Margaret Moore (4 page)

Even now, despite the changes in him, he was still the most attractive man she had ever seen. Moreover, he seemed to emanate virility as the sun did its rays. His broad shoulders and muscular chest added to that impression, as did his lean, strong fingers.

Those same fingers that had clasped her own in warm intimacy that day in the garden.

Before she could go back to the bedchamber, he glanced up. Straightening abruptly, he snatched up his baldric and sword. His intense gaze seemed to bore through her body as he slowly climbed the stairs toward her.

She clenched the banister. “You … you are leaving?”

He regarded her with his piercing eyes. “Not yet.”

Suddenly, his arm encircled her waist and he tugged her close. His lips captured hers with arrogant confidence.

She had never been kissed before, not even on the cheek, so she was totally unprepared for
the incredible sensation of his mouth upon hers.

The incredible, exciting, overwhelming sensation that spread from her lips outward, to encompass and overpower her entire body.

His hand moved slowly up her arm. His touch seemed made of fire, igniting her. The heat of passion melted away everything else but him, including her resistance.

Just as abruptly, he drew back, a mocking smile on his handsome face. “Allow me to give you a bit of advice, beautiful Arabella,” he said with quiet yet unmistakable menace. “You are not in sleepy little Grantham anymore. You have come to great and wicked London—
my
realm. It can be a very dangerous place.”

“I believe you,” she whispered, stumbling back from him. “And I can believe you are the most dangerous thing in it.”

His smile broadened. “You would do well to remember that.”

Then he turned and left the house. While Arabella put her hands to her slightly swollen lips as if she could wipe his kiss away.

Chapter 3

W
ith an elegant flick of the wrist, the wide-brimmed, white-plumed hat sailed across the coffeehouse to land neatly on a peg near the dispenser’s stall. A rousing and welcoming cheer went up from the patrons as a smiling Neville Farrington paused on the threshold and surveyed them with the magnanimity of a benign sovereign.

None of them, including the serving wench leaning against the counter and incidentally displaying more of her wares than her coffee, would believe that he had spent the past few hours striding about the city, attempting to overcome his shock, anger and frustration.

Now, to the amusement of the noble customers and disapproving glances from the few Puritans inside, Neville suddenly groaned pitiably, stumbled forward as if he had been stabbed and staggered toward his friends sitting
at their usual table in the corner.

“Alas, my friends!” Neville cried as he reeled close to them, the back of his hand against his aristocratic brow. “A disaster has befallen me!”

Lord Fozbury Cheddersby, not the most discerning of mortals and, as always, beribboned and bedecked in the latest fashionable attire, no matter how ridiculous, obviously expected Neville to drop dead at his feet, for a look of stunned horror came to his round face.

“Odd’s fish, Farrington!” he cried, jumping up and spilling his coffee onto his scarlet velvet breeches.

“Have a care, Foz!” Sir Richard Blythe snarled, his expression as severe as his dark woolen clothing, which made him look more like a Puritan than the cavalier he had been and the playwright he was. “Can’t you see he’s only acting—and poorly, too? Zounds, you’ve burned me!”

“An unfortunate baptism by coffee, Richard,” Neville said with a sympathetic sigh as he moved his sword out of the way and lifted his leg over the bench to sit. “But that is what you get for criticizing my acting. Besides, what is a little singed flesh compared to my current dilemma?”

“You look as if you have not slept all night or washed, either,” Foz noted worriedly, absently mopping up the spilled coffee with his
handkerchief of linen and lace, then just as absently shoving the damp cloth into his cuff.

“Oh, I dare say it cannot be so bad that Neville would neglect to wash, although he does need to shave if he’s going to persist in going beardless as a boy,” Richard remarked.

“Please, my friends, speak softly and give me your pity, for I am in agony,” Neville pleaded as he covered his ears with his palms, shaking his head mournfully.

“Let me hazard a guess as to the cause of this agony,” Richard answered coolly. “Minette Sommerall still refuses to consider your addresses.”

“Ah!” Neville gasped, doubling over. He raised his mirthful eyes. “Another blow I had forgotten!”

As he spoke, he forced away any mental connection between mistresses and the astonishingly provocative kiss he had stolen from the lovely, shapely Arabella. “But this is not the time for idle chitchat,” he continued. “I assure you, my trouble is very serious.”

Lord Cheddersby scratched his head beneath his peruke. Unlike the other gentlemen seated at the long tables, he had quickly adopted this new fashion, too, perhaps because his natural hair lacked the fullness of Neville’s locks.

“Can you not surmise from whence disaster comes, at least?” Neville asked.

“Your father?” Richard suggested.

“You are waking up at last, I see!” Neville cried triumphantly. “Exactly. My esteemed parent.”

“He’s not sent you any money.”

“No, I should say not.”

“You lost a considerable sum at Whitehall last night,” the playwright noted calmly. “You ought not to gamble.”

“Are you quite certain you are not a Puritan in disguise,” Neville asked, “or an agent of my father? Besides, I usually win.”

“It is easy to take such a lax view if one can afford it,” retorted the former Royalist soldier.

“But I gamble only what I can afford to lose—well, most of the time,” Neville replied with a wry grin even as he gave his friend a shrewd look. “Granted you lost Blythe Hall in the Interregnum, but not everything, and you make a pretty penny from your plays and poetry. You are not nearly as poor as you pretend, and I think you do that only so that you can borrow gambling money from me without risking your own.”

Richard’s eyes widened in genuine surprise.

“Ah, you knew not that I was on to you?” Neville inquired with a sly smile. Then he frowned. “Unfortunately, Richard, those days are over. I fear I shall have to be borrowing of you in the time to come.”

Foz, who had been immersed in grave and silent contemplation, suddenly exclaimed,
“Your father has cut you off without another penny!”

“Foz, I shall offer to knock down the next person who claims you are a dunderhead, for you have reasoned it out.”

Cheddersby’s mouth fell open in surprise. “I … I have?”

“As close to it as makes no difference,” Neville confirmed.

“He … he can’t do that,” Foz whispered, stunned, “can he?”

“It is most unfortunately true. My father arrived in London today to tell me, in his own delightful way, that I will not be seeing any more money from him except an allowance
he
considers sufficient.”

“Until he dies. Then you will inherit.”

Neville slowly shook his head. “No, Richard, upon that melancholy event, the inheritance is to go to his ward and her spouse, whoever he may be. I suppose I should be grateful he does not give it to her directly.”

“What ward?” Richard demanded. “We have heard no talk of any ward.”

“Perhaps if I could make out his writing, I might have.”

“But you are his son!” Foz protested.

“True. And so I have my title and the old, decrepit family manor.”

“Who is this ward?”

“Her name is Lady Arabella Martin, and she
is the daughter of the late Duke of Bellhurst.”

“The Duke of Bellhurst? Isn’t he the fellow who became a hermit or a Quaker or some such monstrosity after his wife died?” Foz asked.

“A Puritan,” Neville replied.

Neville could still remember how Arabella had spoken of the few memories she had of her mother and how he had wanted to offer her some kind of comfort.

“Then why would he leave his daughter in your father’s care?”

“Because my father always had certain Puritan sympathies.” Neville’s tone turned slightly bitter. “For all his condemnation of me, he could not renounce the more luxurious aspects of lordly life and convert completely.”

“When did he become her guardian?”

“Three months ago, I understand.”

“And she has managed to usurp your place in so short a time?” Richard asked.

“Apparently.”

“How?”

“Yes, how?” Foz seconded him. “Is he quite right in the head? Perhaps he should see a doctor.”

“I confess the same thought occurred to me, my friend. He claims to be sane. He also claims Lady Arabella is the most virtuous person he has ever met.”

Richard’s response was a scornful snort.

“I agree absolutely,” Neville said. “No woman is truly virtuous.”

He thought of Arabella’s demure manner in the drawing room and the shy girl she had been in the garden.

Then he commanded himself not to be so naive. He had learned much of the ways of the world since he had come to London, including the true nature of beautiful women, all of whom used their beauty to advantage. Surely she was no different.

“However,” he clarified, “she does possess an air of innocence aided by a certain countrified prettiness.”

“An air of innocence, eh?” Richard observed. “I gather that, contrary to your father, you do not think she actually possesses that quality?”

As he recalled her response to his passionate kiss, Neville wondered if what seemed innocent surprise really could have been. Perhaps she was simply a good actress, which might explain his own surprisingly intense reaction—and the reaction he was experiencing now, just from the memory.

“How can she, when she would take what is rightfully mine?” he answered, fighting to dominate his wayward flesh. “My father says she does not know what he intends, but I do not believe that for a moment. She has merely been too clever for him.”

Richard nodded pensively.

“She’s pretty?” Foz asked, all the gravity of Neville’s situation apparently less important to him than this particular point.

“Yes, in a plain sort of way.” Neville glanced at Richard. “She is like a lass off a hay cart, so she holds little appeal for me,” he lied.

“If she is pretty,” Richard said, “perhaps she appeals to your—”

“He will tell you,” Neville interrupted, “as he told me, that such thoughts are indicative of a degenerate mind. I would say a worldly-wise mind, myself. Nevertheless, I do believe that there is nothing of
that
sort between them.”

“Who does your father think this alleged paragon should marry?”

“I gather he has not decided, except that the fellow must be as unlike me as possible.” He gave Foz a pathetic look. “Foz, I truly am expiring for want of coffee. Can you not stand me a cup, given my sudden loss of income?”

“Of course, dear friend!” Foz cried, jumping to his feet and hurrying toward the serving wench as fast as his short legs would take him.

Neville turned to his more discreet companion with a guilty grin. “I shouldn’t have done that. He is too genial a fellow.”

“He doesn’t mind and he can afford it. Besides, no one would give him any notice until you took him under your wing, so I think whatever he does for you is a fair bargain.”
Richard’s face grew even more grave than usual. “This is all true?”

“Yes.”

“And your father came here to tell you, although he hates London?”

Neville nodded.

“And then you quarreled.”

It was not a question; it was a statement of fact based upon experience.

Neville sighed wearily. “Of course.” He ran his hand through his hair. “I cannot understand it, but whenever I’m with him, I cannot resist the temptation to act in a manner I know will enrage him.”

“Did you not tell him that there would be no family fortune at all if you had not taken matters in hand when you arrived in London?”

Neville shook his head. “To what purpose? He would not believe me.”

“Then you should have sent him to the bankers and told him to consult with the estate steward. Good God, man, it’s time
somebody
told him how you brought him back from the brink of ruin—a ruin his own extravagant ways were fast bringing about. Indeed, you should have told him years ago.”

A stern, resolute expression appeared on Neville’s face. “A man should do his duty without expecting thanks.”

“That does not mean a man has to do it in secret.”

“I had to, or he would have interfered.” Neville shook his head. “I can scarce believe my cynical, censorious father would ever be taken in so completely by a pair of pretty eyes or a pair of anything else.”

And he must not be fooled, either, he warned himself as he watched Foz making his way back to their table, his brow furrowed with concentration and his eyes on the hot brew.

“Thank you,” Neville said, wrapping his hands about the steaming cup.

“So let me understand you,” Foz said, like a student attempting to comprehend a particularly difficult lesson. “Whoever marries your father’s ward will inherit his wealth when he dies?”