She looked up at him and nodded, and again Dominic felt something he thought to have long been destroyed stir in his heart.
‘It is so long since I danced,’ she said and there was uncertainty in her eyes as she glanced at the dance floor where other couples were moving together in each other’s arms. ‘And I have never waltzed.’
‘Just relax and follow my lead.’ He offered his hand for hers.
She looked at him and it seemed to Dominic as if she were making some pivotal decision in that moment, not merely deciding whether she would dance with him. Then, without saying a word, she placed her hand in his and let him lead her out on to the dance floor.
Arabella gave herself into Dominic’s arms and waltzed with him. There was something soothing about the moonlight and the lilt of the music and the sway of their bodies in the dance. He was holding her scandalously close, so close that the fall of his breeches brushed against her skirts, so close that his heart beat against her breast. But this was Vauxhall and every other couple was dancing just as intimately.
He was looking at her with those dark soulful eyes just as he had looked at her all those years ago. Whether it was the music or the moonlight or just plain madness, in that moment she let herself forget, and just felt—the music, her heartbeat…and him.
When the music stopped, he led her from the floor towards the buffet of food laid out upon the tables. There were fresh bread rolls and ham sliced fine and thin, and a selection of fruit perfect for the eating.
He fetched them two glasses of punch and filled two plates with a selection of food to tempt her and found them a small table in a spot that was not so crowded. He made a little conversation, polite pleasant words, nothing that touched near anything that was sensitive for them both. Something of her fears for the evening faded.
Afterwards they watched some boats, miniature replicas of the great Lord Nelson’s, being sailed down the river, and then there were the fireworks, a burst of rainbow lights that exploded to shower the dark canvas of the sky. And she wished that Archie and her mother could see the spectacle.
Dominic was standing behind her, both of their necks craned back as they stared up at the sky. He bent his head forwards and said something to her, but the explosions all around were so loud that she could not hear. He stepped closer, easing her back against him so that he could whisper in her ear.
But she still could not make out his words, so she turned in his arms and all of a sudden she was looking into his face and he was looking into hers. And she could see the flash of the firework bursts reflected in the darkness of his eyes. But she was no longer thinking of the fireworks, and neither was he. They stared at one another. Alone in the crowd. Silent and serious in the midst of the riotous carnival.
‘Arlesford?’ The voice smashed the moment apart like a cannon. ‘Your Grace, I thought it was you.’
Dominic turned, shifting his stance to manoeuvre Arabella slightly behind him so that he was partly shielding her with his body. ‘Misbourne,’ he said in his usual emotionless voice and faced the man.
Lord Misbourne was dressed in a domino the like of Arabella’s and even wore a mask across his eyes. But there could be no doubt over the owner of the face that was beneath it, with its curled grey moustache and neatly trimmed beard. Misbourne’s arm was curled around the waist of a woman young enough to be his daughter and whose large breasts were in danger of imminent escape from her bodice. The girl cast Dominic a libidinous glance and licked her tongue suggestively around her lips before taking a sip of punch from the glass she was carrying.
Misbourne did not notice; he was too busy staring at Arabella. ‘Gentlemen must have their little distractions, Arlesford,’ he said. ‘Nothing wrong with that—as long as they are discreet, of course.’ And Dominic understood the message that Misbourne was trying to send him—that his having a mistress would be no barrier to courting Misbourne’s daughter.
The earl leered at Arabella and Dominic felt his fists bunch in response. He forced himself to stay calm. Brawling with Misbourne would only draw the wrong kind of attention to her.
‘If you will excuse us, sir. We were just leaving.’
‘But not before you have introduced me to your lady friend. Could this be the delectable Miss Noir about whom I have heard so many whispers?’ He peered around Dominic at Arabella.
Dominic felt the rage flow through his blood. He could smell it in his nose and taste it upon his tongue. Every muscle was primed and ready. Every nerve stretched taut. His loathing of Misbourne flooded him so that he would have knocked the man down had he not felt Arabella’s fingers touch his arm in the gentlest of restraints. Only then did he recollect his senses.
‘Goodnight, Misbourne,’ he said in a tone that brooked no refusal, and when he looked at the man’s beady, glittering dark eyes behind his mask he saw that Misbourne understood. The older man took an involuntary step back from the threat.
Dominic took Arabella’s arm in his and he was so grateful that she had stopped him.
She did not utter one question, nor throw so much as a glance in Misbourne’s direction. She just held her head up and waited.
They walked away together, away from Misbourne and the fireworks. Away from Vauxhall and the wonderful night.
The carriage wheels were rumbling along the road carrying them back to Curzon Street and still Dominic had not spoken.
Arabella could sense the tension emanating from him, the echo of the anger she had seen directed against the man, Misbourne, in Vauxhall. All illusions had vanished the moment Misbourne and the woman had appeared.
‘Does everyone know that you bought me from Mrs Silver?’ The words would not be contained for a minute longer.
The carriage rolled past a street lamp and in the brief flicker of light she saw his face through the darkness—handsome, hard edged, dangerous—before the night’s darkness hid him again.
‘How naïve of me not to have realised.’ She shook her head and looked away, feeling sick at the thought. ‘What else do they know, Dominic?’ What else have you told them? she wanted to ask.
‘Nothing, I hope. I paid Mrs Silver very well for her silence. And I trust my friends, who were with me that night, enough to make no mention of Miss Noir.’
‘You did not tell them?’
‘Of course I did not tell them, Arabella! My affairs are my own, not tittle-tattle for the amusement of others.’ His voice was hard and angry. ‘Do you think I would have gone to such lengths to hide you were it otherwise?’
‘You guard your own reputation well.’ This was all about protecting himself. How foolish to think it could ever have been about her.
‘I am guarding what is left of yours,’ he said grimly. Then his tone softened slightly. ‘I am not unaware of the…sensitivity of this issue.’
She looked across at the shadowed man through the darkness and was not sure she believed him.
‘Of what it would mean to your mother were she to learn the truth.’
‘God forbid…’ Arabella pressed a hand to her forehead, horrified at the prospect of that revelation, even if it were something rather different to that which Dominic envisaged. But even as she thought it she was wondering why Dominic should have the slightest care over her mother.
‘They may know of Miss Noir, but they do not know the identity of the woman behind her mask.’
Yet.
The word hung unspoken between them.
‘You may rest assured that I will do all in my power to keep it that way.’
She stared at him, not knowing what to make of his attitude.
‘I will make discreet enquiries over—’
‘No,’ she said too quickly. If he started asking questions, who knew what he would discover. Everything that Arabella had striven so hard to hide. ‘No,’ she said more gently. ‘Words already spoken cannot be unsaid. Asking questions will only make it worse. Besides—’ she glanced away ‘—you are a duke; there will always be an interest in your dealings. And
the lure of a coin will mean there are always tongues to be loosened.’
And she could not blame them. She of all people knew what it was like to be poor and in desperate need of money.
‘Perhaps, but speed and generosity has always worked in the past to silence them,’ he said.
‘But not this time.’
‘Seemingly not.’
There was a small silence.
‘Thank you for trying.’ Her words were stilted. Gratitude sat ill with her when it came to Dominic, but for all that she felt she knew how much worse it could be, had he taken her as his mistress as carelessly as he had abandoned her as his betrothed.
The carriage wheels rolled on.
She steered the conversation to safer ground. ‘Who was he, the man in Vauxhall? Misbourne.’ The man who had stirred in Dominic such barely leashed fury.
There was a small pause before Dominic answered, ‘A delusional old fool, Arabella, but not one you need have a worry over.’
Another pause.
‘I thank you that you stayed my arm,’ he said. ‘Brawling with an earl at Vauxhall would not have been conducive to our maintaining a low profile.’
She gave a nod of acknowledgement. And she wondered as to this man who she knew to be a rake and a scoundrel. A man who had made her his whore, yet did not flaunt or humiliate her publically. A man who went to such pains to preserve her privacy and who, it seemed, had a care for her mother’s sensibilities.
The carriage came to a stop outside Curzon Street.
The hour was late. She did not know whether he would come in. Whether he would kiss her. Bed her. And she was not sure if she dreaded it or wanted it. Nervous anticipation tingled right through her.
He helped her from the carriage and into the hallway, dismissing James the young footman who was acting as the night porter.
Only two wall sconces were lit and the soft shadowed lighting lent the hallway an unusual intimacy. Or maybe it was the fact that they were standing there alone in the middle of the night facing one another.
Arabella did not know what she should say. She could feel the tension between them, feel the speed of her heart. Her mouth was dry from dread, her thighs hot from desire. She swallowed and it sounded loud in the silence.
‘You need not worry, Arabella, I am not staying,’ he said in a voice as dark and rich as chocolate. ‘I came only to see you safely inside.’ As if to reinforce his words she could hear the sound of the waiting carriage from the street outside.
In the flickering of the candlelight she thought he had never looked so dangerous or so handsome. There was a hardness to his face that had not been there all those years ago, but when she looked into his eyes, those dark velvet brown eyes, Arabella saw something of tenderness. And for all that she should have known better, for all of her common sense, she felt the stirrings of old feelings that she had thought never to feel again. There was such an allure of forbidden attraction that the atmosphere sparked with it.
Her breath was shallow and fast, her stomach a mass of fluttering butterflies. ‘This arrangement between us. I thought that you would… That it would be different between us…’ She met his gaze. ‘I do not understand.’
‘Neither do I, Arabella,’ he said.
Her heart was thudding so hard she thought she could hear it in the silence.
He peeled off his gloves and came to stand before her.
They stared at one another for one beat of her heart and then another. And then he reached out his hand and touched his fingers to her cheek, caressing her face in a mirror of her own actions from an evening not so long ago. His touch was more gentle than she remembered, soft as the stirring of warm breath upon her skin. His movement was unhurried and sensual as he traced the outline of her cheek and up across her eyebrow.
He touched only her face yet every inch of her body tingled in response. He trailed his forefinger down the slope of her nose, and her breasts felt heavy and sensitive. His thumb brushed against her lower lip and the sensation was as if he had stroked between her legs. She gasped and opened to him so that his thumb probed within the moisture of her mouth. Her lips touched to him, not because she was his mistress but because it felt instinctive and right.
‘Arabella,’ he whispered and there was something agonised and urgent in his whisper. And then he pulled her into his arms and kissed her.
Arabella kissed him back, their mouths moving in hungry reunion. She felt his hands upon her breasts, upon her hips. Their bodies clinging together, as if nothing of the pain had ever been.
She felt the press of his manhood against her, felt the heat of him, the need in him, and, God help her, but she wanted him too. Her thighs burned. She was moist for him. Her body recognised his and opened as if in invitation. And her heart began to open to him too, just as it had done all those years ago. And suddenly she was afraid, afraid of where this was leading, afraid of what she was feeling.
Dominic seemed to sense the sudden swirl in her emotions. He stopped, raised his head and looked into her eyes and she saw in them a desire and confusion that matched her own.
‘No,’ he whispered, but did not release her. ‘No,’ he said again and she knew that it was himself he was denying more than her. His breathing was ragged and she could feel the taut strain in every hard muscle of his body. She could sense his hunger, and yet there was a sudden wariness in his eyes, a restraint almost. She felt his grip loosen. He released her and left; there was only the sound of the front door clicking shut behind him.
Arabella stood there until the sound of his carriage faded into the distance and she touched trembling fingers to her swollen lips, not understanding how she could feel such attraction for a man whom she disliked and did not trust. He had hurt her in the past. He was humiliating her in the present. She knew all of that, yet tonight he had made her forget. He seemed too like the man she had fallen in love with. When she was with him, when he touched her, when he kissed her…
She clutched her hand harder to her mouth and closed her eyes against the memory, feeling confused and ashamed that he could still affect her so and not knowing what was wrong with her. How could she, who was so strong when it came to everything else, be so weak when it came to Dominic Furneaux?
But Arabella knew that she must not give in. Once it had only been her heart and her pride that he had taken. Now there was so much more at stake than that. She glanced upstairs towards the chamber where her mother and son slept and knew she must stay strong.
Chapter Eight
The night was not going well for Dominic in the gaming den.
He looked at the cards in his hands and, despite all his resolutions, thought again of Arabella. Two nights had passed since the night of the masquerade. Only two nights and in that time he had thought of little else.
‘Arlesford,’ Hunter prompted by his side, and he realised that everyone at the table was waiting for him. He shoved some more guineas into the pile at the centre of the table.
And, contrary to his usual play, promptly lost them. Indeed, he had not won a game since entering the seedy surroundings, much to the delight of the rather rough-and-ready patrons of the establishment. But then Dominic knew he was more than a little distracted.
It was a small tavern in the East End, most of the patrons of which looked like men you would not wish to meet on a dark night. Their clothing was coarse, their language too. The gin and beer flowed freely, in the hope of addling the wits of those that were fool enough to come here.
It was, surprisingly enough, the very latest place to be seen for Gentlemen of the ton. Although, Dominic thought wryly, those young fops that ventured in here would soon realise they had bitten off more than they could chew. Young Northcote had ignored all of Dominic’s warnings and was now grinning to hide his nervousness and both drinking and betting more deeply than was wise. The boy was ill at ease in the surroundings, even if he did not want to admit any such thing; it had, after all, been his idea to come here.
Did she wonde
r as to his absence? Did he gnaw in her thoughts as she gnawed in his? Did she feel this same craving that plagued him night and day? He doubted it. To women like Arabella, their arrangement was nothing more than business. To women like Arabella… He caught the phrase back, and thought bitterly that there were no other women like Arabella.
He stared across the room, seeing not the overly warm, smoky den with its scored tables and rickety chairs and the men with their blackened teeth and their stubble-roughened faces, but the woman whose image had haunted him through the years.
The cards had been dealt. Again.
He lost. Again. And saw the way young Northcote’s eyes widened with fear as the youngster realised the extent of his own loses even at this early hour.
Dominic ached for Arabella, wanted her with a compulsion that bordered on obsession, but each time he touched her it was both ecstasy and torture. When he took her in his arms he felt the wound inside him tear afresh.
She was Arabella Tatton, the woman he had loved, the woman who had so callously trampled the youthful tenderness from his heart. And he could not separate that knowledge from his body’s craving for her. There would never be anything of relief. Yet he needed to be with her more with every passing minute. Even knowing that he could not touch her, even knowing the torture would be greater with her than without, he could not fight this growing addiction.
Dominic pushed his chair back, its battered legs scraping tracks through the sawdust that covered the floor.
‘I think I will call it a night,’ he said to the others and gestured for his hat and gloves to be brought.
Several faces looked up, surprise soon turning to menace.
Even Bullford seemed caught unawares. ‘A tad early for you, Arlesford.’
‘Certainly is, your Grace,’ said a large ruffian employed by the establishment. ‘Stay, see if you can win back them golden guineas that you’ve lost.’
‘Perhaps another night, gentlemen,’ he said.
Unmasking the Duke's Mistress Page 9
