by Addison Cain
“And how excited we were to hear Crescent Barrows had a new tenant,” Lizzy exclaimed. “It has stood empty for years.”
“I cannot say I am surprised.” Not with the aggravating landlord and the sorry state of the property.
Mistaking Arabella’s meaning, Lizzy leaned closer, whispering, “So, you are you not afraid of the ghosts?”
“I wasn't aware I lived with any.” The baroness could not help but laugh. Seeing the girl blush, she amended, “But you’ve captured my attention... Tell me more.”
“Well,” Lizzy wavered, looking as if she felt foolish, “the White Woman is said to haunt your grounds.”
Edmund sought to soften the legend by quickly adding, “It is merely the tale local mothers tell to frighten youngsters into behaving.”
Giggling, Lizzy added, “She wanders the moors... snatching naughty children away in the night.”
“I have not met her,” Arabella smiled. “The only fright I’ve had at Crescent Barrows was finding nothing but sermons and spiders in the library.”
Lizzy came alight. “If you have a love for books, then you must come to Stonewall Grove. My father's library was his pride. Oh do say you will come, Lady Iliffe?”
Arabella hesitated, unsure what to say. Before her pause might offend, the baroness offered, “I will call Thursday, if it would be no trouble to your mother.”
Mrs. Jenkins had remained silent while her children wooed the baroness but instantly crowed, “You are very welcome to Stonewall Grove, Lady Iliffe.”
A squeal came from Lizzy, the girl snatching Arabella's hand. “What fun we will have.” Glancing over flaming red hair, the youngest Jenkins grinned. “Edmund, will it not be great fun?”
He smiled with a brother's affection. “Try not to crush Lady Iliffe's fingers.”
Waving off his teasing, Lizzy began to speak about her new favorite book. Like her mother, she had a gift for talk, making the conversation one that required very few replies from Arabella. Everything was going well, the baroness grew marginally comfortable... until an unknown hand came to her elbow.
She startled.
“You must be tired of this press,” Mr. Jenkins could see he’d surprised her, withdrawing his touch. “Shall I find you a seat, or wine...” A thought struck him. “Do you care for cards, your ladyship?”
Arabella nodded, swallowing. “Indeed, I do care for cards.”
It was a gentle offer, unassuming and simple. “Come, allow me to escort you to the gaming tables.”
Looking down at the proffered elbow, she knew her disinclination was foolish—especially considering the gentleman, with his golden curls and blue eyes, had been so obliging. Edmund and his family had been kind thus far. Her duty was to return that kindness... yet it took Arabella a considerable amount of effort to set her gloved hand to his elbow.
If he’d noticed her reluctance, Edmund did not show it.
Like the ballroom, the area set aside for cards was crowded. It was peculiar, the magic of perceived rank amongst those who had yet to learn how infamous she truly was. A table was immediately cleared for her use. The baroness took a seat, Mrs. Jenkins across from her. Before a soul could object, Mr. Harrow materialized, Lilly on his arm and took the chair at Arabella's side. Lilly stole quickly across and sat to partner him in the game. The two interlopers had been so slippery that Edmund and Lizzy were obliged to spectate, the younger sister scowling at Lilly for pushing past her.
The cards were shuffled, a game of whist decided upon.
After a childhood spent tricking Englishmen out of money, Arabella let herself enjoy the moment. Her pleasure only grew as it dawned on her that gambling seemed a sport at which Mr. Harrow held himself in high regard... and that round by round, she was absolutely decimating the snidely smirking man.
Mrs. Jenkins initiated customary small talk. “What brought you to our county, your ladyship?”
Arabella organized the cards in her hand, keeping her focus on the game. “I have a deep fondness for the wilderness.”
“And Crescent Barrows, do you not find such a distant dwelling lonely?”
It seemed an inappropriate question considering the man who owned the building was at their table, but Arabella was more than happy to answer. “I greatly appreciate the solitude.”
Mrs. Jenkins’s well-meant motherly chiding continued. “You are far too young to say such things.”
No. She wasn’t.
Chilled wine was brought to the table with such flawless timing, Arabella had an excuse to hold her tongue. Once all had sipped their glasses and the game progressed, Arabella turned to the delicately pretty Lilly and asked, “Do you ride, Miss Jenkins?”
“No, Lady Iliffe.” A snide frown marked Lilly’s disapproval of such things. “Riding about the moors is no place for a young lady. I keep to the drawing room...” she looked to Arabella's tawny skin, “out of the sun and near my pianoforte.”
“I have heard you are a skilled musician, Miss Jenkins.” The compliment was Mr. Harrow’s.
Blushing, Lilly batted her eyes, coyly glancing back to her cards. “I'm sure my talents have been exaggerated.”
Whatever the beauty’s skill at music, she did not possess the same at the card table. Arabella won the round. “And Miss Lizzy, does she play as well?”
Mrs. Jenkins answered, interrupting her eldest daughter before she could speak. “Lizzy sings beautifully.”
Arabella smiled. “Your daughters must be very accomplished, Mrs. Jenkins.”
The older woman glowed at the praise, set down the final card in the set, and won the round for the baroness. Snickering at their victory, Arabella began to shuffle for the next hand, showing great dexterity and precision in her manipulation of the cards to those with a keen eye—especially the irritating landlord whose money she was more than happy to take.
More coin was put down as the betting progressed, but Lilly stole Arabella’s triumph with a few thinly veiled words. “You're so young to be a widow alone in the country.”
All in hearing distance went silent, ears pricked for gossip.
Looking the girl dead in the eye, the baroness, her phrase delivered softly, warned the topic was an unwelcome one. “I was fifteen when I married.”
“How shockingly young...” Lilly arranged her cards, pretending she was sweet, that she didn’t mean to suggest the noble in their midst had married for wealth. “But, of course, your parents must have been thrilled and only too willing to see you wed. Tell me of your gown.”
Arabella took in the profile of her subtle persecutor, and told the truth. “White muslin, the finest gown I had ever worn.” A gift that had been too large and smelled of another woman’s perfume. She’d tried not to trip over the dragging skirt on the walk down the aisle. All those years ago, for a moment, seeing the way Iliffe had looked at her, she’d even felt pretty. All that was ruined once the vows were spoken. Benjamin Iliffe had ordered the clergyman, her father, and his drunken witnesses from the small chapel. He had bent her over the altar, Arabella too confused to realize what he was doing before the man who had just taken her as his wife shoved his cock inside her unprepared body. When it was over, she had been paraded outside, blood staining that fine dress.
Benjamin’s friends, her father, had only laughed at the red smears and the shock on her face.
Compared to what followed, that first time her husband had been almost gentle.
“It is your turn, my lady.” Bored, Gregory cocked a brow at the baroness.
She’d frozen, found herself gripping her cards so hard they bent. Blinking she took a breath, let it out, and set down her winning hand. “Now, Miss Lilly, Mr. Harrow, I do believe you owe me three pennies each.”
After sliding the winnings over, Mr. Harrow excused himself, chuckling as he walked away.
Edmund took the vacant seat and conversation turned to safer topics of the weather and harvest. Where Miss Lilly was abrasive, her brother Edmund was sweet. He behaved as a gentleman, entertai
ning the table with mild gossip until even Arabella giggled at his stories of renegade cows.
The fair haired young man in his green cutaway and perfectly arranged white cravat was kind to her. It took him time, but the man coaxed Arabella to smile. “What a pleasure it is to have you amongst us, Lady Iliffe.”
She tried to make light of her somber silences. “I am not giving you back your pennies, Mr. Jenkins.”
Laughing at the jest, Edmund accepted defeat and offered to see her to her carriage. When Arabella took his arm the second time, she did not hesitate.
Many congregated near the door of the card room, the guests having multiplied, all trying furtively to catch a glimpse of the titled newcomer within. Mr. Jenkins, as if anticipating the mob, created a path, navigating them toward the door. He got her through it and a rush of cool air met her flushed cheeks.
Payne had already brought her carriage around.
He knew her so well.
“It must have been difficult,” Mr. Jenkins offered in a hushed voice, “to face such a thing alone.”
Though her heart raced and she was eager to be gone, Arabella made herself mirror Edmund’s courtesy. “I am not comfortable with crowds or strangers. It was kind of you to lead me out.”
A dimpled smile accompanied his bow. “Then my family and I are doubly grateful you graced us with your company, Lady Iliffe.”
Arabella allowed Mr. Jenkins to hand her into her carriage. The door closed and the contraption began to move, Payne urging the horses forward to take her home.
The solitude and dark were immensely comforting, as was the vast view of dark moors and endless nothingness once they passed from the township. Out there was freedom. Out there Arabella could fade away—just like the white woman Lizzy had described. It was not even difficult to imagine such a figure wandering, ghostly, pale fabric of a gown floating on the wind behind her.
How beautiful such autonomy would be.
The daydream was interrupted by the slowing of her carriage, Arabella aware they were miles yet from her house. “Payne?”
The coach door opened, Mr. Harrow standing arrogant and unsmiling in the dark. “My horse has thrown a shoe.”
If Payne found the situation harmless enough to stop, then there was nothing she could do. Arabella gestured toward the seat across from her. The unwanted passenger climbed in and the sudden start of the carriage left Arabella frowning at the sound of the fifth horse's hooves.
From the cadence, Arabella could hear Harrow had lied. “There is nothing wrong with your horse. What do you want?”
Harrow flashed a dangerous smile. “My three pennies back... you cheated at whist.”
She could not help but lift her chin. “So did you, just not with the same skill as I.”
His expression was lost in the dark, but just enough moonlight shined between them that Arabella could see Mr. Harrow’s attention was fixed on her. “What a stir you created tonight—all that finery... scandalous conversation.” Undeterred by her dismissive attitude, he leaned further back in his seat, settling comfortably and spreading his legs to take up all the space. “You made fine work of the Jenkins family.”
Arabella drew down her brows tight, not at all liking what he implied. “You dislike them?”
The slow spreading grin of a wolf, and the man snorted. “Do you like them?”
“They were pleasant and obliging.”
“You are aware that the majority of their interest in you is based solely on your station and assumed fortune, Baroness?”
She was aware. “Is there a point to this meaningless... conversation?”
“Speech between us has never been meaningless, Imp.”
Narrowing her eyes, she growled. “Try inconsequential then.”
Harrow leaned forward, the entirety of his expression revealed. “Have I not acted generously?”
“Generously?” She spoke the words with disgust.
Delighted by her indignant expression, he picked a piece of lint from his pantaloons. “I hired a team of men to remove the devil's thorn around your maiden's tower.”
A stifled sound caught in her throat. “You knew I would be unhappy to have strange men descending upon my house without warning. I could not step outside for days!”
The grin he gave her, the way his gaze seemed to eat her up, it made her squeeze her eyes closed and press her fingers to her temples.
Unaware he’d scooted nearer, she yipped, feeling unwelcome hands burrow into her hair.
He pulled just enough pins so her coiffure slipped, Magdala's carefully arranged knots tumbling down. It was so sudden, so quickly done, that before she could protest, Mr. Harrow was already situated back on his seat. “There. Is that not better?”
The tension was gone from her scalp, but her heart was pounding in her ears.
He grunted as if displeased before she could sputter out whatever scathing reply her stumbling brain fought to piece together. “You have cut your hair.”
Arabella choked on words, touching the fresh, short curls Magdala had sheared to frame her face. “...this is lady’s fashion.”
A leer, that’s all Arabella saw in the small sliver of moonlight before Mr. Harrow spoke. “Are you going to pretend to be affronted that I let down your curls?” The way he watched her, those deep all-seeing eyes, grew curious. “Perhaps now you will be less of a vitriolic bore and converse pleasantly.”
One insult and her shoulders grew straight.
“Do not play the wounded Imp. Every time I have seen you, you are running wild with your hair loose and your feet bare.” He displayed the stolen hairpins in his hands, offering them back to her.
She wanted to grow claws and let him feel their sting. “I do not like being touched.”
“I am aware.” He snorted under his breath, rubbing his cheek in remembrance of her slap. Chin lowering to his chest, he held her gaze and just observed. “But, did it not lessen the ache?”
Fuming, fists clenched, Arabella glared at the devil. He was playing with her, goading her for a reaction. “What is it that you want? Why are you in my carriage?”
Flourishing his fingers, Mr. Harrow brought his palm to his chin and stated with raised brows, “To speak with you.”
Trying to control herself, Arabella took up the tumbled length of her hair and began to twist the mess. “Speak then.”
Mr. Harrow looked at her... taking in the sculpted lips that hardly ever smiled, the high cheekbones, the deep gold of her skin, and unlikely upturned grass shaded eyes. “Hold out your hand.”
Her body bent out of the light. “No.”
“Coward.”
“Bastard.”
When Lucifer's beauty twisted into an expression of outright vehemence, Arabella could not help but cock a questioning brow. Understanding bloomed. He was a bastard. Regarding the man whose eyes had tightened to slits, she felt her own agitation lessen, as his grew.
She had accidentally beaten him at his own game.
A guttural breath, and Mr. Harrow demanded, “Who spoke such a tale to you?”
Despite his rage, Arabella felt oddly calm. “Not a soul, the term simply suited your character.”
“Is that so...” He leaned closer to the woman, holding out the hairpins. When she made no move to take them, he grabbed a stiff arm off her lap, and turned her fist toward the ceiling. Prying her fingers open, he pushed the hairpins into her grasp, closing her fist around the small metal pins.
When he let her go, Arabella felt her hand fall to her lap like a weight of lead. “Is that why you ruined that man over dice?”
“He ruined himself... I only had to wait and revel in the years of his demise.”
From his tone alone, Arabella understood whatever Mr. Harrow had done had been far worse than stripping that man of his money. “What did you do to him?”
A vicious smile paired nicely with his vehemence. “I secured his land in payment for his substantial debts—all of which I acquired legally—and drove him off of it.�
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She breathed the question, “Why?”
“Because, I am a bastard. It's a station in life that leads one towards more interesting methods to get what one wants.”
“You strike me as a man who could have everything and would still be unsatisfied,” Arabella said, her voice flat. “Have you found joy in your petty revenges?”
A broad smile accompanied the affirmation. “A deep abiding satisfaction.”
Arabella dismissed him and her eyes traveled back to the window.
“No need to play coy, Imp.” The mass of his body shifted closer, making sure he had complete access to her expression. “Did you not feel gratified at the death of your late husband?”
“No.” Her voice felt distant, as if she were stepping away from herself back into the imaginings of the ghostly White Woman.
With the moonlight on her face, Harrow could see her fine features settled calmly, yet he knew a lie when he saw one. “Then how did you feel when the man whose mention made you publicly cringe perished?”
“I felt... terrified I would wake up and find him watching me in the dark... laughing.” Once spoken, Arabella wished with all her being she had not voiced such a thing aloud.
Harrow settled into his seat. “The dead do not come back.”
Chapter 6
R acing forward on Mamioro, laughing as her mount outpaced the two riders in her wake, Arabella turned to find Edmund Jenkins sullen in the chase.
She slowed her beast.
“You mustn’t ride so recklessly, your ladyship.” Once his charger caught pace, Edmund added, “It is dangerous.”
Arabella snorted... if only he knew how she would be riding if alone. As if in agreement, Mamioro clenched a flank, chafing at the uncomfortable sidesaddle.
Coming up on her far slower pony, Lizzy smiled, so very happy. “Do be quiet, Edmund. Lady Iliffe is grand on horseback.”
Arabella dipped her chin. “Thank you, Miss Lizzy.” She glanced at their escort and offered reassurance to the troubled older brother. “Perhaps we should return?”
Edmund, running a hand over the windblown hair, looked to the glowing redhead and changed his expression to one of contrition. “Yes, I do believe our mother will be expecting us shortly.”
