“And how do you know so much about women?”
He grinned. “I’ve sisters, my sweet. I know them. As well, do I know jealousy. I’m Irish, dear one. And its jealous English hands that have been trying to take our land from us for well over the last seven hundred years. It’s a land you’d love—all willful beauty like yourself. Lush and seductive. It’s no wonder you English keep wanting it. And I know what it’s like to feel alone—so alone you’d swear you could die and not have it matter to anyone. There’s plenty around London who’ll make an Irishman feel unwelcome. But what matters is this.” He took her hand in his. “This matters—skin to warm skin. Human touch. Reaching out to another even if they slap you away for it.”
Uncertainty clouded her eyes. She looked at him and said, voice small, “I only want to have others like me—I thought they would if I were a marchioness.”
Smiling, he touched her cheek with the daisy, trailing the petals over her skin. “Start by liking yourself more. If that fails you, it’s my eyes you can look into to see just how much someone does care for you.”
With a sigh, she leaned against him. “I should love that.”
He tucked the daisy into her hair. Standing, he brushed his hands. “Good, now if it’s resigned you are, would you care to resign yourself to a hot meal? There’s an inn not a quarter mile down the road in Chawton.”
She stared up at him, and her eyes narrowed. “An inn—a quarter mile away? And you allowed me to sleep on the ground!”
He started to stroll back to collect the gelding. “Seems as if we’re even then for that swim I took yesterday.”
“Oh, you—you...!” Reaching down, she picked up her shoe and threw it at his back. The slipper bounced off his broad shoulders. He glanced back at her. “You might be wanting to hang onto those a bit—there’s no reputable inn I know as will feed a woman who arrives looking a barefoot harlot.”
* * *
The slowing pace of the carriage woke Arncliffe. For a moment he lay still, thoughts and dreams tangling in a pleasant lassitude. What had he been dreaming? Something about Chloe writing to him? No, it had been Audrey, only instead of her sitting at her desk, she had been in a garden, dressed in something white and transparent as she wrote on a scroll in her lap.
He had watched her scribbling as if from a distance, and, in one of those shifts of a dream, he stood next to her, watching her write down the same words she had spoken to him in the garden.
But you told me that already, he had said in the dream.
She looked up at him. Standing, she faced him, the gown around her pulled tight against her figure to show her slender waist, pert breasts that would fit so nicely into his hands, and the slim curve of her hip. No, I haven’t told you anything.
Spinning in a circle, she changing into Chloe as she laughed at him and danced away. She kept turning, changing from Chloe to Audrey to Chloe to Audrey. Chasing her, he caught her, dragging into his arms—only now he could not recall whom he had caught. Chloe or Audrey?
He frowned at that scrap of dream, unsettled by it, and to his body’s response to the dream-woman pressed against him. Awareness woke in him of the slender form next to him. He realized that at least part of his dream had a basis in reality.
Somehow Audrey had ended up with her head on his chest and her body reclining against his. The faintest recollection stirred of his almost waking last night, of finding himself wrapped in her softness, of pulling her closer as he leaned into the corner of the coach and drifted to sleep again. No wonder his dreams had been so delightful—and so vivid.
As a gentleman—and one betrothed to another lady—he could not consciously allow the situation to continue. However, Audrey looked so sweetly comfortable.
Sleep softened her mouth and the dawn light played over her face, pulling attractive angles from the high cheekbones and the strong nose. He wanted to run a finger down the slight bow outwards of that nose—a nose of character and determination.
Reluctant, but unable to put it off any longer, he gently pushed her from him, settling her in the opposite corner of the carriage. He leaned back in his own corner and said, his tone brisk, “Good morning, Miss Colbert. I trust you slept well.”
She sat up at once, one hand to her forehead, a dazed look in her eyes. He smiled at her. He hoped the formal use of her name might ease the situation, putting them back on familiar, distant ground again. But she still looked tousled, her brown hair softly disordered and her eyes wide and dark. He could not help thinking that he would like to see her every morning like this.
Immediately, he looked away.
The carriage had slowed enough that he could take a measure of their location. He let down the window. Not Southampton yet. No salt tang to the air, no cry from sea birds. He glanced back at Audrey. She had smoothed her gown and put on her bonnet again. Nothing could take the creases from her dress, but she had her face well starched again.
“Would you care to take breakfast while the horses are changed?” he asked. “We have made such good time that I think we could afford a short rest.”
With a small incline of her head, she said, “Thank you. But, before we stop, I must have a word with you. There is something I have not told you.”
An echo of his dream tickled the back of his mind. He pushed it aside. “Of course. However, I do insist you have that word with a hot cup of tea in your hands. No—no argument. Look, we have stopped already. Come now, let me help you down.”
The footmen opened the door. Arncliffe jumped down, but rather than wait for the footmen to let down the steps, he reached into the coach, caught Audrey by the waist as she stood in the carriage doorway, and lifted her down.
The action surprised a slight smile from her. He smiled as well, and she looked up at him, her smile fading, those brown eyes of hers widening. The images from the dream teased him again.
“I caught you—just so last night,” he said.
Something sparked between them—he felt it in the current that drew him to her. A startled voice interrupted everything.
“Audrey? Is that you? Whatever are you doing here with Arncliffe?”
Guilt stinging his skin as if a whip had flayed him, Arncliffe spun on his heel to find his intended bride standing in the yard, just outside the inn, staring at him and her cousin.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Seeing Chloe, Audrey broke from Arncliffe and ran to embrace her cousin. “Chloe, dearest—we found you!” She hugged Chloe again and held her away. “You are a wretch!”
Chloe had been clutching Audrey’s arms, but now she stiffened. “I am? I am not the one standing in a stable yard making eyes at another lady’s husband to be!”
“Oh, that—Connor was just helping me from the carriage.”
Chloe glanced from Audrey to Arncliffe. “Connor is it?”
Fitzjoy stepped from the inn and strolled forward. “Connor who, dear one? Is it friends you’ve met?”
Dropping her cousin’s hands, Audrey turned to the Irishman, her temper simmering. “Why you...you scoundrel!”
His stare ran up and down her, his black eyebrows lifted. “Ah, not friends. Relations. Come to wish us happy, have you?”
Audrey raised her hand to slap him. Everything seemed to happen at once. She swung, Fitzjoy caught her arm. He jerked her off balance, and then Fitzjoy lay sprawled on the ground, an astonished expression on his face. Arncliffe stood beside her, fists clenched.
In a rustle of skirts, Chloe hurried to Fitzjoy, shooting a cold glance at Arncliffe as she swept past him to kneel beside Fitzjoy. “You brute!” She dropped down beside Fitzjoy, heedless that he lay in the yard of an inn. “Are you hurt?”
With a growl, Fitzjoy started to rise.
Audrey stepped between the gentlemen, too aware of the attention they had drawn. One of the grooms called out, “A mill! My money’s on the gent whose handy with his fives!” Another took the odds for the dark Irishman. Mortification to be in such a public scene scalded Audrey’s face.
Through clenched teeth, she muttered, “Shall we take this inside—please?”
Nursing his jaw, Fitzjoy allowed Chloe to help him rise. “I supposed a man whose bride I’ve stolen away is allowed one swipe at me—but only one mind. The next comes at a cost.”
“Stolen?” Arncliffe repeated, his eyebrows snapping together and lifting his chin so that he stared down that elegant straight nose of his at Fitzjoy.
Audrey watched him, her heart beating sick and fast in her throat. Arncliffe’s expression seemed an utter mask of icy aristocratic arrogance, and she would not blame him if fury raged under that now daunting exterior.
Chloe said, “I am not going anywhere.” She sounded absurdly petulant.
Audrey took her arm and started for the inn. “Not now, Chloe. And certainly not here.”
The innkeeper looked dubiously at her when Audrey asked for a private parlor, but when Arncliffe stepped forward to demand attention to the lady’s request, the fellow jumped. Audrey sighed. How lovely to have someone leap to obey her so well.
She led Chloe into the parlor shown to them at the back of the inn. Her cousin at once shook off her touch and went to stand beside the unlit fire, her arms crossed and her chin high. But Audrey caught the glitter of uncertainty and fear in Chloe’s eyes. She reminded herself that the past day and night had been a trial for Chloe as well.
Fitzjoy strolled in, looking insolent and yet with a defensive air to him not unlike Chloe’s. He did not stand next to Chloe, but positioned himself in a stance that looked to Audrey as if he expected more fisticuffs. She rubbed her forehead. Perhaps she ought to allow the gentlemen to brawl over Chloe like two farmers for a prize heifer.
Arncliffe came into the room, glanced around, turned and ordered ale, tea, and coffee. He held out a chair for Audrey, and swept Chloe a bow, saying, “Shall we at least be comfortable. I have the distinct feeling this requires considerable, lengthy explanations.”
He sounded so controlled, so delightfully civilized that Audrey wished she could kiss him. She settled instead for giving him the unpolished truth. “Fitzjoy ran off with Chloe.”
“He did not!” Chloe said, arms dropping to her side. “I went with him to a masquerade, and then we took a long drive.”
“Oh, please! We have told enough lies—both of us.” Audrey turned to Arncliffe. What had seemed possible in the dark intimacy of a coach now loomed as an impossible task. She took a breath and dove into it, however. “I have not been truthful. I was not running away to elope with Fitzjoy.”
“With me? I should hope not—you’ve not the...”
“Careful, sir,” Arncliffe warned, fixing the man with a glare. “I will not have Miss Colbert insulted.”
“I am not insulted—yet,” Chloe said.
A knock on the door interrupted, and a maid came in, bearing coffee, tea, and ale on a tray. The warm aromas mixed and tantalized, but with refreshments poured and the maid gone, Audrey found herself unable to swallow even a sip of tea.
Arncliffe poured himself a mug of ale. He hesitated a moment and then poured one for Fitzjoy. “As to explanations—shall I save everyone’s breath and tell you what I gather to be the facts? Chloe, I assume from your actions this morning that you would prefer to release me from our betrothal since you seem to have contracted another understanding?”
“Well, I—” Chloe glanced at Fitzjoy.
Fitzjoy stepped forward, black eyebrows flat and a bruise swelling on his jaw. “You can’t marry him—you know you can’t.”
Chloe twisted her hands together. “But I said I would.”
Arncliffe glanced from one to the other. Even he could see the invisible tug of something between them. The fellow really ought to be made to suffer for such his crime. On the other hand, his abduction of Chloe had prevented Arncliffe’s marriage to the girl. That had to count for something.
Well, Chloe might well be the making of the man—and he of her. Arncliffe decided to hope for that. And if the two had been on the road overnight—as had he and Audrey—something had to be done to make all this respectable.
Putting down his tankard, Arncliffe walked over to Chloe and took her hand. “Miss Colbert, you made me a happy man when you accepted my offer. You will make me even happier if you release me from it. However, should you wish it, I shall honor my word, marry you, and I will see this fellow treated to the full prosecution the law allows.”
He heard Fitzjoy’s sharp intake of breath. He could feel Audrey’s stare on his back. He kept his gaze on Chloe. She looked a child suddenly—uncertain and afraid. He leaned closer to her. “It really is alright if you don’t love me.”
“Really? I suppose if you do not mind terribly…but I should have liked very much being a marchioness.”
“Thank you. However, that probably is not sufficient reason to wed.” He turned to Fitzjoy. The Irishman stiffened, his feet shifting to a fighting stance. Amused, Arncliffe smiled. No on had ever though him so threatening. “No need for that. So long as I hear nothing but wonderful things from Chloe about her life, I shall not feel obliged to defend her.”
“As if it would be anything to you.”
“I intend to make it something to me. Now, I suggest a return to London. I shall procure a Special License, and a bishop, for you. It shall be a small wedding—just family.”He
He glanced at Chloe, and leaned closer to Fitzjoy. “I suggest you ask her properly now if you want a sunny face to see you back to London. A garden is vital. Moonlight would be better, but if you go down on one knee and kiss her senseless you might survive the next day or so without sulks.”
Fitzjoy frowned. Arncliffe nodded to the door, and the Irishman grinned suddenly. “Ah, now I see why it’s an interest you’re taking. Well, now, I could do with a relative such as yourself.” With a wink to Arncliffe, he went to Chloe. “Come, dear one, there’s a garden I must show you it seems.”
“Oh, but why can I not stay here—I vow you are always dragging me someplace. And if we are now to be married in London, I want a proper wedding dress, and flowers, and...”
What else she wanted fell away as Arncliffe shut the door on them. He turned to Audrey, who sat on the edge of her chair, her back straight and eyes solemn.
“You ought to know the full truth—I wrote Chloe’s letters to you. I pushed your match with her.” She looked down at her hands. “You must think me the most managing of females, trying to trap you into a marriage with my cousin.”
He came to stand in front of her. “Yes, you are clever enough that you nearly did. Your cousin certainly dazzled me with her looks, but it was those letters...charming, funny, warm letters...that captured my heart.”
She looked up at him. “I do beg your pardon. I should not have meddled, but I...”
“Please, I cannot talk to you with me standing over you in this fashion. Either you must stand, or, no, I have a better idea.” He went down on one knee.
She took his hands and tugged, trying to make him rise. “Please do not. I should be the one to kneel to you to beg for your forgiveness.”
“For what? For too many stories? For giving me the most adventure I have ever had and the most fun? Ever since I proposed to your cousin, I suspected something was not right. However, I did not know what to do.”
With a soft moan, she turned away. He took her chin in his hand and turned her face to his. “It took meeting up with you, driving up and down the countryside, listening to your outlandish stories to realize that you wrote those letters. Those wonderful letters. I realized it last night. My dream finally showed me what I think I must have always known on some level. I can only thank God that my engagement to the wrong woman is ended so I can court the right one.”
She stared at him. “The right one? How can I be right for you when I am not pretty, or rich, or...”
“Marry me.” He took her hands in his.
“But I deceived you!”
“Yes, and while I hope you do not make it a habit, we shall have t
o do a bit more of it in London. Do you think anyone will believe if we say the newspapers made an error and printed the wrong Miss Colbert’s name? It sounds a bit thin, but then I am so respectable that enough may swallow the story to make it stick.”
“Oh, but I...I...”
“I thought you did not want to turn away from love—no matter what the risk?”
“I don’t—but I cannot think I deserve this.”
He stood and pulled her to her feet. “I tried as your cousin would approve on bending knee, let me now try my way. Marry me!” He did not wait for an answer, but pulled her into his arms. His hands closed tight around her waist and his mouth covered hers. She fit him as if he had bespoke an order for her. For a moment, she held herself still, and fear fluttered through him. Would she, like her cousin, find him wanting?
A fierce possessiveness flared inside him. He would not allow that. Tightening his hold, he forgot his fears, forgot his title, forgot everything except the press of her lips to his, the touch of his tongue to hers, the warmth of her, the sweetness. She softened into him and he deepened the kiss. Finally, breathless, heart pounding, he came up for air. She stood in his arms, face flushed, her breath rapid and shallow. He smiled as he saw the pulse fluttering in her throat—and he kissed that hollow on her neck.
“Please—I cannot think when you do that,” she said.
“Must you think?” he asked, his words muffled. “Just tell me yes—tell me you will wake up beside me each morning. That you will write me absurd, darling letters. Tell me you love me as much as I adore you.”
“Yes—I love you. And I do not deserve this—but I am not such a fool as to say no to you. But what are we to tell everyone? The wedding invitations have gone out. The date is set. St. George’s in Hanover Square has been reserved!”
Stolen Away: A Regency Novella Page 7