"Stop that. Some one might hear you," he scolded, scandalized.
"Sorry. I can do it but I'm not supposed to speak about it?"
"Not supposed to do it, either, now that you're my ward," he said in a gruff undertone. "Well, are you going to kiss and slurp or not, Arabella?"
She tried it, but the trouble was that he had not told her what was to come next.
"Now you are supposed to spit it out."
Her eyes widened in horror and she shook her head.
"Oh, er, sorry. I see your problem. Then you'll just have to swallow."
She gulped it down, and then at last she could breathe again. "Ladies do not spit. I thought real gentlemen didn't either."
"This is why the two genders lead such separate lives. There are all sorts of things they like to keep hidden from one another."
"I can imagine that's true of a great number of unfaithful men, but surely you and I have nothing to hide from each other now."
He nodded. "That's true. I've told you just about every one of my deepest, darkest secrets. Though to be fair, I probably never would have told you as my ward. It would not have been seemly."
"No, quite. But I'm glad you did, in a way. There ought to be perfect confidence between us. I had it with my parents and step-brother."
"You were very warm, devoted family, I seem to remember, from the few times you came to visit Peter at school when you were little. But I'm sure that there are some things Peter would not have discussed with you, any more than you would give him the sordid details of what happened at the inn."
"I don't think it was sordid, but I suppose you're right. Some things are best left private and unsaid. For your own protection, if nothing else."
"In any event, my friends the Rakehells-"
"Pardon?
"We call ourselves the Rakehells. Peter may have mentioned us, though he's been away for some time, and not every young lady is interested in politics. We're a Radical group of friends who have known each other since our school or university days. Thomas Eltham, the Duke of Ellesmere--"
"I recall meeting him when I was much younger. Tall, distinguished, as dark as you, but green eyes?"
"That's right. You'll be meeting more of us tonight, I'm sure. Lady Pemberton is very kind to all of us, though some of us, alas, are more rake than Rakehell, as you shall soon discover, with her own nephew Matthew Dane one of the worst of the lot."
"I'll be careful, I promise. You just point out who I should beware of and--"
"You need to learn to form your own judgements about such matters, but yes, I would have you be careful with Matthew and his best friend Randall Avenel, not least because my friend Michael, whom I've mentioned to you, is estranged from his whole family, and does not wish them to know he is still alive, nor anything about him."
"I shan't say a word, I swear."
"Good girl. As I was saying, Thomas holds that anything which cannot be said in front of a woman should not be said at all. So I hope you're interested in good fiery political discussions, for we all thrive on them whenever we're fortunate enough to get together."
"Peter always liked to argue, though he was never as ardent as you and your friends sound. I hope I can hold my own, and not embarrass you. I like to listen, anyway."
"Ho, no lingering on the sidelines for you, young lady."
"Blake, where have you been hiding this lovely girl?" a voice exclaimed from the doorway.
He turned and smiled. "Speak of the Devil. Thomas, meet my ward, Miss Arabella Neville."
"Peter's sister. How wonderful." He shook hands and gave her a single warm appraising glance. "Last time I saw you, you were still in pigtails, with your front teeth missing."
"Now that must have been a sight to see," Blake teased.
Arabella knew the tall, jet-haired Duke of Ellesmere had meant well, but she blushed all the same, and felt like a complete fraud, a child dressed up in borrowed finery and permitted to join the grown-ups at play.
"She must have been charming. I recall her mop of curly hair myself. But I have to say that the young lady, lovely though she was then, has certainly outshone her ample potential. She has proven the veritable butterfly out of the cocoon."
She grinned. "Let's not get too carried away. Damning with fulsome praise is almost as bad as with faint."
Blake smiled down at her proudly. "Very good, my dear. An excellent bon mot."
Thomas winked. "She'll keep you on your toes, Blake, you mark my words."
"I'm counting on it. Speaking of toes, how is your wife? No trouble after…?"
"Nothing more than usual. Sore and no sleep. But a gorgeous son."
"Congratulations." Blake offered his hand.
"Married nearly two years now. Let's hope he will be the first of many."
"Two years. How the time flies."
"Ah, here she is. Charlotte, darling, you remember Dr. Blake Sanderson? And this is his ward, Arabella Neville."
Charlotte Eltham, dark-haired and voluptuous, but with eyes only for her husband, bowed to Arabella and gave Blake her hand to kiss.
She was dressed in the height of fashion, a square-necked sapphire gown which matched her eyes and showed off her elegant figure to perfection.
"Lovely to see you again, Your Grace. Are you well?"
"Very. And please, I'm just plain Charlotte."
"Anything but plain in that gown," Blake praised. "So pleased to hear about your son."
"Thank you. Young Thomas is quite a handful. You can tell he takes after his pa."
Thomas grinned proudly. "Apart from the eyes, which are yours entirely, my dear. Well, Blake, it's good to have us all together tonight. It was a long war for you. We actually came early hoping to run into you, to catch up on your news. I'd heard you would be doing the wine.
"Clifford and Vanessa will be along later. Baby is teething. Oh, I saw Alistair Grant just as I was coming in, and my old friend Philip Marshall is on his way. I hope you'll get to know him better now he's back from abroad."
"It will be good to see them all. And what of Jonathan and his bride?"
A loud halloo heralded Jonathan's arrival.
Thomas grimaced good-naturedly. "He's in his best Tony Lumpkin mode tonight, I'm afraid. Ever since we performed She Stoops to Conquer, he's been hopelessly comedic. Or perhaps just happily married."
The second of the Rakehells, looking splendid in his dark clerical garb which set off his sandy hair, came up and shook hands all around.
He stared at Arabella. "Who, pray, is this vision of pulchritude, Blake?" he asked in awed tones.
"My ward, Arabella Neville."
"Ward? Neville. Hum. Oh, Peter Davison's step-sister, of course. Shipped out, did he?"
"Before Christmas," she confirmed.
"Oh, what a pity. If we had known you could have come to us for the holidays. My wife Pamela."
The elegant blonde miss clad in a rather daring red silk creation for a clergyman's wife shook hands all around again.
"How is Sarah?" Blake asked.
"My sister is Ireland, but very well by all accounts, and looking forward to coming home soon," Jonathan replied. "You shall be dancing attendance upon my sister at her lying in, I have no doubt."
"Wonderful news indeed," blakke said with a nod. "I shall be only too happy to help."
"We shall all be together, then," said Pamela, looping her arm through her husband's.
Arabella observed with a certain degree of shyness all the friends chatting together, but they went out of their way to make her feel included, widening the topics of conversation to the news of the day and other items she felt she could participate in.
Blake made sure all the wines were organized, and Arabella tried not to stare at him as he chatted with the Rakehells, or more particularly, the Rakehell women. There was no need to be jealous—but they were certainly to be envied, they all looked so glowingly happy.
If only she could find such joy, she thought with a sigh, recalling th
e soaring bliss she had only ever encountered once in her life, in Blake's arms that fateful evening at the inn.
Blake Sanderson, her guardian.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Arabella tried not to let her turmoil over discovering that Blake Sanderson, the only man who had ever set her afire with passion, was to be her guardian.
If she betrayed any unease at all, he might just send her back to Somerset, in which case she would truly be bereft of his wonderful company, and that was not something she thought she could bear.
No, she would watch and wait, observe what manner of man he was, and perhaps they could grow to be friends, if not more…
In the middle of this hopeful musing, Lady Pemberton came bustling up to tell them it was just about time for the first waltz.
"Well, my dear, if you are finished slurping, spitting and English kissing, shall we?" he said in an undertone, offering his hand.
"Might as well. I've loved learning more about wine, but dancing, after all, is what a ball is for."
"Plus flirting, gossiping, and so on."
"No, dancing is enjoyable exercise," she said with a smile.
She passed the small drawing room where the gaming tables had been set up.
"Card playing is fun, but it is as much luck as skill, and it's not amusing if people are going to get in too deep, lose all their money and become tied to an obsession. As for flirtation and gossip, I would like to think I do neither."
Blake smiled down at her warmly. "In that case, you truly are a paragon of women, and you will have suitors lining up outside the door to pay court to you."
It wasn't quite as bad as Blake predicted, but it was a close run thing. Every man in the room made a beeline for Arabella after each dance.
Blake would tell them if she were engaged or not, selectively picking only the decent chaps from the throng. If he could have sold tickets, he would have made a small fortune.
He was not entirely selfless, though. Every time he let her dance with one, he made her dance another with him. It kept them from clustering importunately all night, and gave Arabella a respite from all the pointed questions being directed at her as to her family and connections.
"I can see it in your eyes, my dear," he said at one point.
What?" she asked in alarm, for she had been looking at him and thinking that no one in the room could match his perfection.
"Confusion, weariness. It's hard work getting all the names and faces straight."
"What else do you see in my eyes?" she asked in a low tone.
He hardly dared look. He saw warmth and light and-
"You find most of your companions dull, and bad dancers," he guessed accurately.
"Not that I am so good, but that you are," she admitted candidly. "The rest step all over me or try to take liberties, which in this crush is all too easy."
Blake's jaw became like granite. "I'm sorry. I thought they were good men."
"It does not matter, except that if I tap you on the elbow it means I don't wish to dance."
"Uh oh, Philip Marshall at one o'clock, heading straight this way," he whispered.
"Notorious rake?" she guessed.
"Indeed, but a good friend of Thomas's, oddly enough, so I'm afraid-"
In the end, it was not as bad as Blake had feared. Philip had a fearsome reputation with the ladies, but seemed content to linger in the alcove they had found and chat about Blake's clinic, which he had been a very enthusiastic supporter of right from its inception.
"But we cannot talk about my work all night," Blake eventually said.
"No, I suppose not." Almost as an afterthought the tall, raven-haired and devastatingly handsome man with sherry-brown eyes said to Arabella, "Would you like to dance?"
At Blake's slight nod she went, and came back at the end none the worse for the experience.
"Was he all right?" Blake could not help but ask, worry evident in his tone.
She gave him a happy smile. "Fine. Not a word or hand out of place. There is something, well, something ineffably sad about him. Like you in some respects."
"Like me?" he exclaimed, his brows knitting.
She coloured. "I'm sorry. I spoke unguardedly. I didn't mean to-"
"Yes, but now that you have, you should explain yourself," he demanded in a curt tone.
She shrugged. "There's nothing to explain. It's just an impression I got when we first met. Like you're very much alone and burdened. That's all I meant."
He gave what he hoped looked like a casual smile, though inwardly he was in utter turmoil. Tell her, just tell her everything...
"This is much too serious a conversation to have at a ball. In any case you're mistaken. I'm perfectly content with my life, thank you very much, and having a splendid time at the ball. So if you will excuse me, I shall hand you over to your next partner, and go dance with one of my old friends."
As soon as the words were out of his mouth he regretted them. Arabella looked unmistakably hurt, and her next partner was quite obviously all sheets to the wind. Even worse was that he had to now stand up with the willing widow Leonore Ross, who had seen him look at her, and had immediately moved in for the kill.
She gripped his hand and shoulder with a possessive air and stood far too close to him even given it was a waltz and the floor was crowded.
"Well, Blake, wherever did you pick up such a pretty little toy? I daresay she has quite turned your head. Made you almost domesticated. No one has seen you about for weeks."
"I've been way in Bath," he answered curtly. "And the toy, as you call her, is my ward, Miss Neville. I will thank you to remember that, and will take great pains in future to ensure that I do not behave in an inappropriate manner in front of her or my friends."
He stepped back several times and tried to keep her at arm's length.
"Oh, don't be silly. This is the perfect opportunity for us. I can chaperone her around and we can see more of each other than ever."
"I've already seen more than enough," he said angrily as she blatantly tugged down the bosom of her gown. "So I shall have to tell you straight out. Forget you and I were ever lovers. I have a new life now, and will never ever visit you again."
Her eyes narrowed to vicious slits. She was about to tell Blake what she thought of him and his so-called ward in no uncertain terms when Philip Marshall stepped in smoothly.
"May I? Delighted." He took the widow's hand before Blake could say a word.
The doctor stared at him for a moment, but Philip's eyes swiveled to the right as he looked at Blake, sending him a clear message: get out while you can, and go help Arabella.
The warning came in the nick of time. Her drunken dance partner was practically diving into the relatively modest bodice of Arabella's gown by the time Blake saw the danger and stepped over to them.
He grabbed the oaf by the collar none too gently and said, "I say, Roger, a bit too much of the sauce, eh? Come have some coffee."
"Don't mind if it do, if the, er, lady will come with us." He gave a short braying laugh and leered at her.
"My ward, Arabella."
His eyes sparkled lasciviously. "Ward? Is that what you call it nowadays. Hah!" He said loudly. His suggestive tone left neither of them in any doubt as to what he thought of Arabella.
"You will apologize to Miss Neville at once," Blake growled, menace present in every syllable.
"What, oh, sorry, Miss. Neville, did you say? Not old Badger Neville's daughter? Rum one, he was, but the widow remarried well, to Jonas Davison if I'm not mistaken. I'm sorry, I can't think what got into me. Ever so pleased."
He tried to draw himself up in a more dignified manner, but tripped over his feet and would have fallen flat on his face had Blake not still had hold of him by the collar.
"So pleased," he said again. "You must call on my sister and I. She will be delighted."
He was nearly asleep by the time they got him into the drawing room.
Blake propped him up in a chair and turned
to Arabella. Despite himself he took her hand. "I'm so sorry about that."
She shrugged one shoulder. "I'm all right."
"Let me get you some refreshment as long as we're here."
Philip came in a short time later, looking rather worried. "Are you all right?" he asked Arabella solicitously.
The Rakehell Regency Romance Collection Volume 2 Page 74
