by Nancy Gideon
“You look fetching this evening, Miss Arabella.”
His croon was thick as syrup, and her teeth ached in response. His was manipulative flattery, but she knew she did look her best on this special evening. She’d taken extra time to weave her hair up into a sophisticated coil threaded through with pearls. Her gown was of fine muslin, all the style. Its high waist and snug-skirted lines did little to highlight her voluptuous figure, but the amount of generous bosom displayed by the low, square neckline distracted from that fact. And distracted Wesley Pembrook was, to the point of rude ogling. She found it annoying in the extreme. She could imagine him snipping away at the layers of fabric with his gaze the way he would trim bandages back to expose some interesting site of infection.
“We have seen little of you, Mr. Pembrook.” It was a statement, not a complaint, but he glowed as if it were. “Your studies must be keeping you very busy.”
“I’m readying for my licensing exam. It’s been a great privilege serving under your father as houseman. I’ve learned much from him and value his opinions on the directions I should take to become a fellow consultant here in London. Has he spoken to you of our conversations?”
And then his gaze slanted over to her, a brilliant chill of ambition. Arabella felt an answering plunge in emotional temperature. “No, he hasn’t.”
“Oh. Perhaps you should take more of an interest, my dear Miss Howland.”
“And why is that, sir?” As if she didn’t know.
“Because my future plans and yours might be heading in the same direction.”
“Really?”
They had reached the refreshment tables, but Wesley pulled her beyond them and out into the wide, empty foyer, where they would not be overheard. And there he pressed his suit. He clasped her gloved hands to his starched shirt front in an amorous pose and whispered fiercely, “Arabella, you cannot be unaware of how I feel for you.”
“Oh, I assure you, sir, I am well aware of your motives.” She tried to free herself, but his grip tightened, drawing her even closer.
“Then you know we are destined for one another,” he breathed in dramatic rapture.
“I know no such thing.” She glanced about, uncomfortably aware of their isolation. And of the way he was working himself up to some grand gesture. Really, she had no patience with him. She adopted her most frigid tone. “Now, please release me. I should like to return to my father.”
“Arabella, do not toy with my affections.”
“Sir, I assure you, I do not.”
“Then if it’s a token of my affection that you need, I can happily supply it.” And he leaned forward, aiming for her lips with an arrogant gusto.
Arabella was taken by surprise, yet managed to twist within his grasp so that his kiss fell upon her temple. His mouth was warm and wet and narrow, and a shiver of distaste shook through her... along with a tremor of pure anger.
“Let me go!”
“My dear, there’s no need to struggle! Your father will have no objections.” Laughing softly, as if he couldn’t believe she wouldn’t welcome his overtures, he tried for her lips again, and this time caught the end of her nose. His hands moved, releasing hers to curve about her ribcage in an indecently high position, cupping the weight of her breasts between thumb and forefinger with either span.
Then it was alarm as much as fury making her squirm, because he was so strong and so determined. “Please—”
The rest was smothered beneath the crush of his kiss.
Finally, a sense of revulsion and violation broke through her shock. But by then, Wesley had one arm securing her to his chest while the other hand made free with her bodice. The sound of conversation in the other room, so terribly close yet far removed, was drowned out by the pounding of her heart. The feel of his fingertips on the soft flesh swelling above her décolletage served to renew her fight. She was growing faint from the lack of air and frantic from the sudden cool of exposure as the scant coverage of muslin was tugged down, baring her boldly for his touch. Good heavens! He couldn’t mean to have his way with her, not right here in the hall, where anyone could come upon them and by discovery... compromise her, leaving her no choice but to wed to save her family’s reputation.
Perhaps that had been his plan all along.
What could she do? Scream? The scandal alone would serve his purpose well. There seemed nothing she could do except endure his crude caresses and hate him for the liberties he was taking. And hope her father would be as incensed as she was by his student’s unwanted advances.
But what if he wasn’t? What if her father was not displeased at all?
“Let her go.”
Though softly spoken, it was no less a command.
The instant Wesley’s grip slackened in startlement, Arabella jerked back and spun, colliding with a very solid figure. And there she was encircled with a sensation of security as the young medical student seethed at the interruption.
“Just who the bloody hell—”
“Enough.”
Again, so quiet, so powerful. A stillness followed, heard even over Arabella’s hurried gulps for breath. From the protective cove of Louis Radman’s embrace, she risked a backward glance and was stunned by Wesley’s expression. It was completely blanked of anger, of will, itself, as if caught in a mesmerist’s mental grasp. He stared fixedly not at her, but into Louis’s eyes. She followed that trancelike gaze up to the dark beauty of her rescuer’s face.
In anger, he was like a vengeful god. And oh, he was angry. It was manifest not so much by external means, but through a palpable vibration, of fury, of outrage, chafing poorly behind a facade of grace. She could feel it like the prickly concentration of electricity during a lightning storm. Violence charged the air.
“Did he harm you, little one? If so, I will crush him for you. I will grind his bones to powder.”
He put out one hand before Wesley’s unblinking eyes and curled his fingers into a white-knuckled fist. And in a sudden giddy alarm, Arabella realized that with one word from her, he would snap her assailant’s spine as easily as dry tinder. Regardless of Wesley’s superior size, she didn’t doubt it for a moment.
She put her hand over that taut fist of retribution, saying hurriedly, “No. It’s all right. I was only frightened.”
“Reason enough,” Louis growled, but his threat relaxed under the insistent entreaty of her hand over his. To Wesley, who seemed powerless to move or think on his own, Louis said with a terse impatience, “Leave us,” and without a flicker of objection, the medical student obeyed, as if helpless to do otherwise.
When they were alone, the shock of the encounter shivered through Arabella. She pressed her cheek against the shoulder of black superfine and let distress shake her loosely. She couldn’t believe Wesley would be so goaded by ambition as to force his attentions. She felt dirty and defiled and afraid of what had almost happened. Louis simply held her, letting her take from his strength and nearness, letting her recover at her own pace. Her arms were wound about his middle, and slowly, awareness of him overcame her horror. Awareness of how firm and warm he was, of the scent of expensive wool, some smoky cologne and the possessive circle of his body around her, protecting her from hurt and shame. And she was aware of her breasts tightening where they brushed, fully exposed, against his broad chest.
“Oh!” It was a squeak of dismay and embarrassment, but when she drew back and tried to cover herself with the modest wrap of her arms, he stilled her with a word.
“Don’t.”
Arabella froze, the sound of his voice seeping through her, suppressing panic, numbing thought, holding her in a paralysis of mind and body. Even her breathing stopped as the reality of the world fell away. There was nothing beyond the pinpoints of gold in his gaze, the way those dots of light seemed to swirl and seduce until she was overcome with languor. Her arms hu
ng heavy at her sides and remained there as his stare slid down from wide, bewildered eyes, to softly parted lips, to her breasts.
Perhaps only a second had passed, but it could have been longer—minutes, even hours, for all she knew. She lost the sensation of time as he stood there looking his fill. Not with lusting, not with passion or perversion, but rather with the appreciation a master had for a fine piece of work—leisurely, critically, reverently.
And then slowly, gently, his thumbs hooked in that displaced fabric, easing upward, sliding over and around until all that was meant to be concealed was hidden once more. She stood trembling for another long moment, no longer frightened, but frightfully aroused. And confused to think that one man could inspire such loathing with the warmth of his hands upon her, and another such urgent passion. And wondering distractedly why she felt no aversion to Louis Radman’s stare.
“Are you sure you are all right?”
His quiet concern woke her completely from the daze he’d cast about her. She blinked and chafed her palms along her arms. An odd feeling burned beneath her skin, a prickly pins-and-needles sensation, as if her limbs had gone to sleep... indeed, as if her whole body had. To cover her disorientation, Arabella focused on her anger, that powerful emotion returning her sense of self.
“Just feeling very foolish that I should be tricked into such a position. If it had been anyone else but you who’d come upon us...” She let that trail off, not wanting to think of it. Of being trapped into a pride-saving arrangement with Wesley Pembrook.
“I heard your struggles and could not let them go unanswered.”
“You heard—” But how could that be? The foyer had been empty. If someone had entered from the outside, surely she’d have known, would have felt the stir of air, heard the sound of the door, footsteps, something. Her plea for help couldn’t possibly have reached into the room beyond.
“You are too trusting, Miss Howland. And things are not always as harmless as they seem, nor are men always able to control the darkness within them when confronted by temptation.”
His small smile said he saw her as such, and Arabella’s pulse shivered in response. But because she was too sensible to be undone by flattery, she laughed, a bitter sound. “Oh, I don’t believe Mr. Pembrook was overwhelmed by temptation. I believe he was overcome by greed.”
Louis frowned. His dark brows met in a heavy vee above the bridge of his nose.
“He would like a place at my father’s side,” she explained, suddenly aware of how degrading that admission was to her self-esteem. “And one day, he would like all that my father has.”
“Including his daughter.”
“No, through his daughter.”
“Then the man is a fool. A dangerous fool. You are too intelligent to be taken in by his deceit and too great a prize to be given away to one so unworthy.”
Again, he managed to nonplus her with his smooth praise, for she could see no reason to disbelieve he meant what he said, even if she didn’t believe it was true. As if he could hear her deprecating thoughts, Louis reached out to lightly stroke his forefinger down her cheek, and again, Arabella was consumed by the desire to give all to this man who was a stranger and a mystery and more dangerous than Wesley Pembrook had ever thought of being. She’d never had such thoughts about Wesley, or about any other man. Just this one. And she wasn’t sure what to do about it.
His hand cupped her elbow gently, as if he thought her made of some fragile porcelain. And, for a moment, all she wanted to do was step into his embrace, to put back her head and beg for another of his fantastic kisses. But what would he think? After dragging her out of the arms of another man he’d come close to killing for stealing those same liberties...
“Let me take you back in to your father.”
His voice was a caress, as slow and sure as any touch. Arabella shivered again, wondering wildly why she felt so hot, so cold, so tremblingly out of control around him. Her weakness troubled her, but not enough to warn her away. Boldly, she put her hand on his sleeve, and tension snapped him taut beneath her touch.
“Please. He would be full of questions about Wesley, and I—I just can’t answer them yet.”
“Then perhaps you would allow me to escort you in. We shouldn’t linger out here alone. I don’t like placing you at risk.” And he smiled as if he was really talking about her reputation and not about something altogether darker and different.
“I would be honored with your company, my lord.”
“’Tis you who honor me, Miss Howland.”
He lifted her gloved fingertips to his lips then, turning her hand over within his, pressed a long, hot kiss to the inside of her wrist. She could feel the heat right through the layer of kid. For a moment, his eyes closed and the scorch of his breath intensified until the burning seemed to spread with tongues of fire up through her veins. With an abrupt jerk of his head, he straightened and averted his gaze. She was startled by the rasp of his breathing. Then he was his courtly self again, smiling blandly, weaving their way toward the doors and the crowd—and safety. That thought came to her quite unexpectedly. She hadn’t felt endangered, but instinctively, she sought the press of others. Louis Radman acted strangely upon her sensibilities. She wasn’t at all certain she should believe herself protected while in his company.
What was it he’d said?
Things are not always as harmless as they seem.
Once they were within the social crush, the disquieting panic left her. Louis was an exquisite companion, solicitous of her wishes, gracious to all who approached her out of familiarity and him out of curiosity. He seemed well versed about everyone in attendance and about their various fields of study. Strange that she should feel he was somehow restless within the confines of conversation, though he spoke easily enough and was generous with his close-lipped smile. Then, she knew as if he’d told her aloud, that he wanted to speak to her alone, yet here within the view of others.
“I would enjoy a glass of punch, my lord, and a short respite from all this clever banter.”
He bowed to her as if the idea was hers and not somehow planted through his own will. Beyond the refreshment table was a secluded alcove, far enough from the professional cozes for quiet converse. Louis was careful not to stand too close or to appear in any way improper as he held his glass but didn’t drink from it. He was scanning the gathering as he asked, “This Pembrook works with your father?”
“Yes. Father saw great promise in him when he attended his lecture courses. He’s managed to ingratiate himself into Father’s confidence—and, I fear, into his very practice.”
Louis looked slightly alarmed, but his voice never shook from its smooth cadence. “And is he privy to all that your father does?”
“Not all. He clerks for Father at the hospital, but he’s not yet managed to worm his way into our house.”
“What does he know about me?”
“About as much as I do.”
Louis gave her a piercing look. “And what do you know?” A low, vibrating authority took command of his question, and Arabella unconsciously took a step back.
“Nothing. You come, you go. Father has never confided what goes on in his office.”
He smiled, suddenly all charm again. His gaze was warm and intimate in its intensity. “And that bothers you, little one?”
How easily he read her moods. Arabella flushed and smiled faintly. “I am not used to being kept in the dark. Father usually values my assistance.”
“As he should. You are a most capable woman. It would not be hard to confide in you.”
“Will you?” The words slipped out before she could consider them. Then, she wasn’t sorry. She stared at him straight on, without a trace of apology for her bluntness, with the indignation of one caught in the chafe of secrets within her own home.
Louis was silent. He st
udied her intently, and she could feel him weighing her discretion. Apparently, he was satisfied, for he chose to reply.
“Your father is treating me for a rare blood disorder I contracted abroad. I sought him out because of a journal article he did on transfusing blood from animal to animal, and his work on allergens, a brilliant piece of research. We met and talked, and when we were through, I felt he was the one man who could help me put into application the knowledge I had accumulated over the... years. We have maintained our secrecy for both our sakes. I do not want the particulars of my affliction broadcast through Society, and he does not want it known that he is leaned toward a veiled specialism. It seems his colleagues would see such a move on his part as a threat and would boycott him by refusing to refer their patients and by excluding him from gatherings such as this one. So you see why we had to be cautious.”
Of course she did, but that didn’t stop her from a certain prickly disdain. “Well,” she huffed, “I can hardly be considered a threat. I would never do anything to endanger my father’s practice.” Then her gaze eased circumspectly over the man before her. Or you, she added silently, as she regarded the handsome marquis.
And he smiled at her. “I can see that now. I’m sorry if our exclusion has offended you in any way. It wasn’t a matter of trust.”
What, then, was it?
She studied him with the learned eye of one who had grown up within a medical household. He seemed fit at the moment, not prone to any wasting malady that she knew of. But she couldn’t forget the way he’d appeared that night in her father’s study—so gaunt, so obviously ill and suffering. He’d been so desperate during the conversation she’d overheard. And she worried.
“Your condition, is it—is it—” She struggled to find a tactful phrase.
He came eloquently to her rescue, his reply a little too blunt for comfort. “Fatal? No.” And with a rueful expression, he added, “Though there are times when I wish it had proved to be.”