The Contraband Courtship (The Arlingbys Book 2)

by Alicia Quigley

  The Contraband Courtship

  By Alicia Quigley

  Text copyright © 2015 Alicia Quigley

  All Rights Reserved

  To my mother Wilma, who encouraged me to be creative, tolerated my teenage fascination with "adult sub-literature" in the form of my beloved Georgette Heyer novels, and is one of my biggest supporters and fans today.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Epilogue

  A Word from the Author

  Chapter 1

  Malcolm Arlingby, Earl of Wroxton, awoke as the first rays of sun peeked around the edges of the burgundy velvet curtains that hung over the windows of his bedroom. He laid comfortably for a moment, appreciating the fineness of the linens that covered him, the luxury of the overstuffed goose down pillows, and the enormous size of the carved mahogany bed in which he rested. It was a far cry, he thought, from his life not eight months before.

  So much had changed, and yet so much had not. He still awoke early, no matter how late he stayed out, and he slept lightly, always with an acute sense of his surroundings. But this morning was much as the past mornings had been; he was safely ensconced in a luxurious bedroom, servants at his beck and call, the Wroxton fortune at his disposal, no longer in a foreign country having to live by his wits or earn his keep at the gambling table.

  He rolled over and lazily eyed the woman who lay next to him. She slept soundly, her dusky hair strewn across the white pillows, one arm thrown over her head, the lace-edged sheet pushed down so one rounded breast peeped above it, its nipple a dusky pink. Malcolm reached out, touching it gently with one finger. Instantly it puckered and elongated, and with a knowing smile, he lowered his lips, eagerly suckling the pointed tip.

  “Mmmm.” The woman stirred, and, without opening her eyes, raised one hand to cradle his head. “What time is it?”

  “Early, I think,” responded Malcolm. “Do you wish to go back to sleep?”

  “I’m here for you any time, Malcolm,” she answered. Slowly she raised her eyelids to reveal a pair of liquid hazel eyes flecked with gold. “Day or night.”

  “Well, it’s barely day, but if you have time for me now….” Malcolm pushed the sheet down to cup her other breast in his hand as he moved to straddle her.

  “Always,” she answered, her hands moving caressingly over his muscular chest, to follow the arrow of blond hair downward under the soft linen sheets. Malcolm groaned as her clever fingers found their target, and he speared his fingers through her hair as he pressed his mouth to hers, kissing her deeply. When he raised his head, she gave a sigh of contentment. “Any time,” she whispered. A salacious smile decorated her rosy lips. “Any way.”

  Much later Malcolm lifted himself off Estella and rolled onto his back. “I can’t imagine what ails your husband, to neglect you so, Estella,” he said. “You’re beautiful, more than willing, yet not demanding. Yet he is almost never at your side.”

  “Richard is always pleasant company, when he is about,” she replied blithely. “But he married only to provide an heir for the estates. It’s his duty, and he did it, but not with enthusiasm.”

  “So, not much in the petticoat line, it seems,” Malcolm remarked. “Do you suppose he is a man milliner?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Estella answered. “I am very fond of him you know, and he’s helpful when it comes to all manner of things; he knows where the best tea is to be had, and the latest modiste, and is always completely correct when it comes to advising one on looking one’s best. But he has his own friends and amusements and really, I am not inclined to trouble him, if he does not trouble me. As long as I bring no cuckoos into the nest, he will not be unhappy.”

  She turned to him, propping herself on his chest with her forearms. “But why are we wasting our time discussing my husband? I promise you, he is not spending a moment worrying about me.”

  Some hours later Malcolm strode down St. James Street, impeccably clad in a dark blue coat of fine wool broadcloth. His cravat was tied in the mathematical knot, and his biscuit-hued pantaloons were tucked into betasseled Hessian boots shining with a mirrorlike polish. He had left Estella sipping chocolate in his bed, well sated. She was clever enough to be gone by the time he returned; she knew better than to be demanding, and in return, he indulged all her whims. Never, he thought, had he been more contented.

  He strode jauntily up the steps to White’s. As he entered, a few heads turned, and he greeted their looks with a grin. Taking up a paper, he seated himself in a high-backed leather chair.

  “Who’s the dashing fellow who just walked in?” asked one elderly gentleman of the man next to him.

  Horace Worth gave him a surprised look. “Haven’t you heard? Oh, I’d forgot you’d been on the Continent these past months, Holmwood. That is the infamous Earl of Wroxton.”

  The gentleman turned in surprise. “Wroxton? I thought Felix Arlingby was the current earl.”

  Mr. Worth shook his head. “No, that fellow is Malcolm Arlingby, the old earl’s son, returned to take up his birthright. “

  The other man gaped. “Not the murderer? He was declared dead.”

  “No, not the murderer and not dead, or so it seems,” said Mr. Worth. “It appears that we were all mistaken. Malcolm Arlingby’s name has been cleared, and he has succeeded to his father’s estate.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned. He was gone for twelve years or more, was he not?”

  “At least. But now he’s back and has been cutting quite a swathe through Society,” said Mr. Worth with a shrug. “The ladies, of course, cannot resist his looks or his reputation as a bit of a rake, and as for the men—outside of some jealousy among them, there’s nothing not to like. He’s a fine horseman, a pleasant companion, pays his debts of honor, and is generous with his funds.”

  As they gazed at Malcolm, an elegant dark haired gentleman entered the room and paused for a moment, obviously searching for someone. His sharp green eyes eventually lit on Malcolm, and he strolled across the room, dropping into the chair across from him. The elderly gentleman drew in his breath.

  “Isn’t that Brayleigh?” he asked. “Malcolm Arlingby and the Earl of Brayleigh always loathed each other. I wonder that they are sitting together.”

  Mr. Worth laughed. You have been away from Town too long,” he said. “Brayleigh is married to Wroxton’s sister. They are—well, I will not say they are the best of friends, but they tolerate each other. I understand Lady Brayleigh will brook nothing else.”

  “Astonishing,” said his friend, staring openly at the t
wo men. “Brayleigh and Wroxton being civil to one another? I would never have believed it had I not seen it with my own eyes!”

  Lord Brayleigh looked around and sighed. “You might as well put down your newspaper, Wroxton; I know you’re aware I’m here.”

  Malcolm lowered the offending broadsheet a few inches and peered at Brayleigh over the top of it. “Am I to have no peace?” he asked peevishly.

  “None at all,” replied Brayleigh with equanimity. “I wonder you can tolerate the attention. Horace has obviously just told the entire story to Rupert Holmwood. He is gaping at us as though we are here solely for his entertainment.”

  Malcolm shook his head. “It is always thus. Just when I think everyone knows of it, some damned idiot turns up who must be enlightened.” He folded the paper and tossed it on the table next to him. “I don’t imagine you’re here for the pleasure of my company, Brayleigh. What does my sister want?”

  A small smile appeared on Brayleigh’s face. “How well you understand me,” he murmured. “Rowena indeed asked me to find you and bid you wait upon her this afternoon. I gather she has some matters she wishes to discuss with you.”

  “Lord help me. What is it now?”

  “I apprehend it has something to do with the Wroxton estates,” replied Brayleigh. “That, and your friendship with the lovely Estella Lacey.”

  Malcolm groaned. “She has heard of that, has she?”

  Brayleigh raised an eyebrow. “All of London has heard. Surely you were not under the misapprehension that the pair of you have been discreet?”

  “We have no reason to be discreet, so I can’t see why anyone should care,” complained Malcolm. “Her husband has no interest in her now that she has given him two sons, and it is not as though I have a wife to worry about.”

  “Yet everyone does care, because you are the notorious Malcolm Arlingby,” said Brayleigh. “Really, I would think at this point you would be past being surprised.”

  Malcolm shrugged. “It can’t be helped.” He gave Brayleigh a rueful grin. “A bit of gossip doesn’t really matter to me. After all, if I survived the last twelve years, I can survive this.”

  “Then you will not mind returning with me to Brayleigh House and explaining it all to Rowena,” said the earl calmly.

  “I’d rather go to Almack’s and dance with chits just out of the school room all night, and you know it,” said Malcolm cheerfully. “But I suppose I had better get it out of the way. Rowena is nothing if not persistent.”

  “A wise choice.” Brayleigh stood. “The sooner you get this over with, the sooner you can return to the charming Mrs. Lacey.”

  Malcolm rose reluctantly. “If Rowena doesn’t have other plans for me,” he said gloomily.

  Brayleigh laid a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. “I am sure your sister has only your best interests at heart.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” replied Malcolm.

  The two men strolled out of the room, leaving Mr. Holmwood gaping after them.

  Half an hour later Malcolm and the earl entered the library at Brayleigh House, where a woman sat in an overstuffed leather chair, reading a book. She looked up when the two of them entered, and rose to her feet, her dress of figured muslin fluttering around her. Her wide violet eyes sparkled as she ran a few steps and threw herself into Brayleigh’s arms.

  “Alaric, you found him,” she said. “How kind of you.”

  Brayleigh dropped a kiss on her cheek and slipped one arm around her waist. “It was not difficult, but I’m always happy to please you, my dear.”

  “Lord, you two are tiresome,” protested Malcolm, throwing himself into an armchair. His stretched his long legs out in front of him and glared at them. “I think I liked it better when you were quarrelling all the time. At least that was entertaining.”

  Brayleigh shook his head and released his wife. “I’m sorry you no longer find us amusing, Wroxton,” he said. “I, on the other hand, find this existence entirely pleasurable.”

  He looked at his wife with a satisfied smile, and she flushed slightly, as she reached out to take his hand.

  “No, don’t start pawing at each other again, I can’t abide it,” said Malcolm. “What did you want to see me about, Rowena?”

  With an amused glance at her husband, Rowena sank into the chair across from him, while Brayleigh leaned on the corner of the desk, his arms folded.

  “Oh ho, it must be something very serious,” said Malcolm. “I count on you, Brayleigh, to give me your support.”

  “Oh, I don’t meddle in Arlingby affairs,” said the earl calmly. “You will have to contend with Rowena in this matter.”

  Malcolm groaned. “All right, what is it then?”

  Rowena made an exasperated sound. “Malcolm, I know you missed England and the pleasures of London dreadfully while you were on the Continent,” she said briskly. “But you have been the Earl of Wroxton for eight months now, and you still have not visited the estate.”

  “I stay in close contact with the bailiff,” said Malcolm peevishly. “And both Father and Felix took good care of Wroxton. There is no reason for me to interfere in its running. Indeed, I doubt I’d be thanked for poking my nose into it.”

  “But surely you wish to visit Wroxton and see how things go on,” persisted Rowena. “Did you not tell me also that you wish to rebuild the stables?”

  “What are you going on about? I have my horses here in London, where I can use them, and I’ve sent several to Wroxton as breeding stock. I don’t know why you’re suddenly so concerned about this,” Malcolm asked. “I think I deserve to enjoy myself a bit after everything that happened.”

  “Of course you do, dear,” Rowena assured him. “It is just that—well, it has been some time, and I wonder if perhaps you need to—well, think of the future a bit more.”

  “Is this about Estella?” asked Malcolm suspiciously.

  “It is not only about Mrs. Lacey,” Rowena prevaricated, looking a bit embarrassed. “But, certainly, I have my concerns about her. She is married, Malcolm, and unlikely to be free to wed you any time soon.”

  “Wed me?” Malcolm gave a hoot of laughter. “I should say not!”

  “You see?” said Rowena. “I know you wish to enjoy yourself, and I would never say you did not deserve to, but surely you are aware of the duty you owe your family.”

  “Rowena, I have years ahead of me to sire a pack of children, if that’s what I decide needs to be done. But for now, I have no interest in shackling myself to one woman. I’ve spent twelve years on the Continent, unjustly accused of murder, forced to live by my wits, and damn, I want to enjoy myself now. One of Estella’s principal charms—outside of the most obvious ones—is that she cannot importune me to marry her!”

  “You are being very vexing,” said Rowena. “It is not that I wish to deny you your pleasures, Malcolm—”

  “I should say not! And, sister dear, should you even know about Estella?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” said Rowena crossly. “All the world knows about the two of you. I’m hardly an innocent. The gossips are only too happy to inform me that half the ladies in London have either succumbed to you since your return or to Alaric prior to our marriage.”

  “Only half? Well, you might have taken Brayleigh out of circulation, Rowena, but you can’t force me into such a staid existence.” Malcolm gave his sister a shrewd look. “There’s more here than you’re telling me. You might as well come out with it.”

  Rowena exchanged a glance with Alaric. “Well, if you must know, I have received a letter from Helena Keighley.”

  “Who?” asked Malcolm.

  “Helena Keighley. The daughter of Sir Douglas.” At Malcolm’s blank look, Rowena sighed. “Really, Malcolm, this is why you must go to Wroxton. The Keighley estate marches with Wroxton to the west. You must have met him, and Helena, dozens of times when you were a child.”

  “Oh yes, Keighley, I remember the name,” said Malcolm. “Sir Douglas, you say? As I recall,
Father said he was a bruising rider to hounds.”

  “Yes, Malcolm, I’m sure he was,” said Rowena impatiently. “But this has nothing to do with fox hunting. “

  “A pity, I might almost be tempted to leave London for that. What does this Miss Keighley want?”

  “I received a letter from Helena a few days ago.” Rowena produced a folded piece of paper and waved it at Malcolm. “She would have written to you, but had no idea where to find you, and we are friends. She is a year or two older than I am, but we played together as children, and of course I have met her at assemblies and house parties. Surely you remember her.”

  “I can’t be bothered to remember your childhood friends, Rowena,” said Malcolm. “I had other things to attend to. What does this mysterious letter say?”

  Rowena unfolded the letter and perused it quickly. “Here it is,” she said. “It seems that French brandy is being smuggled through Folkestone, and the lack of interest of the Earl of Wroxton in his estate has been taken as a sign that his lands are free to be used for this purpose. While Felix Arlingby was not a strong-minded gentleman, he cared enough to prevent such nonsense, but now landings occur almost nightly. I have no doubt that some of the servants have been bribed to allow this. The whole affair is unsettling; I have no desire to see Keighley lands overrun by ruffians because Wroxton is poorly managed. It is imperative that your brother cease his wastrel ways and take up the responsibilities that come with his birthright. He was ever an irresponsible young man, but surely the circumstances of the past years must have brought him some wisdom, no matter how slight. Please inform him that he is needed immediately at Wroxton.”

  “What a termagant! She doesn’t even know me, and she’s calling me a wastrel!”

  “You might not remember Helena, but I have no doubt she remembers you,” said Rowena. “You were wont to tease her unmercifully when we were young.”

  “Did I?” asked Malcolm. “Well, she no doubt deserved it; she sounds remarkably pert. Why isn’t Sir Douglas attending to this? It seems deuced odd to me that Miss Keighley should be meddling.”

  “Sir Douglas died a year ago January—and he had not been quite right in the head for some years,” said Rowena. “Her brother Arthur is only eighteen. Helena has been managing the estate quite successfully for some years.”