Pembroke mirrored her movements, keeping himself between her and the door. “Damn right you shouldn’t have. You should keep your lovers’ quarrels behind closed doors or find some other fool to dress your wounds. But we both know why you’re really here.”
Four
Arabella took one step back as Pembroke moved toward her, but her knees hit the chair behind her, blocking escape. Her arm throbbed, but she forgot her pain as he stepped close to her. All she could think of then was the scent of brandy on his breath, and all she could see were the red lines around the blue of his eyes.
Though he was the second man to approach her that night, she was not afraid of him. She wondered why that was as she stood and stared at the fury on his face. She had run from men’s anger all her life, and when she could not run, she had hidden within herself. But now, standing with Pembroke, she did not feel threatened. Some secret part of her soul was certain that he would never hurt her. That knowledge more than anything held her where she was as his hands reached for her, as his great paws cupped her elbows and drew her toward him.
Pembroke seemed to take up all the air in the room. His black evening clothes were the height of elegance, his gold waistcoat gleaming against the black superfine of his trousers. But his cravat was gone and his coat with it. He stood in his shirtsleeves, the heat of his body radiating from him as from a small sun. Arabella lost her breath as his mouth came down on hers.
He did not devour her or press her too hard, as she thought he might. Instead, his lips were gentle, teasing her as they lightly moved across her mouth, imparting feather kisses to each corner, his breath warming her cheek as he pulled away.
“You taste like a sweetmeat,” he said.
“All I ate today were ginger biscuits.”
Arabella’s voice was hoarse in her own ears. She did not sound like herself. She swallowed hard, staring up at him just as he stared down at her.
“You didn’t come here to become my lover,” Pembroke said.
“No. I did not.”
He cast an errant lock of hair back so that it fell across his forehead, ready to obscure his vision again in the next moment. She wondered that he had never changed his hairstyle, not in all his years in the army. He had always cut it short, but the waves of his straw-blond hair fell into his eyes just as they always had.
During the summer they had spent together, she had wiled away one long afternoon, pressing her hand into those waves, smoothing them back, seeing if she might make them lie still through the force of her will and patience alone. She had failed at that and at so much else. Pembroke was irrepressible. It was one of the things she had always loved about him.
He stepped back suddenly and let her go. She straightened her sleeve over the new bandage and drew down the crepe veil of her bonnet until it covered her face. She crossed the room and lifted her heavy satchel, the bag that held the wreckage of her life. She had been a fool to come. This man did not even know her anymore. She did not know him. To ask for his help, to impose upon him in this manner was foolhardy.
She was safe from Hawthorne by now, surely. In a city as large as London, he would not be able to trace her when she had vanished in the dark of night. She would hire a carriage and drive to Derbyshire to collect her husband’s money. And then she would disappear from all polite society. She would hide somewhere safe, somewhere no one would ever find her.
For the first time in her life, she would be free.
“I am sorry to impose on you. When the duke surprised me in my room, I panicked. I was foolish to come here.”
“I invited you,” Pembroke said.
Arabella laughed then and heard his own warm laughter answering her.
“You did indeed. But as I said before, I must decline your invitation. I am no man’s mistress, nor will I ever be.”
“Please sit, Arabella. I am bored. Help me spend the hours of this night that would usually be wasted on drink. Tell me your tale. I promise this time I will listen.”
“There is no need, my lord. I will solve my own problems. I thank you for your time, and I bid you a good evening.”
Arabella turned to the door, her vision obscured by her cursed veil. She did not get far, for Pembroke was at her side in an instant, taking hold of her good arm.
“Damn it, woman. Sit down.”
“I will not. You are neither my husband nor my father. You are nothing to me. You may not swear in my presence or use that tone of voice with me.”
“I am not nothing to you. Or why else are you here?”
“I thought to ask for your help, but I see now that I was mistaken.”
Pembroke swore again, this time under his breath. He raised her veil, pushing it back from her eyes. He took her bag from her and tossed it out of reach. He held her upper arms so that she was caught between his hands.
She felt for a moment as if she stood in the shelter of a wall, while the winds of the world swirled around her. She fought the urge to huddle against him, to give in and let him protect her. But a feeling of safety crept into her body through the warmth of his hands. Whatever would happen tomorrow, this was why she had come. So that she might feel safe like this again, if only for one night.
“Sit down, Arabella. You need to eat if all you’ve had all day are ginger biscuits.”
She did feel light-headed, though she was certain it was from his nearness and little else. She should already be gone, taking the North Road to Derbyshire. But even though she had been wrong to come, she was glad she had. She would never see him again after this night. As she faced that truth, she also realized that she could never have disappeared into exile without looking on his face one last time.
So though she was losing hours she needed on the road, she sat down and shrugged her cloak from her shoulders, letting it pool on the sofa around her. Her fingers did not shake as she untied the ribbons of her bonnet, the black-dyed straw left beside her on the settee. She picked up her brandy and took a sip. The fiery liquid burned her mouth first and then her throat, but it warmed her stomach.
Pembroke rang for Codington again, and within minutes the porcelain bowl of bloody water was whisked away and thick sandwiches of beef and bread were brought as well as slices of cake on delicate plates, along with a large pot of strong black tea. Arabella took on the role of hostess, pouring tea for him, adding two sugars and milk before she thought twice.
As she handed him the cup, her arm froze in mid-motion. His sky blue eyes did not leave her face. He knew, as she did, that she should not have remembered how he took his tea, not after an absence of ten years. He accepted the cup, his eyes searching her face. “You remember,” he said.
“It would seem so.”
An awkward silence descended as she ate her sandwich.
“So what is this wild tale you bear of Hawthorne? For all I know, you cut your wrist yourself to gain my sympathy.”
In spite of his mocking words, he listened close as she spoke. Arabella’s voice was calm, almost detached, for she had learned survival in her father’s house at the hands of a harsh master. But when she mentioned Hawthorne’s threats of highway robbery and of her death brought by an accident along the road, her voice wavered. She took a sip of tea, which had already cooled. As she watched him from the corner of her eye, she saw that Pembroke’s hand had formed a fist upon his knee.
“And after threatening your life and attempting to rape you in the dark of night, he hopes to carry you to York in the morning?”
The anger in his voice was barely hidden and might actually have been hidden from anyone but her. She looked at him, but he would not face her. He stared into the fire as if it held the answer to his question.
“Yes,” she said.
Before she could speak again, Pembroke exploded in violence, his arm drawn back, throwing the cut crystal glass into the grate. The brandy caught fire and burned hotter, the f
lames rising. Pembroke stood in the center of the room, shaking with the effort to control himself while Arabella sat motionless until his fit of temper passed.
Though she knew in her heart that this man would never hurt her, would never raise his hand to her, she flinched at the sound of shattering glass, at the ragged edges of his breathing. The scars along her back ached anew at the sight of violence, and she felt her bile rise to mingle with the taste of beef in her mouth. She swallowed hard and fought her nausea down.
Pembroke seemed to remember her presence then, and he made a concerted effort to push his fury behind the iron wall of his control. As her fear began to dissipate and her heart to slow its rapid beat, Arabella found herself strangely moved by his anger, that he felt such strong emotion on her behalf. Her husband had been kind but absentminded. He had never displayed an emotion other than calm reserve even in their marriage bed.
Pembroke turned to her, and she felt for a moment as if she had indeed found a haven in an uncertain world. She knew that this was an illusion, but she wanted very much to believe in it.
“I am sorry, Arabella. That is the second glass I have broken tonight. Codington will be displeased.”
Arabella smiled. The old butler had often helped them in their exploits the summer they had been engaged, making sure that the picnics they took by the riverside were kept a secret from Pembroke’s father.
“It is no matter. You are kind to be so angry. I would be angry myself if I were not so afraid.”
Pembroke moved to sit beside her, tossing her widow’s bonnet onto an armchair. He did not draw her into his arms this time but held her hand. At his touch, she was catapulted back into the past as if the last ten years had never happened. For the first time in many years, she wished herself back there, to the time when she was safe, to the time when all was well, those days when Pembroke loved her.
“Well, this is a charming scene.”
The tall, red-haired woman Pembroke had brought to the funeral that morning stood in the doorway, smiling down on them. She wore a dark green wrapper of silk, and even Arabella’s inexperienced eyes could tell that she wore nothing beneath it.
“You make a pretty picture with your lady friend, my lord. May I ask her name?”
Arabella tried to draw her hand from his, but he clutched it reflexively for a moment before he let her go. His mask of cool indifference descended then, and he stood, moving away from her.
“Names are unwieldy, Titania. You do not need to know it.”
Arabella drew herself up straight under the other woman’s scrutiny. She felt those green eyes on her skin like the edge of a knife, running along the surface, searching for weakness. Arabella could not tell if she found one, for the woman smiled.
“Welcome to Pembroke House, my lady.”
“I am Arabella.”
The red-haired woman’s smile turned more genuine and less barbed. “I am Titania, as Lord Pembroke said. A lady of the stage.”
“A woman of independence,” Arabella said.
“As independent as I can be,” Titania agreed.
“I wish to be a woman like that.”
“As a duchess, you’re well on your way.”
Arabella fell silent then. The woman had stopped pretending not to know her.
“I must go,” Arabella said. “Thank you for the sandwich.”
Pembroke spoke, his voice cool. “Titania, would you leave us a moment? I must speak with Her Grace alone.”
Titania sized him up with her eyes, almost as if she might refuse him. It seemed something in his face changed her mind, for she shrugged one shoulder and smiled.
“Come up, my lord, when you’re done here. I’ll be waiting.”
The beautiful redhead’s hips swayed as she walked away. Arabella felt her heart contract with what could only be jealousy.
The gentle man she had seen just moments before was gone as if he had never been. Pembroke’s glib tongue threw coal on the fire of her emotions, so that she felt his words burn just above her heart.
“You aren’t going anywhere, Arabella. Codington has instructed my people to keep you here for the night. Not that there’s much of the night left.”
Arabella opened her mouth to protest, but he raised one hand. She saw the stubborn set of his jaw and knew that in this mood, he could not be reasoned with.
“You are welcome to the guest room Codington has arranged for you. Or…” His blue eyes gleamed with wicked thoughts. “You could always join us.”
Arabella blinked, wondering at first what he meant. Slowly it dawned on her that he was offering to share his bed with her and his mistress both. She felt a flash of quicksilver anger, the first in years, and she almost spat at him.
“I regretfully decline,” she said, drawing on all the years of haughtiness she had ever witnessed in the ton.
Pembroke laughed as he crossed the room to leave her alone. “I always try to live without regrets.”
***
Arabella surprised herself by falling asleep almost at once in the soft, bland confines of Pembroke’s guest room. She thought she might start at every sound or think of Pembroke with his mistress, but her exhaustion claimed her as soon as her head hit the pillow, drawing her down into dreams.
She dreamed of her father’s house, the old, dark place that held her childhood, a place that had haunted her for years after. The familiar menace of the dream changed as she escaped into the sunshine of the kitchen garden only to find the new Duke of Hawthorne standing among Mrs. Fielding’s plants, waiting for her.
Arabella could smell the dust on his clothes, though his immaculate coat was well brushed and fit him fashionably tight. Despite the starched white confection of his cravat, in his black coat and breeches, Hawthorne still looked like an undertaker. The knife he had brought into her bedroom gleamed in his hand.
In the dream, Arabella had more presence of mind than when she was awake, or perhaps she simply felt less like holding to false dictates of Society that kept her tied down and obedient. She said not a word to him but dodged through the garden, lifting her skirts to her knees as she ran. As soon as she decided to run, the terrain changed, and she was standing in her childhood haven, the Forest of Arden.
The wooded land that divided her father’s estate from Pembroke’s did not officially possess such a fanciful name. It had no name at all. But she and Pembroke had christened it the Forest of Arden the summer they had been so close, calling it after the fairy haven of Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. They had both needed a haven from the world, he from the cruelty of his father and she from the cruelty of hers. Those woods took on a sense of enchantment for both of them, and for the first time in years, she stepped into them again.
Hawthorne was gone. Perhaps he could not follow her into that enchanted place. She did not question her good fortune but breathed deeply of the soft green scent of the leaves, watching as the sunlight shone through the branches of the oaks overhead, the canopy covering her, separating her from the world. Bluebells grew along the edges of the path she walked on, and she followed it down to the riverbank where she and Pembroke had spent so many happy hours, simply sitting side by side, not talking, just watching the river as it slid quietly past them, her small hand in his great one.
In the dream, Pembroke was waiting for her there. He was not the boy she had known but the man she had just met again. He smiled at her openly as he once had done, as if he were free to love her, as if the pain that had passed between them had never been.
He reached into his coat pocket and drew out his mother’s ruby ring, the ring he had given her on the day he had asked her to marry him. Arabella at first felt a moment of fear, that she had lost it, that it was not tucked away in her small jewel case as it had always been. Then she stepped forward and took the ring into her hand. The ruby gleamed in the sunlight by the river, the depths of its r
ed facets throwing hints of the sun back to her. She clutched the ring in her fist but did not put it on.
She woke then, before she could speak to him, before she could tell him how sorry she was. She clutched the ruby ring and the soft sheet of her borrowed bed. Arabella lay still for a long moment, trying to calm the frantic beating of her heart.
She was not sure how the ring had come to be in her hand. She had packed it in her case when she fled, the leather satchel that now sat on a chair across the room. She must have taken it up before she slept, but she did not remember. Even as she held it, the round, rough cut of the ruby digging into her palm, she felt as if she were still in a dream.
She returned the ring to its place in her box. She buried that box once more at the bottom of her baggage, beneath simple gowns and linen petticoats, so that she would not have to look at it again.
Five
Pembroke tried to make love to Titania with Arabella asleep down the hall, but his body failed him. He could not remember the last time a beautiful woman had lain naked beneath him and he had been left unable even to feel desire.
He was grateful that Titania was a friend as well as a professional, for she made a joke of the whole thing, telling him of the illustrious men she had slept with in the past who had not always been able to bring themselves to the sticking place. She had even managed to make him laugh before she fell asleep.
She did not leave him as she usually did but spent the night beside him, as if she might protect him from his divided soul. Of course, she could not. Still, Pembroke was grateful not to be alone. If he had been, the temptation to go to Arabella’s room would have been too great, and he would have behaved little better than Hawthorne.
In the morning, Pembroke waited for Arabella in the breakfast room, his coffee cooling in front of him, trying to read The Times and failing. He read the same paragraph three times over before he finally gave up. As he cast the papers aside in disgust, Arabella stopped in the doorway as if the breakfast room was a den of iniquity and she had no wish to join the damned.
Christy English - [Shakespeare in Love 02] Page 4
