Almost a Bride

by Jane Feather

  Arabella looked at him in undisguised shock. “I would never do that. I wager only what is mine.”

  “My dear, if you’re obliged to wager your jewels, then your debts must far exceed the settlements we agreed upon. Settlements I considered to be more than generous. Obviously I was mistaken,” he said aridly.

  “Everyone gambles,” she said.

  “Yes, but not everyone gambles as badly as you,” he pointed out. “Willfully badly, I’m forced to conclude from watching you. Even someone as ignorant of the principles of gaming as you obviously are wins some of the time.”

  She felt her cheeks warm under his steady, searching gaze. “I’ve seen the duchess of Devonshire lose ten thousand guineas in a night.”

  “The duchess is not—I repeat, not—an example to emulate,” he stated. “She’s addicted to gaming and it will be the ruin of her in the end. But you see, my dear wife, I don’t think you are addicted.” His eyes narrowed as he watched her face, saw the quick conscious flicker in her gaze.

  “I lose only what you won from my brother,” she said, idly smoothing the silken folds of her ivory negligee.

  “Mmm. That’s rather what I thought,” he said reflectively. “Well, I have to tell you, my dear, that it won’t do. I’m not going to sit back and watch you ruin me, Arabella.”

  She frowned, little flecks of golden fire in her tawny eyes. “How do you intend to stop me?”

  He seemed to consider the question, then said thoughtfully, “I have but two choices, it appears to me.”

  “And they are, my lord duke?” She watched him with an air of interest.

  Jack tapped his fingertips together. “Of course I could increase my own winnings to cover your losses, which I have to say sounds like more effort than I’m prepared to expend, or . . .” Here he paused for a minute, before continuing, “Or I could teach you how to play to win.” He raised a hand to prevent the protest that had risen to her lips. “I suggest we go to the library and try a hand of faro.”

  She didn’t immediately move from the chaise. “How was your visit to the country?” she inquired with a smile that barely touched her lips. “Did you solve the difficulties on the estate?” She couldn’t keep the sardonic note out of her voice. The image of Lilly Worth’s flawless porcelain complexion and china-blue eyes had haunted her for Jack’s entire absence. She despised herself for caring, but she couldn’t stop herself.

  “Yes,” he said, looking a little puzzled at her tone. “But it would have been pleasanter if you had come with me.”

  What an accomplished liar he was. “Didn’t you find any pleasant company, then?”

  “Only my agent’s and he’s a dour man at best.” Jack swung himself off the chair. He held out his hand. “Come, Arabella, let’s begin our gambling lesson.”

  Later that evening Arabella was putting the lesson into practice at a card table at a party given by the marchioness of Bute. George Cavenaugh sat beside her and watched her play with surprise. “Ma’am, your luck seems to have turned,” he observed as she won a hand on the ten of spades.

  She laughed. “My husband has been teaching me all afternoon. The lesson has taken, it would seem.” She collected the rouleaux at her elbow and for an instant stared across the table, gathering her words. There had never been a suitable moment to ask what she wanted . . . needed . . . to ask. She had felt that there would be something unseemly about discussing her husband with his best friend. But George was her friend now, not just her husband’s.

  With an air of resolution she turned towards him. She spoke quietly. “George, were you there when Jack played that last game with my brother?”

  George’s expression became somber and he answered her in the same soft voice. “Yes, I was there. Why do you ask?”

  “Because I would like to know exactly what happened,” she said simply. “You’re Jack’s best friend and I believe no one could tell me better than you.”

  He cleared his throat. “My dear ma’am, Jack surely . . .”

  She shook her head. “Jack will say nothing. I don’t even know why—”

  George held up a hand, interrupting her. He said in an undertone, “Let’s go somewhere where we may talk quietly.”

  She rose with alacrity. George escorted her towards a deep window embrasure on the far side of the salon. “We may be a little more private in here,” he said.

  She nodded. Her face was very pale, her eyes shadowed. “I have to know why Jack ruined Frederick. Do you know?”

  “My dear, it wasn’t necessarily deliberate. Your brother played and lost.”

  “You know that’s not all, George. Jack drove Frederick to his death. Why would he do that? Why would any normal human being do such a thing?”

  George shook his head and conceded, “There has always been bad blood between them.”

  “Why?” She put a hand on his. “You have to help me to understand, George. I can’t go on believing that my husband is so cold and calculating that he would deliberately cause a man’s ruin and death for no reason.”

  George looked at her helplessly. “Jack is not cold and calculating, Arabella. You must know that.”

  “I don’t know it,” she said firmly. “Oh, I know he can be otherwise, but I don’t know which is the true Jack. Tell me.”

  George sighed. He liked the woman that Jack for whatever reason had chosen to wed . . . liked her very much. And his affection for his friend ran deep. Something was wrong between Jack and Arabella and maybe it was his place to help them.

  He spoke slowly. “I don’t know whether this is mine to tell, but many years ago Jack and your brother had a falling-out . . . over a woman.” He looked embarrassed but Arabella’s gaze remained intently on his face. “I believe Frederick was . . . was less than honorable towards the woman,” he said uncomfortably. “No one but the parties concerned knew all the details, but Jack called Lacey out. Nearly put a period to his existence then. Lacey never forgave him and Jack never treated him with anything but contempt.”

  “Oh, I see.” Arabella frowned, wondering if she did see. She hadn’t really known Frederick during her own childhood. Presumably she’d been considered too young to know anything of this incident. Either that or it hadn’t occurred to her father to tell her, which wouldn’t be surprising. She certainly couldn’t remember Frederick recuperating from some near-fatal duel. Of course, he’d rarely visited Lacey Court, so perhaps he’d been cared for in London. Certainly any memories she might have had of her half brother when he was younger were overlaid by the more powerful recent images of the man, dissolute, debauched, that cruel twist to his mouth, the small deep-set eyes that were always reddened with drink. She sometimes wondered if there had ever been a time when Frederick was salvageable as a decent human being. If this story of George’s was true, it would seem not.

  But surely an old quarrel, even one as violent as this one, wouldn’t have been enough to cause Jack to destroy Frederick so many years later.

  She looked out at the crowded brightly lit salon and saw her husband at the far side of the room. He was looking straight at the embrasure, almost as if he was reading their lips. She felt her scalp contract. His expression was dark, his eyes once more opaque.

  “Why does he look like that sometimes? So dark,” she murmured almost to herself.

  “Not sure I know what you mean, ma’am.”

  “Yes, you do,” she contradicted stubbornly. “You know him better than anyone and you know exactly what I mean. It’s a mood that comes over him, with that look as if he’s gone away somewhere unspeakable.”

  “It may have something to do with his sister,” George suggested carefully.

  She looked at him in astonishment. “He has a sister? He never said anything about her. Indeed, about any of his family. I just assumed he didn’t have any.”

  “He did have a sister, Charlotte,” George explained. “She is . . . or was . . . in France. She married the viscount de Villefranche some years ago. They were part of the court at V
ersailles.” He shook his head. “I don’t imagine she and her husband survived the Terror. Jack went over to look for her . . . last year it was now . . . but he came back alone.”

  He stroked his mouth thoughtfully before continuing, “He told me he believed her to be lost, but he would say nothing else.” He sighed. “There was something in his voice that forbade further questions . . . and you know what that’s like. If you take my advice, Arabella, I wouldn’t bring the subject up until Jack does.”

  “No, of course not,” she responded, a frown now between her thick dark brows. “Thank you, George. I’m sorry if my questions made you uncomfortable.”

  “Not at all . . . not at all, dear lady. Don’t give it another thought,” he said, sounding relieved that the inquisition was over. “Anything I can do to help . . . always at your service.” He offered a gallant bow.

  “Thank you,” she repeated.

  She gave him a smile and left him in the embrasure, making her way across the salon to her husband.

  Jack greeted her with a cool smile. “You appeared to be having a very intimate tête-à-tête with George.”

  “Hardly intimate,” she scoffed. “There must be a hundred people in the salon.”

  “Intense, then,” he said, still regarding her with that cool gaze. “May I know what you were talking about?”

  “Lady Jersey’s infamous behavior,” she said readily. “The prince has not even brought his bride back to England and the woman has already had herself appointed one of Princess Caroline’s Ladies of the Bedchamber. Did you hear that?”

  “I heard,” he said, unconvinced that this topic, fascinating though it was, had been the one under discussion between his wife and his best friend.

  It was not difficult for Arabella to wax genuinely indignant on this subject. For reasons she preferred not to examine too closely, Lady Jersey’s blatant flaunting of her lover infuriated her. But then, it infuriated the majority of wives in their social circle and probably for the same reasons. “She’s bound to make the poor girl’s life a misery,” Arabella continued scornfully. “You know how she likes to torment the wives of her lovers.”

  “I certainly know it, but how do you?” Jack asked in surprise. Lady Jersey had been cutting a swath through the male members of Society for a good many years, but Arabella had been immured in the country.

  Her eyes narrowed. “I have ears, and I listen,” she pointed out with a hint of mischief that reminded him of the old Arabella.

  “Let’s consign this party to the devil and go home,” he suggested, clasping the back of her neck. “Have you won enough for one night?”

  “Only about six hundred guineas,” she said with a laugh, moving her head back against the warm clasp of his hand.

  “That will have to do,” he said softly. “After a week away I find I have a most powerful need of my wife.”

  And I have a most powerful need of my husband, Arabella reflected as the energy coursed through her.

  Jack reached for her as soon as they were in the carriage. He drew her onto his knee, running his hand up her silk-clad leg, up beneath her thin silk skirt, sliding over the garters that banded her thighs. His fingers reached up into the warm, moist cleft of her body and she shifted on his knee with a swift indrawn breath, resting her head against his shoulder as her legs parted in involuntary invitation. He played her with unerring knowledge, bringing her swiftly to her peak, and when she crested the wave she turned sideways on his knee, straddling him. She pulled roughly at the buttons of his britches, catching the hot pulsing shaft of his penis as it sprang free. She stroked its length, her fingers light as butterflies before her clasp grew slowly tighter, increasing the friction until he groaned softly.

  She lifted herself fractionally and lowered herself onto him. The carriage swayed and rocked over the cobbles, jolted into a pothole, and she caught her bottom lip between her teeth as she circled her body around the impaling shaft, rising and falling with the motion of the carriage.

  He gripped her waist between both hands, steadying her, his eyes holding her gaze. She flicked her tongue over her lips then bent her head and kissed him, driving her tongue into his mouth as she pressed down on his lap, taking him deep within her so that he touched her womb. She held herself utterly still, feeling his climax pulse within her, as she kissed him even more deeply. It took a few seconds before she caught up with him, before the ever-tightening coil sprang loose. Unconsciously she bit down on his lower lip in an effort to keep from crying out as the carriage lurched to a sudden stop. Off balance, she toppled sideways, in a tangle of skirts and limbs, her thighs slick with the juices of love.

  “Dear God,” Jack muttered, tasting blood from his lip. “You’re a vixen when roused, my sweet.” He hoisted her upright, trying to smooth down her skirts. She was laughing helplessly as the footman opened the carriage door and peered into the dim interior. “Your grace . . . your grace . . . Cavendish Square,” he intoned, concealing his puzzlement at the disordered scene.

  “Thank you, Frank.” Jack extricated himself from the folds of his wife’s skirt and jumped to the street. He reached a hand in for Arabella and half pulled her from the vehicle.

  She stepped down beside him, aware that her bodice was askew, her skirts quite probably damp in a most compromising spot, and hopelessly creased. With as much dignity as she could muster, she unfurled her fan and walked sedately up the steps to the front door, holding her skirts up with one gloved hand. She sailed past Tidmouth with a rather haughty good night and drifted across the hall and up the stairs, Jack on her heels.

  The dogs bounded to greet them as they entered Arabella’s boudoir. She calmed them as she sank, laughing, into a chair. “What on earth did Frank think?” she gasped. “Look at me, I look as if I’ve been tumbled in a hedgerow.” Her hair was flying away from its pins. “And you, sir, are still unbuttoned.” Jack looked down at his britches, aghast, and she collapsed again into fits of laughter.

  Jack hastily did himself up, laughing himself now. “Fortunately I don’t pay my servants to think,” he said. He went to the door to her bedchamber and opened it. “Becky, you may go to bed. Her grace can manage to put herself to bed tonight.”

  The sleepy maid jumped up from the stool in front of the fire and curtsied. “Yes, your grace. If her grace is sure.”

  “Her grace is quite sure,” he said firmly. “Now be off with you.”

  The girl curtsied again and hurried from the room. Jack turned back to the boudoir. “Come, madam wife. I find my appetite is far from slaked.”

  “You would ravish me yet again, sir?” she said, her eyes widening, her hand pressed to her heart.

  “If that’s what you choose to call it,” he agreed amiably. “Now, come. Let’s get that sadly ill-treated gown off you.” He drew her into the bedchamber and closed the door firmly on the whining dogs.

  Much later Arabella shifted on the floor in front of the fire, conscious of the threads of the carpet rubbing against her back. In the full flood of passion she hadn’t noticed the discomfort.

  Jack moved above her, resting on his elbows. He brushed a strand of hair from her brow and said, “Now tell me, my sweet wife, just what were you and George talking about so intensely in the window embrasure?”

  “I told you.” She regarded him warily. Their loins were still joined and he was now a soft and satiated presence within her, and while the light of lust and passion still glowed in his eyes, there was a certain purpose beneath.

  “No, you told me an untruth,” he corrected. “Answer me.” He softened the demand with a kiss in the corner of her mouth.

  Arabella considered. In the low light of the bedchamber, with firelight playing over their joined bodies, and the lambent glow of after-love in his eyes, a glow that she knew was reflected in her own, she thought that surely this was as good a moment as any to come a little closer to his secrets.

  “He told me a little about what lay between you and Frederick,” she said. “About a duel over
a woman a long time ago.”

  Jack pushed himself up, disengaging from her body. Why did she have to bring up Frederick at this juncture? He felt acid rise in his gorge. His hatred of Lacey burned anew, a hot coal embedded in his gut, and he fought it down. Arabella was not her half brother. She had nothing to do with what had lain between Jack and Frederick Lacey. She had been the instrument of Jack’s vengeance, although an innocent one. But why the devil did she have to poke and pry?

  He lay on his back beside her, gazing up at the delicately painted ceiling. “Why did you think it necessary to spy into my past?” His voice was cold.

  She almost gasped at the blatant effrontery of this. “I wasn’t spying,” she denied fiercely. “I’ve asked you often enough myself about why you ruined Frederick and you’ve always refused to answer. Don’t you think I might reasonably want to know?”

  He said nothing for a while, just stared up at the ceiling, and Arabella began to regret opening the subject even as his refusal to answer made her angry. She made a move to get up but swiftly he laid a hand on her thigh.

  “Wait,” he said. He couldn’t answer her question but he could deflect it with the older tale. There was no one left to be hurt by the account.

  She waited, watching his face. It was a mask, the eyes hooded, and she could read nothing of his emotion.

  Finally he spoke slowly, reluctantly. “It’s an old tale, Arabella. One known in detail only to myself, your brother, and the woman in question. And now only to me.”

  “What happened to her?” Apprehension pricked her.

  “She died.” His voice was flat.

  “Frederick didn’t . . .” She couldn’t complete the question.

  “Not exactly. But her family in a fit of moral outrage banished her to some far-flung relatives in the outer Hebrides, where she caught typhoid and died in a matter of months.” His voice was level, his tone very matter-of-fact, emotionless. But Arabella wasn’t fooled. This matter touched him nearly. She rested a hand on his belly as he lay beside her.

  “Will you tell me the whole, Jack?”