Pembroke swallowed hard. “I will be happy to pay for a new wardrobe, Your Grace.”
She laughed at that. “No doubt you would, my lord. But I am not your mistress, nor will I ever be. I’ll make my own clothes, and I’ll pay my own way.”
“With what money?”
“With my father’s money.”
“Ah.” Pembroke did not argue with her inanity, for he was too distracted by the hint of creamy skin above her bodice. He had seen many beautiful women in various states of undress, but none were as erotic as the sight of Arabella with the first buttons of her gown undone.
She did not speak again but leaned back against the squabs of his coach, settling against the velvet as against the pillows of a feather bed. As he watched, she closed her eyes, finally able to lean comfortably now that the hideous bonnet was gone. She slept in the next moment, and he was left watching the rise and fall of her breasts beneath the loosened silk of her gown.
He shifted on his bench, uncomfortable in spite of the cushions beneath him. They were only two hours from Pembroke House, but he knew that they would be two of the longest hours of his life. Still, he did not close his eyes. He let his gaze roam over the curves of her body. He breathed in the cornflower scent of her skin and hair, wishing himself back in time, to the Forest of Arden, where they had both been young, when he once might have touched her.
***
Arabella tried to sleep, but with Pembroke’s eyes devouring her, she could not. She managed to keep her breathing even, and her eyes closed, but that was as far as her deception went. She was almost glad that she did not sleep, for at least then she did not dream.
Every night since she had left London, she had dreamed of Pembroke coming to her bed. Her sudden obsession with this fantasy was a mystery to her. She hated the marriage bed and all that went with it. But somehow, when Pembroke touched her, it was different. All the world seemed different when she was with him.
She hoped to put her fascination with the carnal aspect of her own mind behind her, but it seemed that her body had different ideas.
In spite of the layers of her gown, shift, and pelisse, she could feel the heat of his body radiating from across the expanse of the coach. She did not know what had possessed her to throw her hated bonnet out of the window, to unbutton her gown, to toss her gloves away. She had never behaved so badly in her life, but suddenly she wondered, why not?
She had obeyed her father and her husband after him. Obedience had never gotten her far. It had brought her to the road she traveled now, fleeing for her life into the forests of Derbyshire. Perhaps she might cast away more than just an ugly bonnet. This flight was more than just a desperate measure to save herself. She could change her life.
Something about Pembroke’s presence had always inspired madness in her. As a girl, she had been ready to throw all of her life away and follow him to the Continent and beyond. They had planned to marry and live in Italy, where he would hire out his sword to the highest bidder, where she would bear their children and learn to speak Italian. This madness had seemed almost commonplace when he described it to her all those years ago. Now, sitting across from him in his traveling chaise, she began to feel the rising excitement in her soul once again.
She could not be with him again, that much was abundantly clear. But she could live her own life. She did not have to seclude herself in a quiet cottage for the rest of her days. She could actually enjoy being free.
Arabella felt a rising excitement, a rising joy fill her heart, stealing her breath. She fought it down, trying to be sensible, but to no avail. She kept her hands folded demurely in her lap, but it did not help. She was free, and she might do anything at all with that freedom.
It was enough to make her swoon if she had been the swooning type.
They arrived at Pembroke House just as the sun had begun to set. Though the moat had long since been filled in, the castle looked like a picturesque medieval fortress with modern windows dominating the walls like winking eyes as the slanting sun caught them in its light. The house sat on a bluff surrounded by a well-kept park of oaks and hawthorns. Ivy clung to the old walls, and wisteria rose against the gray stone to bloom white and purple in the fading light.
They both held their silence as Pembroke helped her down from the carriage. The warmth of his hand on hers made her shiver, but she kept her gaze scrupulously away from his. Her unbuttoned gown was hidden beneath her black pelisse now, but she could feel the open air on her skin, the softness of the silk against her throat. It made her feel wanton.
Arabella ignored her own strange reaction and craned her neck to gaze up at the high walls of the house, taking in the sweet scent of wisteria. It had just begun to bloom, and even as day slid into dusk, the heavy perfume of those flowers reached out to touch her where she stood.
She had never before been to his childhood home. She might have been mistress of that place if her father had not promised her elsewhere, if Pembroke’s father had not been such a spiteful man. When they were young, she and Pembroke had met at a dance at the assembly hall in the village. He had come to her house to court her once or twice, but they had soon broken that off in the face of their fathers’ disapproval. It seemed that the Earl of Pembroke would not receive the daughter of a slave trader, much less allow her to wed his heir. Though Raymond Pembroke would one day be an earl in his own right, her father had set his sights higher for her, and in the end, he used his ill-gotten gains to buy her a duchess’s coronet. Pembroke’s father told him that he need not waste his time courting a tradesman’s daughter, a slave trader’s daughter at that.
She wondered what her life would have been like if Pembroke had been allowed to court her openly. They might have married in the village church. They might have three or four children by now. She forced her thoughts into silence, that long-ago loss like a sword point driven into her lungs. She must have shown something of her pain in her face, for Pembroke was beside her in an instant, offering his hand.
He steadied her, and she took comfort from the warmth of his touch on her fingertips. There was no lust between them in that moment, only a shared sympathy, unremitting pain. She thought she saw a shadow of what she felt pass over his face, but then his butler Codington appeared at the doorway of the house, and the moment was broken.
Pembroke’s man came down the steps and bowed before them. Arabella was shocked to see him, for he had been in London at Pembroke’s townhouse only three days before. If Codington remembered her from the time before, she could discern no sign of it. He was as cool and polite to her as he would have been to any guest of Pembroke House.
For some reason, this indifference was painful, too. He had been her friend once, of a sort. She supposed that Codington was her friend no longer. And who indeed could blame him? She had made his master suffer for years. Had she been in his place, she would not have forgiven her either.
Pembroke must have seen the surprise on her face at the emergence of his butler, for he smiled, clearly grateful to have something easy to talk about. “Codington prides himself on his ability to move troops even faster than Bonaparte.”
The older man seemed to notice nothing shocking in the fact that he had traveled over three hundred miles with lightning speed. His voice was as indifferent as if he were addressing an empty chair. “You are welcome to Pembroke House, Your Grace. Your room has been prepared, and I believe you will find everything in order.”
“Thank you, Codington.”
“I will see you at dinner, Arabella.” Pembroke raised her hand, pressing his lips to her palm. She shivered, the heat of his breath warming her to her toes. She thought to chastise him for his familiarity, but she could not seem to find her voice.
Arabella struggled to maintain her façade of false calm as the housekeeper, Mrs. Marks, greeted her in the entrance hall. The older woman wore unrelieved black, but for a cap of Brussels lace that covered her
hair. Her dark brown eyes were kind.
“Welcome to Pembroke House, Your Grace. Please come with me, and we will get you settled in.”
“Thank you.”
Arabella was surprised to find that though the exterior looked ancient save for the beautiful glass windows placed in its façade, Pembroke House was quite modern on the inside. The interior walls were all well-plastered and painted lovely shades of white and cream. Crown molding ran along the ceiling in every room, and though the house was filled with antiques, they were all from the last century and in pristine condition.
The sun was setting across the park, and Arabella stopped on the staircase to take in the view of the oaks with their new green leaves. The warmth of the day rose from the open window, and she took in a deep breath as she gazed down the bluff to where her father’s house lay only two miles distant. She could see nothing of her childhood home, but she knew it was close. She would go there tomorrow and find the money she had come for. The sooner she was out of Pembroke’s house, the better.
Mrs. Marks led her at once into a comfortable
bedroom clearly meant for a lady, beautifully appointed with maple furniture and a soft cream rug. All was light and airy, the satin bedclothes embroidered in tones of ice blue and cream. Something about that shade of blue made Arabella feel at home, and she felt a strange illusion of safety close around her, as if she had been encircled by strong arms.
Arabella bathed in the tub of warm water Mrs. Marks sent up. Pembroke’s household staff seemed determined to make her feel welcome. She wondered how many of Pembroke’s mistresses this house had seen, how many country parties of debauchery, how many light skirts had come and gone like the tide. She smothered her jealousy and pressed these thoughts from her mind as she donned the one decent evening gown she had brought with her into exile. It was a completely inappropriate gown for a widow to wear, but her entire life was now far outside the pale of decency and propriety. Pembroke’s words in the carriage still rang in her ears.
She really did look terrible in black.
The gown she wore now was a deep sea green, the only fashionable dress she had brought with her in her flight from her husband’s house. Mrs. Marks had pressed it, and now Arabella stood before a full length of pier glass, smiling at her reflection. It was a vast improvement.
The scalloped edge of the bodice of her gown was demure, but it was low enough that she had been forced to remove the ring from the ribbon she wore and place it on a chain of gold. The gold chain had once been her mother’s, and now it showed above the modest neckline. The scooped neck of the gown was cut wide so that her shoulders were displayed, and its cap sleeves left most of her arms bare.
She had not thought to bring gloves for the evening, but Mrs. Marks had taken that matter in hand as she had every other, so that now Arabella was clothed in elegance from her curls to the tips of her slippers. Mrs. Marks had even sent a woman to dress her hair, so that her usually plain locks, hidden always beneath a cap, were now displayed in simple curls that framed her face, with a larger mass of curls drawn to the crown of her head.
Arabella felt a moment of guilt at the thought of dead husband, lying in his crypt. But then she shook herself free of that remnant of her past. Why should she not wear a beautiful gown? She had spent her life hiding, first from her father and then from her husband. She was done with hiding. She looked well for the first time in her life, and she was determined to enjoy it.
She made her way down to the drawing room where she found Pembroke alone, staring into the back garden where his mother’s roses had begun to bloom. The French doors were open, and Arabella breathed in the scent of roses mixed with wisteria on the evening wind. She came in as far as the door but then stopped and stared at him. He was so beautiful that he took her breath.
He too had changed for dinner and now wore a coat of midnight blue superfine with a black and silver waistcoat over skintight black trousers. Arabella noticed how hours on horseback had made the muscles of his thighs tighten into sculpted strength. She took in the sight of his broad shoulders, which almost filled the doorway he stood in.
When he turned to her, his dark blond hair fell into his eyes as it always did. Just as he had when he was a boy, he pushed that lock of hair away with one hand as he smiled at her. It was his smile that stopped her heart.
Pembroke opened his mouth to speak, but the sight of her seemed to silence him. He simply stood looking at her in the candlelight. Arabella stepped forward, and he came back into the room as if to meet her halfway. But before either could take another step or speak a word, Titania’s voice filled the room, breaking the fragile spell that had fallen.
Ten
“Good evening, Your Grace. What a pretty picture you make as you flee London for your life. For the love of God, Pembroke, you might have brought faster horses. I’ve been in the village a full day already, waiting for your arrival.”
The open warmth that had filled Pembroke’s eyes the moment before vanished so quickly that Arabella wondered if she had imagined it. The sardonic smile he turned on Titania could have melted stone. “We had no broom at our disposal, madame.”
Arabella colored at his calling Titania a witch, but the courtesan only laughed, the boom of sound filling the room, warming Arabella where she stood. That laugh seemed to say that no matter what went on, all was right with the world. Arabella did not believe the promise of that laugh, but she wished that she could.
“Well, you’re in a sour mood and no mistake. Three days on the road will do that to a man, I suppose.” Titania’s eyes took him in with a gleam of speculation. As Arabella watched her, she wished that she had even half of her self-assurance.
“Well, let’s go in to dinner, and I’ll tell you why I’m here.”
Pembroke led Arabella in to dinner, but he barely looked at her as he seated her at table. A place had been set for Titania as well, and for a moment Arabella wondered if Pembroke had decided to kill two birds with one stone and have an assignation with his mistress while he helped Arabella escape Hawthorne.
The thought was like an icy sluice of water on her skin, but as she ate the chilled cucumber and dill soup a footman placed in front of her, one glance at Pembroke’s face disabused her of that notion. Arabella found that she had trouble listening to all that was said as relief swamped her. From his looks and his voice, Pembroke did not seem at all amorous, merely annoyed.
“Before you think I’ve become one of those jealous, clingy women who can’t stand to let you out of my sight, let me put your mind at ease. I still keep a theater in Drury Lane.”
“The Duke of Hawthorne pays your bills there, I understand,” Pembroke said without sparing a glance at Arabella.
Titania continued her tale. “Well, Prinny’s been keeping us in greasepaint and costumes lately, if you must know, but no matter. My theater is doing well.”
“My felicitations,” Pembroke said.
“Don’t be so sour. My theater company has decided to go on tour in the country for the summer, see the sights, take in fresh air…”
“Debauch country lads and lasses,” Pembroke said.
Titania dismissed that dig with a wave of her spoon. “For Midsummer’s Eve, we are scheduled to perform in Pembroke village.”
“Here?” Pembroke set his spoon down on the table. The footman came and cleared the soup away, bringing in the roast beef.
“Right on your doorstep. Isn’t that divine?”
“I wish you much success, Titania, but what has this to do with me?”
“You’re going to perform A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” Arabella breathed, the longing in her voice palpable to her own ears.
The conversation stopped dead as both Pembroke and Titania turned to stare at her. Arabella felt a blush rise from beneath the bodice of her gown all the way to the roots of her hair, but even her embarrassment at being the focus of their atten
tion could not take away her pleasure.
“I have never seen a play,” she said.
Titania’s look softened. She reached across the table and squeezed Arabella’s hand. “We will make the performance especially good then. I will be the Fairy Queen, and I would like to persuade Pembroke to stand in as my Oberon.”
“You’ve gone mad,” he said.
“Indeed, I have not, my…” Arabella thought for a moment that Titania meant to use an endearment such as “my love” or “my dear,” but in the end the actress swallowed whatever she had been about to say. “My lord. It would be for only one night and you would be the hit of the village. They would speak of it as far as London for years to come.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“You will be divine as Oberon. And as I said, it is only for Midsummer’s Eve. One night’s playacting will cost you nothing but time.”
“I’m surprised you don’t expect me to pay for the privilege,” Pembroke said.
“Well,” Titania smiled, “if you’re offering…”
“I am not. Titania, as generous as your offer is, I must decline.”
Pembroke’s jaw was tight with anger. Arabella wanted more than anything to see that play. She wondered if this might put her in danger. All the ton would come to see one of their own performing with a band of players, and Hawthorne might come with them. He was a patron of Titania’s, after all.
She pressed her palm onto the tablecloth as the footmen served strawberry ices. Arabella, like her dining companions, left her ice untouched. Perhaps she might see a rehearsal or two, collect her father’s money, and flee for parts unknown. She might go to the sea, for she had never seen the ocean. And then, when the ton had left Pembroke village far behind, she might return and live there in peace as she had planned.
Titania did not give up on her own plans but hounded her lover like a dog on the heels of a fox. “Pembroke, how long do you think it will take for your gambling and drinking cronies to wonder why you’ve gone into the country? Hawthorne will hear their speculations, and it might occur to him to come looking for your duchess here.”
Christy English - [Shakespeare in Love 02] Page 8
