Dragging the handkerchief from her lips, she shot the man a glare. “Do not speak to me, you...you...” Stomach churning, she turned away again, pressing the lace to her mouth as she muttered, “I wish I were dead.”
He laughed. Laughed! She glared at him again over the froth of lacy handkerchief. But he only lounged against the worn leather seat, arms crossed, long legs, still in black evening breeches, white stockings, and dancing pumps, stretched before him. “Now, now. You had your ball, did you not, as I gave you my word you would.”
“Your word!” She made a rude sound and turned away. “You may at least have the decency to open a window!”
“What—so you can scream rape, is it? You’ll have to wait for that. Least ‘till we’ve stopped for the night.”
Tight lipped, she glared at him. How had she ever thought that mocking face handsome? In truth, he had too swarthy a complexion. And too narrow a face. Lanky. Yes, he was lanky. Black hair spilled forward, falling into his eyes, unfashionably straight, and now she saw that he must have a heart as black as those inky eyes of his.
“Very well. Then I shall be ill inside the coach,” she said, and pressed her handkerchief to her mouth. The scent turned her stomach so she wadded the lace in a fist and threw it to the opposite side of the coach.
His easy smile faded for a moment. A flash of white, even teeth brightened the coach. “Try again, now. I’m not some green one who’ll believe such a story as that.”
Swallowing hard, Chloe pressed her hand to her mouth even harder, but she would loose the battle soon enough. Sweat beaded cold on her forehead. She hated traveling. Hated what swaying in a closed coach did to her. Hated how her head pounded and her insides churned. I warned him, she thought. The wave of nausea swept through her and she only wanted relief.
He must have seen the truth in her face, or her eyes. With a muffled curse, he sat up, moving faster than she would have thought he could, leaning across her to struggle with the latches to the glass window.
The bile rose. With a hiccup, she choked it back once. Her throat burned. She hated being ill.
With another curse, he gave up on the window and threw open the door, yelling at the coachman to stop.
She no longer cared. He jumped out and his hands wrapped around her to lift her down, but she could do no more than turn and be sick onto the opposite seat. She burst into choking, hot-faced tears.
“Ah, sweet Jaysus. I would pick a bloody heiress who can’t keep down her accounts.”
Eyes watering, sniffing now, Chloe pushed past him, stumbled out of the coach, and staggered onto the grass verge of the road. Dawn lit the eastern sky. She glanced at it, hating it, hating herself, but most of all hating this Irishman who had promised her a masquerade ball—and who had spirited her away last night.
Turning, she fisted her hands and propped them on her hips. “I want to go home.”
One black eyebrow cocked. “Too late, dear one. It’s a night we’ve been together in this coach, and you’ll wed me if you care to be welcomed again by anyone in the polite world.”
She wiped her fingers across her cheeks, brushing aside the tears. Her hair clung to her forehead, her curls limp. The stiff brocade of her masquerade gown—she had gone dressed as a shepherdess—itched. She wanted a bath, hot tea to settle her stomach, and her own bed.
“Take me home,” she demanded again, stamping her foot this time on the soggy grass. “I want to go home!”
Rolling his eyes, he lifted his palms and turned away, cursing. Glancing back at her, he scowled. The expression on his dark face almost made her wish she had not made him angry. “Well, now, and just how do I manage that in a coach that stinks worse than the back mews of a tavern?”
She glanced into the coach and shuddered. She could not—would not—get back into it. Looking around her, at the green of the countryside, she took in the wild oxeye daisies and yellow cowslips in the field opposite the road, the tidy stone wall that divided pasture from lane, the birdsong and the distant bleating of sheep.
She glanced at the man who had brought her to this—who had taken her away from her home. Who wanted her ruined! What did it matter if she made those black eyes flash with anger and that unsettlingly attractive mouth pull down? She did not care if she displeased him. Folding her arms, she lifted her chin. “You had best go and fetch something in which you can convey me home!”
He stalked to her side. The breeze lifted the lock of black hair from his forehead, stirring the soft strands. “Have you not heard a word I’ve said, or is it just you’re a bit slow?”
“Slow!”
“Your home’s with me now—or it will be soon as you’re my dear Mrs. Fitzjoy.”
Her mouth dried and her pulse quickened as he loomed over her, solid and masculine, and rather daunting, his eyes glittering like shards of black ice. But she would not be cowed. Not when she felt so miserable. However, she had to lift her chin a little more to keep it from trembling.
“I am not marrying you! I am going to be Lady Arncliffe! I only went with you last night to have a bit of fun before I married—not to run away with you!”
He grinned. He caught her around the waist, pulling him to her with an abruptness that took her breath. The glitter in his eyes quickened, as did her pulse. She braced the heels of her palms against unyielding muscles. Would he kiss her? Now? On the road? In the mist of a rosy summer dawn?
“I’ve a way of changing a maid’s mind about such things,” he said, the rumble of his voice vibrating through her. He let her go and pinched her chin. “But first, dear one, we need you smelling a bit better than you do.”
He turned away to saunter up to the driver, leaving her alone on the edge of the road, the morning dew soaking her silk slippers, her stomach no longer heaving, but now as hollow as if she were a porcelain doll. And the disappointment sharp.
With a low growl, she stomped one foot—it made no sound the grass, so she called out to him, “I hate you!” And she began to plan how to make his life an utter misery. Before he could make hers one.
* * *
Audrey thought about sending the footman to hire a traveling chaise, for they kept only a single pair of horses and an open landau with a leather top that could be put up in bad weather. However, the footman would then know that she and Chloe had not left the house together. If one servant knew, the entire house would soon hear the story—and servants from one house talked to servants from other houses.
She could not risk it.
Not if Chloe was to be extracted from this without talk, and without Arncliffe learning the truth. He might, of course, be gentleman enough that he would still hold to his betrothal to Chloe, even in such circumstances. But such knowledge must wound his pride and his heart. She would not allow that. No, somehow, she must fetch Chloe back—hopefully, with Chloe repentant for her folly, but otherwise unharmed. That meant, of course, hurriedly slipping a few things for herself—and Chloe—into a small portmanteau that she could carry and slipping out of the house.
A short, sharp questioning of Meg had at least made it clear that Chloe had left with no more than the clothes on her back. She must not have had planed an elopement—so Fitzjoy must have abducted her.
Well, he would be made to suffer. Abduction, particularly of an heiress, carried grave penalties. Only how could Great-uncle Ivor prosecute the fellow without the story becoming known? She would have to save that threat for only if the worst had happened to Chloe.
Her throat tightened. She smoothed a hand down the front of her short, Spencer jacket, her fingers brushing the mother-of-pearl buttons. The worst could not have happened—or so she prayed. She would cling to that thought, and she would bring Chloe home. Intact.
Taking a deep breath, she took up her soft-sided reticule, her York tan gloves, and a chip straw bonnet and slipped down the stairs and out the front door. A note given to the tearful and repentant Meg to hand to the porter had sent that servant elsewhere in the house on another task. Now she wo
uld have to hope that her mother carried off her part of the story well enough to convince both the staff and any callers that Audrey had left with Chloe to visit a relative.
At least Meg, guilt-ridden as she was, had been rehearsed into forgetting anything she knew about Chloe’s adventures.
Once outside the house and on Half Moon Street, Audrey hesitated. She knew that various mail coaches left from various London inns, but she had no idea which inns these might be, nor if these establishments hired out traveling chaises. They must, she assumed. But servants had always been sent to make such arrangements. She simply gave orders.
Biting her lower lip, Audrey glanced up and down the quiet street with its tidy, flanking rows of prosperous town houses. A breeze ruffled the hem of her skirt. The sun had not yet risen high and deep shadows from the plastered-covered buildings cast a chilly shade over her. She shivered. Should she have worn something more sturdy than a blue muslin day dress, even if it did have long sleeves. The short jacket that buttoned at the high waistline of her gown gave her little protection from the wind, but walking would warm her. If she saw a hackney, she would wave the driver down. Baring that, she could certainly make her way to one of the better hotels.
At that, she brightened.
Brown’s! That would be just the thing. They knew her and her mother at that respectable establishment. The hotel porter could summon a vehicle for her, and she had the household account money in her reticule to pay for any service. She hoped that eighteen pounds, five shillings, and tuppence would be sufficient. If not—well, she would think of something then.
Putting down her portmanteau, she pulled on her gloves, settled her bonnet in place, and tied the ribbon under her chin. She would manage. She must. For Chloe’s sake. For her mother’s. For Arncliffe.
She frowned again. She rather hoped that he and Chloe had not had any engagements set for the next day or so.
Bending down, she took up her bag.
As she straightened, a carriage turned the corner from Piccadilly—a black phaeton with a high perch seat and four smart, matched grays. A gentleman drove the team, for it was indeed a gentleman’s carriage. She glanced at it, worried. Could she avoid the driver’s notice? Turning, she tucked her chin down and started up the street, hoping the brim of her bonnet would obscure her features.
Behind her, the clop of hooves on the hard dirt of the street stopped. She glanced back.
The four thoroughbreds stood before the town house that her mother had rented for the Season. A short, stocky groom stood beside the leaders, settling the animals, smoothing a hand over first one gray dappled neck, then another. White manes fluttered in the breeze. The gentleman driver leapt down from the high-perch seat. The broad shoulders and the glimpse of gold hair from under his hat, betrayed his identity—Arncliffe!
Of course. Who else would call so early in the day, as if he were family?
Biting back a groan, Audrey started to hurry away, but he had already glimpsed her, for he called out, his tone uncertain, “Miss Colbert?”
She slowed her steps. It would be unforgivably rude to pretend she had not heard, but she had a craven desire to do just that. Instead, she turned.
A smile lifted his lips as he started toward her. He took off his hat as he reached her side, sweeping a polite half-bow.
Audrey swallowed. She swallowed again.
What in heavens did she tell him? And how did she explain why she was walking down the street with a portmanteau in one hand?
CHAPTER FOUR
Taking in the startled look in Miss Colbert’s eyes and the bag grasped in her hand, Arncliffe asked, his tone intentionally flippant, “Running away from home?”
Instead of smiling at his jest, her eyes widened and her shoulders jerked, as if he had cracked a whip in front of her face. Did she disapprove of his levity?
She must not, for she curved her lips into what seemed meant to be a smile, but those expressive brown eyes of hers betrayed a haunted edge of nervous worry over something. She wet her lips and said, “Oh, the bag—yes. I’m...just off to pay a call. On a friend.”
He stared at her, trying to keep his features blandly polite. The excuse sounded as odd as her forced tone. A visit? At this hour? But he always rose unfashionably early himself, so how could he fault her for the same sin? Still, he could not shake the sense that something was amiss. He had arrived only to deposite flowers from his hothouse—a gesture for his bride-to-be, so she might wake to their fragrance, and so she might think him at least somewhat romantic—but now he put aside that task.
Keeping his tone light, he said, “I cannot allow a lady to continue on foot—not when I’ve a carriage at hand. Please allow me to escort you.”
He leaned forward to take her bag. He wrapped his hand over hers, expecting her to relinquish her hold. She did not, and so they stood there, her holding the bag, and him holding her hand. We must look ridiculous, he thought. But it did not feel so, not when he stood close enough to catch the sweet-tart scent of orange blossoms—what must be her scent—and close enough to see the faintest of freckles dusting her cheekbones. They gave her the charm of a schoolgirl.
The color rose in her cheeks as she stared at him. “I could not impose, my lord.”
“I thought we had progressed to Connor and Audrey? And why can you not impose—cousin? We are as good as related already, and what other use do relatives have, other than to be imposed upon, so they might return the favor?”
She wet her lips. She had a generous mouth, he would say, although at the moment it pulled down into a frown. But the lower lip curved ripe and lush and made for more than smiles.
“I...well, my friend is ill and I am just taking her a few things. But thank you. It is kind of you to offer.”
Puzzled, he released his hold. Why was a footman not carrying her bag for her? Why did she not have her carriage waiting? A half dozen more questions formed, but too many years of training on good manners held them in check. He only said, “Very well. I shall just call on Chloe, and—”
“Chloe? But you cannot!”
Startled by the urgency in her voice, he stopped his movement toward the steps, and asked, his forehead bunching tight, “Is she still abed? She swore to me she always rose early, no matter how late the hours she kept the night before. We made a wager on it, in fact.”
“Yes, but—she...she is not at home just now.” The breeze lifted and tugged her bonnet back to reveal a spill of brown curls. With her free hand, she crushed the chip-straw into place, but one lone curl dangled over her left eyebrow. She looked even more the guilty schoolgirl now, caught in some misadventure.
“Not at home?” he asked, startled into the question. “But where is she then?”
“She...went to visit a friend of ours, and she is now there, too, and sick...as well.”
“Something that contagious sounds rather dangerous.”
She shook her head, and the bonnet started to slip again. It was, he thought, an annoyance of a bonnet, with its deep brim and only a plain blue ribbon around the yellow, chip straw. She crushed it into place once more. “It is not serious. She is far improved. But, she...Chloe would be embarrassed if anyone were to see her just now.”
Concerned and bewildered, he asked, “Do you mean to say she has the measles or something like?”
“Yes—that is exactly it. Measles. She went just the other day to visit her friend, and now she must stay until she is better. Which ought to be only a matter of a few days.”
His mouth quirked. He could, of course, tell her that he did not believe one word she had just uttered. But that would be boorish of him. And she had his curiosity now well caught. Why could he not see Chloe? Where was Audrey going with that bag of hers? And what might she say next if he pressed her?
He kept his expression schooled and he hoped his eyes did not betray his lack of faith in her tale. “I did not think measles started up so quickly, nor ended so fast. But are you not afraid of catching them as well?”
With that Audrey bit the inside of her lower lip.
At least that part of this tale was the truth.
Arncliffe still did not look inclined to accept her excuses and go away—that stubborn chin of his! Instead, he said, his tone sounding grave, “It still is a disease that can turn dangerous, what with fever and all. I must insist on sending my doctor to—”
“Please no! I mean, it is very kind of you to think of Chloe, but she and her friend...our friend...” Oh, she sounded half-addled. Taking a breath, she pushed fraying nerves into order. “Our friend, Mrs. Fitzjoy, lives too far north to make it an easy journey, and I am certain they have a physician in attendance already. So I really cannot bother you further about this.”
Putting on her best, most charming smile, she prayed, Oh, please, go away now.
His mouth pulled into a resolute line, and she did not know what to make of that odd, knowing look in the depths of his eyes. But what could he say? She knew him to be far too much the gentleman to accuse her of lying—and she had indeed stretched the truth beyond recognition. Throat hot, she swallowed. Her cause must justify her actions.
And she honestly would box Chloe’s ears when she caught up to her. Right after she finished with Fitzjoy!
Leaning forward, Arncliffe took her bag from her, this time with such command that it had gone from her grip before she could even tighten her fingers about the handles. “That settles it. I cannot allow my betrothed’s cousin to be jaunting about England without escort to someplace so distant.”
Turning, he settled his tall, beaver hat back on his golden hair. He offered her the crook of his arm. She struggled for another excuse and found only the weight of her lies pressing on her. Well, she had certainly earned a just reward for digging herself this hole. She could see no option other than to allow him to escort her somewhere.
Stolen Away: A Regency Novella Page 3
