by Addison Cain
He roughly yanked her arm straight, tugging up the drooping sleeve of her chemise until the old fabric tore. Before Arabella might begin to claw, screech, and bite, she saw he was right. Up and down her arm deeper cuts sluggishly bled... and they stung. Now that they had her attention, they stung horribly.
Magdala returned, kneeling at his side to dip a fresh strip of linen in steaming water while the man picked protruding edges of poisonous matter from her lady's arm. “Relax, my lady. The gentleman is only trying to help you.”
“Gentleman? Magdala, do not absolve his bad temper by believing it is the product of my tongue...” Arabella curled a lip at her would be doctor. “Perhaps you should enlighten her to the truth, Mr. Harrow.”
He had the gall to look smug as he dug out a particularly embedded needle-sharp barb. “Mrs. Magdala, my temperament is nefarious. It is also true that when your lady speaks I long to wrap my hands around her throat. She would do well to stay silent.”
Arabella burst out laughing, causing him to cluck when her arm moved and he lost the final thorn. “I do believe you've lost your only supporter in this household, Mr. Harrow. Now she will see past your handsome face and false manners.”
He looked up, black eyes pools of spilled ink. But there was something there behind his gaze, something troubling. Arabella grew uncomfortable. She remained motionless, her arm in his grip, silent as Magdala swabbed the last of the blood before vinegar was splashed on her skin to sanitize the open wounds.
Caught in those pitch eyes, Arabella gave no hiss of pain. The sting was gone.
“Is that not better?” a voice rich and deep asked.
Looking down at the trailing scratches, Arabella let out a hum.
“Are you not going to thank me?”
At the sound of his conceit, she was herself again. “For your cleverness in offering boiled water and vinegar to clean simple wounds, and for your determination to pick out little bits of bracken personally, I will say... it is your own fault this happened. Had you prepared the property as a respectable landlord should, I would not have been tangling with thorny vines. Had you done your duty, all would be well.” Pink lips curved into a beautiful smile, Arabella asking in a mock gentle voice, “There, was that not prettily said?”
Leaning back on his heels, Mr. Harrow chuckled. “Very prettily said. And though you are wild, unkempt, and dressed like a beggar, I find you handsome as well, silver-tongued Imp.”
A furious blush came to her cheeks. “Take your payment and go.”
The man rose to his feet, Arabella followed suit, stalking toward the stairs without a cursory goodbye.
When the sounds of her steps echoed above, black eyes peered down at the well-groomed housekeeper gathering spoiled linen, noting that the servant's dress was of finer stuff than the baroness’s. With a parody of a smile he asked, “Will she come down before nightfall, pray?”
Magdala, her air righteous and stiff, explained, “Though I appreciate your help tending my ladyship, it would be best if you leave her in peace to recover.”
He sneered again, indifferent in hiding his ill humor. “Now that the thorns have been removed, her wounds will only sting. She will be fine by morning.”
The way the woman looked at him—as if he were the stupidest man she had ever looked upon—made his eyes narrow.
Unsmiling, the thin-lipped woman ignored his scrutiny, stood tall, and spoke in a heavy accent. “Would you care for more wine before you make your way, sir?”
Chapter 5
S poradic summer storms rolled over the moors. They lingered, sequestering Crescent Barrows above the fog soaked heath below. Despite the damp it was warm—the oozing warmth of almost too thick air. Arabella found herself nothing but grateful for the uncomfortable weather. Rain delivered reprieve from potential neighborhood visitors and what must have grown to be fantastic gossip about the shrieking baroness who shoved servants and berated gentlemen.
There had been no callers, not even Mr. Harrow dropping by to plague her. But she should have known better.
An invasion began before the weather cleared. Uninvited workers arrived and began to rip the devil's thorn from her courtyard. The task of tidying the overgrowth took two days. Two days where Arabella was trapped inside, unable to ride out on Mamioro without being seen.
Confinement left long hours by the fire dedicated to brooding. Eventually pensive deliberation turned to anger.
She could not chase the hired men off, nor could her household—not after the temper she'd shown at Harrow's home. The consequences of her outburst had left Arabella with only two options. She could find another dark corner of England to hide in... or stand her ground and face the reason she woke panicked in the dark.
If she stayed, William Dalton would find her. If she did not prepare for him, he would kill her with none the wiser.
Where would that leave Payne? What affect would her death have on Magdala? Who else would hire Mary, mute as she was? And Hugh, he would be back begging on the streets.
Glaring at the painting over the fire, staring at the woman as if the relic understood her dilemma yet offered no help, Arabella scowled. Mr. Harrow had claimed the beauty in the portrait had lived in bitterness. The sensation was one the baroness knew too well. Like the lady atop her hearth, there had been a time she'd also lived confined in gowns and curls.
There had been another life before the death of her husband.
Mr. Griggs wanted her to relive the noble life that had ruined her, that had rotted out the remnants of innocence growing up in poverty had yet to claim. He wanted her to be Baroness Iliffe and wear the title as if it wasn't saturated in unclean things.
Arabella felt bitter indeed.
Aware she was troubled, having waited for his friend to name the reason, Payne had lingered near hour after hour. Sitting across from her, smoking his pipe, his presence gave her comfort while strange men milled about outside. His quietness partnered hers, but two days of sulking was long enough.
Payne could not allow her mood to continue. “Speak with me.”
Arabella ceased chewing her torn nail, dropping a dirty hand to her lap. “I made a mistake, Payne. I ruined everything.”
Payne did not answer. Instead, he leaned forward and took her fingers, his skin so dark her tawny fingers looked pale beside it.
The warmth of his touch, his steadiness and enduring calm, lulled her to confess. “In a temper, I blurted out my title. Mr. Harrow's servant overheard. Rumors must be spreading.” She shook her head, voice frustrated and anxiety ridden. “If we were to stay... things will change.”
His offering was a balm. “I spoke with Solicitor Griggs upon arrival to Crescent Barrow. He entreated me to persuade you toward his plan. Over these weeks I have considered his arguments, your position... hearing you admit you wish to stay makes me certain. It is time we do more than run.”
“Payne, Mr. Griggs believes that if I were to step out into society, it would protect us—that I've been forgotten by the ton, grown uninteresting, and that my reappearance will offer some new excitement. But he forgets. I have no influential friends. I have no great wealth to hide behind. William Dalton is looking for me, and will find a way to remove my dower and the shame of my association from the Iliffe Barony he now controls.”
“Then is this not a good place to stand your ground? The society is limited. Compared to London, we are in the wastes. It may take time for the word of your location to reach Lord Dalton.” Payne entreated, aging eyes gentle, “In the meantime, the local gentry can meet and know the Baroness of Iliffe.”
The thought of facing all those people, of forcing smiles and chatting with strangers brought a sour taste to her mouth. “These people, they will find out what I am.”
Dropping her fingers Payne placed a careful touch to her cheek, giving her the affection he saved for their private moments. “You are not a Romani dancing girl anymore.”
“No, I am the gypsy whore once ridiculed by the ton.”
In an age-worn baritone, Payne repeated his point. “Benjamin Iliffe is dead and cannot shame you for faults you do not possess. That was his game.”
That had not been her dead husband's only game. Eyes large, breath unsteady, Arabella whispered, “But you saved me.”
“I would do anything for you.” Knowing this was best, Payne lifted his mass from creaking knees, still large, still a giant among men no matter his advancing years. “Now I will go to Magdala and explain the new situation.”
Arabella shook her head. “I should be the one. She would find it odd coming from a servant.”
Payne, wiser, disagreed. “She knows I am no servant.”
Of course she did. Magdala knew far more than she let on.
* * *
“You look lovely with your hair in fashion, my lady.” Magdala cooed, pulling the tongs away so another whorl might be pinned into place.
In the looking glass, the baroness found herself unsettled by this new reflection. Powder had been applied to dim her golden skin nearer society's pale ideal. Rouge pinkened lips and cheeks. Fluffed at her temples, curls framed her face, the remainder of the usually wild hair coiled tightly atop her head.
For select soirees Baron Iliffe had enjoyed dressing her like a doll, careful that any cuts or bruises would be hidden. She had not been allowed to speak, or move, or think. And always there had been a mistake, real or imagined, he'd cruelly punished her for afterward.
Looking at her reflection, wrapped in finery, she could almost hear him laughing.
“My lady?”
Under the light powdering, Arabella had gone white. “I do not recognize myself... you've done well. Thank you, Magdala.”
The housekeeper’s lip twitched, her veined hands fitting an arched silver comb into the tight coiffure. “There will be ladies near your age. I have seen several in town.” A heavily embroidered gold Indian silk wrap was placed around her lady's arms. “You might make a friend.”
“You are my friend.”
“Do not be so silly.” Serious, Magdala pressed a fan to Arabella’s gloved fingers. “These are simple people, with little society, quite separated from the rest of the country. Give them a chance to be dazzled by your title.”
Pressing a kiss to Magdala's thin cheek, Arabella swept past the startled housemaid, eager to get it over with.
Compared to riding Mamioro, traveling by coach, even with a team of four horses, was a painfully slow journey. Over the time it took Payne to convey his cargo to town, Arabella grew listless, bored of the soft velvet seat and stiff posture her attire forced her to maintain. It was almost a relief when the carriage rolled to a halt and Harding's Assembly Rooms waited outside.
The air outside the small hall was full of lively music. Not the sedate politeness Arabella had witnessed from society parties in the early days of her marriage. There was even the sound of laughter—a thing always stifled in the best London circles.
Hugh, doing his best to perform flawlessly, stood rigid in his new livery, having placed the step so the lady might emerge. She climbed from the carriage, servants in powdered wigs parted the Assembly Room’s doors, and before her nerves might ruin the moment, Arabella walked up the steps and into a new world.
The crowded public assembly was embraced by many ranks—wealthier tradespeople, a few splendidly dressed officers, and landed gentry all in attendance—each level of social strata keeping to their respective place careful of intermingling.
It was unusual, irredeemably country, and looked far more pleasant than any London party Arabella could remember attending. For one, not a soul glared at her. Instead those who noticed the newcomer’s quiet entrance looked intrigued.
If the public found her odd coloring unsettling, it was hidden behind the fact her manner of dress and title demanded certain courtesy. And, as she was the highest ranked woman in attendance, no one dared to approach.
Mamas measured her; young girls stared openly at such finery. And the men, even they glanced so long as decency would allow. Arabella attempted to appear aloof to the scrutiny, but something came over the air. Arabella’s practiced expression faltered, and for a brief moment she would have sworn her husband, the man who haunted her dreams, was whispering at her side that she’d been bad.
Near to ruining her composure, Arabella threw a glance over her shoulder. If she could just force herself to recognize that Benjamin Iliffe was long dead, that he was not watching her, and that his voice wasn’t real, everything would be fine. But there was a different man lurking in her shadow. Mr. Harrow had entered, a head taller than all around him, his fine clothes and stark white cravat doing little to diminish his diabolic nature.
With the distance between them Arabella did not know what he said, but the fullness of his lips moved and the crowd parted, the self-indulgent devil materializing completely.
Coming to a stop before her, he bowed gracefully, silently laughing at her proper clothing. “Lady Iliffe.”
“Mr. Harrow.” She offered the smallest of condescending nods.
Whispering low to prevent the nearest from overhearing, he teased, “Now where is the savage Imp? There is no dirt smeared on your cheek. If I did not know that fiery expression, I would think you were someone else entirely.”
Arabella smiled, all teeth and flowery threat. “Shouldn't you be at the Public House chewing on the bones of your people?”
He laughed, looking her over. “And miss your debut?”
Slowly palming her fan, Arabella ground her teeth.
Gregory Harrow was enjoying this too much. “Do not sulk. If you are going to play a proper lady then you must maintain an impassive expression at all times.”
The baroness sneered. “Any other advice you wish to impart, Mr. Harrow?”
Black eyes sparkled, Gregory satisfied. “Do my words offend you? Shall I flatter the Imp instead?”
“Oh, please do...” Arabella’s smile dared him to utter another word.
Words poured out, low and soft, making the praise disturbing. “You flush very prettily when your feathers are ruffled.”
Rouged lips parted, Arabella preparing a scathing reply. But before she could speak, a round woman dressed in green burst forward.
“Good evening, Mr. Harrow.”
“Mrs. Jenkins, it is a pleasure as always.” Narrowing his eyes at the interruption, Harrow turned toward the smiling matron and performed as expected. “Allow me to present Lady Iliffe.”
Delighted, Mrs. Jenkins began to talk all the faster. “Welcome to our humble assembly, your ladyship.”
Happy to see Mr. Harrow's jaw tick, Arabella smiled beautifully and curtsied, encouraging the woman to stay. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Jenkins.
The dame couldn’t have been more pleased. “You must meet my son and daughters.”
Harrow muttered under his breath, “Yes, by all means, Mrs. Jenkins, call over your brood...”
The woman was either oblivious to the man's rudeness, or simply did not care that she had earned Mr. Harrows disdain. She waved for her children to join her and the three Jenkins siblings stepped forward. The eldest, Mr. Edmund Jenkins, mirrored his mother's good natured expression and pale hair. Behind him a lovely pair of sisters dressed in satin ribbons and the pure white muslin of marriageable ladies curtsied. The elder of the two possessed the ethereal beauty that was much in fashion. Light brown hair curled delicately around an angel's face, Lilly was lovely, and from her haughty expression, well aware of the fact. The younger, Lizzy, smiled with such honest charm it was impossible not to smile back.
Where Arabella was reserved, it seemed Mrs. Jenkins had a gift of creating conversation where there was none. “It is such a pity you arrived after supper, your ladyship, for you missed half the dancing. When this set ends shall I ask the Master of Ceremonies to call your favorite?”
“That is very kind of you,” Arabella replied far too quickly. Trying to amend her outburst, she leaned closer, ignoring the looming, dark-hair
ed male's snicker and added, “But I do not intend to dance this evening.”
“That is a shame.” The woman glanced to her handsome son as if he might persuade her.
“You will learn, Mrs. Jenkins,” Mr. Harrow interjected, “that Lady Iliffe does things in her own time.”
Arching an eyebrow, Arabella glanced at the lurking annoyance and said nothing.
“Is that not a lady's prerogative?” Edmund offered, smiling and charming.
“And you, Mr. Harrow.” Mrs. Jenkins turned to the scowling man. “It is seldom that we gain your presence at such an event. Do you intend to dance this evening?”
“I'm certain he does,” Arabella interjected, impish. “Mr. Harrow is far too much a gentleman to refuse two such lovely ladies.”
It was Lilly whose wide hazel eyes hinted longing. Seeing her so, Arabella wished she had kept her mouth shut, uneasy Mr. Harrow might hurt the girl's feelings.
Instead of the cutting remarks he always flung at her, the man bowed with a deceptively inviting smile and offered an arm toward the young woman.
How strange it was to watch him play the wolf in sheep's clothing, how beguiled the crowd for not recognizing the devil in their midst. Or did they? The assembly continuously shifted around him so as not to hinder his path in unaffected submission.
The fair-haired gentleman at her side requested Arabella’s attention. “How do you enjoy the county, your ladyship?”
Her answer was sincere. “The moors are breathtaking.”
“But a wild place,” Mr. Jenkins said. “Many who come from town find the solitude too much for their taste. Most choose not to linger.”
Emerald eyes darted toward the youngest sister. “Do you enjoy taking the air Miss Lizzy?”
“Edmund escorts me on a walk daily,” the young woman nodded toward her brother. “Though, we hardly leave the grounds of Stonewall Grove.”
“Stonewall Grove?” Arabella asked. “Are we near neighbors?”
It was the brother who answered. “We are just six miles off from Crescent Barrows, nearer the township of Harding, your ladyship.”
