by Piper Stone
“Of course, miss,” the milliner murmured.
The shop bell tinkled as Judith Chase walked in, clutching the arm of an older gentleman, a portly fellow with graying side whiskers and a nose like a pig’s.
Arabella pasted on a smile; Judith was very pretty and completely awful, a bully of the worst sort.
“Why, Arabella Linton! Are you making a purchase here? You do realize the prices are very dear.”
Arabella ground her teeth. “Merely window shopping.”
“Of course.” A comprehensive glance roved over Arabella’s shabby brown pelisse. “My love, may I introduce my classmate, Miss Linton? Arabella, this is my fiancé, Lord Gowther.”
Judith cast her a smug look, but Arabella could only feel pity. Fancy spending the rest of your life with an ugly man, old enough to be your father. Something of her feelings must have shown on her face, because Judith bridled, her lips thinning.
“Lord Gowther is the owner of one of the prettiest estates in Kent.”
“Gracious,” said Arabella. “My very best wishes for you both.”
“Miss Linton, there you are.” Miss Wilcox, her favorite teacher at the Swan Seminary for Young Ladies, beckoned from the shop threshold. “It is time we headed back.”
“Yes, Miss Wilcox.” Arabella left the shop, glancing over her shoulder at Judith and her betrothed. She suppressed a shudder. That would never be her fate. She wouldn’t stand for it.
Once back at the school on Kingsmead Street, Arabella went to her room, where she removed her pelisse and hung it on the hook by the door. A letter from Mama lay on her pillow. Arabella frowned. It must have come special delivery, otherwise it would have been passed out at dinner when the mail was distributed to the students. Arabella felt a presentiment of danger. She didn’t want to open it.
She collapsed on the wooden chair at the desk under the narrow window and stared at the envelope. What was so important that Mama must write to her, only days before she was to leave for home to spend Christmas? Perhaps one of the little ones was ill? Arabella chewed on her lip and stretched out a hand. She plucked up the envelope and tore open the seal.
Dearest Arabella,
I trust you are well and studying diligently. We are all keeping healthy, and Papa has been quite fortunate at cards recently. I must confess it is hard to sit here writing to you so calmly, when my hands are shaking with excitement. I have the most amazing, the most wonderful news to share with you.
The Duke of Rothley called yesterday to request your hand in marriage. I have never told you, but this betrothal has been my fondest wish since the day you were born. The duke’s mother was an old school friend of Papa’s eldest sister, Aunt Jane, who passed away some years ago. The two of them planned a marriage between the duke and Jane’s favorite niece – you, my love. Arabella, you will be a duchess! Wealthy beyond our wildest dreams. And I cannot deny, it will be the saving of all of us. Your poor Papa is, as you know, an indifferent manager of the family fortune.
Your betrothed has requested a Christmas wedding, so we are all at sixes and sevens trying to plan everything. The ceremony will be held St. George’s, Hanover Square, with the wedding breakfast at Rothley House afterward.
The duke is anxious to meet you, so I have written to your headmistress asking her to send you home early. There will be fittings and invitations and a seating plan... Oh my, so much work, and I couldn’t be happier, dearest daughter.
I will see you very soon,
Your loving mama
The letter fluttered to the floor. Arabella stared blankly out the window. No, it wasn’t fair. She had plans that didn’t include an arranged marriage to an old man she had never met in her life, even if he was a bloody duke. She wanted dances and Venetian breakfasts, waltzes with dashing rakes, and the occasional discreet flirtation. Lovely clothes and shoes, jewels, music… She wanted it all. Not to be trapped into marriage with an unsteady man like Papa, subject to a husband’s will, never to have fun. Her future was decided for her without any thought to her own wishes and dreams. To a man she had never even seen. No. Arabella clenched her fists. This was not to be borne.
But what to do? How to avoid this dreadful fate? Arabella paced the small room in rising agitation. She had only a small portion of her quarterly allowance remaining. Where could she go? After some minutes of racking her brain, inspiration struck. Her old nanny had retired to Oxford. Yes, she would seek refuge with Nanny Morrison, who could always be counted on to help her out. The only question was how to get there.
A post-chaise was out of the question, she hadn’t the funds. No, it was the stagecoach for her. Dreadfully common, still, Arabella couldn’t help but feel a frisson of excitement. To be out in the world, free of convention, with nary a chaperone in sight. She must be brave and resourceful. Her future, her very happiness, was at stake.
Traveling in a stagecoach was horrible, not at all like those thrilling tales when heroines ran away from their cruel guardians. It was slow and uncomfortable, the seat was hard, and Arabella was stuffed into the crowded carriage like a sausage in a pan, suffering through an endless chorus of sniffles, sneezes, and coughs from her fellow passengers. It all smelled quite peculiar.
The day had been fine when they set out from Bath, but now it was snowing heavily. Why hadn’t she just stayed at school? A vision of Judith and her fiancé swam in front of her tired eyes. That was why, because she didn’t want to compromise her future with an unwanted husband. The coach swayed and bumped over the road, making her stomach uneasy. Finally, Arabella dozed off. She fell into a dream filled with giant snowdrifts, where she wandered in the cold night, looking for someone. She spied a figure in the distance, but couldn’t make out his face.
Arabella awoke to the sound of screaming. The world suddenly tilted. She was shoved up against the window, a plump woman wedged on top of her. Someone else’s elbow was lodged in her kidney.
“What has happened?”
“There’s been an accident,” the woman croaked. “The coach has slid off the road and overturned.”
“I can’t breathe.”
The other door, which was now overhead, was wrenched open. A tall man with broad shoulders was outlined in the feeble light. “Is anyone hurt?” His voice, deep and commanding, made Arabella shiver.
“Can’t move my leg,” someone moaned.
“My head hurts,” said another.
“Right. Let’s get you all out of there.” The tall man reached down to help the closest passenger, pulling him free of the coach. The guard climbed into the coach to assist the rest of the passengers. It was a slow business, the carriage creaking ominously with each movement. Finally, it was Arabella’s turn.
“This young lady is the last of them.”
“Careful.”
The guard gave Arabella a boost, handing her up to their savior, who grabbed her waist and plucked her neatly from the wreck to deposit her on the road. Her head swam in an unpleasant manner.
“Are you going to swoon?” the man asked her, grasping her shoulder in a powerful grip.
Arabella pushed his hand away. “I never swoon. I’m merely dizzy.”
He looked back at the other passengers, huddled at the side of the road. “Who is your traveling companion?”
“I don’t have one.”
“A young lady traveling alone on a public stage? Dear me, what mischief are you up to?” His voice was amused.
“That is my affair, sir, and not yours.”
“You are wrong about that, miss. I cannot let a young girl wander alone around the country. My mother would beat me if I did.”
He grinned at her and Arabella realized that her savior was a very handsome man, younger than she’d thought, impeccably clad in a wool greatcoat with three capes and large silver buttons. A beaver hat sat at a rakish angle.
“Who are you?”
He hesitated for just a moment. “I am James Standen and you?”
“I shan’t tell you. I am traveling incognito
.”
Mr. Standen’s brow rose. “Indeed. Well, if it won’t impose on your masquerade, may I point out that it is freezing out here and there is an inn down the road? It’s just about a mile, but the weather is only growing worse.”
Arabella pouted. “I have to walk?”
“I sent my curricle on with the most injured of your fellow passengers.”
Arabella sniffed and set off down the road, slipping and sliding on the snowy surface.
Finally, Mr. Standen grabbed her hand and tucked it into his arm. “I don’t want to have to carry you, should you take a header.”
She opened her mouth to object, but then closed it. Walking was much easier with Mr. Standen guiding her, holding her upright when she slipped. He was very tall. In fact, Arabella’s head scarcely reached his shoulder.
“This is most inconvenient,” Arabella complained as they hurried along the road. “I must get to Oxford as soon as possible.”
“You do realize you could have been killed back there?”
“Nonsense. We merely overturned.”
“Yes, in the middle of a snowstorm. Some of your fellow passengers weren’t as lucky as you. One woman has a broken leg, and a man was barely conscious after getting knocked on the head.”
“I didn’t see them,” Arabella said, chastened. “I’m sorry for their injuries.”
“That’s better. I don’t like to see gently bred girls acting liked privileged little shrews.”
Arabella gasped in outrage, her breath a plume of white in the dark night. “How rude.”
“I beg your pardon, miss, but it appears that you are the one who has behaved badly. Very badly, indeed.”
Arabella glanced up at Mr. Standen. His profile looked very stern in the dim light.
“Ah,” he said, “there is the inn. We can get warm and then, miss, you can provide me with an explanation for this disgraceful behavior.”
Arabella’s heart sank into her frozen boots. What on earth could she tell him?
Chapter 2
The inn was an old building, worn and shabby. Arabella wrinkled her nose as she crossed the threshold. It smelled of smoke, stale ale, and mold. The entry was crowded with her fellow passengers, while the harried staff ran about trying to accommodate them. Mr. Standen pushed through the crowd. Arabella caught a glimpse of a golden guinea coin as it passed from Mr. Standen to the landlord.
He came back to collect her, a comforting hand under her elbow. “I’ve procured us a private parlor,” he said into ear, his warmth breath stirring her curls.
Arabella’s pulse quickened. “Thank you.” A peek into the taproom revealed a group of local men, rough in appearance and looking unhappy at the influx of new customers.
Mr. Standen ushered her inside a small room, where a fire burned cheerfully on the hearth. Two wingchairs sat on either side, with a small round table between them. Worn, faded curtains shut out the storm outside. He dropped her valise by the door and removed his hat.
Arabella stole a glance. His brows were well marked, arching above deep blue eyes. A blade of a nose dipped between high cheek bones and a firm mouth. His chin was decidedly square. It was a face of resolve, the face of a man who would make up his mind and act on it, a man of decision.
Arabella untied her bonnet and placed it on the table. She kept on her pelisse and sank into the nearest chair, stretching her chilled feet to the fire.
Mr. Standen hung up his coat and flung himself into the opposite chair. “Much better. The landlord is bringing brandy.” He eyed her curiously. “What is your name?”
Arabella closed her lips.
“I believe it starts with an ‘A’ and an ‘L’.
She gasped. “How did you know that?”
He pointed at her bag. “If you want to travel incognito, it’s best not to bring monogrammed luggage.”
Arabella flushed at his amusement.
“Shall I guess? Let me see, Anna Looby?”
She snorted. “No.”
“Augusta Lightfingers?”
“I am not a thief,” Arabella retorted, stung.
“Artemis Limbo?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she said crossly, “It’s Arabella Linton.”
Something flashed across his face, too quickly for her to identify.
“Where do you live, Miss Linton?”
She said nothing, her gaze fixed defiantly on a point somewhere beyond his shoulder.
“I see. May I ask why you are headed to Oxford?”
She maintained a stony silence. How dare this stranger presume to interrogate her?
“Very well. Shall I tell you what I think? You are a spoiled, impetuous girl running away from school or family for some reason. You don’t appear ill treated, nor concerned about your family’s feelings once they discover you are missing. Tell me, Miss Linton, how did I do?”
“You couldn’t be further from the truth.”
“And you are the prettiest little liar I’ve ever met. I’ll have the truth out of you, Miss Linton, mark me.”
Arabella tossed her head. “You have no rights over me.”
“We’ll see about that,” he said grimly. Mr. Standen captured her hand in a firm grip and pulled her up. “Bend over the chair.”
“I will not!”
“Miss Linton, I am not a patient man. I am cold and wet and tired. Obey me, or it will go much worse for you.”
Arabella hesitated. She didn’t even know this man.
“Now!” His voice was like a crack of thunder.
Arabella bent over the seat, her hands resting on the cushion. Did he mean to chastise her? A large hand spanked her bottom. Shock rippled through her. He had struck her. She could feel the sting, despite the layers of skirts.
“What would your parents think if they knew what you were doing?” Mr. Standen spanked her again and Arabella winced. “Would they be pleased? Proud to have their daughter traveling on a common stage, without protection?” Another very hard stroke fell across her bottom. “Well?” The spanking continued.
“No! They would be upset and ashamed.” Arabella’s voice wobbled on the last word.
“Yes,” Mr. Standen agreed. “They would be.” He helped her to stand and pulled out a pristine white handkerchief to wipe her eyes.
She hadn’t even realized that she was crying.
“Now, we will find some supper, and then you will get some rest. We will deal with everything else tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Standen smiled at her, and Arabella’s traitorous heart beat faster. She was still angry, her bottom still smarting from his touch. But, strangely, she also felt the tiniest bit of relief. He saw right through her. Mr. Standen was a worthy opponent, but Arabella hadn’t given up the fight just yet. Not by a long shot.
After a supper of mutton stew and crusty bread, Mr. Standen escorted her upstairs to the bedchamber he had procured for her. He brought her inside, inspecting the room and examining the lock. “You should be safe here. I’ll be back later to check on you.”
Arabella looked around the small chamber and shivered in the draft from the window. The bed looked lumpy and the fire smoked, but she was out of the storm and safe for now, and under the protection of a gentleman. It could be worse.
She washed her hands and face and changed into her nightgown, tying a cap over her curls. Arabella slid between the ice-cold sheets, still shivering, until she fell into an uneasy doze. She awoke some time later to find the fire out and no wood or coal in evidence. A pull on the bell brought no response. It was freezing in here.
Reluctantly, she left the shelter of the bed to cross the cold floor. She opened the door and looked out into the corridor. The sounds from the taproom drifted upward – raucous laugher and the sound of male voices, some angry. Arabella shrank back into the room and dived into the bed. She hadn’t been there long when a tap sounded on the door, followed by a key turning in the lock. Arabella huddled in the bed, her pulse beating rapidly.
�
��Who’s there?”
The knob turned slowly. Arabella stared, mesmerized in horror, waiting to see who would enter, as she wondered wildly how to protect herself. The door swung open. Arabella could scarcely breathe.
“My dear girl, you look almost congealed.” Mr. Standen walked in. “Why didn’t you have the fire made up?”
“I rang the bell, but no one answered.” Arabella plucked at the covers. “I was afraid to go and ask. Those men downstairs are so very loud.”
“Yes, they are a rough sort. I don’t want them laying eyes on you. They have been drinking for hours.” Mr. Standen crossed to the door. “You stay here, while I fetch some coal and something warm to drink. Lock the door behind me.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “It will be all right, Arabella, I promise.”
She nodded, waiting until he left before jumping out of bed and speeding across the room to turn the key in the lock. Her delight in her adventure was beginning to pall. If not for Mr. Standen’s stalwart presence, she would be frightened. But when he told her she would safe, she believed him absolutely. There was such strength and confidence about the man.
He returned in a quarter of an hour with a bucket of coal, several blankets, and the maid carrying a tray of tea. She placed the tray on the table near the bed and poured Arabella a cup, handing it to her. Then she laid the extra blankets across the bed.
“Anything else, sir?”
Mr. Standen set down the poker. The fire blazed up merrily. He handed the maid a coin. She gave him a huge smile and curtsied before she left. Mr. Standen must be a generous tipper.
“There, that’s better. Are you warmer, my dear?”
She had finally stopped shivering. “Much. Thank you, Mr. Standen.”
“You are entirely welcome, Miss Linton.” He pulled something from his pocket. “Ah, I had forgotten. A nice, heated brick to warm your toes. May I?”
Arabella nodded.
Mr. Standen pulled up the bedclothes, revealing Arabella’s bare feet. He tucked the brick underneath her, drawing the covers back into place.