Indeed, she had. Rowan noticed that all of the buttons were gone from the front of her traveling cloak. Only the threads remained.
“Lady Cupps-Foster, why did you not summon the constable in Camden to chase after the coach? Certainly —”
“And what would I have told him? Arabella’s reputation would be in shreds before I finished speaking. Her abduction would be public knowledge in the ton. My niece already suffers society’s scrutiny for a variety of things that are not her fault. I suppose it was foolish.” She sniffed. “Arabella’s virtue may already be gone. But at least I can protect her from more gossip.”
“My lady, I will go immediately to Bow Street and I can assure you of their discretion. I’ll send a messenger to find His Grace and—"
“No, Lord Malden, it will be far too late.” She closed her eyes and bent her head and clasped his hands. “You are an honorable man and a friend to my nephew. Please, you could go after her. I trust you to protect her reputation and shield her from gossip.”
Rowan looked away from the pleading look in her eyes. “Lady Cupps-Foster, is there any possibility, any at all, that Arabella went with Corbett of her own accord? She did help him once.” The thought occurred to Rowan all during Lady Cupps-Foster’s recitation. He wouldn’t put such a thing past Arabella.
Lady Cupps-Foster did not lift her eyes to meet his. Instead, her gaze remained focused on their clasped hands. “I watched Barker drag her kicking and screaming from the coach. She fought him. If nothing else, if Corbett manages to become her husband, he could use the opportunity to discredit your family, or worse. Please. I beg you. There is no one else. Neither of my sons are near enough to offer aid and who knows how long it will take to find my nephew.”
Bloody Hell. Lady Cupps-Foster was right even though Arabella certainly deserved her fate. He should let her rot. But he couldn’t.
“Very well. I'll go. I'll find Lady Arabella.”
6
Thank God.
Arabella breathed in relief as the coaching inn finally came into view. She was tired, damp and hungry. The rain, barely a drizzle as they’d approached Camden, had turned into a steady downpour that showed no sign of abating. Moisture pelted the coach relentlessly as the ancient vehicle labored in the general direction of Gretna Green. Corbett’s coach was less than comfortable and in desperate need of new springs. Arabella was bruised from the constant jostling and exhausted from the non-stop travel. He had allowed only minimal stops, barely allowing time to relieve herself before they started off again. Barker deliberately kept the coach off the main road, but the action slowed their travel. Twice the coach had gotten stuck in the mud causing a delay of several hours. She’d been begging Corbett since early that morning to stop, if only to find relief from the constant rain.
Barker agreed with her, snapping at Corbett that the horses were exhausted and needed a rest. The footman, if she could call him that, had grown even more surly. He glared at Arabella as if the entire journey was her fault. Which of course, in a way, it was.
Corbett finally agreed to stop at the next coaching inn.
Barker handed her out of the coach, his rough features hinting at the cruelty that lay within. “My lady.”
Arabella refused to be intimidated, particularly by a man like Barker. Like the feral dog he was, Corbett’s henchman would smell fear on her and attack. Shaking off his hand, she followed Corbett to the inn, head bent down, pulling her cloak tight. Truthfully, she was afraid. After being trapped inside that filthy coach with Corbett, she’d heard a constant litany of hatred directed at both her brother and Jemma. His handsome face would take on an almost maniacal cast as he crowed about his impending revenge. He also took every opportunity to touch her until Arabella found herself squeezed in the corner furthest from him. It had taken relatively little time for Arabella to determine that she loathed Corbett, but she forced herself to think of the freedom and revenge this marriage would bring her. Surprisingly, the prospect brought her little joy.
Corbett took her arm, leading her across the busy courtyard to step inside the inn while Barker disappeared, probably to see to the horses. Honestly, Arabella didn’t care, relieved to no longer have to tolerate his smirking presence.
Stepping inside, Arabella saw the coaching inn was crowded with people making their way to London. The interior was dim, but she could make out a taproom to her left. The hum of dozens of voices met her ears as guests ate, drank and availed themselves of the fire blazing from the hearth.
She shivered, as much from the cold as from fear she’d be recognized. The inn was in Lancashire and a main stop on the way to and from London. She kept her head down, tugging the bonnet she wore to hide her face.
Corbett’s grip on her arm was tight as he approached a husky, red faced man holding two empty tankards of ale in one hand, wiping the sweat off of his brow with the other. Seeing Corbett, he stopped and nodded.
“Can I help you, my lord?”
Arabella’s nose wrinkled. The man smelled as if he’d fallen into a bucket of ale.
“I’m in need of a room where my wife can rest for a bit before we continue our journey. We’d also like to have a bit of supper.”
Wife. He called her his wife. Nausea filled her and she opened her mouth to object but stopped. It will be true soon enough.
“I do, my lord. One last room. A bit small and not our finest, but you can eat and rest. Lucky you came now. If the rain continues, you’d be fortunate to find even space in the taproom. He waved to a thin, harried girl who was making her way through the taproom. “Bess will show you up.”
The sudden urge to flee was so strong, Arabella’s feet actually moved back and forth.
Bess gave them a tired smile but led them up a flight of narrow stairs and down a poorly lit hall. She stopped in front of one door and swung it open to reveal a small, sparsely furnished room. A bed sat against one wall covered with a faded quilt. Even from the door Arabella could see the lumps in the mattress.
Probably full of vermin.
The center of the room held a scarred wooden table and three battered chairs. A chest of drawers stood against another wall holding a pitcher and wash bowl.
Bess hurried to the hearth, efficiently lighting the fire. She turned and bustled out of the room to reappear a moment later with hot water, towels and a bar of soap. Arabella pulled away from Corbett to approach the warmth of the flames ablaze in the hearth and hopefully chase the chill from her skirts.
“I’ll send up something to eat for you milord. My lady.” The girl bobbed, peering at Corbett from under her lashes. “Will there be anything else?”
“A bottle of wine as well.” Corbett smiled in his charming manner and the girl giggled.
Arabella’s lip curled. Disgusting.
Reaching into a side pocket, he produced a small purse heavy with coins. Pressing several pieces of gold into the girl’s palm, he said something in a low voice before shutting the door.
The purse bore the initials M.T. Marissa Tremaine.
“Why do you have my aunt’s coin purse?” Arabella made to snatch it from his hands and Corbett sidestepped her. “You promised she wouldn’t be harmed.”
“Lady Cupps-Foster is fine. I imagine she’s on her way to London by now. Seagraves, while rather slow-witted, knows how to follow orders. I left plenty of funds to see dear Aunt Maisy home.” He presented the same charming smile he’d given the maid. “I merely borrowed her purse. I’ll repay her once we’re wed. I promise.”
He’s lying.
The purse slid back inside his coat pocket. “I’ll give you some privacy, my dear. Don’t fret, I’ll be back soon.” He moved towards the door.
Arabella had never ‘fretted’ in her entire life. And she doubted Corbett gave a fig for her well-being. “I shall miss your delightful company.” She took great satisfaction watching the smile fade at the scorn in her voice.
He slammed the door behind him.
Arabella’s self-satisfaction diss
olved at the click of the lock. Now that she was alone, without Corbett’s constant presence, the unease which had been building since she’d agreed to this terrible bargain made itself known. What had seemed like an excellent way get back at everyone in her life for all the wrongs done to her now seemed the actions of a petulant and spoiled child. She would be stuck with Corbett, a man she now knew she detested, for the remainder of her life. Her family would despise her. Miranda would be forced to avoid her. She told herself she didn’t care.
My actions are not those of an intelligent woman.
Grandfather had often praised her intellect stating that Arabella possessed more brains than most of the men in Parliament. She wondered what he would say of her acceptance of Corbett? The idea of marrying for revenge?
He would be ashamed and demand I fix the situation.
Carefully she untied the strings of her bonnet allowing it to fall from her head. She begged her hands to cease their shaking. Arabella had always considered herself to be rather fearless. One scathing look from her could freeze water. No one liked her, true, but neither did anyone in the ton risk offending her. It struck Arabella her fearlessness was born of the fact that she’d never been in true peril before.
Well, she was certainly in peril now.
“Dear God, I do hope I don’t collapse into a fit of vapors,” she whispered out loud. The thought of being at Corbett’s mercy while unconscious and prone was incredibly unappealing.
Dabbing at her face with a towel, she carefully wiped away the grime beneath her chin. The action helped stall the cry of panic rapidly bubbling up her throat. She was very neatly snared in a trap she herself had willingly walked into.
I must find a way to escape Corbett and my own foolishness.
The lock clicked behind her and the door swung open.
Corbett was rather smug, his previous good humor restored. He waved in Bess who hastily laid the small table with fresh linens and steaming plates of food before bobbing once again.
Corbett pressed another coin in the girl’s palm.
Shutting the door, he approached the table. “Mutton my love, with potatoes.” Every word laced with false cheer and affection. “It smells delicious, does it not?”
Arabella turned, facing the bad bargain that was Augustus Corbett. A hasty agreement she’d made in anger. Corbett could not be trusted and the thought struck her that freedom would not be hers if she married him.
“It smells delicious,” she lied.
While she’d had little to eat since leaving the Dunbar coach, only some cheese and bread Arabella doubted she would be able to eat. Her earlier hunger faded abruptly as she contemplated her future.
Corbett bowed low and pulled out the chair nearest to her. He motioned for her to sit. “My dear. May this be the first of many pleasant evenings together.”
Perish the thought. The brush of his fingertips lingered against one shoulder and her stomach curdled.
“I was so very pleased when you agreed to our marriage, Arabella.” He moved around the table, covering her hand with his. “So pleased.”
She tried to move her hand away.
He slid his fingers through hers, gripping hard. “So cold and aloof. Is it any surprise no man will have you? Except me, of course.” He sat himself across from her, the corners of his mouth twisting. “I like a challenge.”
Arabella’s heart raced wildly in her chest as panic escalated. She struggled to focus on her mutton, trying to ignore the bits of oil congealing around the bone. The potatoes, artfully arranged around the meat looked to have been harvested last fall. A bit of mush on the side of her plate may have been a vegetable of some sort. Possibly carrots.
Corbett poured himself wine, studying her before tipping the glass back to drain it. His eyes flitted to her breasts. “I shall ask you in the future to wear more appealing gowns, Arabella.” He waved his glass in the direction of her bodice. “I like to see a bit of skin, possibly your neck would be a start. Or the tops of your breasts.”
An unpleasant feeling clawed against her chest. “As we discussed earlier, your opinion of my clothing is of little consequence. I will continue to wear what I wish as my attractiveness holds little bearing in our marriage.”
A hungry look entered his face. One that frightened her more than she cared to admit. He meant to take his husbandly rights. Stupidly she had believed Corbett when he claimed to not be interested in consummating their marriage. Of course he’d lied. Arabella looked down at the tines of the fork she clasped. It was the only weapon available to her. Lifting her chin she shot him a look that silenced twittering matrons at the fundraisers she so often hosted.
“Very good, Arabella. Do you use that look to put your servants in place? Perhaps frighten some poor girl who has offended you?” He threw back his wine and poured more.
“I’m afraid I’ve changed my mind. I’ve decided we don’t suit.” She was surprised at the firm tone of her voice as she was bloody terrified. “I shall arrange passage back to London on one of the coaches sitting in the courtyard.”
Corbett giggled, slapping his palm against the table. Wine sloshed out on the tablecloth. “Oh, you are amusing, aren’t you Queen Sour?” Patting the grease from his lips he glared at her from across the table. “The only coach you’ll be leaving in is mine.” He nodded to Arabella’s untouched glass. “Drink.”
Arabella stood on shaky legs. “You cannot force me to marry you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course, I can. Do you think I would allow you to just flounce out of here and go about your merry way? I made sure Seagraves informed your aunt of our agreement. I didn’t wish her to worry.”
Arabella paled. “She would never believe such a thing.”
“Wouldn’t she?” He tossed back the remainder of his wine and poured himself another full glass. “Sit down.”
“I will scream.” It was no idle threat. She wanted to scream her head off. Beat at the door. Surely someone would help her.
“You’re given to fits, Arabella.” His boyish face took on a mournful cast. “Delicate nerves and all that. I’ve already informed the proprietor you have delusions I’ve kidnapped you. My poor, dear wife. I fear you may be destined for the sanitarium.” His mouth grew hard. “Have you ever been to a madhouse, Arabella? Even you wouldn’t last long inside such a place. If you continue being disagreeable, I shall send you to one after our marriage. And we will be married. Now drink your wine like a good girl.”
Arabella’s mouth went dry at his words. Slowly she eased herself back into her chair, shaken to her very core. A sanitarium? Such a thing had never crossed her mind, for she’d never thought him so bold. As her husband, he would be within his rights to lock her away forever. “I don’t drink spirits,” she whispered.
“Well I think now would be the time to try, don’t you? I’ve no desire to be married to a prude.”
Arabella glared back defiantly as his blue gaze raked over her bosom once more. His interest had become more than passing. She pierced a tiny bit of mutton on the fork, studying the tines and wondering at their sharpness, before chewing the meat. Good Lord, the mutton was terrible. She laid the fork back down next to her plate.
“You are a prude, aren’t you? Cold, like a block of ice. Not an ounce of fire in you. Perhaps I shall be the man to finally warm you.”
“I doubt that.” Her fingers ran over the knife beside her plate, testing the blade. Her heart sank. A dull butter knife, no sharper than the fork. She had only an ancient set of cutlery to defend her honor.
Abruptly, Corbett stood, as if something of import had come to mind. He circled the table until he stood behind her. His fingers dug into her shoulders and he leaned in. His breath was hot and smelled of sour grapes. “Well, I do like a challenge. Disappointment in the bedroom is certain, I fear. You’ll lay there with no more animation than a gutted fish. Hopefully there’s something appealing underneath this hideous dress.”
She could barely breathe, afraid the slightes
t movement would set Corbett off. “Get away from me,” she hissed.
One hand, clammy and slightly damp, circled the back of her neck like a vise, holding her firm. His other hand traveled down the front of her chest like an overly large spider, splaying across her bodice. The fingers squeezed as if her breast were a piece of fruit Corbett inspected. “Hmm.” He sounded surprised. “Nicely endowed for a shriveled spinster, aren’t you? Perhaps bedding you won’t be the chore I expect it to be.”
“There is no reason to continue, given my lack of appeal. Remove your hands.” Her tone didn’t hide the disgust she felt for him. “I’ll see myself out.” She tried to stand and his hold tightened.
“It’s unfortunate you’re prepared to give up your plans for revenge, however, I am not. I will have my heiress. Not the one I wanted, true, but a wealthy lady all the same. You are a consolation prize of sorts, Arabella. A sour, mealy apple when I wished for a sweet cherry.” He found her nipple, twisting the tender flesh through the heavy folds of fabric.
“I plan on putting a brat in your belly tonight. Any child borne of our union will be very useful in keeping the Duke of Dunbar from killing me or annulling the marriage.”
“You are insane as well as drunk.” Her fingers fluttered over the table, resting on the fork.
“I’d have to be to bed you. I imagine a stone statue would be more welcoming.”
Arabella’s grip on the fork tightened.
7
Rowan burst through the doors of the taproom, his boots leaving bits of mud scattering across the floor. Gloves slapping against his thigh in agitation, he was beginning to realize the futility of his quest.
Wickedly Yours (The Wickeds Book 4) Page 4
