Christy English - [Shakespeare in Love 02]

by Love on a Midsummer Night

  Arabella heard his own story on his lips and felt the tears in her eyes spill onto her cheeks. She stopped trying to pull away and listened to him.

  “I love you, Arabella. And there is no doubt that love is pain. And has the power to wound. But it also has the power to heal. Let me heal you, Arabella. Come home.”

  She wept then but he did not draw her into his arms. He did not try to cajole her with sweet touches or with the power of his desire. He stood beside her, a friend, the only friend she had, just as he had always been.

  “I can be no man’s chattel,” she gasped. “Not even for you.”

  “You will keep your own money. I’ll sign away all rights to it. I’ll settle money on you, land, jewels, whatever you want, whatever makes you feel secure. I will

  sign away my own life if it will comfort you. It belongs to you already.”

  Arabella still wept, and finally he let go of her hands. She hid her face in the cotton of her gloves, until he offered her his handkerchief.

  “Consider this, Arabella, and then I will be silent. Have I ever given you my word and then not kept it?”

  She wiped her eyes, her tears spent, the pain of their passing like a storm that had gone. She breathed deeply and looked up at him. His blue eyes were as fathomless as the sea.

  “No,” she said. Her voice was so weak, she almost could not hear it. But he could.

  “Promise me something more,” she said. “You must leave your mistresses behind. No more gambling. No more gaming. And no more whores.”

  He pressed his lips to hers once, swift and hard, as if to seal a pact between them. He looked down at her, his own eyes red with unshed tears.

  “I give you my word of honor, here and now, that I will never gamble again. I will not game, I will not whore. I will renounce my membership in the Hellfire Club. I will never touch another woman as long as I live. You are the only woman I want for the rest of my life. So help me God.”

  Arabella’s arms went around him then, slipping beneath his coat so that she could feel all of his warmth. He clutched her hard, as if she might turn to insubstantial air and fade away. Only then did she know how much this day had cost him.

  “I love you, Raymond. And our love is enough.”

  He kissed her, his lips lingering on her as if to seal her words between them. He drew back then and took her hand in his. He stripped away her cotton gloves and slipped his mother’s ruby onto her hand. It gleamed in the summer sun like a promise, like hope.

  “It’s a good thing you agreed to marry me,” Pembroke said. “The banns have been read already.”

  She laughed and dried her eyes. “You are incorrigible.”

  “A rogue of the first water. But your rogue, Lady Pembroke.”

  She kissed him. “My rogue. I like the sound of that.”

  “Good,” he said. “You’ll need the rest of your life to get used to it, I expect.” He picked her up and placed her in the phaeton, as if afraid to let her move on her own. “Now let’s go home.”

  “The duke is waiting for me,” Arabella said.

  Pembroke squeezed her hand. “He’ll find that Anthony is waiting for him. I don’t envy the bastard. He deserves whatever he gets.”

  ***

  The players’ morning without Oberon had passed in a flurry of set painting and Shakespearean language. Pembroke told her to sit at the foot of the stage and not to move without him. Lunch would soon be brought out to the tables under the trees on the village green, where the entire company would sit down together.

  Arabella cast her gaze over the town square but could find no evidence of Hawthorne. She pressed her ring against her hand beneath the cotton of her glove. The weight of it was like a blessing, a promise of good things to come. She wished Hawthorne would reveal himself so that she could get the confrontation over with. He was a part of her past, and she was tired of fear. She did not know how she would escape him, or how Pembroke would. But she wanted it all to be over. She wanted to move on with her life.

  She saw Angelique step out of the dressmaker’s shop on the village high street, and she waved to catch her friend’s eye. Arabella moved away from the stage to meet her, raising her gloved hand to shield her eyes from the noonday sun.

  As Angelique approached from across the green, a shadow fell across Arabella’s path. She felt a breath of the tomb on her spine, and she shuddered even before she looked up at the man who stood before her.

  “Good day, Your Grace. I see that you traveled safely from London to Pembroke House. I understand that felicitations on your upcoming nuptials are in order,” the Duke of Hawthorne said.

  Arabella felt the ground tilt beneath her feet. She looked for Pembroke, but no one else had seen Hawthorne save for Cassie, who watched them together with a snide smile on her face.

  A chill ran down the nape of her neck in spite of the warmth of the summer sun, as her mind spun in useless loops. All the plans she and Pembroke had made to face him, and her resolution to stand strong before him melted like ice in sunlight as she met his gray eyes. She stood looking up at the man who had threatened her life, unable to move or speak.

  “I am sure the Earl of Pembroke is a decent match for you, though a step down from the duchy of Hawthorne.”

  Arabella could not find her tongue. It was as if she had swallowed it down. Angelique was at her side then, her head tilted up to meet the eyes of her adversary. Though her friend was quite tall for a woman, Angelique had to crane her neck to look at Hawthorne, who stood almost a foot taller.

  “Good day, Your Grace,” Angelique said.

  Hawthorne bowed once to Angelique, but his eyes never left Arabella’s face. He watched her for signs of weakness and perhaps for some indication that he might draw her away from the crowd and take her somewhere with him, so that they could be alone. Arabella found her voice, her back straightening beneath the onslaught of Hawthorne’s gaze. She had dreaded this moment, and now it was here. She could not shrink or shy away. She must face her enemy.

  Arabella had been afraid all her life. She had feared first her father and then her husband. The last few weeks that she had spent with Pembroke had shown her what it meant to live without fear. She was afraid, but she would not run away. Arabella would begin her new life as she meant to go on, and no one, not even the Duke of Hawthorne, would stop her.

  Her voice was strong when she spoke, so assured that it sounded to her own ears like the voice of another. “I thank you, Your Grace, both for your kind words and for your concern for my well-being. As you see, I traveled to Derbyshire without mishap. No brigands greeted me along the road. I arrived quite unharmed.”

  “What good fortune,” the duke said. He opened his mouth, but Arabella interrupted him.

  “Indeed, Your Grace. The roads from London to Derbyshire are a good deal safer than the roads in Yorkshire. I stopped here, and I will stay here for the rest of my life.”

  Arabella was so intent on facing her adversary that she did not see or hear Pembroke approach until he stood beside her. “Good afternoon, Hawthorne. What brings you to Derbyshire? Come to see our production, I suppose. I had no idea that you had a taste for Shakespeare.”

  Hawthorne smiled then, and Arabella shuddered. He turned his gray gaze on her, and she saw again his lust for her, coupled with his contempt. The sight made her flesh crawl with revulsion. She felt Angelique’s hand steady on her arm, anchoring her to the ground.

  Pembroke stood on her other side, his hand warm on her arm. She found herself standing close to him, almost as if his stalwart body were shelter in a storm. She found her fear rising again, this time not for herself but for Pembroke, that he had drawn this man’s ire. She wondered if she could bring it back onto herself.

  “Hawthorne, it was good of you to come,” she said, addressing the duke as a man would, as an equal. “But once you have signed over my property, our
business together is done.”

  “But you have no property rights on the Duchy of Hawthorne,” he said. “As soon as you marry another man—this Sunday the banns said”—Hawthorne looked to Pembroke then, raising one inquiring eyebrow—“the Hawthorne lands revert back to the estate.”

  “You will turn over my money to me directly. And then you will go back to London, and I will never see you again.”

  Hawthorne smiled. “What a charming story. You sound almost as if you believe it. But I will not let you go.”

  The air was as electric as before a fierce summer storm. Arabella shook with fear and mingled fury. If she held a pistol, Hawthorne would be dead. As it was, she feared that she would not be able to swallow the bile that had risen in her throat.

  Lord Ravensbrook crossed the green, leaving his carriage drawn up before the inn. He strode out to meet the duke, and Caroline followed a step behind, bringing baby Freddie in her arms. Arabella wanted to call out to tell her to take her baby away from the poison of Hawthorne’s gaze, but she returned her eyes to the man who wanted to wrest her freedom from her.

  Freddie, like his father, seemed not at all intimidated by the foreboding duke. He took one look at the man before dismissing him, turning to lay his head on his mother’s shoulder where he promptly fell asleep.

  Anthony Carrington did not smile, nor did he speak, but stepped between her and the Duke of Hawthorne, staring the man down as if he were a member of the French cavalry, as if Hawthorne were a man he meant to kill. Caroline stood at her husband’s back, cradling Freddie, flanking Arabella. Arabella saw an equally cold assessment going on behind her eyes, as if the Countess Ravensbrook might draw a dagger from her reticule and make short work of the duke herself.

  “As charming as it is to see you, Hawthorne, I know that you will not be at liberty to attend the performance tomorrow night,” Ravensbrook said. “I do hope you managed to bring the paperwork we spoke of when I was last in London. The papers that the duchess needs to sign in order to accept a lump sum in lieu of her widow’s portion before she marries.”

  Dark spots swam before her eyes. Angelique’s grip stayed firm on her arm, holding her up. Pembroke flanked her other side, drawing close as if to shield her from the piercing dagger of Hawthorne’s gaze.

  “Indeed, Ravensbrook. It is kind of you to mention our last meeting. I have the papers with me. I will send them up to Pembroke House with my man as soon as it is convenient.”

  Arabella almost laughed out loud. She did not play chess, nor did she play at cards, but she knew a bluff when she heard one. She knew better than to think that Hawthorne would give her up so easily.

  Lord Ravensbrook did not seem concerned. “Later this afternoon would do,” Anthony said. “I will be happy to escort your man to the house myself.”

  Hawthorne’s gray eyes hardened. “That will not be necessary.”

  He turned his gaze on Arabella as if the rest of the company did not exist, as if the Carringtons, Angelique, and Pembroke had vanished from the earth. She felt his eyes move over her body, leaving slime in their wake. His voice was cool, but his eyes glowed with fire. She wondered that no one else could see it. “It was lovely to see you again, Your Grace. I hope we meet again soon.”

  Angelique’s hand tightened on her arm. At least one person had.

  Arabella did not speak but watched him as warily as she would have watched a mad dog. She felt herself begin to shake. The duke showed no sign of anger or displeasure but bowed once to the whole company before striding in the direction of the public house.

  Angelique’s palm cupped her elbow, offering support. Only then did Arabella realize that her knees had given way. Pembroke wrapped one arm about her waist to hold her up. “We will take luncheon at the house,” he said. “I have had quite enough of playacting for one day.”

  He nodded to Titania, and she waved him on. The actress had been watching the exchange as the rest of the acting company and the village had. There was speculation in her eyes as Pembroke led Arabella to his carriage. Titania’s outspokenness was refreshing, but Arabella knew that for once she would not be able to bear the actress’s pointed questions.

  The party returned to Pembroke House, Angelique riding with Pembroke and Arabella in stony silence while Freddie returned to the house with his parents in his father’s barouche. The baby continued to nap on his mother’s shoulder, completely disinterested in the drama played out before him on the village green. They ate their luncheon in the rose garden, and in spite of the beauty of the day, Arabella could not shake the sense of foreboding that her meeting with Hawthorne had brought.

  Early in the afternoon, a courier arrived with the legal documents from the Duke of Hawthorne, just as Ravensbrook had said it would. Arabella could not believe that it would be so simple. She looked past the courier, waiting to see Hawthorne step out from behind him.

  Adjourning to the library, Lord Ravensbrook and Pembroke studied the papers for the rest of the afternoon, and neither could find a flaw. She sat at Pembroke’s desk and signed them with the courier as witness. He was a clerk and a notary public from Oxford, come to Derbyshire for this sole purpose. The papers stated that she was entitled to fifty thousand pounds as well as a dower property in Shropshire and her father’s estate, Swanson House, all the property that Pembroke had already agreed she could keep.

  She stared at the thick document that held her signature as Pembroke sanded and sealed it for the courier to return to the duke. She could not quite believe that with the stroke of a pen she was free from Hawthorne. There still seemed to be a shadow over the day.

  With her signature on that document, she was transformed from a woman with only a sack of gold to her name to an heiress.

  Angelique wished her joy on her upcoming wedding but only after she perused the property agreement that Arabella and Pembroke had signed, which left her money and land in her own hands. Angelique smiled at Pembroke as she finished reading the document, a look of respect coming into her eyes. She did not stay for supper but left for the cottage she had rented in the village, the little house that Arabella had fallen in love with.

  There was no formal dinner that evening, as Anthony and Caroline retired early, electing to take their dinner in their rooms. Arabella watched them as they climbed the staircase, hand in hand. Married for almost three years, they still seemed like newlyweds.

  Pembroke sat with Arabella on a bench in his mother’s rose garden as the quarter moon began to rise above the trees. He drew her close, his arm around her shoulders, his lips on her hair.

  “This has been a bigger day than you bargained for when you woke this morning, Lady Pembroke.”

  Arabella laughed, relaxing against him, leaning on his shoulder. He shifted on the rosewood bench, lifting her into his lap. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing her lips to his cheek. “I am not your lady yet,” she said.

  “Indeed you are. I have your oath on it. Don’t try to wriggle out of it now just because the curate hasn’t blessed us.”

  Arabella laughed, but she felt almost as if Hawthorne watched them even then, the gray chill of his eyes touching her spine, making her shiver. She huddled closer to Pembroke, trying to shake the feeling off. Though they had signed legal documents setting her free, she knew that she had not seen the last of that hateful man.

  She lay her head back against Pembroke’s shoulder and looked up into the night sky filled with stars. She saw Cassiopeia and Andromeda wheel above their heads, and she thought of the day when she might show those stars to their children and teach them their names.

  Raymond kissed her but did not devour her lips with his own, drawing back to look into her eyes. “You do not deserve a rogue like me, Arabella. But you have me. I am yours, for the rest of my life.”

  “And I am yours,” she said.

  “God help me,” he quipped.

  Arabella laughed,
shoving her elbow in his side. He laughed with her, his lips playing over hers until all else was forgotten.

  Twenty-five

  Midsummer’s Eve came at last, the sun riding high for the longest day of the year. Dressed in a gown of robin’s egg blue with a dark blue pelisse, Arabella rode to the village in the Carrington’s barouche with Caroline and baby Freddie. The child had taken a long nap and was ready to greet the village ladies, all of whom loved to fawn over him.

  Angelique met the carriage in front of the public house, taking Arabella’s arm. Lord Ravensbrook had made inquiries and had been told by everyone he asked that the Duke of Hawthorne had left for London at first light. All the same, Angelique was not likely to leave Arabella’s side that evening, and Arabella was grateful. She still felt a chill of fear, though she had faced the madman down. Caroline flanked her as well, baby Freddie on her hip.

  “I have never known a woman of the ton to be so attentive to her child,” Angelique said.

  Arabella flinched, racking her brain for some innocuous comment to deflect the brusqueness of her friend’s impolite observation. But Caroline did not take offense. She met Angelique’s gaze, a sardonic smile lifting one corner of her beautiful mouth. “And you aren’t likely ever to see such a thing. I am not a member of the ton. I simply married into it. I’m a Yorkshire woman. The London ton and I have little to do with one another.”

  Arabella closed her mouth and held her silence. Though she had been a duchess and had worn a coronet for ten years, she had never felt like a true member of the London elite either. She had spent all the years of her marriage separate and apart from London’s balls and soirees, and now that she was marrying Pembroke, she intended to keep him far from the likes of those people. He would do better, and be happier, safe at home with her in Derbyshire.

  But tonight, hearing of Pembroke’s performance as Oberon in Titania’s rustic production, the London ton had come to them.

  Clusters of fashionable people stood here and there on the village green while their servants set up chairs and pavilions for them under the trees. Dressed in silks and satins as if they stood in a ballroom at Carlton House, these brightly colored birds had come to roost for the evening in Pembroke. The villagers eyed them warily, giving them a wide berth. No one wanted anything to do with the quality from London. Their own earl was enough for them.