by Adele Clee
“He did indeed.” A sly smirk passed briefly over Arabella’s face. “Leave us, Ada, and close the door on your way out.”
Ada swayed back and forth but remained rooted to the spot.
“Can you not see that your abrupt manner upsets her?” Lydia placed the black chinoiserie tray on the metal stand and turned to console the girl. “Come, Ada, I shall escort you back to the servants’ hall.” Lydia draped her arm around the maid’s shoulder.
“Just sit down and drink your damn tea.” The thin threads of control snapped, and Arabella thumped the arm of the sofa.
“Lord Lovell isn’t here,” Ada blurted. She turned to Lydia and clutched her arm. “He won’t be back until tomorrow. Oh, miss, they have a horrid plan for you, so they do.”
“Be quiet, you stupid girl!” Arabella was at Ada’s side in seconds. She wrestled the maid away and shoved the terrified girl towards the door. “Rudolph! Rudolph! Come quickly.”
Lydia had seen her sister-in-law lose her temper, but she had never seen her teetering on the brink of insanity. Blind fury choked Arabella and practically robbed her of breath. Her cheeks were as red as her flame-coloured hair, and she bared her teeth like a rabid dog.
“Take your hands off her,” Lydia cried in retaliation. “Arabella! For heaven’s sake, pull yourself together.” Lydia considered slapping her sister-in-law hard.
Lord Randall appeared at the drawing room door but stopped abruptly at the sight of such utter mayhem. “Hell and damnation, Arabella, all you had to do was sit down and take tea.”
“Fetch the Reverend Wyatt. Quick. Fetch him now. We cannot delay.”
Lord Randall shook his head. “Hell’s bells, calm yourself before you have a fit of apoplexy. The reverend is here with me now.”
At that, Lord Randall ushered the reverend into the room and closed the door behind them. The click of the key in the lock sent Lydia’s nerves scattering.
The Reverend Wyatt was a balding man with spectacles. His round cherubic cheeks failed to convey a childlike air of innocence, for he gazed upon the world with a look of mocking condescension. However, Lydia noted a flicker of uncertainty, dare she say a hint of fear in those hazel eyes.
Lydia tried to swallow past the lump in her throat.
At all costs, she had to remain calm.
“Ah, Miss Lovell. Lord Randall does you a great honour,” the reverend said in his usual lofty tone. He cast a look of reproach at her unconventional attire. “I doubt many peers would choose a wife in need of taming.”
The sight of the reverend sent Ada into a panic. “Oh, he’s no man of God, miss. I can tell you that, so I can.”
“Now do you see what I mean?” Randall whispered to the minister. “A swift resolution would prevent a social disaster.”
Lydia was well aware of the mischievous game afoot. Arabella hadn’t summoned the reverend to confess her sins.
“Come, Ada, sit down before you swoon.” Lydia guided Ada to the stool next to the pianoforte. Worrying about the maid would not help the situation. She needed a clear head if she hoped to extricate herself from this mess. “Rest here a moment while I speak to the reverend.”
Drawing on all the strength she possessed, Lydia turned to face the three conspirators. “One does not need logic to determine your cunning plan. I’m to marry Lord Randall, so he has control over my inheritance.”
Arabella looked smug. Only a fool celebrated winning a race before reaching the last furlong. “I don’t know why you pose such an objection. Do you know how many ladies of fine birth want to marry Lord Randall?”
Lydia glared at the pompous lord. “There are many heiresses willing to purchase a title. You need money to bring your little plan to fruition. Can you not find a wallflower, my lord? One willing to overlook your odd toilet habits?”
Lord Randall snorted. “When it comes to grooming, you lack sophistication, Miss Lovell. Though that is hardly surprising considering the company you keep.” He fussed with the cuffs of the silk puce coat that failed to complement his complexion. “The French are leaders in matters of style and fashion.”
“Then perhaps you should search for a wife there.” That said, the fact he was willing to marry her under duress spoke of urgency and desperation. “Or is there a reason you must marry quickly? Are your creditors demanding payment? Is your valet suing for mental trauma or undue distress?”
“Oh, do be quiet,” Arabella snapped. “Lord Randall does not need your money.”
“No, his mistress—the adulteress wife of my brother—does.” Lydia relished the look of shock on the reverend’s face. And as for Lord Randall, for the first time since meeting the dandy, a pink tinge of embarrassment marred his cheeks.
“I beg your pardon?” The Reverend Wyatt raised both brows. “You are in an adulteress relationship? But, my lord, you told me you loved Miss Lovell. You told me your desire to marry her stemmed from the need to save her blemished reputation.”
“Love her?” Arabella’s mouth twisted in contempt. “Peers don’t marry for love.”
“Arabella,” Lord Randall warned. “I hold Miss Lovell in the highest regard. And I am in want of a wife capable of raising strong sons.”
All traces of arrogance slipped from the crow’s face. “Sons?” Like a gathering storm, Arabella’s odd twitches soon left her shaking. The atmosphere turned threatening, building in momentum until her anger surfaced in a vitriolic outburst. “Sons! You plan to bed her more than once? No! No. No. I won’t have it, I tell you.”
The woman was a candidate for Bedlam.
Lord Randall groaned. “For heaven’s sake, Arabella, can a man not beget an heir?”
“Then I shall give you a child if that’s what you want.”
It was Lord Randall’s turn to snipe back. “Besides the fact you are barren, you know a bastard cannot inherit.”
It was like watching an absurd play from a box in a Covent Garden theatre. The rakes and never-do’s in the pits would be rolling on the floor in fits of laughter or shouting lewd suggestions while groping their doxies.
This was a farce, not a tragedy.
“I think it is time to bring this ridiculous sham to an end,” Lydia said boldly. “Nothing would induce me to marry Lord Randall because I am in love with Lord Greystone.”
Deeply in love. So in love with him nothing else mattered. Just hearing his name sent her stomach somersaulting.
The reverend looked a little panicked. “Then I should leave you to discuss this matter amongst yourselves.” All pretensions of superiority abandoned him as he bowed his head and shuffled backwards towards the door. “Should you need me to perform the ceremony—”
“Stay where you are. You’re not leaving.” Arabella thrust her nose in the air. “Lord Randall has the licence and you will perform the ceremony.” Her expression turned coy, her voice sickly sweet. “It would be such a shame to tell the congregation about your little secret.” Arabella pressed her finger to her lips and chuckled. “Would people still be as free with their coin if they knew how you spent it?”
If medals were given for spite, Arabella would struggle to walk under the weight of her trophies.
The Reverend Wyatt blanched. He gulped, dragged a handkerchief from his coat pocket and dabbed his brow. The man’s fingers shook as he fought to maintain his composure. “Then … then let us proceed quickly.”
Lord Randall turned to Arabella. “Perhaps you should wait outside. The situation calls for calm and understanding.”
“You want rid of me. Well, I’m staying, do you hear? I’m staying here until I know the deed is done.”
Lord Randall growled. “I’ll not marry Miss Lovell with you glaring at my back.”
“Why?” Arabella countered. “Why do you care?”
“Does the lady not deserve a proper wedding?”
A proper wedding?
They were about to force her to marry a man who made her sick to the pit of her stomach. They were bribing the reverend, had lied to her b
rother, were guilty of a host of immoral deeds.
Lydia had heard enough. They would have to wrestle her to the ground to make her stay.
She strode over to Lord Randall. “I’m leaving, my lord. I trust somewhere beneath that grotesque coat you possess a shred of honour and can bring some order to this disgraceful debacle.”
Without warning, Lord Randall captured her hand. “Miss Lovell, please listen to me,” he said with a level of desperation so out of character. “If you marry me, you shall want for nothing. Ladies will look upon you with awe and wonder. Our sons will be regarded amongst the greatest gentlemen of the ton. Doors will be open to you, doors men the likes of Greystone have no hope of accessing.”
Lydia was about to tell him that she cared nothing for the opinion of London Society. That Greystone was the greatest man she’d ever known, that his sons would aspire to be like their father—honourable, courageous, kind-hearted, a devil if need be. But Arabella must have seen something in her lover’s eyes that severed the thread of her fragile control.
“Oh, what a blind fool I have been.” Arabella flew at Lord Randall. She snatched his hand from Lydia’s and pushed him in the chest. “This is not about your love for me or the blasted money.” Arabella’s grey eyes turned hard, steely. “You want her for yourself.” She prodded Lord Randall, and he stumbled back. “Say it. You want her. Say it. Say it, you measly coward.”
“All right.” Lord Randall held up his hand in surrender. “Yes, I want her, damn it. But I’m confident the infatuation will pass.”
While Arabella hurled abuse at the shocked lord and he struggled to defend his position, Lydia locked eyes with Ada and nodded discreetly to the locked door.
No one noticed Ada stand or shuffle away from the pianoforte. No one noticed Lydia take a few steps towards the exit—not until Ada knocked the console table and sent the hand-painted Sevres vase crashing to the floor.
There was no time to wait—no time to worry about the damaged heirloom.
Lydia was about to run to the door when Arabella caught her by the arm, her claws digging into Lydia’s skin. “You’re marrying Rudolph even if I have to tie you to a chair and force you to repeat your vows.”
Perhaps Lydia’s sudden surge of courage had something to do with wearing Dariell’s clothes. Perhaps, after three years spent biting her tongue, she’d reached the end of her tether. And so, mustering all her strength, she clenched her fist and launched it into Arabella’s face.
Hell, it hurt her knuckles, and the bones cracked, but it felt exhilarating all the same.
The crow’s arms flapped about, and she squawked before hitting the floor.
And then an almighty bang drew everyone’s attention to the door. Another thud shook the frame as the wood splintered and pieces of plaster fell to the floor.
The door burst open and there stood the powerful figure of Lord Greystone.
Chapter Twenty
There were few moments in Miles’ life when he could recall being so angry his blood boiled in his veins. At no point could he remember being so bloody terrified lights danced before his eyes and his heartbeat pounded hard in his throat. And yet those conflicting emotions plagued him as he stood in the doorway and surveyed the chaotic scene within.
Concern for Lydia overruled the need to ram his fist so far down Randall’s throat the lord would be pissing teeth for weeks.
Miles’ gaze settled on the lady’s ashen face. Relief swam in her watery eyes. There was something else there, too, a look deeper than attraction or affection, deeper than anything he’d ever known. She possessed the ability to speak to him silently, and so when he marched into the room, there was only one place he needed to be.
Lydia hurried to meet him. “Oh, I cannot tell you how pleased I am to see you.” Her bottom lip quivered, and she clutched his hands so tightly he feared his fingers would turn blue.
Miles pulled her into an embrace. He didn’t give a damn who stood there watching. Lydia’s body shook as he held her in his arms.
Miles released her and cupped her cheek. “Are you hurt?”
“No.”
His heart lurched for all he could think of was scooping her up into his arms and carrying her home. “Tell me what happened.”
“They were going to force me to marry Lord Randall. Cecil isn’t here.” She spoke quickly, her hands gripping his biceps. “I don’t believe he knows I left the house last night. I don’t believe he knows anything about the challenge to meet you on Blackmoor Common.”
A mocking chuckle drew Miles’ attention to Lady Lovell. Blood stained her bottom lip, and she dabbed her fingers at the corner of her mouth as she clambered to her feet. “Cecil can’t whip his horse without losing his balance. What hope has he of firing a pistol?”
Miles considered the woman’s swollen lip. He glanced at Lydia and whispered, “Who hit Lady Lovell?”
Guilt flashed across his love’s face. “I—I did.”
The urge to kiss her took hold, the need to honour her for finding the strength to defend her position when outnumbered. But he would spend the night rewarding her for her courage. Throttling Lord Randall was next on his list of priorities.
“If you will excuse me for a moment.” Miles dropped his hands and swung around to face the bastard who thought he had the right to manipulate people to do his bidding.
Randall flinched. He raised his hands, though the barrier might as well be made of cobwebs for all the good it would do. “Wait. We merely discussed the possibility of marriage.”
Crossing his arms low and then swiping high and wide, Miles broke through the dandy’s defence with ease. “I’m not like other gentlemen of your acquaintance,” Miles said, his voice filled with vehemence.
“No, they say you’re a devil,” Randall muttered almost to himself.
“Oh, I can be wicked and cruel when the need arises. I can be your worst nightmare.” Miles gestured to Lydia standing behind him. “And I would risk my life to protect that lady from scoundrels like you.”
The punch came quick, an uppercut to the jaw that whipped Randall’s head back though it was meant only to stun. He would deal with Randall in his own time, his own place. “I could kill you now, but where is the pleasure in that? You will meet me on Blackmoor Common at dawn.”
“No,” Lydia cried. “He’s not worth the time or the trouble.”
She was right of course. But it was a question of honour, and he could not have every rogue thinking they could ride roughshod over him.
From the corner of his eye, Miles noticed the reverend edging closer to the door. “I do not recall saying you could leave.”
“I am merely a bystander, my lord, summoned to perform a wedding ceremony,” the reverend said, his shifty eyes belying his innocent tone. “If there is to be no ceremony, then I am not needed and shall simply take my leave.”
Lydia cleared her throat. “Arabella bribed the Reverend Wyatt to perform the ceremony even though he knew I was against the match.”
Miles could hardly challenge a man of God to a duel, though evidently, the reverend was not as pious as he would have the good people of Cuckfield believe.
What could Lady Lovell possibly know about the man that would tempt him to act in such an unchristian fashion?
“The fact that you’re here is an admission of guilt,” Miles informed him. “What happened to trusting in one’s faith? What happened to standing by one’s principles?”
The reverend remained silent.
“I shall call on you tomorrow, and we can discuss the matter further.” As the most prominent peer in the district, Miles would lay down his expectations when it came to those preaching morals. “I suggest you leave now before I change my mind.”
He did not have to tell the man twice. Indeed, the reverend scurried from the room as if his breeches were on fire.
“What makes you think you’ll be alive tomorrow?” Arabella said haughtily. “Rudolph is an excellent marksman. He killed the Comte de Aubert. A man
considered the best shot in all of France.”
Miles glanced at the dandy whose cheeks turned the colour of his ugly purple-brown coat. Lord Randall stuttered when Lady Lovell prompted him to tell all, to boast of his glorious victory.
Satisfaction swirled hot in Miles’ chest. The words he longed to say danced about excitedly on his tongue.
“The Comte de Aubert?” Miles questioned. “When was this?”
“A year ago,” Lady Lovell countered. “Tell him, Rudolph. Tell him you’re the last person a man would wish to meet on the common.”
“Be quiet, Arabella,” Lord Randall said through gritted teeth.
“Quiet?” she replied, bemused. “Why?”
“Because Lord Randall is a fraud, madam.” Miles knew Aubert personally. The French aristocrat was living and breathing the last time they met. “The Comte de Aubert lives in Egypt. I saw him eight months ago when he came to India. He left France because he fell in love with the daughter of a British explorer.”
An awkward silence filled the room.
Lady Lovell’s complexion turned pallid, but the woman shook off her embarrassment as a bird did rainwater. “That does not mean you’ve not met your match on the field.”
“Granted, but Lord Randall will have the opportunity to prove his worth on Blackmoor Common.” Miles shot the lord a hard stare. “I suggest you polish your pistols.”
The fop’s eyes glazed over and he pressed his fingers to the red mark on his jaw. Beads of sweat littered his brow. Miles had met men of Randall’s ilk before. Indeed, he’d wager a thousand pounds the lord would sail for France on the morning tide.
But that still left Miles to deal with the deranged woman who had orchestrated events to satisfy her own selfish needs. One look at her cold, empty eyes told him there was only one way to tackle a money-hungry harpy.
“And as for you, Lady Lovell, know that Lord Randall is broke and cannot pay his creditors. It is my belief he has no intention of touring the Continent. Once he has used a portion of Miss Lovell’s inheritance to keep him from the Fleet, I have a strange suspicion you would become but a distant memory.”
