“Thank you, Mr. Grayson. Pembroke, may I present Thomas Grayson, my father’s steward. Mr. Grayson, the Earl of Pembroke.”
Mr. Grayson turned his gaze to Pembroke and bowed slightly, though he did not seem to feel much respect. “Your lord father has been dead these five years. I am sorry to hear it.”
“You would be the only one.”
Grayson’s eyes were the color of rainwater, cold and distant. But when Pembroke spoke so irreverently of his father, a small smile touched the harsh corners of Grayson’s mouth. “Indeed.”
The steward turned to Arabella then, straightening his back. He still wore immaculate black breeches and tailcoat, along with a waistcoat of black. Though his clothes were well brushed and cared for, Arabella could see that they were twice mended. His linen had yellowed, giving his face a sallow cast even as he stepped into the sunlight that fell over the desk from the window behind it.
Arabella remembered this man from her childhood as always silent, always dour. She had assumed that he followed her father blindly, that he had thought her father righteous in his cruelty, both to her and to the rest of the staff.
She saw now that Mr. Grayson simply held to an exacting standard of service to his master and did not look beyond it. She felt a little of the tension leave her shoulders as one more demon from her childhood faded in the light of day. Memory was powerful but not always accurate.
“Your Grace, when the old duke came, he took everything. But he did not find your father’s safe. I saw to that.”
A light entered her heart at those words, and she felt a smile coming over her face. “He did not find it.”
“No. I kept a watch on him and checked after him. Your father’s safe is untouched and hidden still.”
Arabella wanted to leap to her feet and dance. If she had known how, she would have jigged like an Irishman, leaped like a lord. As it was, she clutched one hand in the other to stop them from shaking.
“Thank you, Grayson. I will never be able to thank you enough.”
Grayson bowed and moved to leave them, but at the doorway, he turned back. “I make it my business never to reach above my place. But we had word from the new duke today. He is looking for you.”
Arabella felt panic close her throat. She swallowed hard so that she might speak. “Yes,” she said. “I know that he seeks me.”
Grayson looked into her face. “You do not want to be found.”
“No, I do not.”
He nodded once. “You are safe among us. We will not tell him of your visit. Not myself, nor anyone here. I give you my solemn word.”
The pressure in her chest seemed to ease, and she took a deep breath of the dusty air. “Thank you, Mr. Grayson.”
He nodded, embarrassed by the warmth in her voice. “You may rely on our discretion in this house, Your Grace, out of respect to you and your father. But the new Duke of Hawthorne made it very clear that he is set on finding you. I think he may make inquiries in the village. I cannot speak for what they will tell him.”
“I understand, Mr. Grayson. Thank you.”
The older man left then, his iron gray hair combed in place, tied at the nape of his neck with a black ribbon. He looked like a specter from another time. Arabella did not take her eyes off him until he disappeared into the darkness of the corridor. Pembroke did not leave his place beside her.
“What a ghoul,” he said.
Arabella realized that the old man had been completely disrespectful to Pembroke, not giving him his due as earl but treating him as the ne’er-do-well upstart that her father had called him when they were young.
She opened her mouth to apologize only to find Pembroke’s gaze on her face, searching her eyes. His hand reached for her and brushed a honey-colored curl out of her eyes. “Are you all right, Arabella?”
His touch was electric, as if lightning had come down to the earth and focused on the skin of her cheek. She could not catch her breath. Heat rose in her face and burned beneath her belly. She felt that fire rise within her as it had in her dreams. She could think of nothing but how it had felt to have Pembroke lie on top of her, pressing her into the mattress of her feather bed.
Arabella knew that they had only been dreams, but now she felt as if she were living in one. All her contempt for mistresses everywhere had fled. She could only feel his touch on her cheek and the warmth of his body as he stood close to her.
She tried to find her voice but failed. She could think of nothing glib to say, nothing to ease the sudden tension that had risen between them.
She thought of the kiss the night before and remembered the taste of his tongue on hers. She stared up at him as if she had taken complete leave of her senses, which she supposed she had.
They stood together in silence for a long moment before he spoke again. “I will write to Anthony. He will keep Hawthorne off you.”
Arabella started, alarmed. “The Earl of Ravensbrook? Angelique’s Anthony?”
“The very same. Though I believe neither of them considers him to be ‘Angelique’s Anthony’ any longer.”
Arabella colored. “No. I suppose not.”
“Anthony is close with the Prince Regent. Prinny may be able to help, or at least advise us on what course to take. We will not abandon you to Hawthorne. You are not friendless.”
“We cannot reveal this matter to the Prince of Wales,” Arabella said. “He and Hawthorne are connected. He will encourage me to marry the duke, keep my title, and keep the money in the family.” She clutched her fingers in their leather riding gloves. She gripped her own hand so tightly that the circulation was cut off. Pembroke drew her fingers into his warm palm.
“We will go to Anthony first,” Pembroke said. “He will stand with me on this, as in everything. He and I will consider what is to be done.”
“This is my burden. I cannot ask you to do more than you have done. I have asked too much of you already.”
Pembroke kissed her then, his lips firm on hers, and fierce. This kiss was nothing like the one from the night before. It was not intoxicating, not seductive, but strong. She felt his frustration through the touch of his lips, through the touch of his hand on hers. He did not draw her close but pulled back almost at once, and for a moment Arabella wondered if he had kissed her simply to gain her silence.
“I do as I wish to do, Arabella. You are in my keeping, and I will protect you. Gold or no gold, we will find a way to set you free from Hawthorne. I swear it.”
Arabella shivered. In spite of the sunlight from the window behind her, the shadows of the house rose along the edges of the walls of that room as if to choke her. She was overwhelmed by both her present and her past. She wanted only to be alone, to sit by a quiet fire, a bit of lace coming together between her hands. The madness she had witnessed in the last week had begun to overwhelm her.
Pembroke seemed to see something of this hopelessness in her face, for he kissed her again, swiftly, but this time his lips were gentle, offering comfort, drawing her thoughts from her fear.
When he pulled away, Arabella found that her mind was clear. She could not stay, but she did not want to argue with him either. Hawthorne was coming for her, and she must be gone. Her voice was level and calm when she spoke. “Pembroke, take me out of here. I never want to step inside this house again.”
He smiled and raised her hand to his lips. “I will lead you out of here. As soon as we have your dowry in hand.”
She knelt beneath the old walnut desk, and Pembroke held the lamp for her so that she could see. She ran her fingers along the floorboards until she found one loose. She pulled it up easily, revealing the safe. Her hands shook as she worked the dial, but the combination had not changed.
The hidden safe beneath her father’s walnut desk opened easily. She drew out a steel box filled to the brim with golden guineas, a box so heavy that she almost could not lift it.
Pembroke knelt at her side and raised it to the desk. She opened the strongbox and stared at the gold within. Arabella had never seen so much money in one place in all her life.
“Well, now I can pay you for our room at the inn,” she said.
Pembroke laughed, closing the box. “I think I can afford to keep you, my lady duchess. Now let us leave this place. I am beginning to get hives from all this dust.”
Arabella laughed with him as she extinguished the lamp. That she could laugh in that place told her truly that her father was dead. She held her candle high and followed Pembroke out of the house and back into the sunshine of the formal garden. They blew their candles out and she left them on a table inside by the door, closing the house up behind them.
Arabella felt as if a part of her past was sealed in that house along with the dust. No matter what became of her in the days to come, she would never enter that house of darkness again.
Fourteen
Pembroke loaded the gold guineas into his saddlebags, leaving the strongbox with Mrs. Fielding. After eating a piece of hot apple pie covered in soft white cheese, they rode back to Pembroke House. Mrs. Fielding came out to wave them off, and Arabella waved back. Pembroke would have liked to sit in that kitchen a little longer and eat more of her apple pie. Blueberries would be in season in a few months, and no doubt Mrs. Fielding would be making blueberry tarts.
Both horses were well rested after their afternoon of munching grass. Mrs. Fielding had brought sugar cubes and apples, so their mounts had had a more pleasant time than either Pembroke or Arabella. When Arabella approached, Blossom pressed herself against her, offering her forehead to be petted.
“Sweet girl,” Arabella murmured.
Pembroke watched her openly, but she did not turn to look at him, lavishing all her attention on her horse. Something had fallen away from her in her father’s house. She had left some burden behind in those shadows when she had locked the back door on all that dust. She had not wanted to look any further than her father’s library, than the safe under the desk. She had the money to start a new life now. She did not need him anymore.
Or at least, she seemed to think that she did not. The distance between her and Hawthorne seemed to have soothed her into forgetfulness. From his dealings with the Hellfire Club, Pembroke knew the man better than most. Hawthorne would not give her up if he was determined to have her.
Pembroke needed to send a messenger to Anthony. The Earl of Ravensbrook would come to the wilds of Derbyshire if Pembroke asked him. He wanted all his forces arrayed against Hawthorne in case he came to find her there. It would not be long before someone in Titania’s troupe mentioned that a duchess was living with him in country seclusion. Almost a love nest.
Pembroke swallowed a rueful smile. She might be living under his roof at the moment, but Arabella had made it very clear that she wanted nothing to do with him.
They rode slowly over the road between his house and her father’s. The forest was quiet save for the wind in the trees and the rustle of branches above their heads. A few birds sang, but even their songs were quiet, as if they sang in a cathedral and did not want to disturb the holy place. As Pembroke looked around at the light summer green of the oaks and hawthorns that surrounded them, he remembered how sacred he had once found it, when he was young and happy.
As much to clear his own thoughts as to engage Arabella in conversation, he said, “The actors will be settling into the inn in the village. Would you care to join them for dinner on the green? Titania sent an invitation this morning before we rode out.”
He had expected her to balk at the thought of eating with his mistress two nights in a row, but Titania was not what caught her attention. Arabella slanted her blue eyes his way, a smile playing across the beautiful curve of her mouth. If she had not been so far away on her own mount, he would have kissed her.
“I suppose the actors want a look at you, to see what amateur they’ll be getting.”
Pembroke found his own heart lifting. When they were young, she had never had the confidence to tease him. He found that he liked it. “Madame, I will thank you to know that I performed not one night but two while I was at Cambridge, and to great applause.”
“Two entire nights! That is renown indeed.”
Arabella could not seem to stop herself from laughing, the joyous sound filling the air as they came to his stables. She shook with laughter even as Pembroke helped her down from her horse.
She reached to pat Blossom in farewell, but as she stood in the circle of Pembroke’s arms, he found that he did not want to let her go. He left his hands on her waist, the warmth of her body heating his palms through the leather of his gloves. Her laughter died, and she stared up at him, her eyes riveted to the curve of his lips.
He knew he should not touch her. He and Anthony would defend her from Hawthorne, but once that matter was settled, she would move on with her life, and he with his. He knew now as he stared down into the cornflower blue of her eyes that he could never have taken her as his mistress, yet one more woman in a long unbroken line, a woman like any other. Arabella would always be the one woman, the only woman, for him. The fact that he could not have her did not change that.
She had abandoned him and married another. She had broken his heart. But now that he had opened his fist and let his bitterness slip away, he found that he did not hate her for that anymore. Whatever pain she had caused him, a seventeen-year-old girl had done. He could barely remember his eighteen-year-old self, much less hold him accountable for all that had happened in his life since.
Time was an ever-moving river. Time had left his love for Arabella behind long ago. The fact that he carried it still, tucked in his heart, was relevant to no one but him.
It was Pembroke who broke the moment, stepping back from her and drawing his hands from her waist. “We leave for the village in two hours’ time. Will that be long enough for you to dress?”
Arabella laughed, but her laughter was breathless this time, a feeble attempt to hide a deeper emotion. He wondered in that moment if she could possibly want him as much as he wanted her. He knew she did not love him, but lust was a different thing.
Before he could follow that thought down a long and winding road into fantasy, Arabella said, “I have little to be vain about, Pembroke. I am not one of your London ladies who take hours with their coiffures. I will be ready and waiting on you in the entry hall, I suspect.”
Pembroke smiled, his eyes lingering on her face, caressing her hair. Her honey-brown hair was curled again that day, tucked under a bonnet she had borrowed from Mrs. Marks. Even the servant’s brown bonnet trimmed in a simple blue ribbon could not dim the soft loveliness of her face, the clear blue of her eyes, like the sky of a country he had never seen. He longed for her suddenly, not the girl she had been but the woman she was. His longing was like a vise on his heart, closing off his lungs. For a moment, he feared he could not speak, but as always, he managed to cover his emotions. His pain was no one’s business but his.
“I will see you then,” he said.
Arabella went into the house at his side and walked quietly to her borrowed room. He watched from the entrance hall below as she climbed the staircase. He absorbed the unconscious sway of her hips beneath the dark blue of her demure gown. She was a woman of combined beauty and quiet strength. No wonder he had fallen in love with her so many years ago. No wonder he was in love with her now.
And she would never know it.
The irony of that was not lost on him. He wanted a taste of brandy so badly that his hand shook. But he did not take it. Instead, he stood alone in the summer sunlight of his entrance hall and rode the wave of drink lust until it passed. That desire for brandy would never leave him, he knew. He would simply have to face it as a man, one day, one moment at a time.
***
Pembroke had given her a rosewood box in which to keep her father’s money
. Mrs. Marks left it for her after Arabella had finished her bath, saying that the lord had wanted her to have it, for it had been his mother’s.
Arabella, still wrapped in linen towels, stepped across the room and caressed the smooth surface of the well-polished box. She opened it to find her treasure neatly stacked within, her future laid out in gold guineas, the money that would buy her freedom for the rest of her life.
It was not a lot of money by the standards of her father or her husband, but she had never held so much money of her own in her life, nor had she ever thought to. But now that her husband was dead, she walked her own path. Elation rose in her heart like a bird taking flight. The sight of her gold made her dance, her bare feet slipping along the cream and blue carpet. Her borrowed lady’s maid gave her a sideways glance, but the smile Arabella gave her seemed to warm her, for she left off looking frightened and smiled back. She stopped dancing when she remembered Hawthorne. He was coming for her, and sooner or later he would find her in Derbyshire. She must be gone before he did. But she did not want to leave yet.
She wanted to ask Pembroke why he had never written back, why he had ignored her letters. He had left for the Continent and the war without another word passing between them. She had left him and married another, but he had never acknowledged the truth that her fate had not been her own choice.
Arabella leaned out the open window that looked out over the expanse of the estate behind the house, the scent of Pembroke’s mother’s rose garden rising on the warm evening air. It took hours for the sun to set this time of year, and the slanting sun bathed the world in buttery light. The green of the Forest of Arden beckoned to her from across the expanse of Pembroke’s lawns and flower gardens. She wanted to walk there again now that she was free.
Maybe that night she would. Maybe there, beneath the old king oak, she would ask him why he had never written her back.
With the help of Clara, the housemaid who had been temporarily promoted to assist with her hair and her clothes, Arabella was indeed ready half an hour early, but when she stepped into the entry hall, she found Pembroke waiting for her. He was dressed in a coat of midnight blue superfine that seemed to intensify the blue of his eyes. His man had tried valiantly to conquer the lock of hair over his forehead but had failed. Pembroke peered out from under it as he reached up to toss the errant lock of hair aside.
Christy English - [Shakespeare in Love 02] Page 12
