Mad About the Major (8 page)

“Who. Is. She?” he bit out.

And to his disbelief, Augie shook his head. “Not mine to tell, my good man.” Then he set his mouth in a mulish line.

He'd known Augie since they'd been lads, knew enough of his friend that nothing could induce him to tell what he knew. Augie was nothing if not loyal. So Kingsley let go of him.

Then Augie surprised him again by catching hold of his sleeve and tugging him down so they could see each other eye to eye. “You do anything to ruin her, to break her heart, and I'll put a bullet through your chest.”

Kingsley, who had faced the French in a dozen or more engagements, who'd had two horses shot out from beneath him at Quatre Bras, had known fear. But it was nothing like the cold chill that knifed through him now.

The man meant it.

Then Augie released him and in the blink of an eye was back to his usual congenial self. “There now, as I understand it, you owe the lady two more labors.” He straightened his jacket and puffed up a bit. “Be about them and then have her home safely.” He bowed, then glanced over his shoulder at the carriage. “Mind what I said, Birdie.”

She nodded with a regal air. “I promise, Lord Augustus.”

With that, Augie waved at Birdie and ambled off, whistling a jaunty tune.

Kingsley turned slowly and gave his full attention to the lady in his carriage. Her smile seemed to tremble a bit, as if she were waiting for some hammer to fall upon her expectations.

Then she sat up straight as if remembering herself, and her chin jutted up just a bit, as if she wasn't about to let anything—­or anyone—­deter her.

He had no doubt she would be as closemouthed as Augie, so there was no point in wasting his breath and prying as to how some
cit
's daughter knew the youngest son of the Marquess of Prendwick.

“What say you, Birdie? Where are we off to next?” he asked as he climbed up into the driver's seat.

Her eyes widened and then her smile followed suit. “Truly?”

He nodded. “I promised.”

“That you did,” she said firmly, folding her hands in her lap. “I would like to take tea with someone.”

Tea? That wasn't quite what he had expected, but at least it was something that could hardly lead them on the path to ruin.

Augie's warning had rather startled him and he glanced back toward the crowd, half expecting to see his old friend peering after them like a gargoyle of old.

. . .
break her heart, and I'll put a bullet through your chest.

Never once in all the years he'd known Augie had the man ever left him floored.

But this time, he suspected Augie wasn't joking. Not in the least.

“Tea, is it? That sounds rather tame after a boxing match,” Kingsley teased as he gathered up the ribbons and turned the horses toward the city.

“Yes, well, we will need to secure an introduction first.”

An introduction?
Kingsley paused for a moment. “Who the devil are we taking tea with, the Prince Regent?”

“Oh, no one as boring as all that,” she said, as if taking tea with the heir to the throne was a weekly occurrence. “I want to take tea with Mrs. Spenser.”

Mrs. Spenser?
No, he hadn't heard her correctly.

But when he turned toward her, there it was, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

And worse, a determined sort of challenge.

“Considering the lengths you went to meet her the other night,” she said, “you can hardly object to taking tea with her this afternoon, now can you?” She paused and nodded toward the road. A silent nudge to remind him that he'd promised. “Not quite the assignation you planned, I imagine, but I find tea is always a very good beginning to an association, don't you agree?”

T
hey drove for London for some time in silence.

Arabella could tell Kingsley was working on a raft of objections as to why and how they could not just call on London's most infamous courtesan and demand she take tea with them.

And when he did begin listing all the reasons, she was at the ready.

“One doesn't just call on a courtesan,” he explained.

“Why not?”

This set his jaw to working back and forth. “Because it isn't done.”

“She'll make an exception for us, I am most certain.” She smiled brightly. Aunt Josephine always said that confidence in one's opinion, no matter how shaky it might be, would always help buoy a cause.

Yet Kingsley just snorted at her words.

“I thought you wanted to meet her?” she pressed. “I do believe you expressed an interest to get to know her quite intimately.”

. . .
after I've discovered every delectable, delightful corner of your divine body. . .

Bother the man, but every time Arabella recalled those words, that promise, her body tightened, shivered with a begging need.

No matter how shameless it was, Arabella wondered what it would be like to have Kingsley discover every corner of her body.

Next to her, the major shifted in his seat, as if he was recalling his words as well. “That is neither here nor there,” he objected. “Women like Mrs. Spenser don't just let strangers into their homes. There are rules to this sort of thing.” He glanced away, while one hand loosened his cravat.

“Rules? What sort of rules?” Arabella shook her head. “And here I thought these ladies had all the freedom in the world.”

“They are most particular about who they befriend.”

“And how do they choose who they friend?”

“Like anyone else, I suppose,” he replied, tugging again at his cravat.

Truly, whatever was wrong with the man? He was making a mess of that linen. “You suppose? Don't you know? Haven't you had a mistress?”

“Good God, Birdie! This is not something one discusses with a lady.”

She fluffed her red dress and let her lashes flutter at him. “But I am not a lady. Don't you recall what you told Rollins? A Flemish piece.” Now it was her turn to snort. “He isn't very bright, your friend.”

At this even Kingsley had to laugh. “No, he is not.”

“Flemish, indeed.” She turned so he could see her in her entirety. “Do I look Flemish to you?”

“You look like a very expensive handful.”

That, for whatever reason delighted her. “Thank you very much.” And it wasn't his words that had her feeling grateful, but the wolfish light in his eyes.

And if to confirm his statement, a pair of blades driving out—­most likely having learned of the boxing match late—­came flying by, but not so fast that one of them hadn't the time to let out a long, appreciative whistle.

“I am acquiring admirers,” she crowed. “Is that how it is done?”

“No. The usual method is expensive jewels and a promise of rents paid.”

“Jewelry!” Arabella exclaimed. “Why didn't I think of that?”

“What do you mean?” Kingsley asked, a wary wrinkle to his brow.

“Jewelry. We must bring an offering of jewelry. Then Mrs. Spenser will have to invite us to tea. We could bring a basket as well. From Fortnum & Mason, I think, so as not to trouble the lady's staff.”

Kingsley made a sort of choking noise. “Just like that, we are adding a trip to Rundell & Bridge and a basket from Fortnum & Mason to ensure our success?”

“Exactly!” she agreed, ignoring the sarcasm in his voice. “And how perfect of you to think of Rundell & Bridge. Are you certain you haven't a mistress?”

“No, I do not have a mistress.” He shifted again in his seat and looked away.

Arabella didn't know why, but that bit of information tickled her. So there wasn't a lady somewhere waiting for him—­even if there was some unknown lady who was to be his bride.

Might be
, she recalled, remembering his denial of any impending nuptials.

Make that
adamant
denial. So, they had that in common.

Further, he'd all but confessed that his heart wasn't engaged elsewhere.

She shouldn't be happy, but she was, for whatever unfathomable reason.

Tipping her bonnet back, she found Major Kingsley studying her, his dark brows furrowed like a freshly turned field.

“What?” she asked, feeling as if she had just grown an extra head.

“If you think I am taking you to Rundell & Bridge, let alone Fortnum & Mason, dressed in that rig, you've gone round the bend.”

“But if we are to take tea with Mrs. Spenser—­”

“I doubt even Mrs. Spenser would approve of such a gown. Besides, you will outshine the lady—­a fact that will not amuse her.”

That was rather a mixed compliment, Arabella decided. And however did he know what such ladies preferred?

Worse was the implication that her outing was impossible.

“Pull over,” she told him. “Right there.” Arabella pointed at the opening in a hedge alongside the road. “That will do perfectly.”

“Perfectly for what?” he asked as he guided the horses to a stop.

“To change, of course.”

 

C
HAPTER 7

“C
hange?” Kingsley sputtered. “Right now? Here?”

“Well, I can hardly change my clothes on a London street corner,” Birdie shot back. “Besides, you said it was entirely necessary—­”

“I don't recall that I ever—­” he began, visions of a scantily clad Birdie teasing up in his imagination and leaving him dry-­mouthed and speechless.

No. He couldn't think of her thusly.
Naked.

No, he mustn't.

But it was demmed difficult not to, for here she was reaching under her seat and pulling out the bundled gown—­the one she'd been wearing earlier.

“This won't take long,” she promised as she hopped down from the curricle and walked—­rather swayed—­over to the stone fence. That outlandish rig she'd bought couldn't do anything but sway seductively.

He'd held her intimately, closely, that night at the ball. Let his hands roam over her, thinking her experienced and willing. Knew every line that had just sashayed across the road.

Now he regretted such knowledge.

For it made watching her a trial, his hands flexing restlessly inside his driving gloves, his body shifting to find a more comfortable position.

She'd made her way to a stile, nearly hidden in the overgrown hedge that grew up around the stones. How'd she'd spotted it he didn't know, but she certainly had an eye for gaining what she needed.

“No peeking,” she warned him over her shoulder as she got to the top of the wall. This was followed by a wag of her finger. “Promise?”

“Isn't that adding additional terms to our agreement?”

Her brow wrinkled in consternation. What a funny, mercurial bit of muslin Birdie was turning out to be. “That term was always implicitly implied,” she informed him.

Implicitly implied
. Good heavens. He was now firmly convinced her father was a barrister. Or a member of Parliament. “If that is your argument—­”

“It is,” she told him. “Upon your word—­”

“As a gentleman,” he promised, crossing his finger over his heart.

She nodded in agreement and then turned back to the stile, studying the path of her descent.

At least she hadn't argued the gentleman part. Then again, he wondered what the devil Augie had told her about him.

After a moment of hesitation, weighing the best way down, she gathered up the hem of her outlandish gown, leaving her ankles and a good part of her calves in view.

Dear God in heaven! The minx had even gained a pair of red silk stockings out of her bargain with that rag merchant.

Then an even more startling thought struck him—­what if those were the stockings she'd been wearing when he'd nearly run her over?

Outlandish chit! He wouldn't put it past her—­a demure gown and the most intriguing choices of . . .
unmentionables.

Kingsley began to cough and sputter.

She paused and glanced back at him. “Whatever is the matter?”

“You,” he said, nodding toward her ankles.

Her eyes widened a bit as she glanced down, then she grinned in delight. “Why, thank you.” Two steps later, she disappeared over the other side.

Kingsley heaved a sigh and settled back in his seat, taking his hat off and raking a hand through his hair, letting the breeze cool and ruffle his tangled desires.

Truly, there was nothing he could do but wait, and so he let the bucolic scene around him soothe him further. The birds twittering in the hedge. The lowing of cattle off in the distance. He drew in a deep breath of fresh air, filled as it was with the scents of fields and grass, and realized how much he had missed the English countryside.

From over the hedge, a question came fluttering into his thoughts. “Kingsley?”

“Yes, Birdie?”

“Whyever did you agree to my terms?” She hesitated for a second before she continued. “Especially if you are supposed to be elsewhere?”

He searched for an answer and replied the only away he could. Honestly. “I don't know. And yes.”

For a time the only reply was the chirping of sparrows in the hedge.

“Will you still have to go? Elsewhere, that is?”

The wistful note to her words tugged at him. “Yes. Just as I suppose you must as well.”

Another pause and then there was a rustle in the hedge. Over the top of the brambles came her red gown.

Kingsley stilled. There it was fluttering in the breeze like a regiment's standard, that red color calling for one and all to muster.

He certainly was. Mustering, that is. His chest contracted, damned well tightened to the point where he could barely breathe. Hell, all of him tightened.

I am a gentleman
, he reminded himself. And while she'd made him promise not to look, that didn't mean his imagination couldn't run wild.

Visions of that gown tossed on the floor of his bedchamber . . . Birdie naked in his bed . . .

And when one of the red stockings came floating atop the gown, Kingsley's heart galloped as if called to action.

The other stocking followed the first. “I hardly want our day to end.”

And neither did he, Kingsley realized, much to his own shock. His gaze strayed back to the stile. The path that led to her. To hell. To redemption.

To a bullet in his chest, if he believed Augie.

After a few more minutes of rustling and muttering, she spoke again. “Oh, bother!”

“What is it?”

“I can't manage the hooks. They are all in the back.”

“That is a dilemma,” Kingsley replied, trying not to laugh. Nor conjure up an image of a half-­clad Birdie.

But despite his best efforts—­well, perhaps not his
best
—­visions of her discarded gown teased him. Called to him to come closer.

He did his best to end his imaginings there.

A deep and resolute sigh rose up from her hiding spot. “You'll need to help me.”

“Help?” he managed, the word nearly strangling him. It stuck like Augie's threat, lodging coldly in his chest.

Ruin her and I'll put a bullet through your chest.

“Yes, help,” she continued. “How else am I to get dressed? Not unless you have a lady's maid tucked into your traveling trunk.”

“But—­”

“Oh, bother, Kingsley. You'll just have to come over to the hedge.” It wasn't a request, but an order.

Taking a deep breath, Kingsley straightened his shoulders. Girded himself, in a sense. He could do this. Why, it was nothing, what she was asking. Do up a few buttons and hooks.

Yes, nothing at all.

Tying off the reins, he climbed down. Then yanking off his gloves, Kingsley tossed them up on the seat. Bare-­handed like one of the pugilists they'd left behind, he stalked across the road toward the stile.

Instead of having the sense of going to battle, he rather felt like he was wading into a storm-­swollen river.

One of unknown depths. Capable of drowning a man in an instant.

Rather like a come-­hither glance from her blue eyes.

Oh, he was going to regret this.

“No peeking,” she admonished from somewhere on the other side.

His boot froze over the first step. “How am I supposed to get over to the other side without looking?” After a moment or two, he added, “Or without breaking my neck?”

“Close your eyes,” she instructed.

“Close my—­”

“Just close them,” she told him. There was a snap to her words that held an aristocratic air he well recognized. Why, his own father could bite out a single command that instantly had half the county jumping to do his bidding.

“Are your eyes closed?”

Kingsley shuttered them. For if he died here on the side of the road, there was some consolation that his untimely and utterly scandalous demise would completely thwart his autocratic father's designs. “Now what?”

“Hold out your hand.”

He did, and almost immediately her much smaller paw caught hold of him. Her fingers were soft and silky as they twined with his, but when they closed around him he felt her strength, her will, holding him steady.

“Now, take another step up.”

He did as he was bid, but his boot hit the step and he nearly pitched forward. But there was Birdie, anchoring him in place.

“Higher,” she told him. “Lift your foot higher.”

He did, and soon she had him up and over the other side, his feet landing in the soft earth with a heavy thud.

With his eyes closed, his other senses filled in the gaps. The soft breeze rustling across his face, the trilling chatter of the birds in the hedges, while leaves whispered to one another as they danced and swayed overhead.

And a whiff of something tempting. A bit of roses and a bit exotic and utterly female.

Birdie.

“Now,” she began, “the hooks are up the back—­I can't get them around the buttons.”

“You expect me to do this with my eyes closed?” He laughed at the utter irony of it, for he was more of an expert in undoing such hindrances, not the other way around.

“It can't be that difficult,” she told him. “Just reach out a bit. I am right in front of you.”

And tentatively his hand came up and reached out until his fingers brushed into the bare skin of her back. The moment he touched her, she jumped.

“Sorry—­” he began.

“No, no. It's just your hand is—­” She stopped there. And then, as if remembering that this was her idea, she eased back into his hand, his fingers splaying out over her soft, warm skin.

When she shivered, trembled beneath him, he was nearly undone. That, and he swore she'd just moved closer. Inviting him to . . .

Oh, good God! He couldn't think such things. Give in to such temptation.

All he needed was Augie to happen along on this scene. And then his friend could make good his vow before Kingsley had a chance to even offer an explanation.

Not that he thought for a second that Augie would listen to anything he could manage to sputter out in his own defense.

“Perhaps,” the little temptress in front of him began, speaking tentatively, as if struggling to find the words. “If you opened your eyes—­”

Open them? Oh, now there was the devil's own tangle.

Yet it wasn't like his better senses were holding sway. His eyes opened before he could find a good argument against such a course.

But truly, if he could see what he was doing, this task would be over in a snap and they could be back in the relative safety of an open carriage on a public thoroughfare.

Then he looked at the sight before him. Even in the shadowy enclosure of the hedges, he could see the rosy flush of her fair skin, the faint fluttering of her pulse in her neck. She'd removed her hat, so for the first time he could truly see her hair, chestnut and rich, with hints of fire, like the lady herself.

She was holding her hair up so it was out of his way, like some Titian beauty in repose, half waiting, and entirely tempting.

Yes, there it was. Having his eyes open wasn't going to make any part of this easier.

“The buttons?” she whispered. No, more like nudged.

“Oh, yes,” he replied, pulling his hand back and remembering himself. His promise.

More to the point, Augie's vow.

His fingers had never felt as clumsy as they were trying to catch the tiny pearl buttons and slip them into the loops where they belonged. In his estimation, lady's maids were certainly underpaid, for this was no easy task.

Especially with the added distraction of the lady herself.

It struck him that this was something no man had ever seen before—­the curve of her shoulder blades as they made a valley down her back. One that begged to be traced with his fingers, his lips . . .

He reached for the last button and paused, and as he hesitated, she turned slightly, having mistaken his distraction as a sign that the task was completed.

But it was too much, for she was so close, his senses filled with her scent, the silk of her skin, the brush of her skirt against his legs each time she swayed.

And it wasn't just him, but her as well. For Birdie had that rare light in her eyes that no man ever mistakes. One filled with desire, with fire, with need.

She tipped her chin up toward him, almost defiantly. Her lips parted, slowly, ever so slightly. As if daring him to give in to his desires.

“Kingsley?”

“Yes, Birdie?”

“Will you teach me . . . ?”

“Teach you?”

She hesitated as she glanced at his lips. “To whistle, that is.”

“Oh, aye, yes,” he said, letting out a breath that for whatever reason he'd been holding.

He didn't even have to reach for her, she was there, right in his arms even as his hand rose to cradle her chin. He reached with his other to pluck at something—­a bit of a twig from the hedge—­that was stuck in her hair, tossing it aside and then casting with it his last remaining bit of restraint.

Whistling, indeed.

He bent his head and brushed her lips with his. It was slight and brief, yet that moment of contact, of touch, of tentative exploration, shifted his world. He was in that swollen river, the one he'd meant to avoid. Yet here he was, drowning, and her lips were the very oxygen his lungs begged for, needed, desired over anything else.

There was nothing he could do but kiss her yet again.

A
rabella hadn't thought he would.

Kiss her, that is.

For all his protestations of being a gentleman, she was ever so delighted to discover that he wasn't
that
much of one.

No, he was a rake and a scoundrel. At least she had to assume so, given the way just the merest brush of his lips against her sent her senses a-­tumble.

Oh, dear heavens, she was lost. That faint tolling, that whisper of desire, that had echoed through her since the night of the ball—­the one this devil had awakened—­now clamored to life.