Margaret Moore (11 page)

Neville told himself he was concerned because
he did not relish any competition, and certainly not from the king.

Therefore, as Arabella faced him, flushed and surprised, he was grateful he was the first to reach the box and for this golden opportunity to be alone with her. Better yet, he never should have left in the first place. However, it had taken every ounce of inner strength he possessed to keep from placing a finger on the smooth bare skin at the back of her neck as she had sat in front of him. Or from pressing a kiss there. It had been such a temptation to touch her that he had all but fled rather than risk ruining his seduction with an injudicious gesture in his father’s presence.

“Your father saw an old friend, and Lady Lippet went to effect an invitation to supper, I believe,” Arabella said with a gleam of defiance in her bright blue eyes.

“That woman would speak to the Devil himself if she thought it would get her an invitation to dine.”

“Some people would think it is I who am conversing with the Devil, my lord, or at least one of his minions.”

Neville chuckled as he came further into the box. “I have been called worse things in my time. Tell me, did you find the play entertaining?” He waited for a Puritan-inspired, sanctimonious denunciation.

“I found it quite amusing.”

Neville hoped he did not look as taken aback as he felt. “I would have thought you would condemn it from the first word.”

“Obviously you do not know me well.”

“No, and I would improve our acquaintance.”

Her eyes narrowed, and she backed away slightly. “As you did the other night?”

“I was a sinful wretch driven to disgraceful behavior by your beauty.”

“You were certainly sinful, although I am not so vain as to believe my looks had much to do with it.”

“Oh, I assure you they did.”

“You should not have kissed me.”

“You enjoyed it.”

Her expression was frustratingly inscrutable in a way he had never encountered in a woman before. “I may have. I am but human, after all, which means I can be as weak as anyone. But I have learned my lesson, my lord, both with you and tonight.”

“Indeed? What have you learned?” he asked, feeling a most unusual and utterly ridiculous anxiety.

“To beware of rascals who think of only one thing when it comes to women, and who treat honorable vows as inconsequential.”

“I agree
The Country Cuckold
is one of Richard’s more witty cautionary plays. However, I
thought the lesson it taught was to beware falling in love.”

“I cannot disagree, for I gather we were to consider the poor honest husband a buffoon who deserved to be hoodwinked because he had the misfortune to love his wife.”

“There are many who would say that to be in love at all is to be a fool.”

“Are you of that pathetic, cynical sort, my lord?” she asked, giving him a shrewd and pointed look that he did not care for.

“I wonder, am I cynical—or wise to the ways of the world?” he mused aloud. “Pathetic—or simply unromantic? Or could it be that I have never been in love?”

“Your many lovers would surely feel cheated if they knew that.”

“I do not think they would complain.”

“Maybe they did not love you, either.”

His jaw clenched. “King Charles seemed to find the performance enjoyable,” he noted after a moment, watching her face to see her response to the mention of the king.

“Did he?” she replied, apparently not impressed with the king’s approval.

“Yes, just as he enjoyed looking at Minette Sommerall. Rumor has it she is his latest lover.”

An expression of disgust flew across Arabella Martin’s face. Or maybe it was dismay. “He must be very energetic.”

“Oh, he is.”

“If what you say is true, I am not surprised the king liked the play. The characters cared as little for fidelity as he apparently does.”

“Or perhaps he saw them as honest creatures, not hypocrites.”

“You would say it is ethical to betray a spouse, then? Next you will likely tell me that it is human nature to be fickle and disloyal.”

“It is a woman’s nature.”

“It is only women who disregard sacred vows made before God?” she inquired in a sardonic tone that would have done credit to Richard himself. “All the men who have lovers are not married? I must be deluded, for I understood the king to be married.”

“Would you claim the opposite, that no women betray their vows?”

She shook her head, setting her charming curls dancing. “In all honesty, my lord,” she replied with a gravity that was even more confounding than her sarcasm, “I cannot. Yet would you not agree that if any person, man or woman, makes a sacred vow before God, they have a duty to obey it? If they would rather not adhere to their vows, they should not make them.”

“You preach very prettily. However, you would do better to save your sermons for my father.”

Her eyes narrowed. “He seems a model of morality.”

“Men are not always what they seem.”

“I like to think I do not judge by appearances.”

“I wonder, should I be pleased or not by that remark?” he mused, moving closer to her.

Her response was a little smile that was at once challenging and mocking. “I leave that to your determination, my lord.”

“I can be very determined, Arabella.”

With his free hand he gently brushed back the curls at the side of her face, letting his fingers caress her soft-as-goose-down cheek.

She made no sound of protest, nor did she draw back, resistant, as he gently pulled her into his embrace.

The rosy scent of her perfume sent him back in time to when he had been an innocent youth discovering love.

“A woman should marry a man who is her match in vitality and passion, Arabella,” he whispered.

With gentleness, he lightly touched his mouth to hers, half expecting her to protest, fearing that she would, when all he wanted was to taste her sweet lips.

Truly, he told himself, it was his intention to tease, to hint, to promise what tender passion they could share.

That intention lasted no more than an instant,
for it seemed that here, in the shadows of the theater box, she was willing—very willing. He had found her kiss exciting before, but he quickly discovered it was but a foreshadowing of the passionate desire that suddenly burst into being now.

With a low growl, he gave himself over to the pleasure of sensuous delight, her taste and perfume mingling in voluptuous enticement that held him as sure as any spell. The sound of the departing audience, all but forgotten, seemed far away, and like the rustle of leaves. He could almost believe they were standing in a garden, about to experience all the joy and passion of love for the very first time.

Like Adam and Eve before the fall.

“Ah!” came a drunken cry from the corridor. “There she is!”

Chapter 8

N
eville spun around, not at all pleased to see the Duke of Buckingham leaning against the door frame as if he had scarcely any spine to speak of. The wine bottle dangling from his hand no doubt explained his disheveled, red-faced limpness.

“Bu’ na’ alone,” the duke slurred. “Your servant, Your Grace,” Neville said with the slightest of bows.

“Your shervan’, my lord. Mos’ def … mos’ defininin … mos’ certainly your slave, Lady Arabella.”

The duke attempted to bow but lost his balance and staggered forward, colliding with Neville, who fell back, inadvertently shoving Arabella. She stumbled and would have fallen into the pit if Neville had not lunged forward and caught her in his arms, pulling her forward into the shadowed corner of the box.

He could feel the rapid rising and falling of her breasts against his chest and the soft exhalation of her breath against his chin.

She did not push herself away from him this time, either.

“Good night, Villiers,” he said firmly, and without so much as a glance at the duke.

Villiers squinted as he tried to focus. “Wha’s tha’ you say?”

“Good night!”

“I leave the field for now,” the duke mumbled grumpily, “to return an’ figh’ another day. Mrs. Hankerton, my shylph!” he cried as he noisily staggered away.

Neville looked down at Arabella, searching her face in the dim light as he tried to read her expression.

“Let me go,” she said softly.

Very softly.

“You do not mean that,” he replied in low, husky tones, cursing the fullness of her skirts and wishing she was wearing that thin nightdress again. Or nothing at all.

He took her hand and gently kissed the cleavage between her fingers, his tongue lightly licking, giving a promise of other delights he wanted to share with her.

“Let me go!” she repeated, somewhat breathlessly, but with sternness.

He felt as if she had slapped him full in the face. Had he been so wrong?

He let go of her hand as if it were a burning rushlight.

“Good night, my lord,” Arabella said firmly.

It had taken all her will to keep from kissing him again. She had nearly swooned when he kissed and
licked
her hand, but she had not swooned, and now he had to go. Before she weakened again.

“Beg pardon, old friend, if I’m interrupting.”

As before, when the duke had arrived, Arabella wasn’t sure what to do or say as a tall man simply dressed entered the box, followed by another fellow for whom the word “fop” had probably been invented. Unlike Neville Farrington and the tall man, the fop wore garments nearly as extreme as those of the Duke of Buckingham, only on him, they seemed to hang like costly sacks.

The tall man was definitely the better looking of the two, with dark hair as natural as Neville’s drawn back into a tail, a firm jaw and fine nose. He was not as handsome as Neville, of course, and his dark, sardonic eyes made her feel as if he were coldly measuring her against some standard only he understood.

That was not a pleasant sensation.

“Ah, Richard,” Neville said jovially as he faced these unknown persons, “I thought you would be backstage with the actresses.”

This must be the playwright, Arabella reasoned.
He looked far more like a soldier than a man of letters.

“Foz told me he had seen your father with an older lady and a very charming and lovely young lady,” Sir Richard Blythe replied. “This is the charming and lovely young lady, obviously. Do you not intend to introduce us to your fair companion?”

The fop cleared his throat loudly and smiled expectantly.

“Lady Arabella,” Neville said, nodding toward the fop, “Lord Cheddersby.”

“Your … your servant, Lady Arabella,” Lord Cheddersby stammered.

He attempted to remove his hat in what she assumed was imitation of Neville’s èlan. Unfortunately, the poor man’s wig went up with his hat, revealing limp brown hair before he replaced both hat and hair.

Lord Cheddersby would have been completely ridiculous, but there was a simple sweetness to his plain features that had been distinctly lacking upon many faces she had seen at the theater, so she smiled kindly.

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, my lord,” she said as she curtsied.

Lord Cheddersby blushed and looked at the other men with evident delight.

“And this grim fellow is the playwright, Sir Richard Blythe, of whose play you did not approve.”

Sir Richard’s brow puckered. “You did not like it? It did not amuse you?”

Arabella straightened her shoulders. “Your work
was
amusing, sir, but I must protest against the lack of morals in your characters.”

Lord Cheddersby sighed with relief. “Oh, nothing so very serious then.”

Arabella turned to look at him. “I consider that a serious fault indeed.”

“If I write of immorality, it is because I write what I see,” Sir Richard observed with slight hostility.

“Since she has only recently arrived from the fens of Lincolnshire, Richard, I think we may consider her opinion uninformed criticism.”

“Obviously, we poor country bumpkins are incapable of understanding the higher intelligence of adulterers and coquettes,” she concurred mournfully.

“Oh, Neville, come! You are too harsh!” Lord Cheddersby cried.

“I’faith, Neville, that was unkind,” the playwright muttered.

Neville himself was feeling he had gone too far when Arabella glanced at him, her eyes sparkling with devilment and a little smile lurking about the corners of her delectable lips.

Gad, she was a sly creature—and he had fallen right into her trap!

“Neville, what the devil are you doing accosting Arabella?” Lord Barrsettshire demanded,
appearing at the entrance to the box and glaring at them, arms akimbo. “Who are these fellows?”

“If you leave a lovely flower untended, bees are bound to swarm about it. I do not consider that accosting. And, sir, this is my box.”

The earl glanced over his shoulder at Lady Lippet, who was trying to see what was happening. “Where have you been?”

“Trying to effect some suitable introductions,” Lady Lippet replied defensively, all the while regarding Neville with undisguised scorn. “You should have better control over your wayward son.”

“Lord Farrington came to my aid, my lord, when a man who was most rude and insolent tried to speak with me,” Arabella said, deciding she could not stand to see Neville disparaged by Lady Lippet, who had not behaved in a manner befitting a chaperon. “I do not think I should have been left by myself.”