Margaret Moore (19 page)

Thinking of Neville’s effect on the earl, Arabella said, “Perhaps I should go alone, my lord.”

“Although my father will be loath to see me, I think the annoyance of my presence may be necessary to provoke him to leave. Therefore, I suggest that we go together.”

“Yes, Arabella, go,” Lady Lippet agreed. “I would have some private conversation with Lord Cheddersby.”

Lord Cheddersby looked as if he would prefer to refuse; nevertheless, he nodded, and together they went toward one of the benches at the far end of the penthouse.

As she watched them go, Arabella reflected that Lord Cheddersby was unmarried, he was rich, he was a nobleman—in short, he was indeed everything Lord Barrsettshire required in a candidate for her hand.

Interrupting that disturbing thought, Neville took her hand and placed it on his arm. “Come, my dear, let us intervene before my father gets himself thrown into the Tower for treason.”

Chapter 13

A
s they walked toward the king and Lord Barrsettshire, Neville gave Arabella a wry, sidelong glance. “Perhaps if you were to intercede, you could save my opinionated father from such a fate, no matter what he said.”

She frowned. “I have no influence with the king.”

“I have no doubt you could be very influential, if you chose to be.”

“I do not.”

Did she mean she did not think she could be or that she might but did not wish to exert that influence? “Lady Castlemaine is very influential.”

“You would know better than I what that person is capable of,” she said with a peevishness he was both glad and sorry to see.

Glad because she did not seem at all eager to wield the kind of power that might tempt a
moral woman to become the mistress of a powerful man; sorry because she was still obviously under the impression that he and Lady Castlemaine had an intimate relationship.

“Lady Castlemaine has been the bane of her husband’s life, and he was a friend of mine. I am pleased you have no wish to emulate her in any way.”

“And I wish everyone would stop comparing us!”

He inclined his head. “I shall never do so again. Nevertheless, do not underestimate yourself. You bested poor old Richard, who will probably spend the next fortnight growling like a bear at anyone who dares to say a word to him.”

“If I have succeeded in upsetting your friend,” she replied, trying not to be so aware of the sinewy muscle beneath her fingers and not to be jealous of a woman no better than a harlot, “I have no doubt that he will soon recover.”

“Thank heavens he is not a Puritan, or he would be despondent for days with the burden of sin you would place upon him.”

“I put no burden on him. He does that himself, and I think you should not speak of what you do not know.”

Neville halted and turned to face her. “I do know something of the Puritans’ beliefs and have read many of their pamphlets. For instance,
this fellow John Milton has some very interesting views, although I suspect he cannot find many other Puritans who agree with his favorable opinion on the subject of divorce.”

Milton favored divorce? No wonder her father had banned his works from the house and declared that the writer’s near-blindness was a judgment from God.

“I simply cannot accept the heavy toll Puritans would exact for the many things they consider sinful,” Neville continued. “We are all made of flesh, not some celestial matter.”

“Yes, we are,” she replied, “but that does not mean we should not attempt to subdue our baser animal natures.”

“I will not condemn myself because I enjoy the flesh God gave me.”

“God also gave you an immortal soul, my lord. Would you risk that for a few fleeting moments of pleasure?”

He took hold of her hand and again placed it on his arm. She wondered if tennis explained his unexpected strength. “I would risk many things for the pleasure of some people’s company;” he said.

His fingertips subtly caressed her knuckles, just as they had her breasts. Her body reacted just as if he were stroking her, with heat and throbbing, powerful desire.

Wishing she had worn gloves—although even that scant protection would perhaps not
have made any difference—she swallowed hard as his dark-eyed gaze grew more intense. “Do not try to kiss me again!” she warned.

She meant what she said about subduing one’s baser nature, and she was determined to do just that, no matter how he spoke or looked at her or what his fingers were doing. After all, although she suspected he was a better man than his father gave him credit for, she still lacked undeniable evidence.

Indeed, given his behavior when he was alone with her, she should be of the same mind as the earl.

Neville’s lips turned up at the corners. “Kiss you in front of all these people? My dear young woman, what do you take me for?”

The king caught sight of them and called out, “Ah, Lady Arabella! Farrington!”

Grateful for the interruption, Arabella hurried to the king and her guardian. She was pleased to note that the king did not seem annoyed. Perhaps Lord Barrsettshire was capable of diplomacy, after all.

“Your Majesty, my lord,” she said, pausing to curtsy.

The king continued to smile, apparently not noticing or choosing not to notice that the earl’s expression when he regarded his son was decidedly hostile.

Was Lord Barrsettshire’s reaction to Neville justified or not? How could she find out?

A stout man in fine clothing appeared at the entrance to the court, and the king waved at him.

“Here comes Lord Clarendon full of the affairs of state,” Charles observed, turning to leave. “Farewell, and thank you for your thoughtful advice, my lord of Barrsettshire. We shall muse upon it. Come!” he called to his dogs, and trailed by his spaniels and their keeper, he hurried off toward Lord Clarendon.

“Well, Father, you have not been arrested,” Neville noted dryly. “Since you have not and therefore do not require my assistance, I shall go.”

“Of course I haven’t been arrested!” the earl replied scornfully. “Why should I be? And yes, go. Go to your degenerate friends.”

Arabella watched Neville’s broad shoulders as he sauntered away until the earl spoke again. “Arrested? I knew he was a fool, but is he mad?”

“He feared you would be … indelicate,” Arabella explained, “and the king would take offence.”

“His Majesty was very interested in what I had to say,” the earl grumbled, pulling his goatee thoughtfully. “Indeed, I begin to believe I may have misjudged the fellow.”

Arabella wished the man before her could be so open-minded about his son.

* * *

Neville strode into the coffeehouse, barely pausing to toss his hat onto a peg. As he had suspected, Richard was in the corner, staring into his steaming mug, oblivious to everyone around him.

He barely looked up when Neville threw his leg over the bench to join him. “A pox on you, Richard!”

That got the playwright’s notice.

“What are you thinking about so studiously?” Neville demanded.

“A new play.”

“Liar!”

Richard’s expression hardened. “You had better have a good, if misguided, reason for that last remark.”

“You are scheming of a way to seduce her.”

“Who?”

“Don’t treat me like an idiot! Arabella—and she didn’t even like your play!”

“That would be an idiotic reason for me to ignore a beautiful woman. But calm yourself, Neville—”

“I am calm!”

Richard smirked before he responded, “I would no more think of seducing her than I would my own sister.”

Neville eyed him dubiously.

“I think your father is right,” Richard said with apparent sincerity. “Lady Arabella Martin is a genuinely good and virtuous woman. Instead
of seducing her, why don’t you tell him the truth?”

“I have explained this to you before. He won’t believe me. He’ll think I’m trying to lie my way into his good graces.”

“Then get the bankers to go with you.”

“He won’t believe anybody where I’m concerned. Even if he did, he would surely insist upon taking charge of his own affairs. The result would be disaster.”

“Be that as it may, I cannot countenance your using Lady Arabella in this way.”

“Perhaps my plans have changed. Perhaps I would prefer to offer my hand in marriage.”

“Your father would never agree, and frankly, I think he would be right.”

“What?”

“She is too good for you—and for me, too.”

“By God, Richard, don’t you dare play the hypocrite for me! You want her—and her inheritance, too, no doubt, as well as what is rightfully mine.”

“I don’t want money as badly as that.”

“No? You seem to have conveniently forgotten that this has been the theme of countless conversations between us—how all you need is money, and then you can return to the bucolic paradise of which you were unjustly robbed.”

“I would never seduce a woman for money.”

“But to satisfy your own selfish desires you
would. ‘I only write what the audience prefers,’” he mimicked mockingly. “Meanwhile, you were staring down her dress!”

“Your mind is a cesspool,” Richard growled, rising from the bench.

The coffeehouse fell silent as Neville jumped to his feet. “At least I don’t put my obscene musings on the stage and call it art!”

“At least I don’t plan to seduce innocent young women to get back at my father and even make a wager on my success!”

“Only because your father is dead! And don’t bother lying to me. If you could get her into your bed, you would not hesitate a moment.”

“Neville,” Richard said in a low, determined voice, “give it up. Either tell your father the truth or accept his decision, but leave Lady Arabella out of it.”

Neville straightened his shoulders and fought to regain his self-control. “And when I have quit the field, you will gladly step in.”

Richard shoved back the bench and came around the table, standing so that his face was inches from Neville’s. “If you do seduce her, I will find the fifty pounds to pay for losing the wager to you, and then I will kill you for dishonoring her.”

“If you would be her champion, challenge me to a duel now.”

For an instant, he thought Richard would.
But then his former friend shook his head, a sardonic smile coming to his face. “No. For old times’ sake and because I have faith that you will not succeed, I will not. Please remove your belongings from my lodgings while I am at the theater. Good-bye, Neville.”

Neville didn’t move as Richard walked away and out of the coffeehouse. He stayed motionless for a long moment as around him, the buzz of gossiping patrons filled the air.

Then he sat heavily on the bench, staring at nothing.

“Oh, Neville, there you are!”

He half turned, not at all pleased to see Foz’s befuddled countenance.

“I saw Richard outside, but he was so deep in thought, he didn’t hear me calling him.”

Foz sat in Richard’s vacated place and looked about the place. “Has something happen?” he asked as he took off his hat and absently scratched under his wig. “Everyone seems most excited.”

There was no sense in trying to keep what had just passed a secret. “Richard and I quarreled. Loudly, I am ashamed to say.”

“A pox!” Foz cried. “Whatever about?”

“Lady Arabella.”

Foz’s face fell. “About what she said to Richard? Was he very angry? She meant well, I’m sure.”

“It was about the wager.”

“Oh.” He twisted his hat in his hands. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you about that. I think we should call it off. I shall gladly part with the fifty pounds.”

“Because you think she is a virtuous angel?”

“There’s that, too,” Foz agreed pensively. A most unusually resolute expression came to his face. “Neville,” he said, his voice slightly tremulous, “you must give up the notion of seducing Lady Arabella.”

Neville’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

Foz looked away and toyed with his hat plume. “Because Lady Lippet has given me to understand that there is a chance … that it is not impossible that I … that is, that Lady Arabella might consider … that although I am far from outstanding, the earl has his heart set on a nobleman and—”

“You think you stand a chance of becoming her husband!”

Foz blinked. “There is no need to sound so angry about it. She could do worse, you know.”

That was something Neville could not deny, yet any woman of common intelligence and goodness would do for Foz.

Arabella would be wasted on him. He was no match for her spirit and passion.

But if she married Foz, she could be the making of him. And their children—

Oh, God, he could not bear to think of Arabella
in Cheddersby’s bed—in any man’s bed except his.

“What about my inheritance, Foz?” he asked quietly, willing himself to sound calm.

“Oh, that.”

“Yes, that. It is rather important to me.”

Foz continued to destroy the plume on his hat. “I could give you money in compensation, I suppose,”

Neville slowly got to his feet. “I am not a whore.”

Foz paled and swallowed hard. “Yes, well, you should leave her alone.”

“Don’t tell me what to do!”

“It’s wrong, Neville, and you know it.”