his eyes. “Yes. And in Spain before that. Acquitted himself quite nobly, though you won't get the story out of him. Heard it from another. Nearly got himself killed—­”

Arabella shivered and wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “Who is he, Augie?”

“Oh, he can't know who you are, but I'm to tell you all his secrets.” Her friend laughed.

“No, really, who is he?” she asked, overcome with curiosity.

“That is your task to uncover, my dear girl,” he told her. “But you must be kind to the major. Promise me that. And when the time comes, forgiving.”

Her gaze wrenched away from the major. “Forgiving? Whyever will I need to forgive him?”

Augie grinned and nodded at a spot just over her shoulder. She turned around to find Kingsley had brought his carriage around, and almost as soon as he stopped he was out and coming around to join them.

“Ho, there. You two forgotten me?” Kingsley asked, his gaze sweeping from one to the other.

“Not in the least,” Arabella told him, smiling brightly.

Perhaps a little too brightly, for the major then turned to his friend. “Augie, you devil, don't you get any ideas about the lady. I hope you haven't been filling her ears with lies about me.” He looked over at Arabella, his eyes twinkling, merrily. A tempting clarion call that was only for her.

And he must have felt it as well, for he reached out and took her hand. Possessively. His fingers entwined with hers, and instead of ruffling her feathers, leaving her feeling confined, contained, the major's strength lent her a sort of freedom.

With him at her side, she could fly anywhere.

This man could give her the world, her heart's desires.

Her Hercules, as Augie had teased.

“No, he's chiding me to treat you kindly,” Arabella told him, doing her best to ignore the new raft of shivers running down her spine.

“Are you ready to go?” he asked.

Arabella nodded, as it hit her. Two more tasks and then he would set her down in front of her father's residence and her freedom would be lost.

Kingsley would be lost.

She slanted a glance up at him from beneath her ridiculous bonnet, catching only the slightest peek at his stubbled jaw, his smooth lips.

Lips she might never know. Never feel them against her own.

Oh, if Arabella knew anything, she knew that would never do.

A
fter handing Birdie up into the carriage, Kingsley turned to his friend. “Augie, a word.”

Augie backed up a step or two. “Would love to, but I haven't the time,” he declared, turning to flee.

Kingsley caught him by the collar. “A word.” “Guiding” him a few steps from the carriage, and out of Birdie's sharp hearing, he asked, nay demanded, “How do you know her?”

“Know who?” Augie glanced this way and that, but most notably not in the lady's direction.

“Demmit, you know very well who I mean. Birdie.”

“Ah, Birdie!” Augie's mouth widened into a smile. “Delightful gel. A devil of a handful, but I imagine you have everything in order.”