by Eva Shepherd
‘Huntsbury? Yes, I have heard something about them.’ Arabella furrowed her brow and tried to recall where she had heard that name before. Hadn’t the other actresses been gossiping about someone called Huntsbury? Their conversation suddenly jumped into her mind and her hands shot to her mouth as she recalled all the sordid details.
‘I take it you know after all,’ he said.
Arabella gulped and nodded. The actresses had described in explicit detail how Marcus Huntsbury, the former Duke of Somerfeld, had died in the arms of his mistress. And not just one mistress. The rumours were that he’d had a heart attack while he was attempting a particularly strenuous sexual pose involving himself and four women, in a large four-poster bed. A bed that had reportedly been designed specially so he could conduct his own personal orgies.
The actresses had found it particularly amusing as both of them had taken part in the Duke’s bedroom athletics in the past. They were just surprised he’d only had four women in his bed that night, as the bed had been designed for eight.
Arabella took another sip of her champagne to try to drive that image out of her mind.
‘I don’t think...’ she coughed again ‘... I don’t think even that would deter my father. He doesn’t care who I marry, or what scandals surround the family, as long as I get a title.’
‘It seems we both have fathers who care only for getting what they want and don’t consider who suffers as a result.’
Arabella nodded her agreement and they each sank into their own thoughts.
The restaurant started to fill up with more diners, many of whom were in high spirits, talking loudly and laughing boisterously. The Savoy was a popular venue for a late supper and many of the revellers would have come from the opera, the various playhouses and the array of illicit gambling houses in the neighbouring areas.
She spotted W.S. Gilbert and Arthur Sullivan enter, surrounded by a group of actors. The famous theatrical duo’s comic operettas were performed in the adjoining theatre and they could often be seen in the restaurant. It was one of Arabella’s most cherished dreams that she might one day appear in a Gilbert and Sullivan production. Certainly a more cherished dream than being married would ever be.
The group included numerous attractive young actresses and Arabella couldn’t help but notice that several looked in Oliver’s direction as they passed their table. Nor could she ignore the number of women throughout the restaurant who were smiling, nodding and even winking at her new fiancé.
Lady Bufford and Lucy Baker quite plainly weren’t the only very good friends of the Duke of Somerfeld. But why should Arabella care? She had no illusions about the sort of man he was. He was most decidedly a lady’s man, just like his father. But wasn’t that all for the good? He would be less likely to interfere in Arabella’s life if he was off chasing other women and she could get on with doing what she wanted to do, which was pursue her acting career.
Yes, it was definitely all for the best.
Another attractive woman passed the table and smiled suggestively at Oliver. Despite her resolve to not care, Arabella couldn’t stop herself from frowning at the woman and she received a little, knowing laugh in return.
‘Another one of your good friends, I take it,’ she said, annoyed at the prissy sound of her own voice.
He shrugged apologetically. ‘Yes, I suppose you could say that.’
‘So how many of these good friends have you actually had and how many have you got at the moment?’
He turned in his seat to face her. ‘Is that going to be a problem, Arabella?’
Heat shot to her cheeks. ‘No, no, of course not,’ she stammered. ‘I’m merely making conversation. It’s got nothing to do with me. You can have hundreds of good friends if you like. I don’t care.’
He continued to stare at her, his brows drawn together, and despite her attempt to act nonchalantly her cheeks burned hotter under his questioning gaze. It shouldn’t matter. It didn’t matter. So why did a little stabbing pain strike her in the middle of her chest every time a woman smiled in Oliver’s direction?
‘You do realise this engagement is just one of convenience for both of us, don’t you, Arabella?’
‘Of course I do,’ she shot back, her voice rising. ‘I don’t want to be engaged to anyone, least of all you, and I certainly don’t want to be married. Yes, this suits us both. As you said, it saves you from a beating and it saves me from my father’s incessant matchmaking.’
‘And we’ll both be free to pursue our interests, free from the other’s interference?’
Arabella nodded and looked around the room at all the beautiful women. Her stomach clenched at the thought of Oliver pursuing his interests with his numerous very good friends. There would be other women in his life, women who he would take in his arms and kiss the way he had kissed her in the dressing room. Women with whom he presumably did more than just kiss, if the reaction of Lord Bufford was anything to go by.
She lightly touched her lips, remembering that kiss. After such a kiss she could see why so many women fell under his spell. It had been a kiss that had caused her to forget herself, to abandon all reserve, to want more, so much more.
She gazed back at him and he smiled. Even that wicked smile was enough to make her go all weak inside. When he smiled all she could see were those sparkling brown eyes, eyes that reminded her of rich brown chocolate, warm, inviting and satisfying, and those smiling lips, soft lips that had felt so good on hers, that had tasted so delicious.
A stray blond curl had fallen over his forehead and Arabella had to resist the temptation to sweep it back, and then, perhaps, to linger, her hands running through his thick hair, just the way they had when he had kissed her.
Yes, she could see why so many women fell for him.
She sat up straighter in her chair and looked back out at the crowded room. But she was not like most women. She had ambitions that did not include a man. And she had been badly burnt once. She wasn’t about to be burnt again.
No, it did not matter to her, one jot, if other women were vying for his attention. They might be engaged, but she had only just met this man. He meant nothing to her. Nothing at all.
And she was determined to let him know that this was the case. ‘So if I don’t give a fig about you and all your friends, which I don’t, can I also assume you won’t do anything to interfere with my career on the stage?’
‘That goes without saying,’ he replied.
Arabella didn’t know whether to be pleased or disappointed. Did that mean he didn’t care one way or another what she did? That he didn’t care about her at all? Again, that was a good thing, wasn’t it? Of course it was. ‘Right, that’s settled.’
Another pretty woman passed the table and this one had the audacity to slip Oliver a note. It was outrageous. He was sitting at a table with another woman. Surely that should mean something. Surely other women should keep their distance, even if just for this one night.
But it was apparent that there were so many women in Oliver’s life that none was accorded any special treatment. They presumably all knew very well what he was like and accepted him that way. It seemed a title was not the only thing he had inherited from the previous Duke of Somerfeld.
* * *
Oliver stared down at the note as if it were an unpleasant stain on the otherwise pristine white tablecloth. Normally a note from Lady Ambrose would be most welcome. It was presumably a reminder that he been invited to one of her notorious parties. Parties that never failed to provide him with an enjoyable diversion. Parties full of women who had no objection to the way he lived his life, who actively encouraged his more libertine ways.
But tonight, he was strangely embarrassed by its arrival.
He slipped the note into his pocket in what he hoped was a surreptitious manner. Out of sight, out of mind. But the disapproving look on Arabella’s face showed clearly
that it was not out of her mind.
For the first time in his life he almost felt the need to apologise for the way he lived. He was tempted to try to explain to Arabella that no one was ever hurt by his behaviour, at least no women. How their husbands felt was their own concern.
Most of those husbands had married women for their dowries, or for their social connections, and as long as they were discreet, they didn’t care what their wives got up to and with whom. And, once freed of the constraints of society and marriage, his mistresses certainly liked to get up to a lot.
Even Lord Bufford was only annoyed because his wife’s behaviour had been openly discussed at his club. He felt no jealousy about his wife having a lover, only rage that others had found out about it.
But why did Oliver feel the need to explain his lifestyle now? He had never felt the need to do that before.
Perhaps it was that kiss, which was still lingering on his lips, or the memory of the warmth of Arabella’s body so close to his? Perhaps it was her enticing smile, or was it simply that she was not the sort of woman he usually associated with? Whatever it was, something was causing him a degree of discomfort.
It must be simply that she was so different from the women he usually associated with.
He fingered the note in his pocket, reminding himself of why he did not get involved with women like Arabella van Haven, no matter how enticing their kisses.
Oliver’s father might not have cared about the damage he did in his headlong pursuit of hedonistic pleasure, but in one regard Oliver knew they were different. His father had seduced every pretty woman who came his way. He cared little if he broke hearts or ruined reputations, as long as he was getting what he wanted.
Oliver had definitely inherited his father’s love of women, the more the merrier, but he ensured he only got involved with women who were as equally carefree as him. And that was obviously not Arabella.
She was sweet and innocent. She deserved to be with a decent man, not a man like him who shunned commitment with every fibre of his being. She might claim to not want to marry, and that was possibly true, but it was obvious from the way Arabella had scowled every time another woman tried to catch his eye, that she couldn’t cope with a man she had to share. And he had never been a one-woman man. Never would be. That was why he only associated with women like Lady Bufford, Lucy Baker, Lady Ambrose, and all the other women who wanted to have fun with no strings attached.
But he would honour his promise to be engaged to her for the foreseeable future. While there were probably easier ways of getting out of a beating from Lord Bufford’s baboons, and better ways of saving Lady Bufford’s reputation, what was done was done and he would stand by it.
If nothing else, it would save this lovely young woman from being pushed around by her odious father, a man who obviously saw her as nothing more than a pawn in his power game. It would free her up to be an actress, and a fine actress she was, indeed, if tonight’s performance was anything to go by.
He smiled in memory of how she looked on stage. ‘What is it you love so much about acting?’ He wanted to know, but also wanted to move on to safer ground than his own reprobate behaviour.
Her pouting lips instantly turned into a smile and her blue eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. He gazed into those eyes, trying to determine what colour they really were. Blue didn’t do them justice. Sapphire, perhaps, or aquamarine, or the blue of the sky on a warm summer’s day. He wished he had the soul of a poet so he could describe them properly and not see them simply as beautiful blue eyes.
But whatever colour they were, they had him captivated.
‘Oh, everything. I love absolutely everything about acting and the theatre. I love the smell of the greasepaint when we put on our make-up. I love the sound of the audience laughing or gasping at what they’ve seen on stage. I love the camaraderie of the cast. And most of all I love the applause at the end. There’s nothing like it. It’s like being wrapped in loving arms, being told how much all your hard work is appreciated. It’s just wonderful.’
She continued to beam and he couldn’t help but wonder if there wasn’t sadness behind that smile. He looked over at her father, now writing out some plan on the linen tablecloth as the man next to him looked on with undivided interest. It was unlikely she had received much love from that mercenary man, a man who treated her like another commodity to be bought and sold. And she had said her mother had died when she was young. It was no wonder she craved the love and adoration that she would get from an audience.
He placed his hand over hers and lightly patted it as an unfamiliar emotion engulfed him. What was it? Was it the need to protect her from men like her father, to comfort her for the pain she had suffered, or even to provide her with the love she had missed out on?
He quickly withdrew his hand from hers as if it were on fire. Whatever strange emotion he was feeling, he should not be feeling it for a woman like Arabella. There was nothing he could offer her.
He poured himself another glass of champagne. Despite that kiss, she was an innocent and he needed to keep that foremost in his mind at all times. She did not need a man like him in her life.
He cursed himself for remembering their kiss. The scorching intensity of it had been so unexpected. She had been kissing a stranger, but had responded as if they were passionate lovers, desperate for each other. She might be an innocent, but it had definitely ignited a fire inside her, one that had almost engulfed both of them.
It was only the knowledge that they were in a room full of people that had stopped him from fanning the flame and seeing just how hot it would burn.
There could be no doubting that there was a passionate side to this young woman just waiting to be set loose, a passionate nature ripe for exploration.
He knocked back the glass of champagne in one quaff, horrified that he had allowed his mind to stray in that direction. Wasn’t that just the sort of thing his father would think? Didn’t his father look at every woman and see her as yet more prey waiting to be seduced? But he was not like that. He would never be like that. And he would not be like that with Arabella.
The sooner their engagement was signed, sealed and delivered and they could go their separate ways, the better. Only then would he be safe from these inappropriate desires and only then would Arabella be safe from him.
Chapter Five
Arabella was under no illusions. It was only because of her father’s manoeuvring that Oliver was still sitting at this table with her and not off pursuing one of the other women in the restaurant. He had not chosen to be with her, he had been forced to be with her against his will.
And he had made it clear to her that he expected to be free to pursue any woman he wanted, even though they were to be engaged to be married.
She shrugged and took another sip of her cold champagne. He had every right to chase any woman he wanted to and she had no right to try to stop him. And she would not try to stop him. She would abide by their agreement. It was the very least she could do. After all, she should be grateful to him. He did not have to agree to become engaged to her. He could have made his escape and left her to her fate. She knew her father well. Her fate was sealed. He would move heaven and earth to ensure she married a man with a title. She had much to thank Oliver for. It was also down to his quick thinking that she would not have to face the prospect of a forced marriage for seven more years.
Thanks to him, she now had a long-term engagement of convenience. It was more than she could have hoped for when her father gave her the ultimatum of getting married or returning to America with him. And if it meant she was engaged to a man who had countless other women in his life, well, so be it. It was not as if they meant anything to each other. They had only just met. And surely, if she really was grateful to him, she would put no obstacle in his way when it came to pursuing other women.
Yes, she owed him his freedom. And that was exactly wh
at she would give him. There would be no more pouting when a woman gave him that look. No more snide comments about his good friends. No, he could behave in any way he wanted, with whomever he wanted, and he would get no objections from her.
She smiled at him as if to underline this firm resolve. ‘I hope you’ve got some enjoyable entertainment arranged for the rest of the evening. I’d hate to think my father interrupted your plans.’
Despite her determination to feign nonchalance, she couldn’t stop her eyes from straying to his pocket, where he had stored the note from that particularly attractive brunette.
He smiled back at her; a smile that was this time more sheepish than devilish. ‘It was a particularly pleasant interruption and I have no regrets about how I’m spending this evening.’
He found her company pleasant. He had no regrets about spending his evening with her instead of all those other women vying for his attention.
She returned his smile and his became wickedly tempting, drawing her gaze to his sensual lips. Arabella imagined touching her finger to those enticingly smiling lips, gently stroking the line where they met his olive skin, before she kissed him again. Running her tongue along...
Where on earth had that image come from?
Shocked at where her thoughts had led her, she closed her eyes and shook her head to drive it out.
Yes, he had kissed her once, but it had been for one reason, and one reason only: because he was being pursued by the husband of one of his mistresses and he’d needed an alibi. And it wasn’t her he’d intended to kiss, but Lucy Baker. And even if he ever did want to kiss her again, which she was sure he didn’t, she could not let it happen. She had made a fool of herself over one man before and she was not about to let history repeat itself. No, if Arnold Emerson had taught her anything, it was to not trust herself when it came to men. And if she couldn’t trust herself with Arnold Emerson, then she most certainly could not trust herself with this seductive, charming rake. Their kiss was proof of that.
