by Addison Cain
The sound of that voice, heady and rich, made her stiffen. She felt the dampness of his coat still bunched in her grip, slowly became aware of the stretching brand that filled her womb.
An encroaching wave of desolation left her in such a state, Arabella could do little more than breathe, “I loathe you, Gregory Harrow,” taking his plunging cock deeper still, frightened again that she was about to succumb to that terrifying wave threatening to consume and destroy her.
A look passed over the blackness of his eyes, and just as he had begun it, Gregory smoothed his cheek against hers and moved his lips to her ear. He cradled her closer to cease their frantic movements, nuzzling until her hips stilled and they were deeply joined. The tip of his tongue skimmed the shell of her ear. “And I you.”
After several deep breaths, he lifted her off his turgid cock. When the silken heat of him left flesh that ached she felt somehow less... wrong. Cooling the inferno did not seem to be her salvation, it only left her wanting. Even so, her heart filled with a rush of immense relief, as if rescued from a dividing line that, should she cross, would forever change her.
His nose was in her hair even as she sagged, Arabella tiredly resting her head in the crook of his neck. Pressing into the curve of his body, craving more of the unbearable heat, she settled. With the cadence of his breath at her ear and the gentle tugging of his fingers buried at the roots of her hair, sleep came hard.
Chapter 7
L ashes fluttered and Arabella found that the darkness of her bedchamber held an otherworldly quality. Wondering what warm weight had eased from her waist, why she suddenly felt the chill, and why the usually wonderful cold felt nothing but unwelcome, a deep abiding sleepiness made her roll toward the loss of heat and burrow.
A feather light touch, almost imperceptible, ran down the side of her face.
There was a subtle shift of the mattress.
The first light of morning had yet to creep inside her windows and break up the shadows, leaving the smoldering coals of her fire the only thing that separated her from utter darkness. As if dreaming, she glanced upon the silent figure pulling on his boots at the edge of her bed. The shine of his eyes in the dark, when the phantom turned to look over her, made Arabella move as if to rise. At once the weight of a heavy hand pressed her back into the mattress. Their eyes held, but all she could read in the shadowed lines of his face was the same brooding expression that always hardened his features.
He seemed to hesitate for a moment before his fingers drew away. Gregory straightened to his full height and merged back into the deeper shadows. She heard the sound of coal being added to the fire, but by the time glassy eyes could see by the flicker of new light, the room was empty. Her lashes lowered and with a deep breath, sleep returned.
“Wake up, my lady.” A familiar hand shook the baroness’s shoulder. “You must dress before the men arrive for breakfast.”
Shocked to find her mistress still sprawled in bed, Magdala selected a dress as silently as possible, pleased the young woman had uncharacteristically slept past sunrise.
Groaning, Arabella sat up.
The old woman asked, “Was there a chill in the room last night?”
Arabella moved to the basin to wash her face. “No, why do you ask?”
“You slept in your dressing robe and stoked the fire. The coals have all but burned off most mornings when I arrive.”
Turning to look at the hearth Arabella found the woman’s words to be true. There were licking flames... a blazing reminder of what had transpired amidst the windstorm. Scrubbing her face to hide the color burning her cheeks, Arabella pressed her thighs together, provoked by the subtle soreness between her legs.
Gregory Harrow had taken her on the chair, had stroked and coaxed, made silent demands that left her boneless under his hands. His doings had seemed effortless, even as his member found its way inside her body. And there had been no horrific pain, no blood.
The wrongness was that it had not hurt. If anything it had felt…
What had he done? How would she ever look him in the eye again?
It was some punishment, she was certain, the way he’d confused her, terrifying her with that foreign wave of pulverizing nothingness. Just when it was about to break, she’d whispered that she loathed him. Mr. Harrow had stopped, taking the very instrument that had caused such sensation away, leaving her empty. She should have screamed, attacked and ranted, instead Arabella had wanted nothing more than to be held by her tormentor.
She’d fallen asleep and the villain had carried her to her room. Gregory Harrow had lain beside her in the dark for an unknown amount of time, had added coal to the fire. He had also left before the household could be made aware of his nocturnal visit, preventing a scandal.
It was too much to process; his actions left too many questions, too much dread.
Before Arabella could completely fall to pieces, Magdala offered assurance. “Maybe we are finally thawing that ice in your veins. It is as I’ve been saying for years. Your habit of nesting in a bone chilling room is why you toss and turn. How well you look this morning!”
Arabella rushed the remainder of her bathing. Magdala trying to take extra care styling her hair until Arabella was fed up, disinterested in appearing elaborate for the men. “They are only going to eat and leave... they should be grateful I am even feeding the louses. There is no need for me to primp, Magdala.”
“Ahh, but he is a good lad for seeing to you last night,” Magdala countered, accustomed to her mistress’s touchiness. “Are you telling me you disliked the courtesy?”
Blushing vividly, Arabella grunted, hoping Magdala referred to Edmund and not the argument and subsequent... aftermath... she shared with Mr. Harrow. Muttering something unintelligible, she ended her toilette, and moved toward the door.
Descending the main staircase into the great hall, Arabella could hear the good natured chatter of Mr. Jenkins and knew the men had already arrived and awaited her. The soft blue silk afternoon dress Magdala had chosen split at the front to display a snowy full skirt of white muslin with each step downward. Arabella hated it, wishing for her drab woolen dresses and the comfort that came with coarse fabrics. Dressed as a beggar, no one would look at her the way Edmund was looking at her.
For a brief second she dared a glance toward Mr. Harrow. He stood, arms clasped behind him, pensive scowl in place. There was no change in his arrogance, no leer. Uncomfortable with the way he too stared, Arabella found the unaffected easiness of her other guest easier to bear.
Edmund stepped forward to offer a hand to assist her descent. “How lovely you look this morning, Lady Iliffe.”
Hesitating, her eyes glued to the hand waiting for her, she debated simply going back up the stairs and leaving the men to sort themselves out. That would not do. Her fingertips followed the path of politeness and settled in the smooth upturned palm. “Good morning, Mr. Jenkins, Mr. Harrow.”
Arabella offered a tight smile and directed them to the adjoining dining room.
“Did you rise early to fit into the hours of gentlemen?” smiling, Edmund took a seat and began buttering a roll.
Arabella offered his fresh-faced grin a forced smile. “No, Mr. Jenkins. I typically rise with the dawn.”
He laughed, a lighthearted sound. “That is as Mr. Harrow assured me when I protested that the hour was too early for a lady of your rank. How well he seems to know his nearest neighbor.”
Darting a glance at the man himself, Arabella found Gregory watching her as if weighing her sins. The set of his jaw was harsh. “Did you sleep well, Lady Iliffe?”
She could not help but frown when he scowled so meanly yet asked in such a casual tone. She didn’t answer.
With an instant tight smirk, he growled, “Is it a difficult question?”
Once the man sipped his coffee she said, “I was over-hot from the fire.”
He coughed once, sputtering, and looked up with an angry scowl to find her eyes brightened by her small victory
. Feeling braver, Arabella looked to her other guest, “And you, Mr. Jenkins, how did you find your accommodations?”
“Quite comfortable. Makes me long for a bachelor’s residence of my own,” Edmund replied, taking a serving of cold roast beef. “The dish is delicious, Lady Iliffe. Is your cook French?”
The compliment earned a genuine smile. “No, Mr. Jenkins. My housekeeper found her in Liverpool, at Saint Augustine.”
Edmund set down his knife, intrigued. “A convent girl, how singular.”
“Saint Augustine is an orphan asylum,” Mr. Harrow clarified, his tone implying trouble, “off a boroughs side street in a less savory part of town.”
Looking at the black-haired troublemaker Arabella nodded. “How did you know that?”
A slow spreading smile showed the devil's teeth. “I know everything.”
“Somehow I do not doubt you think you do.” Saint Augustine was located in a neighborhood very few well-meaning English men would frequent. Gambling houses, brawling arenas, and brothels propped up shack housing… When Arabella had been a girl, it had once been an excellent place to swindle men out of coin. “It does not matter where she came from. Mary is an exceptionally talented cook.”
“Mary?” Mr. Harrow said, an incredulous expression deepening the scowl.
“Yes, Mary.” Arabella answered.
Shifting forward, Mr. Harrow pressed, “The mute, underfed girl you keep as a pet?”
Unable to control the anger that flamed in her eyes, Arabella set down her fork, ready to tear into the fool.
“Well, I think she is exceptional,” Edmund chimed in, disarming the situation and soothing the obvious affront of their hostess with a change of subject. “You previously resided in London did you not? Do you miss town?”
Swallowing back curses that should never be shouted in front of a real gentleman, Arabella turned towards the charming Mr. Jenkins. “I am quite comfortable here.”
Obviously happy with the news, Edmund asked, “So you will not be returning to town for the winter?”
“Why would I do that?”
“For the season, and to escape the solitude, of course.”
“I came here for the solitude.”
“And you shall feel it come winter. There is one thing we Yorkshire folk readily know. With the snows there is hardly movement in the county.” Edmund offered, smiling as if his suggestion was just the thing. “Of course, you are welcome to shelter with your friends at Stonewall Grove when the dreary days become too much for you.”
“That is very kind.” Unsure why she felt the urge to glance at Mr. Harrow, Arabella resisted. There would be something there, something in those pitiless eyes offering a clue to his behavior. But she could not bring herself to look.
The chipper voice of the other man made her wonder if Edmund was oblivious to the dark one’s temper when he stated, “And now that you have so kindly treated me to this lavish breakfast, allow me to convey you to my mother and sisters, for they must be worried that I did not return in the night.”
Arabella’s excuse was hastily offered. “I do not wish to impose on your mother.”
“Nonsense.” Edmund smiled. “Mama will be expecting you, as will my sisters, everyone overjoyed to have you returned to them unscathed.”
Mr. Harrow produced a shark’s grin. “A morning ride will be splendid, will it not?” Black eyes went to the large servant, Mr. Harrow commanding with that sickening smile. “Do have her horse saddled, Payne.”
Payne did nothing until Arabella met his eyes and offered a little nod.
* * *
Gregory, it seemed, intended to join them instead of returning to his home. Arabella pretended not to notice the way he smirked, and knew down to her bones he was going to be trouble. But over the journey tension waned, she grew contented, and at the sight of the denser trees that marked the land of the Jenkins’s estate, Arabella called for a race. Leaning over her horse’s neck, she surged forward, laughing at full gallop.
On the pebbled drive she slowed her mount and pressed the back of her hand to wind burned cheeks, grinning at the men in her victory.
The first she saw of Mr. Jenkins’s anxious frown brought her to complain. “I will not ride with you, Edmund, if you are always going to be so disapproving.”
Where he should have been insulted, he was suddenly grinning, and at once Arabella realized her slip. She had casually used his given name, her informal behavior misleading.
Knitting her brow, Arabella allowed the sweet fool to take her by the waist and lower her from the horse.
Prettily dressed, the ladies came through the door, Lizzy grinning to see Arabella, and Lilly blushing with wide-eyed delirium that Mr. Harrow was back amongst them.
Mrs. Jenkins, pleased to see the Lady Iliffe whole and sound, approached at once to admire the fine cut and elegant fabric of the baroness’s embroidered redingote. Threading her plump arm through Arabella’s, the matron all but dragged her to the drawing room for tea.
“So, Edmund,” Lilly teased her older brother. “Did you see the ghost of the White Woman at Crescent Barrows?”
Edmund shook his head in the negative, but before he could reply Mr. Harrow answered in his place. “I did, Miss Jenkins.” Taking Lilly’s arm Gregory moved with the party. “I beheld the phantom myself last night as she railed and hissed.”
The girl gave him a playful look. “And how did you subdue her?”
“I pulled her into my arms.”
Lilly prodded for more. “And?’
“What if I told you I convinced the White Woman that in place of cursing me, she should kiss me instead?”
The party of women began to giggle, all but Arabella who was mortified. “You did no such thing!”
Cocking a brow, Gregory deigned to ask, “Didn’t I?”
Emerald eyes flashed over red cheeks, Arabella countering, “No... you did not.”
“Ahh,” Lilly cooed. “To tame a woman with a kiss. How roguish you are, Mr. Harrow—a regular highwayman.”
Thinking back to when they were joined, when he plunged himself inside her, Arabella recalled that his lips had always stayed close to hers, their breath intermingling, but he had not kissed her mouth... not once.
Black eyes held green, Harrow agreeing with her silent debate. “You win, Lady Iliffe. I did not kiss the White Woman.” Mr. Harrow turned his attention to the girl on his arm, Lilly in her white gown. “Not yet, at least.”
Arabella felt as if a horse’s hoof had landed in her gut.
Tea passed quickly, but Lizzy was unwilling to let her retreat, pulling Arabella to the seat with the best light so they might peruse a hefty tome on India.
“Look at them,” Lilly snorted over the chessboard between her and Mr. Harrow, annoyed with their incessant chatter. “How bookish they are.”
In an age where women were expected to read, write, and do just enough arithmetic to count to ten, it was an easy slander. Her sister’s taunt embarrassed Lizzy, and inspired Arabella to defend the girl. “You would do well to take it upon yourself to improve your mind as your sister does, Miss Jenkins. It is good to be a well-read woman with a sense of the world.”
“It is a husband’s duty—”
Interrupting, bringing the weight of her emerald eyes to the snippy girl, Arabella harshly corrected her. “Husbands die.”
It was the type of thing that just was not said. The room went silent, none knowing quite how to respond.
Pressing a kiss to Lizzy’s forehead, Arabella stood and smiled as if all were well. “Thank you for tea. Now I must return home.”
“Yes, of course.” Mrs. Jenkins rose. “Thank you, your ladyship, for calling.”
“Checkmate.” Mr. Harrow, looking utterly bored, captured the white king from Lilly. “I too must away.” He did not thank his hosts or smile at a one. He only stood and left.
Delivering her bonnet and gloves, Edmund grinned, his eyes glancing outside the window to where Mr. Harrow ordered their horses.
“Lady Iliffe, Friday next there will be another gathering at the assembly rooms. May I claim the first dance, the minuet you absorbed so well yesterday?”
“I ahh...” Cornered, and unsure how to properly decline, she lowered her voice to a whisper, “I lack the skill. I would embarrass myself.”
“No, your ladyship.” He smiled, his golden hair gently bobbing forward as he leaned down to whisper back, “For your first time you were exquisite... and we can practice here while Lilly plays. Come the assembly, you will be the finest dancer in attendance.”
He looked so earnest, so unassuming and eager, that she felt incapable of denying him. “I suppose so...”
“Do not fret, I would never allow you to be disgraced. Besides, Lizzy needs a kindred spirit here. She has bloomed since she met you.”
Nodding and uncomfortable, Arabella passed through the portal.
Mamioro was waiting. Rough hands came to her waist and she was tossed atop the black mountain. “You might as well just toss your leg over now, your ladyship.” Mr. Harrow eyed her unbalanced posture with contempt. “Mr. Jenkins has already witnessed your indecent style of riding.”
Her cheek twitched, Arabella simpering in response. “I’ll tell you what. I will ride astride if you ride sidesaddle.”
Black eyes burned at the word astride, provocative where no other could see.
The amusement slipped off her face. Arabella looked away, saying goodbye to the family waiting at the portico to see them off.
Mr. Harrow, far less polite, merely mounted and rode off.
It was impossible to miss the hurt feelings of Lilly as the man left her in such a way. When the beauty’s lip quivered, Arabella looked at the profile of the retreating scoundrel and scowled. A good distance from the house, the trees behind them and the waving landscape of the moors their only audience, she turned and accused, “You hurt her feelings riding off as you did.”
“Do not point that finger at me. If you had not tried to deny what passed between us, smiling only at that insipid, milksop boy, then I would not have had to draw your attention in other ways.”