by Addison Cain
“Mr. Jenkins,” Arabella tried to behave as a proper lady, she tried not to show her embarrassment. “I have never seen you out alone on the moors. Are you exploring or hunting snipe?”
He enjoyed her quip and followed when she nudged her horse to his side. “Is there a reason you are leading me from Mr. Harrow’s land, your ladyship?”
“Yes.” Arabella was resolute. “He would not take kindly should your presence be discovered here.”
“Yet you are here.”
“It is different.” She offered a sly smirk. “My horse can outrun his.”
Edmund, boyish and sweet, reached out to tug her braid. “I would never have imagined your hair was so long.” He lifted the rope, the braid filled with knots of blue, green, and white ribbon to keep the spirits of ill health away.
Arabella did not know what to say, so she asked after his family.
Disappointed she had not reacted as his sisters might have—with playful squealing and the batting of his hand—Edmund relented and set her braid free. “Lizzy misses you terribly, and Lilly is well enough. Mama has enjoyed your letters, reading them out to us again and again... and to anyone who should visit.”
That earned a chuckle. “I am glad she enjoyed my efforts. And which neighbors found my exploits the most entertaining?”
Edmund graced her with a lighthearted list of families who had called and what their reactions had been to the baroness’s time with the town. Amongst the callers was the very man whose land they trespassed on. Mr. Harrow, had come only once, and left as soon as every letter was read in full.
Arabella glanced up at Edmund. “And I suppose the two of you have become great friends now.”
“He is not one of my closer acquaintances.”
Too tired to hide her relief, she sighed. “It is cruel to say, but I am glad of it.”
For once Edmund was serious. “You disapprove of him for Lilly.”
“I should keep my opinion to myself, I suppose.” But Arabella owed Edmund more than her personal misgivings. She owed him whatever truths life had forced her to learn. “Fact is, the more I see of marriage, the more I realize personal feelings have little to do with it.”
Edmund interrupted, “So it is feeling that appeals to you?”
Tripping on her words, she explained her reluctance. “I disliked marriage so strongly that there is nothing outside of dire need that would ever convince me to take a hold of the institution again. As a widow, I am free to do as I please and go where I wish.”
“And you still could as a wife.”
She gave a weary snort, running a hand over her hair. “We both know that is not true...”
Edmund saw her melancholy, and mentioned what he’d suspected over the weeks. “Unlike my mother and sisters, I found your letters rather forced, your ladyship... and now you are pale. Rumors are the doctor was sent for.”
“This will not do, Mr. Jenkins.” She stilled her horse, the emptiness of the open moors more appealing than pretending that she was something she was not. “To be blunt, continuing your family’s association with Baroness Iliffe could bring you harm—hurt Lilly and Lizzy’s chances, not to mention your own.”
“London made you unwell.” The man seemed unshaken by her honesty. “In a few days, you will feel differently.”
Unable to meet his eyes, Arabella continued. “I like your family very much, and for that reason, it would be in your best interest to cut ties with me. Publically.”
Temper came to his voice, Edmund unsmiling and firm. “I will do no such thing, Lady Iliffe. Now is the time to rely on friends. I would help you, if you would let me.”
The intimacy of the exchange made her heart ache. Closing her eyes, she struggled to explain. “I was not born a gentleman’s daughter, and as such, much could be said that would degrade me in society.”
“Because you were born a gypsy...” Edmund found her near tears when she opened her eyes. “I heard you with the old woman in the tent. You spoke their language.”
“If you knew all this time, why have you allowed me to call upon your family? Why have you not exposed me to the neighborhood?”
He left longing open in his expression, in his voice... in the way he tried to take her hand. “I admire you, your ladyship.”
Breath hitching, Arabella replied, “Mr. Jenkins, I am no more a baroness than I am an Englishwoman.”
Countering her confession, Edmund entreated, “My grandfather was in trade. He elevated us to gentry. Before that the Jenkins sold lumber.”
The tenor of his statement, the man’s virtue, changed nothing. “That is a far cry different than a Romani. The English hate us... society hates me. All I want, all most Romani want, is to be left in peace. It is an impossible goal.”
“If you did not want to live in society, you would not try so hard,” the man urged. “Just think, of how much you would pine for Lizzy.” Cautiously, Edmund squeezed her hand. “Leave London in London, and come visit those who call you friend. We will cheer you from this melancholy. I am certain.”
Arabella could not understand how she had earned such a friendship. “When I am feeling a little better, I will attend you if you will have me.”
“We would be honored, your ladyship.”
He said it with such honest welcome that she wondered if he was as much of a fool as Gregory claimed.
Seeking to lighten the mood, she blended teasing with sincere warning. “Then let me do you a friendly turn and warn you against wandering these moors again. Mr. Harrow is a right devil when he finds a soul on his lands. Besides,” signaling for Mamioro to turn, Arabella trotted off, grateful Gregory had not seen the man and would never know of the visit, “I have already found and chased away all the snipe.”
Edmund did not give chase. He was wise enough to know his point had been made and that Arabella required time to consider.
She was grateful for that, for the chance to wander. Yet when Mamioro was given freedom to go where he pleased, every minute took her nearer to Harrow’s homestead.
Seated atop her horse, she watched his dwelling, a loving hand stroking a pitch mane. The wind grew colder, picking up in little bursts that made the autumn grass lay flat toward the earth. She noticed little of her discomfort, too keen on the scent of wood smoke mixed in the mist—a summoning finger divulging a warm fire was near should she wish to take the chill from her bones.
Inside that dwelling was a man. The weight of his eyes were upon her—black eyes she could not see, only feel—a monster rumbling at the door, waiting for her to scratch at the wood and seek entry to its den. Running the rope of her hair through her fist, Arabella thought to leave, turning her head in the direction of her home.
Trapped, she did not know which way she wanted to go.
There were scraps of memory—his face hovering over hers when he took her from her horse, the way Gregory hushed her and warmed her body.
Shy of seeing him, lost, again Arabella eyes were drawn toward Gregory’s door.
He stood upon the threshold as if materialized from thin air.
He watched her. For a man with no smile on his face, his very bearing one of menace, there was something mesmerizing in the very look of him. There always had been.
Arabella knew he wanted her to come to him, had shown himself for that very reason. With the gentlest of nudges, Mamioro followed command, treading slowly up the path that led to his door. Once the beast cleared the gate, Gregory stepped forward to fetch her, his hands about her waist to draw the woman down.
As she slid from her horse, a line formed between his brows. “Why did you hesitate on the moor?”
“I am unsure.” And she was. She was utterly unsure what she was even doing there.
“Come inside.” He let his fingers run down the strange decoration of her thick braid while repeating the offer. “You are welcome here, wicked Imp.”
The offer was tempting, but when she was more intent to look upon him than answer, he wrapped her arm around hi
s elbow and urged her toward his home.
The only prior time she had stepped inside his dwelling, Arabella had barged in with such a temper that little attention was paid. Now her eyes had time to linger. It was a modest homestead for a man of his wealth and property—dim, full of richly stained wood, cave-like, and very warm. Two of his mongrels were lying on the parlor rug, shooed by their master the moment his eyes set upon them.
Arabella dug in her heels. “Mamioro must be stabled before he kills another of your dogs.”
Gregory snarled as if the very thought of her budging infuriated him. “No, you will stay here.” With a softer tone, a forced smile came to his lips. “You are cold and pale, rest by my fire.”
She did. Sinking back into a comfortable chair—the guest chair and not the one she had rudely claimed on her first visit—mistrustful down to her core.
Why such a feeling was upon her she did not know. He’d given no outright cause for concern, Gregory Harrow was even acting the gentleman... being oddly considerate.
When the man placed a quilt upon her lap, Arabella’s secret suspicion became all out doubt on her face. “What is wrong with you?”
He merely sat back in his chair and offered a smirk, half pleased and fully arrogant. “Come, my love.” The smirk grew devilish. “Shall I have the old woman bring tea?”
Frowning, Arabella pouted at the fire. “Why do I feel I am being punished?”
An extended purr came from his throat, Gregory too damned pleased with himself. The pleasure was followed with a malicious leer, one that grew under glittering black eyes. He raised his voice, shouting for the housekeeper to bring tea for himself and his guest. When finished barking orders, he set his elbows on the armrests, steepled his fingers and rested his chin upon them.
Crooning, drinking her in, he asked, “Tell me, Arabella, why do you feel like you are being punished? Am I not acting obliging?”
She scowled deeper. “Very obliging.”
“I found you in the storm.” He pointed to his chest, speaking as if reciting a tale of heroic action. “I carried you home, desired to stay at your bedside. I would have, no matter the chattering of your renegades, but Mary cast me out.”
“Mary?” Offended he would tell such a lie, that he would make light what had happened, Arabella grit her teeth. “Mary cannot speak.”
“She can. She did. The entirety of your household was greatly concerned the doctor might see me in your company. Even after your housekeeper begged me to find you, Magdala pressed me to leave. Payne took you from me!” Gregory’s false smile faded to rancor. “I initially refused, yet retreated in order to protect your precious, sterling reputation when even the mute found a voice to force me out.”
Arabella wiped a hand across her face, eyes squeezed shut. “You do not understand...”
The subtle clatter of porcelain silenced Arabella, the baroness glancing up to find Mr. Harrow’s kitchen maid entering with a tray. The burden was set on a nearby table.
Recognizing the baroness, the old woman hesitated.
The baroness had acted poorly enough last time. There was no need to repeat the debacle. “Please pour.” Arabella offered a smile. “I take my tea the same as your master.”
It gratified the servant. “Yes, your ladyship.”
Tea was served and as the old woman went to leave, Gregory’s cocky, false pleasantness oozed from of his lips, “Lady Iliffe will be joining me for supper, Hannah. She has been unwell... a rich stew, I believe, is acceptable.”
Black eyes locked onto emerald green and with an arrogant sneer, Gregory dared her to argue.
Arabella held her tongue.
The old woman stood dumbstruck, then muttered a quick, “Yes, sir,” fleeing into the kitchen before Mr. Harrow might growl.
Teacup at her lips, mirroring his movements, Arabella measured her host over the rim and sipped. One swallow and warmth seeped into chilled bones. A comforted sigh, another sip of tea, and weariness made her eyes heavy.
“My love, do you wish for more tea?” Gregory simpered.
Short-lived peace shattered, she snarled, “Stop calling me that!”
Exaggerating pronunciation, Gregory’s tongue flicked the edge of his teeth, biting his lower lip to extend the word. “My Loooooovvve.”
It took everything in her power not dash her teacup against the wall. “Do not torment me, Gregory. I am tormented enough without you.”
“Tormented enough without me... What interesting phrasing.” He raised his eyebrows and sipped his tea.
Moving to stand, Arabella spat, “I should not have come here.”
He was on her in an instant. Hands firm on her shoulders, he pressed her down into the softness of her seat. She struggled, so he took another approach. Kneeling, he placed his head in her lap.
He clutched at her legs, signifying that he would not be moved should she try.
“Please.”
Unsure if she had spoken the entreaty, or he had, all Arabella knew was that her hands fell to his hair and ran through the silken darkness.
They both grew still.
Long minutes passed before a deep breath stretched the fabric of his jacket. Gregory looked up, black eyes unassuming. It was the openness of his expression that drew the feather-light touch of her fingertips to trace the angles of his jaw. He captured that hand pressed it to his cheek, closing his eyes and holding to her.
His lips turned towards her palm where he might kiss it and murmur, “My love.”
“Do not rail at me today, Gregory,” Arabella entreated in a whisper. “No threats or bursts of temper. No games.” Her fingertips came to his lips and pressed them to silence. “I cannot bear it.”
He began to toy with her braid, using her captured hair to pull her mouth closer for a kiss. “Yet you seek my company knowing I will misbehave.”
“Your company pleases me... on occasion.” Arabella could not help but smile at his petulance. “The remainder of the time I am trying not to throw things at your head.”
The man’s voice was hoarse. “If you understood even half of the control I exercise in your presence, you would cease your teasing and kiss me instead.”
“So the devil wishes for a kiss, does he?” Arabella leaned closer until the softness of her lips almost brushed his. “Is that all it takes to pacify him?”
Just when she was about to press forward, he used his grip on her hair to pull her head back and expose her throat to his mouth. Kissing that skin with hunger, he muttered, “You went to London and remained for two weeks.” His teeth bit down sharp enough to make her hiss. “Returned to me in a state I find entirely unacceptable.” A slippery tongue soothed the bite. “You did not write. I hear of your exploits, not in letters to me, but to that idiot family.” He trailed her jaw, the soft flesh of her earlobe pulled between his lips so he might nip hard enough to make her yelp.
It was almost impossible to think straight with his mouth on her flesh. “I knew you’d go to Stonewall Grove and hear the letters.”
Lips pulled back from his teeth, he growled straight in her ear. “Because he is of more importance than I?”
Eyes closed, Arabella leaned her cheek to his so she might confess a sad truth. “I am trying to survive. I need allies.”
Taking her chin between his fingers, he met her eye. His voice dropped low and menacing. “You will tell me everything.”
Her confession was difficult to speak aloud. “The new Baron of Iliffe, William Dalton, is a distant cousin of my late husband. When Benjamin was alive, I had never met him. I am not even sure if he’d known he was in line for the wretched title. But he had heard of me... and found my inclusion in his elevation unacceptable. To purify the indignity of my bloodline, and my grave infamy, Dalton cast me out of London and swore he would kill me if I ever crawled back.”
Arabella could still remember their first meeting, the way he’d stormed into the room where she convalesced, the stranger threatening her, until words were not enough. Payne ha
d not been there, and the other servants had done nothing at the sounds of her screams but send for Griggs and her doctor. By the time the pair had arrived, Arabella was wounded, her clothing mussed, rocking back and forth on the floor beside a fallen candlestick smeared with blood. “I stayed clear of the city, I ran, moved houses every few months. For a time it seemed he’d forgotten me, but he has amassed massive debts. He wishes for my third of the estate to be released... At first he sent out letters requesting I allow him the honor of arranging a fresh marriage on my behalf. I refused. Three weeks later, someone entered my home in the night. The blighter never got near me, not with Payne’s vigilance, but Magdala heard the man in Mary’s room.”
Gregory was not moved. “There is more.”
Eyes overflowing, chest so tight, Arabella had a hard time speaking. “When I was in London...”
Gregory gave her a shake. “Breathe.”
On command her lungs expanded. “When I was in London the man I hired from the caravans came to warn me. Dalton was coming to burn down my house in the night, after I had been taken from it and another had been left in my bed. The city would assume I was dead, my widow’s dower would return to the Iliffe estate, and I would be made sport of at their leisure.”
Harrow wiped her tears. “Their?”
“I would rather die.” She wanted to hide her eyes, to pretend even a man such as Gregory Harrow would not be disgusted with her after such a confession. But he would not allow it. “That night on the moors, I wanted to die...”
A firm hand palmed the curve of her thigh, warmed her to the knee. “Open your eyes, Arabella.”
It was such a simple request, but the effort required to look at him, to see anyone look at her after such words, was insurmountable.
Gregory had no patience for such weakness. “The unscrupulous have far more power than you do and can play the game much better. You are wasting your time trying to follow laws and rules, cavorting with vagabonds and nobles as if to find a secret escape, all the while waiting for shadows to drop the axe.”