His cock swelled against the fall of his own breeches at the thought of what lay beneath the coarse cloth, as each line and dip of the promise there was clearly defined to his experienced eye.
Arden sighed long and hard. He was bored, and looking for an entertaining way to punish Burrows that would liven up his day a little. Calling him out would be too much trouble and was really not worth it. There would be no challenge. No, there were other, far more entertaining ways to teach people like Hugo Burrows a lesson. In that, Arden was something of a master.
“Er yes…best maybe to have the horses put to,” Hugo croaked at Pen. He moved his gaze anxiously in Arden’s direction, obviously aware at some very basic level that the Viscount Arden had not finished with him yet.
“Now?” Pen asked.
“Yes,” Hugo rasped out at her.
Pen made towards the door with no second bidding necessary, but as quick as a flash her way was blocked by Arden . He was so close to her that Pen’s nose almost touched his body.
He could smell horses and the vague hint of cigar smoke in her hair. Probably from the tap.
Arden raised his hand and he rested it, feather-light, against Pen’s chest.
“Not so fast, Burrows. You think I have finished?”
Pen froze and kept her eyes firmly down, as befitted her station, although Arden could tell her natural reaction was to do something quite different. As a result she obviously had to stare hard at a spot on the floor in an effort not to betray herself.
“What more is there to say?” Burrows seemed to force the words out from between clenched teeth. “The lady has made her decision, and I for one intend to stand by it.”
“Admirable, but all it usually takes is one threat of revenge, Burrows, and your loquacious defence of your position always seems to vanish in a sad puff of smoke like a conjuring trick,” Arden taunted him cruelly. “What kind of adversary are you going to be this time? How long will it be before you run away?”
“No adversary of yours, Arden.” Burrows clearly sought to placate him slightly, but it was a faint attempt, delivered with the air of one already damned. He seemed to know that Arden would inevitably exact his revenge, on some level, in some way.
Hugo then cast an anxious glance towards Pen, who was standing as if she had been turned to stone.
The moment Pen Carrington had burst through the parlour doors, and had apparently distracted him from challenging Burrows to a duel, Lord Arden had expected her to descend into hysterics. He had no idea how much of the ongoing argument she would have heard, but he knew that the timing of her arrival was such that Pen must have at least heard his threat to call Hugo Burrows out. Arden watched as Hugo inserted a nervous finger into what was starting to look like an over-tight collar. In Arden’s experience, women did not hear a challenge like the one he had just issued without failing to exploit it fully with a fit of the vapours. It looked like Hugo Burrows might be in agreement with him.
“Let the lad out, Arden. I’ll have my horses put to.”
Lord Arden’s eyes narrowed slightly once more as, yet again, Burrows looked nervously at the young tiger then swallowed convulsively.
“No, Burrows,” he replied silkily. “Not until I feel I have this settled to my satisfaction. Not yet.” Arden’ continued to rest his hand on Pen’s jacketed chest, his fingers able to sense the heat of her body even as they laid on the rough material of her coat. He had positioned himself so she could not step back and get round him or move to the side without making a lot of fuss, for he had placed his body very effectively to block any move towards the door.
As the Viscount Arden watched Hugo’s head snap up, his face angry, Arden swept his hand lazily across what was undoubtedly one brutally bound nipple, to rest fully on Pen’s flattened right breast.
Pen seemed frozen to the spot with shock as he touched her. Arden was aware of a bolt of unexpected desire, which dulled to an aroused ache in his groin as he stared briefly at her bowed head before turning his attention once more to Hugo.
“Have you heard there is to be a prize fight at Horsham Fields?” Arden kept his tone deliberately mild. “I have it on good authority that the Great Pretender is all set to see off yet another challenger before taking on the champion himself. But that is by the by.”
Hugo shook his head briefly, his face still red. “No, I…I had not.”
“As I said, no matter. All that matters is the end of the fight. At that point, you and I are going to race to the Greyhound, in Croydon.”
“We are?” Hugo croaked, seemingly unable to pull his gaze away from the sight of Arden’s fingers on Pen’s chest.
“Indeed. A wager. Your rig, the one I saw in the yard, plus your prize blacks, versus my rig and lead pair of chestnuts. Each with a groom, or tiger, on board. It’s thirty odd miles, a decent enough distance to cover in five hours or so.”
“Have I any choice?” Hugo asked him.
“No,” was the uncompromising reply.
“I didn’t think I had.”
“Do you not wish to know the details of the wager?” Arden asked him coolly.
“I am sure the terms will be anything other than generous, Arden.”
“Oh, I do not know. You win, and I will consider the business regarding Miss DeLacey at an end. I will consider our matter of honour resolved, and so that will be the end of it.”
Hugo’s expression lightened imperceptibly
“And if I lose?”
“Ah, yes. If you lose, you lose your entire rig. Horses, carriage and tiger. You can find something else to tool Marianne DeLacey about in.”
It would also be a clear declaration of his failure to prevail over Arden once word of this affair got out.
Pen’s body stiffened once more and she shook her head slightly as if in disbelief at what she had heard.
Arden watched as Pen swayed towards him as she cast a sideways glance at Burrows.
“My tiger?” Hugo’s puzzlement gave way to a clearly dawning horror. “No, surely you don’t mean…the whole rig? My match blacks? Tiger! Now, Arden, look here…”
“That’s the deal, Burrows. I could always, of course, succumb to the great urge I’ve got to simply challenge you to a duel and have done with it. You know you have far better odds to survive a race with me than a duel, and you never know…you may even win the race. I have heard you described as something of a horseman.”
Hugo made a strangled sound before he turned to meet Arden’s gaze.
“Come on, Arden. Be reasonable. My tiger is simply my employee. I do not own him to be able to gamble him in a wager.”
“Then the tiger will have a new employer. It will be a new opportunity. You seem to show precious little reticence when offering my employees new opportunities, Burrows,” Arden replied crisply.
With these words he removed his hand from Pen’s chest and started to pull on his driving gloves.
“I feel my spirits lift already.” Arden took in a deep breath and regarded Hugo with a raised eyebrow. “It must be something to do with a sense of natural law asserting itself. It is so bad for me to labour under a cloud of injustice for any length of time. So do make a real effort to be in Horsham for our meeting, Mr Burrows.” He smiled briefly before adding, softly, “Please do not require me to come and find you.” Arden looked straight at Pen and gave her a predatory smile. “Because make no mistake…I will.”
Pen stared back like a trapped rabbit.
* * * *
Viscount Arden had been gone some time before either of the remaining inhabitants of the private parlour at the Red Lion, moved.
Pen knew that to be so, for as she stood watching Hugo, she could also see the modest mantel clock ticking the minutes away.
She found herself reluctant to speak, shocked by the turn of events and by Hugo’s reaction. Pen continued to regard Hugo in silence, scarcely daring to breathe.
Five minutes had fully passed before Hugo started to pace up and down the room, running his ha
nds through his hair so that it stood on end like that of a mad man.
“Damn! Damn! Damn! Damn! Damnation!” he roared.
Pen watched him curse and shout without saying a word, although she did wince slightly at the burst of noise.
“Hell… Hell and damnation. Damn!”
She had never seen Hugo as angry as this before, about anything. Suddenly, feeling incredibly tired, she sank down into one of the winged chairs by the cold, empty fireplace, staring as if mesmerised by a trace of ashes in the grate.
Pen rubbed her hands a couple of times through her scrubby hair before looking back towards Hugo as he paced like a Bedlamite, up and down.
He finally stopped and pointed directly at Pen. “You have to return to Hatchlands, now!”
“You can’t send me back. His description of what constituted your rig was quite precise. You are not going to run such a stupid risk, are you? He could call you out.”
Pen had thrown everything she had into making her words persuasive, willing them to be convincing enough to prevent her enforced return to the Carrington Estates.
Hugo pulled his hand yet again over his face and moaned quietly. “It doesn’t bear thinking about what Sebastian is going to do to me over this; but then that will not even come close to what I know Arden will do to me, if he gets wind of this Banbury tale.”
All Pen could do was to sit quietly and marvel at how capricious fate could be sometimes.
“I should return you to Hatchlands now and have done with it. If Arden doesn’t end up calling me out, Seb will. Problem is, I don’t fancy my chances much against either,” Hugo rasped out. “Damn you, Pen. How do I get rid of you?”
“Not by returning me to Hatchlands. It will serve no purpose anyhow. No one can force me to remain there.” Pen heard her voice sound firm and sure, at an odd variance to her racing heart and hot hands. “At least if I am bound for Horsham, and the wager, you will not only know my location but Arden can have no complaint at your turnout at the start of the race.”
Pen felt some little triumph at the logic she felt she presented as part of her argument. “In fact, it is obviously a matter of honour that you present yourself as requested, Hugo. I do believe the alternative was that his lordship is going to come looking for you to finish this business once and for all.”
Hugo’s fist crashed down on the mantelpiece, making the little clock there jump.
“Get out of my sight, Penelope,” he snarled. ”Get out of this room and get out of my sight or I won’t be held responsible for the consequences!”
Chapter Two
Horsham Fields, West Sussex
The following day
Mrs Penelope Carrington had virtually no sleep that night, tossing and turning in the lumpy, awkward bed that was all that was to be had at the Red Lion Inn. But it was not only the lack of comforts that kept her wide awake, but the very real fear that at long last she may have just gone too far.
What on earth would Sebastian Carrington think about her latest shocking escapade?
God forbid he should ever discover the extent to which she had disobeyed him on this occasion. From wearing breeches in public -albeit in disguise!-to travelling unchaperoned in less than salubrious circumstances, she had now managed to embroil herself in a dangerous wager. That the wager should be over, of all things, a member of the demi-mondaine, would certainly result in social ostracism for Penelope Carrington should word get out about her role in it.
Losing sleep was the least I could expect. My adventure has turned into the stuff of nightmares!
How would Sebastian react? It was one thing to be naughty and misbehave in order to annoy him and provoke a reaction. But this? This was in quite another league. This had the potential to give Sebastian Carrington such a disgust of her that he would disown her altogether. As her husband’s only heir, all the money that she had brought into the Carrington family had moved into the eldest brother’s sole possession upon Mark Carrington’s death. For all her apparent independence as Mark’s widow, Pen was actually a pensioner of the Carrington family and would remain dependant on their largesse for the rest of her life.
Pen could, of course, remarry, but that was an unlikely event for one very simple reason.
She loved Sebastian.
Pen knew she had no hope of an offer from Sebastian. After Mark’s untimely death she had all but thrown herself at the man, but he had gently rebuffed her. Desperate to know what she could do to catch his attention, she had shared her woes with her good friend, Countess Griaznova.
The countess had looked very surprised, then had said, “But Penelope, you know that he prefers the company of men, do you not?”
Pen had understood that to mean that Sebastian enjoyed the company to be had in gentlemen’s clubs such as Whites and Bootles much more than social events such as balls and Almacks, but the countess had shaken her head quite vehemently. “You English girls are so naïve. Carrington prefers men, to women, for love. You understand, Penelope?”
In that one moment everything became clear.
Sebastian Carrington would never find it in him to love her as much as she loved him.
So she had spent her time since trying to find a lover who was as potent as Carrington, who fired her imagination quite as much as the sight of his well-formed, strong body. On the whole, the men of the ton were not to her taste, but if her wild escapade did nothing else for her, it had thrown her into the path of Viscount Julian St John Arden.
With all the knowledge of a woman rather than an untried girl, Penelope Carrington found Julian St John Arden an attractive and deeply desirable prospect. Something about Arden’s managing ways and intelligent manipulation of those about him sparked a curl of desire in her that had little to do with his status and obvious wealth. She would really like to acquaint herself with the man behind the trappings of privilege and position.
Pen didn’t want to do that at the risk of losing Sebastian altogether.
It may be too late for that, she told herself grimly as she finally got out of bed and splashed cool water from the pitcher onto her face.
* * * *
Hugo Burrows emerged from the taproom of the Red Lion Inn appearing very much the worse for wear, although as Pen pointed out to herself with gritty optimism, he did seem sober.
His eyes were bloodshot with vivid red rims. Hugo looked unshaven, unkempt and unready for his encounter with Arden. His expression as he looked in her direction, pulling himself up onto the curricle was nothing short of insulting and his reaction to her handing him the reins was a desultory, “My God, you look as rough as I do, Pen!”
Pen kept her expression purposefully neutral and simply retired to her perch at the rear of the carriage.
That was the full extent of their interaction, as even before Pen was in her seat the curricle leapt forward, throwing Pen the rest of the way into her position, and they were off.
Hugo seemed to have no difficulty in finding the way, particularly as after a short time travelling it was apparent that an increasing volume of spectators were heading the same way for a distance of almost ten miles. Eventually it seemed as if the entire local population was bound for Horsham Fields, in every type of conveyance, from farm carts to ancient coaches. Progress was slow due to not only the amount of carriage traffic, but also the number of people on foot, unable to beg or buy a place in a wagon or coach.
The fields acting as the venue for the fight were stubble, already crowded with an excited throng of people gathered around an area in the middle on which had been built a robust ring.
Hugo was directed to a part of the ground where the carriages of the gentry were starting to line up, and he positioned his curricle close enough to keep an eye on progress in the ring, yet not so close that he was going to find himself unable to make a quick getaway at the end. There appeared to be some time to wait before the event was due to commence, and whereas Hugo seemed happy to indulge in a fit of the blue-devils, Pen was in a mood to be interested in
an aspect of male life she would not be normally privileged to see, and she found plenty to interest her in the gradually thickening crowd. The company was mostly rough and unruly, but as midday approached, carriages started to outnumber almost all other modes of transport other than those on foot. The only circumstance to mar Pen’s real appreciation of the event was that she had no idea who anyone around her was, whereas the Corinthians about Hugo’s curricle certainly knew each other, and from the exchanged looks and nods in the direction of Pen’s escort, Hugo. Pen was aware that in her current company, she presented a rather shabby appearance, even for a gentleman’s tiger, for about her were several examples of extremely smartly liveried young scoundrels, glowering in a most competitive way. They eyed her suspiciously, up and down, their disapproval clear.
It suddenly dawned on Pen that Sebastian could be but a few carriages away and she would have no idea of that fact.
“Gentlemen Jackson has arrived!”
Pen craned her neck in order to try and catch sight of the most famous teacher of boxing in England. She was familiar with the name of Gentleman Jackson from the brief time she had been with her young husband, for Mark Carrington had been a keen follower of the art of pugilism.
Jackson’s progress towards the stage started much cheering, which he accepted with a good-natured smile and a wave before he walked over to a stout man in a tilbury near to Hugo’s curricle. A couple of young bucks hailed him and there was much laughter and humour before he returned to join a group of gentlemen beside the ring, as he was in charge of most of the arrangements for the bout. Pen was so absorbed in watching him, and recalling after-dinner tales she had heard about sparring at his saloon in Old Bond Street, that she failed to notice the approach of a curricle and pair, which edged its way neatly to a place immediately beside Hugo’s own rig.
Wild Pen Carrington Page 2