His servants in town had thought nothing of loading an unknown woman into his carriage and spiriting her off to the country for a tryst. No doubt he did such things all the time. No doubt he often did much worse.
The setting sun cast its fading light over the deep green country, throwing the interior of the already darkened traveling chaise deeper into shadow. Arabella shrugged the hated green cloak from her shoulders to reveal a dark blue pelisse and matching bonnet. The dark blue of her clothes, while not strictly appropriate for a widow in the first month of mourning, was certainly more appropriate than a harlot’s satin. Not that anything was appropriate under the circumstances. Arabella had never been schooled in the proper etiquette of running for her life.
Titania had been kind to shield her, another woman in her lover’s keeping. Arabella felt a surge of jealousy at the thought of the beautiful actress, Pembroke’s mistress. She wondered, had their positions been reversed, if she would have been as generous.
No doubt the ruse of Titania’s cloak had bought Arabella more time out from under Hawthorne’s boot, but the actress’s choice of perfume left a great deal to be desired. The sickening sweetness of heavy lilac had surrounded Arabella all day, choking the air in the carriage. When the traveling chaise finally came to a stop at the Unicorn Inn outside of Oxford, Arabella did not wait for Pembroke to hand her down but leaped out of the carriage on her own, taking deep breaths of fresh evening air, leaving her borrowed cloak behind.
Pembroke raised a sardonic eyebrow as he pocketed his flask. He offered his arm and steered her into the inn, which was clean and well lit. The tavern keeper greeted them with a bow, asking no questions and giving her no sideways glances. The staff soon had them settled in a private parlor with a fire lit and cider on the hob.
Arabella drank her cider gratefully, the pewter mug warm in her hands, savoring the tart taste mixed with sweetness. She wondered if the innkeeper’s wife might part with her recipe. She opened her mouth to ask, but the staff withdrew as soon as Pembroke had dismissed them, handing coin all around. She assumed it was to keep their silence.
Alone once more, she and Pembroke simply stared at each other, the only sound in the room the quiet crackling of the fire in the hearth.
“I’ve taken one room,” Pembroke said at last. “I stay here a great deal, and it would look odd for me to take a separate room for…”
“Your mistress,” Arabella said.
“For the lady in my company,” Pembroke answered.
She nodded but did not speak again. She looked past his shoulder to the bedroom beyond, where the coverlet had already been turned down.
“I will sleep in the parlor on this settle,” Pembroke said. “It will place me between you and the door.”
She could feel his gaze heavy on her, and Arabella found that she could not look away. She searched his eyes for the boy she had known but could not find him. There was only the man he had become, his dark blond hair falling over his forehead, his deep blue eyes staring into hers, taking her breath.
Pembroke did not smile or speak, did not soften the moment with some flip remark. Instead, his gaze drifted down, as Hawthorne’s had the day before, to take in the small, soft curves of her breasts, the line of her throat. He looked hungry, his eyes hot, as if she were a package of sweetmeats, a gift left on his doorstep.
Her skin flushed as heat rose within her. She felt suddenly as if she stood too close to the fire. She took a step back and drew out her handkerchief to blot her temple, but the smell of lavender did little to soothe her. He did not turn away.
She moved suddenly to the window set above the courtyard. Even with her back to him, she could feel the weight of his gaze. The heat on her skin did not dissipate. She struggled with the latch, which would not budge. She settled for pressing her palm to the glass in the hope of cooling herself, but it had been a warm day, and she could feel the heat of the sun still caught in the pane.
Pembroke was beside her then, his hand over hers. His palm pressed hers down, trapping her fingers against the glass. He held her prisoner there, his breath on her hair, the scent of cinnamon surrounding her. For one mindless moment, she wanted to lean back and feel the strength of his body against hers.
It was madness, and she knew it. Nothing good could come of it. But she wanted it. She wanted him.
Pembroke reached past her with his other hand. The casement swung open for him easily.
Arabella knew that she should move away, but he stood between her and the rest of the room, shutting out the world. She tried to talk of something, anything: Derbyshire, the state of the roads, her gratitude for his kindness. But she could not find the words. She simply stood like a rabbit caught in a snare, trapped by the heat of his hand on hers.
It was Pembroke who broke the spell. He cleared his throat and took his hand away. She turned to watch as he moved away from her, as if the touch of her skin was a pot that had scalded him. He pushed his great paw through his unruly hair, and the golden heft of it fell back against his forehead again and into his eyes. He searched the pocket of his coat and took out his flask, but he found no solace there. It must have been empty, for he tucked it away again, his eyes never leaving her face.
“I will see about dinner,” he said before he fled, closing the door of the parlor behind him.
Arabella sat down on the hard wooden settle, the thin cushions doing nothing to soften the oak. There was a little breeze from the window now, but her skin was still flushed. She thought to move the fire screen to block the blaze, but she did nothing. She only stared into the flames, her fingertips touching her lips.
Had she ever felt such overwhelming desire? It had been many years since she and Pembroke had loved one another, since they had stood together by the river in their Forest of Arden, but she did not think she had ever felt such overwhelming lust when she was a girl.
She would have remembered.
Arabella could not become a slave of the past or to her own fancy. She could not moon after Pembroke as a grown woman. Once she reached Derbyshire, they would part—he to return to town and his mistress and his drink, she to start a life of her own. He already had a life of his own, and he was living it. He had not wasted his youth, locked away as she had been. He had gone abroad and fought wars on the Continent. No doubt Pembroke had long ago forgotten all that had once passed between them.
Of course, that did not mean that he would be averse to making her his mistress now.
She could not let him touch her again. She could never become his mistress, no matter how much heat rose in her at the touch of his hand.
Arabella knew enough of marital relations to be certain that she wanted no part of it, now or ever. She had survived the first year of her marriage. She had lain in bed, night after night, waiting for Gerald to come to her, thanking God when he did not. The humiliation, the physical pain of those couplings was still with her. She needed no such pain in her life again. She was free, and she meant to stay that way.
***
All Pembroke knew was that he had to get out of the room. He slammed the door behind him as if sealing in the hounds of hell. He stood in the corridor outside, the sounds and smells of the taproom below rising up the narrow staircase. He stood with his back pressed against the wall, breathing heavily as if he had run a fast mile. He forced himself to regain control, reaching for his lost courage. He could not seem to find it.
He had been confined all day in a closed carriage with the woman he still wanted more than any other. The acrid, too-sweet scent of Titania’s perfume had soon worn away, and all he could take in was the soft hint of cornflowers and cream on Arabella’s skin, the scent warmed by the confines of the carriage they sat in.
There was something about Arabella, just as there had been all those years ago. Her soft vulnerability called to his better instincts and made him swear once again to protect her, to shield her from th
e world. He could barely remember the boy who had first made that promise, but somehow, seeing her again, Pembroke began to be curious about that boy. Why had he loved her? Why had he been so moved by a slip of a girl? How could he still be so filled with lust at the sight of such a delicate, ladylike creature when all the women of the world were at his fingertips, waiting for him only to beckon to them?
He would take Arabella to Derbyshire, as he had promised. And then he would let her go.
Pembroke stood in the hallway outside the sitting room, a sharp pain lodged in his lungs just above his heart. He should hate her. Pembroke told himself this, but his lust went nowhere. He would not touch her again, no matter how much he wanted to.
His man, Reynolds, stepped forward out of the shadows. “My lord, are you quite well? Is there anything I might fetch you?”
Pembroke forced his pain down and drew out the smile he always wore unless he sat alone or with his friend Anthony. “No, Reynolds, though I thank you. An elixir to help me forget the past if you have one about your person.”
Reynolds had served him as valet for the last two years, since Pembroke had come home from the war. He must have been used to his lord’s strange turns of phrase for he did not even pause in his answer. “No, my lord, I fear not.”
Pembroke laughed, clapping his man on the shoulder. Reynolds winced at the impact of the friendly blow, and Pembroke laughed harder. “Just dinner, and then you may see to your own comfort.”
“You will be staying the night in these rooms, my lord?”
Reynolds never judged Pembroke for any of the women with whom he kept company, nor his gambling, nor his drinking. He turned a blind eye to all of Pembroke’s vices. But clearly something about Arabella had caught his valet’s eye, making even his man feel a certain protectiveness toward her.
“Indeed I will, Reynolds. But I’ll be sleeping on the settle.”
Reynolds bowed. “Excellent, my lord. I will have more pillows sent up.”
“No need. I don’t want the rest of the inn to know that I sleep on hard wood instead of the decent feather bed I’m paying for.”
A ghost of a smile flitted across Reynolds’s face, but it was gone before Pembroke could fully take it in. “Indeed, my lord, as you wish. Dinner will be served in twenty minutes.”
“Thank you, Reynolds.”
Pembroke was glad for once to keep country hours. The sooner he and Arabella ate, the sooner she would disappear behind her bedroom door. He would have a few hours’ reprieve while she wrapped herself in the coverlet of the warm feather bed.
Before going back into their rooms, Pembroke went downstairs and washed his face and hands in cold water in the inn yard, making his linen damp. Reynolds would be annoyed when he saw the evidence of Pembroke’s carelessness, but no matter. Cold water was called for, so cold water was what he doused himself in. It would be a long night.
Seven
With no lady’s maid to attend her, Arabella rang for hot water, recalling her youth when her father thought such expenses as personal servants a needless extravagance.
The bedroom Pembroke had taken for her was comfortable, with dark wood beams between swathes of whitewashed plaster. The air was scented with thyme and rosemary. As she washed her face, Arabella could smell chicken roasting in the kitchen below and hear the faint clamor of copper pots being set down on the stove.
The kitchen had been her haven in her father’s house during the dark years of her childhood after her mother’s death. She would sneak away during her governess’s nap each afternoon and spend an hour with her father’s cook, Mrs. Fielding, who spoiled her, feeding her pastry fresh from the oven. Mrs. Fielding had always proclaimed that Arabella was far too small for a healthy girl and that she needed fattening up. Arabella had eaten every morsel her benefactress bestowed upon her, setting the cook high in the pantheon of her heart, worshiping her as she worshiped her long-dead mother.
Arabella did not change her dress, for she had brought only a few more suitable gowns with her. Her bag was heavy with the flotsam and jetsam of her life. She had not pressed many gowns into it. She had only the boots on her feet and the ugly black-dyed bonnet trimmed in blue ribbon that now rested on her vanity table. Perhaps she might find time to sew a new dress while in the country. In her father’s house, a few of her old dresses might still lie in the clothespress, gowns she had worn as a girl, all of which had been deemed too shoddy to bring into her new life as the Duchess of Hawthorne.
She heard Pembroke come back into the sitting room. Arabella met her own eyes in the looking glass and breathed deeply, shoring up her courage before she stepped into the parlor.
He stood by the door as if afraid to come in. She could not remember seeing him so uncertain of his welcome even when he was a boy. Her heart seized, and without thinking she extended her hand to him and offered him a chair by the fire across from her own.
“Dinner will be served in a moment,” Arabella said. “Come and sit. May I offer you a brandy? I had the staff bring up their best bottle. I hope it will suit.”
Pembroke pushed his dark blond hair out of his eyes and simply stared at her. He blinked as if waking from a deep sleep. “There is no need. I have brought my own.”
Arabella sat and he followed her example, watching as she drew her chair close to the table. Pembroke’s sensuous lips quirked in another smile, and her heart paused in its beating.
She told herself that she must not stare at him, but she found that she could not bring herself to drop her gaze. They sat for a long moment in silence, the expanse of their empty dinner table and the cheerful crackle of the fire between them.
Their dinner of roasted lamb and new potatoes, creamed spinach, and carrots in wine sauce was brought in, and they turned their attention to it as if they might not ever see another meal again. They ate together in companionable silence until Pembroke asked her a question over pears in brandied sauce.
“When you are free, what will you do?”
Arabella froze, her dessert fork halfway to her lips. She set the fork down again, the pear speared on it forgotten. Her hand trembled, and she forced it to be still, pressing it hard against the white cloth on the table between them.
She was afraid to voice her desires, lest they be taken from her. But the fact that he had thought to ask the right question, when no one else on Earth, save perhaps Angelique, ever would, made her heart catch in her throat.
“I would like to live quietly somewhere,” she said. “If Hawthorne stays away, I would take a cottage in the village near the old manor house where I grew up. I would grow roses and plant an herb garden.”
“You won’t live in your father’s house?” Pembroke asked.
She could not help from shuddering. “Dear God, no.”
Pembroke took a swig of his brandy and reached for her hand. He toyed with her fingers almost absently.
She felt as if she had swallowed her tongue. She tried to pull away, to get up from the table, but he held her still. He spoke as if he did not feel her struggle, his eyes on her fingertips. “Why not live there? The house is yours as a part of your dower lands.”
“No,” she said, forcing herself to speak. She stopped trying to take her hand back. “I love Derbyshire. It is home. But I will never live in that house again.”
Even with Pembroke’s hand on hers, distracting her, she found her mind going back to those days in her father’s house, the care she had to take every day not be noticed, not to cause him to turn his rage on her. No matter how careful she had been, no matter how hard she had tried to please him, his temper would snap, and she always caught the brunt of it. Whether a slap on her face or a more formal beating with his riding crop, she bore the scars of her father’s attacks on her back and on her soul. She knew that she would never be rid of them.
If Pembroke saw the pain that the mention of her father’s house caused her, he
was kind enough not to speak of it. But he did not let go of her hand. He took another drink from his brandy glass.
“When did your father die?” she asked.
He took his hand away then, as she had intended. His face closed off, like a gate being drawn against invaders. He had hated his father, who had beaten him, too, until Pembroke was too old for it. His father had been a wastrel and a drunkard. Arabella watched as Pembroke pushed his brandy glass away.
“He died five years ago.”
“And yet you did not come home.”
“There was a war to be won,” he said.
“They might have won it without you.”
“I would not leave my friend.”
“Anthony Carrington,” Arabella said.
“Yes. I stayed on the Continent until the war was over.”
Arabella leaned back in her hard oak chair. She saw a hint of the pain in his eyes that he meant to hide, but she pressed on, heedless of it.
“You drink as he once did.”
Pembroke’s eyes were sharp on hers, twin blades that pinned her to her chair. They both knew that she was no longer speaking of Anthony. She took a shallow breath, for the air had suddenly become heavy, hard to breathe.
“I drink to please myself.”
“And gamble and visit ladies of ill repute? For your own amusement? Or to get back at him?”
“He would not have cared, had he known. My father never loved me, as you well know.”
“My father did not love me either,” she said.
“It is best that they are both dead then.”
She did not answer. A bit of coal fell in the grate, but Pembroke did not rise to stir the fire up again.
Arabella wondered if she should tell him what had really happened on her wedding day. She wondered what had happened to the letter she had sent. Had he received it? Had he simply ignored it or cast it into the fire? If she could speak of his father, if she could speak of his drinking, she could speak of anything. But she sat frozen, as if she had suddenly fallen mute.
Christy English - [Shakespeare in Love 02] Page 6
