To Rescue or Ravish?

by Barbara Monajem

  His face hovered above hers, dark and inscrutable. “Bella, why have you never married?”

  Panic swelled inside her. Frantically, she tried to think of what to say. Not the truth; never that.

  The tavern door opened and he turned away. The frenzied battering of her heart slowed, and her thoughts cleared. She could say it was none of his business. She could say none of her beaux had proven interesting. She could say she didn’t plan to marry at all.

  “Whatcha want, gov?” A short, bandy-legged man with a well-weathered face and few teeth grinned at them. “Evening, miss.”

  “There’s a guinea for you if you stable Will’s nags,” Matt said. “I have other business to take care of.”

  “I can see you do.” Rufus ran an appreciative eye over Arabella and gave a grotesque wink.

  “Mind your manners,” Matt retorted.

  “Don’t reprimand him,” she said equally sharply. “What else is he to think? If I don’t care, I don’t see why you should.” Strangely, his ogling didn’t bother her nearly as much as that of several men of her own class. “Thank you for helping out, Rufus.” She wondered if she was to provide the guinea. Matt looked as if he had no more than a shilling or two to his name at any one time.

  “Always happy to oblige young love.” Rufus scrambled up to the box and drove off.

  I will not be embarrassed, Arabella decided. I will not be mortified at people’s obvious conclusions.

  “You must have had offers,” Matt said. “Pretty heiresses always have offers.”

  “I refused them.” She was shivering again, and he wanted to stand outside and talk about her suitors! Was he trying to marry her off, too? “Are we going into the tavern?”

  “No, we’re going to visit a printer just up the street. The tavern’s not your sort of place.”

  Fury gripped her. “How do you know what’s my sort of place? You know nothing about me!” She was sick and tired of his stupid assumptions, and as for his pity, he could…he could… There must be some crude and colourful expression to convey precisely what she wished, but being a delicate, wilting flower of society, she didn’t know what it was. “Where are we?”

  His eyes never left her face. “Grub Street.”

  “Writers?” she said. “Artists?”

  “Mostly, yes.”

  “I read novels and poems. I enjoy paintings. Why shouldn’t I like the people who produce them?”

  He watched her silently for a few seconds more. “No reason, but it’s not a good idea tonight.”

  Freezing to death wasn’t a good idea, either. She pushed past him into the tavern. A delightful gush of warmth greeted them.

  He took her arm. “Bella, I don’t think—” He cursed under his breath and let her go. “I’d forgotten how stubborn you are.”

  They went into the taproom. Gathered around a table were men in all stages of drunkenness and—good God—some women, too. “And ploughed her field again-o!” the voices rang out, ending the song. A man banged his flagon hard on the table. Ale sloshed out, splashing his neighbour, who soundly cuffed him. Everyone laughed.

  “Ho, Matt!” cried a big, jolly-looking man. “Who’s the lovely lady?” He leered at her with such good cheer that she couldn’t help but smile back. The place smelled of sweat, ale and tallow candles, but everyone seemed so friendly—so welcoming and warm—that somehow she didn’t mind.

  “A friend,” Matt said, whipping her about to face him. For the first time, Arabella got a good look at his face. He was older, of course, but there was also a hardness in his eyes, an implacability about his ruggedly handsome features, that hadn’t been there years before. He growled in her ear. “Seen enough?”

  She peeked around him. Oh, heavens! One of the women was perched upon the lap of a man who unabashedly fondled her breast. Wistfully, Arabella remembered being fondled. Remembered how amazingly sweet it had felt. How had she managed to survive without it for so many years? Why should she survive without it?

  Unfortunately, she could think of many reasons, the most important being that the only man she wished to fondle her had no intention of doing so. Very well, but she had no intention of leaving this cozy, welcoming place right away, no matter how vulgar its occupants might be.

  And she would die rather than let Matt know she felt the slightest bit uncomfortable. She stepped around him, took a deep breath and screwed up her courage. “Good evening, everyone,” she said. “My name is Bella. Have you room for us at the table?”

  The ogling man hooted. “Always a place for a lady.” He stood, grabbed an empty chair and adjured the couple to leave off and move over. “Come sit next to me, darling.”

  “Not on your life, Bird,” Matt told the ogling man, pulling her around the table and shoving another chair in between. It was rather disconcerting to sit next to the couple but undoubtedly safer, seeing as that man’s hands were fully occupied.

  Matt signaled to the wench at the tap. “A heavy-wet for me, Moll, and…” The hard look vanished from his eyes, and he smiled at her, that sweet, mischievous smile of old. “Mulled wine for the lady.”

  Oh, Matt. A blush suffused her entire body. “You—you remember that, too.”

  * * *

  One of the fellows whistled, and wonder of wonders, Bella didn’t seem the least bit upset. Really, though, why should she be? These fellows didn’t know who she was, so it didn’t matter what they assumed. As long as they remained ignorant, all would be well. His cock twitched happily at the memory of mulled wine drizzled on her breasts, of licking and sucking them clean.

  What the devil had gotten into him to order it for her? He must have gone soft.

  She was right—he couldn’t claim to know her anymore, but nor did she know him, how different he’d become, how unsuited to a girl of gentle birth.

  But responsible behaviour meant nothing to his cock, which wanted to pick up where they’d left off seven years ago. It had its own bizarre logic to back this up. Bella had assumed he would be annoyed by their proximity, which seemed to mean that she wasn’t. That she liked it, wanted it, which was well-nigh impossible, but his arousal wouldn’t accept a conclusion so contrary to its interests. A fellow had to find out for sure, didn’t he?

  Hence going soft and ordering mulled wine.

  Moll plunked a tankard before him and handed Bella a cup of spiced wine, wrapped in a cloth. It wasn’t the quality of wine she was used to…except that night way back when. He’d not been able to afford better, but they’d been young and so drunk on desire…

  Bella smiled at Moll and thanked her. She sipped the wine with blinding pleasure. “Warms my whole insides.”

  Aye, and she was warming Matt up good and proper, too. How could he not lust after her when she sat right next to him, so flushed and pretty? In all these years, why hadn’t some fellow managed to snap her up? He leaned back in his chair and let himself enjoy watching her.

  Somebody started another song—not the sort for Arabella’s ears, but Matt couldn’t do a thing about that. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to. He’d been considering insinuating himself into polite society—not difficult, given his respectable birth, newly acquired wealth and a few old school friends in high places. He’d been brought up a gentleman, so he could fit in easily enough. He didn’t like the prospect—matter of fact, the idea of all that posturing made him queasy—but how else could he find out for sure if anything remained of that girl and boy who had loved one another years before?

  Maybe this was preferable. What better way for her to learn who he’d become? Once the novelty of this place wore off and she returned with relief to her safe, proper world, he would finally succeed in getting her permanently off his mind.

  Not if she kept glowing like this, though. This wasn’t the Bella he’d glimpsed through the years, shopping on Old Bond Street or at the theatre, so proud and aloof. No, this was almost like having the old, irresistible Bella back—sipping her wine, sparkling with interest at the world about her, dangerous to
his hands and his cock, and more important, his idiotic, air-dreaming heart.

  Better get down to business, or he would make a fool of himself here and now. “We’d best be going, Bella,” he said.

  She frowned. “I haven’t even finished my wine!”

  “Where are you off to in such an all-fired rush?” Bird said. “Let the lady enjoy herself.”

  “We’re going to see a printer,” Bella said. “To put a notice in the paper.”

  Matt cursed silently. He had to get her out of there, and quickly. He stood. “We have to hurry, or it will be too late.”

  “Better be ready to pay through the nose, old chap.” Bird’s curious eyes went from Matt to Bella and back. “Sam hates having to reset the type.”

  “It will be well worth paying for.” Bella scowled over the rim of her cup and sipped some more. “Unfortunately, I can’t say what I really want to.”

  “No sense paying, then,” Bird said. “What do you want to say, darling?”

  “That my uncle connived with a horrid man to abduct and rape me so I would be obliged to marry him,” she said.

  Matt blinked. Surely she couldn’t be tipsy already, to say something so indiscreet. He craned his neck; no, she’d drunk less than half the cup of wine. “Bella, I don’t think—”

  She turned her scowl on him. “I’m not intoxicated, Matt. I’m furious.”

  Bird chuckled. “So you should be, sweeting. Now I am intoxicated, but I still have my doubts about printing that.”

  “I know—it won’t do. I shall just put a notice refuting the announcement of my engagement, which was entirely untrue. My uncle put it in without my permission.” She took another sip of wine, and another. “It’s not fair. I want to punish them.”

  Matt did, too, but if they weren’t careful, it might go far beyond punishment to social ruin, which would undoubtedly affect Bella as well, and—

  “It wouldn’t have done them the least bit of good even if Sir Reginald had succeeded in raping me,” she said.

  “Sir Reginald…?” Bird grinned.

  Matt should never have brought Arabella Wilbanks within a mile of this place. “Maybe you should keep the details to yourself, love,” he said.

  She glowered at him. “I’m enjoying myself more than I have in years. Leave me be!”

  Ah, well. It would be in the paper anyway, wouldn’t it? No chance of cramming such a lucrative cat back in the bag once Bird got a hold of it. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Matt said, and sat down again.

  A flicker of doubt appeared in her eyes—and was replaced by a veritable flame of rage. “Sir Reginald Rotherton,” she said.

  Bird went into whoops. “That pattern-card of propriety tried to rape you?” He slapped his leg. “Oh, my darlings, my dears, this is far too good to waste.” He pulled out a paper and pencil. “And who might your uncle be?”

  She took a gulp of wine, shot a defiant glare at Matt and put up her chin. “Wilbur Wilbanks.”

  Bird convulsed with laughter. Nobly, Matt resisted an impulse to hook his foot in the legs of his friend’s chair and send him crashing to the floor.

  When Bird stopped laughing enough to catch his breath, he said, “Even better! And you must be Arabella Wilbanks, also known as the Icicle.”

  Arabella’s face fell. “Is that what they’re calling me?”

  “Afraid so, darling. Cold as an icicle, and just as sharp.”

  She sighed. “I expect I deserve it, but how else was I to fend off all those annoying suitors? In spite of the temptation of my fortune, it worked astonishingly well.”

  By now, everyone in the whole blasted room was watching and listening. Matt should probably stop her from taking even one more sip of wine. He should probably muffle her. He should probably scoop her up and drag her away before she said anything else.

  Instead he just sat there, flummoxed.

  Why had she wanted to fend off her suitors? Some of them, although he hated to admit it, were quite decent fellows.

  “Luckily, Matt rescued me, but I wouldn’t have married Sir Reginald regardless,” she said. “Thinking back to what might have happened—and I can’t help but shudder at it—I’ve never been so glad that I’m not a virgin.”

  Damn it, what was the matter with her?

  Everybody laughed and cheered, and someone ordered a round of drinks and a toast to the non-virgins of England and Bella in particular. She blushed and reached for her wine.

  This was nothing like the Arabella Wilbanks he’d glimpsed and heard about over the years. This was an older, naughtier version of the Bella he’d loved to desperation all those years ago.

  Matt got to her cup first and moved it away. She rolled her eyes and addressed the others again. “I mean, just think about it. I might have thought it actually mattered. I might have felt obliged to marry that rat.”

  She eyed her cup, which she could no longer reach. “I shall always be grateful to Matt for—” She caught his scowl, and her smile vanished. “Give me back my wine!”

  “You’ve had enough. Let’s get that announcement written.” He snatched the paper and pencil from Bird, who had already done a sketch of Bella, all animation and big, shining eyes. He tore a piece off the bottom of the paper and returned the sketch to Bird; he would deal with him later. “You can’t compose it while you’re drunk.”

  “Drunk on half a cup of wine? Don’t be ridiculous. I’m merely having fun. I should get some pleasure out of this situation, shouldn’t I?”

  She certainly wasn’t acting like an icicle now.

  * * *

  “Definitely, darling,” Bird purred, and Matt knew an urge to throttle him. Nobody gave pleasure to Arabella Wilbanks except Matthew Worcester, and that was that. His cock signaled its agreement.

  Suddenly, she wouldn’t meet his eyes, and her colour fluctuated uneasily. Probably realized she’d gone too far. Probably aghast at her indiscreet behaviour, but she didn’t know the worst of it yet.

  She straightened and said primly, “‘Arabella Wilbanks refutes yesterday’s notice of her engagement, which was inserted without her knowledge or approval.’ Frightfully boring, isn’t it?”

  “That kind of notice is supposed to be boring,” Matt said, writing it down.

  “But think what fun if we could mention my uncle the pig and Sir Reginald the rat.”

  “You needn’t do that,” Matt said, resigning himself to the inevitable, which might well include murder on his part. “Bird will be delighted to do it for you.”

  Her delicate brows drew together. She fixed her wide, beautiful eyes on Bird. “You’re going to call them a pig and a rat?”

  “Not in so many words,” Bird said, grinning.

  “Bird draws caricatures,” Matt said.

  * * *

  She’d been awfully indiscreet, and it hadn’t done the least bit of good. She’d only been trying to show Matt that she wasn’t what he thought. She’d assumed his bosky friends were harmless. Evidently, he’d been stern and stuffy for a reason.

  Not that she had the slightest objection to seeing Uncle Wilbur and Sir Reginald ridiculed in every print shop window in London. On the other hand, she would be made fun of, too.

  “Oh, well,” she said, hoping she sounded amused. “In for an inch, in for a mile.” She wanted to cry, but strangely enough, it wasn’t because she would be caricatured. She’d already resigned herself to ruin. It was that look on Matt’s face, as if he couldn’t believe what she’d done. How could she have been so utterly shameless? She didn’t know what had come over her.

  Yes, she did. She wanted him. She wanted to drown in pleasure with him again, just like seven years ago. That glow in her belly, which had remained banked and hidden for so long, had been stirred to life by his mere presence. And when he’d ordered mulled wine… Oh, God, that had sent flames through her veins until her fingers tingled with the need to touch him, and her toes curled inside her boots, and her core ached with desire. She’d become reckless, because nothing
else mattered.

  Except that Matt didn’t want her. She wasn’t even tipsy, but he was right to refuse her more wine. Not that he knew why, but she needed her wits about her and every ounce of self-control she possessed.

  She composed herself. “Maybe it will be worth it.”

  “It’s not that simple.” Matt stood again and pulled her to her feet. “Before he does anything, you and I are going to have a little talk.”

  Did he think she would let him lecture her like a disapproving parent? “That doesn’t sound like much fun.”

  “If Matt’s set on being a spoilsport,” said one of the men, “you can come have a good time with me instead.”

  Matt shot him a look that would have terrified the leaves off a tree and handed Bird the paper on which he’d scribbled the notice. “Get that to Sam Fitch. It has to be in the morning paper.”

  “Right you are,” Bird said. “It certainly does.”

  “And then,” Matt said, “sit tight.”

  “I can’t sit tight,” Bird said. “I’ve got to get to work on this tonight. I’ll make my bloody fortune with this one.”

  “It won’t be much use if you’re dead,” Matt said.

  Bird snorted, and when Matt tugged at her hand, Arabella followed reluctantly. She had no choice but to go with him, but if he dared scold her, she would… She didn’t know what she would do.

  He pulled her into the passageway and up a flight of stairs. “Where are we going?” she demanded.

  “To my rooms.”

  “You live here?” Oh, no. Why couldn’t she keep her mouth shut? She didn’t mean to sound appalled. She didn’t care where he lived, as long as he didn’t hate her. As long as he was still her friend.

  “Some of the time,” he said. By the light of an oil lamp in the narrow passage at the top of the stairs, he unlocked a door. “I own the place.”