Margaret Moore (16 page)

How the devil—?

Cheddersby! He never should have let Foz know about that! He should have waited until he was more in mastery of his feelings. Still, there was no point in dissembling. “He threatens to do so, my lady.”

“Then you should wed her.”

“As delighted as I am to know that you take my concerns to heart, my lady, you must know my father would never approve.”

“Wed her anyway,” Lady Castlemaine replied in a tone that was very nearly a command. “Wed her in secret, if you must. Or bed her first and get her with child. Do whatever is necessary. Surely it will not be a hardship.”

Neville regarded the beautiful courtesan. She must consider Arabella a threat, and judging by what he himself had witnessed when the king had spoken to Arabella, this feeling was not without merit.

He also realized that becoming the king’s mistress would certainly prevent Arabella from stealing his inheritance. So would marrying her himself—and of the two, he knew which he would prefer. Nevertheless, he did not think either a likely occurrence. “She is quite adamant that she wishes to marry for love.”

Lady Castlemaine laughed raucously. “Marry for love? Is she a fool?”

“No,” he replied gravely, attempting to hide his own disgust at her callous response. “Naive, perhaps, and moral, but not a fool. Therefore, I doubt the lady would ever agree to become my wife.”

Barbara stretched out like a contented cat, raising her shapely arms over her head and regarding him with a playful smile. “You will forgive me, Farrington, if I do not concur. Any woman would be delighted by your attentions. I am sure you could make her fall in love with you with very little effort.”

He acknowledged her compliment with a bow. “Unfortunately, I fear she shares my father’s opinion of me, something not unexpected considering she has spent some weeks in his company.”

“You can overcome any poor opinion, surely.”

“You do not know the lady.”

“I am glad I do not. She sounds frightful.”

“You need have no fear of her, my lady. She may be flattered by the king’s attention, but it will go no further with her.”

Her eyes flashing, Lady Castlemaine climbed from the bed. “I fear no woman. I have ways of ensuring that the king remembers me.”

“So I understand.”

She sauntered close to Neville, and her heavy, musky perfume surrounded him. “How is it you have never come here before, Farrington?” she asked in a low, sultry voice.

He stood as stiffly as a soldier, knowing that no matter how debased he felt by her perusal—as Arabella must have felt at the theater, perhaps—it would not be wise to insult her. “I have never been invited, my lady.”

She walked behind him. “I have been most remiss.”

“The king no doubt occupies your thoughts constantly. And perhaps, occasionally, your husband.”

From behind him, a lilting trill of a laugh echoed through the vast chamber. “Roger? He is happy in his Irish bog.”

He is surely happy to be away from you and the shame you bring to his name
, Neville thought coldly.

Then he jumped as she reached around to caress his manhood. “Most remiss,” she murmured in his ear, her breath hot on his cheek.

Absolutely disgusted, he stepped away and turned to face her. “If that is all you wish to speak to me about, Lady Castlemaine, I beg to be excused.”

She regarded him steadily, and with not one hint of contrition. “This Arabella displeases me, Farrington,” she said in a cold, businesslike tone. “I would have her gone from court. If you marry her, so much the better for us both. But if you cannot or will not do what is necessary, I will see that someone does.”

She smiled sweetly, reminding Neville of what she might have been had she been pure and good. “Since she is pretty and stands to come into a considerable fortune, I dare say some will not be overly fastidious about gaining her consent.”

Neville suddenly felt ill. He knew what she was really saying: that there were those among her friends who would be willing—nay, eager—to force Arabella to marry them, even to the point of raping her to make her bend to their will.

Never in his life had he hated anyone as much as he hated Barbara Castlemaine at this moment. “Good night, my lady.”

“Must you leave?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Then adieu, Lord Farrington, and good luck.”

Congratulating herself on managing to escape Lady Lippet, the eager Lord Cheddersby, and Lord Belmaris—who was surely the most boring man she had ever had the misfortune to meet—Arabella slipped through a pair of doors leading to what she thought must be the king’s Privy Garden.

She had guessed aright. The garden itself was nearly bright as day from the full moon, which made the statuary cast odd shadows. The moist scent of the river reached her nostrils, while in other parts of the garden, soft voices murmured, their owners hidden by trees and shrubbery.

She was very glad to be out of the hustle and bustle of the Banqueting House. Here she could find some peace, she thought with a weary sigh.

A male shape appeared on the path, and she tried to slip into the shadows.

“Arabella? Is that you?”

She didn’t respond to Neville Farrington’s query.

“I do believe it is,” he drawled as he sauntered closer, “or a statue very like her. I shall have to touch, perhaps, to see if this is a woman made of flesh or only a statue made of stone.”

She stepped onto the path.

He halted and regarded her. “You are in the Privy Garden alone? Where are your many admirers? I’faith, you seem unable to keep any company about you.”

“I came for some quiet. I am not used to the crowd. Surely there is nothing wrong with that.”

His low chuckle tilled the air between them. “Men and women do not come here at such an hour to be alone.”

Suddenly, the soft sounds from nearby took on a completely different meaning, and Arabella blushed hotly. “I … I had no idea.”

“I thought not.”

Then she straightened her shoulders. “Where is your companion, then, my lord?”

“Mine?”

“I understand that men and women do not come to the Privy Garden at such an hour to be alone.”

“Perhaps I, too, desired some quiet.”

“Yet I was given to understand you thrived in the atmosphere of the court.”

“That would be my father’s opinion.”

“You would deny it?”

“Would you believe me if I did?”

She could make no reply to that, since she could not be sure what to believe about him. “You are finished with Lady Castlemaine, then?”

“Indeed, I am.”

He sounded very sincere about that, but she told herself she didn’t care what he had been doing with that woman.

“Run along, Lady Arabella. You have a mighty task, and hiding in the garden will not prove conducive to its accomplishment.”

“I am not hiding.”

He smiled mockingly as he inclined his head. “Very well, you are not hiding. You are standing in the darkest corner of the king’s garden because you enjoy the smell of the Thames.”

She ignored his sarcasm. “What is this mighty task you speak of?”

“Why, the selection of your husband, of course. So many fine courtiers to choose from!”

“So many like you, I fear.”

“Perhaps you would have been wiser to stay in Grantham.”

“Given what I have seen of life in London, I cannot disagree, but since I have come to London, what would you have me do? Huddle in the corner like a mouse? Never venture outside at all?”

“That would be the safest thing.”

“I must stay in the house like a prisoner when I have done nothing wrong except to be a young woman who desires to be married?”

She could not see his face clearly, and when he spoke, his voice sounded completely without emotion. “Except to be a beautiful young
woman who stands to come into a great deal of money.”

“So I am to blame? It is my fault that I am pretty and that my father left me ten thousand pounds?”

Neville started. If she had ten thousand pounds, she most certainly did not need his father’s money, too!

Arabella folded her arms indignantly. “My father was right. Money is a curse!”

“When you marry, you may be cursed even more,” he observed, attempting to discover how much she knew of his father’s plans.

“If I do not marry for love, I will be cursed. I would rather be poor and happy.”

“You have no need to marry if you have ten thousand pounds.”

“I … I want to be married. I want to be a wife and a mother.”

“You sound most sincere.”

“I am. Therefore I will not hide in your father’s house. I have been a prisoner long enough, since I was twelve years old and the men in Grantham started to look at me differently. I had to beg my father to allow me to go to the market, and then I had to worry all the time that he would accuse me of sinning with some boy—as if I would have taken that chance, knowing how he would punish me if I had. Perhaps I should have, for I was punished nonetheless.”

“So you have been falsely accused.”

“Yes.”

“I know very well how that feels,” he murmured.

“So do I,” she reminded him.

“How did your father punish you?” he asked, his hands balling into fists at the thought than anyone would hurt her.

“He did … nothing.”

Neville felt as if he had tripped unexpectedly. “Nothing?”

“My father never said a word when he thought I had done something wrong. He simply meditated in endless silence until I thought I would go mad trying to figure out how I had erred and if I could do anything to correct it.”

“That is better than being constantly berated.”

She cocked her head as she looked at him. “While that is surely unpleasant, my lord, at least you knew of what you stood accused and could amend your behavior if you would.”

“Familial harmony can be as easy as that?” he asked sarcastically.

“Constant criticism would be easier to bear than stony silence, I think. But my father also believed in a certain amount of mortification of the flesh. Fasting was his preferred method.”

“My father would say it has done you good.”

“Perhaps it has. I cannot say.”

“Maybe I should try fasting. You would no doubt agree I am in need of improvement.”

She hesitated a moment. “Yes.”

“By the world, you don’t sound very sure. Am I improving upon acquaintance?”

“Perhaps. Would you say that your father’s accusations about you are
all
unjustified?”

“I pay no heed to them. I have not for years, since I left his estate.”

“That isn’t true,” she declared, fixing a gaze of absolute conviction upon him. “You care very much what he thinks, and it disturbs you greatly that he has such a low opinion of you, especially since you feel it unjustified.”

“Upon what do you base this incredible conclusion?”

“What I see,” she answered honestly. “I, too, have tried to please an intolerant parent.”

Neville met her steadfast gaze. “I wish I knew the truth about you.”

“What do you care to know? I have nothing to hide.”

“Truly?”

“Ask of me what you will, my lord, and I shall answer as best I can,” she said, straightening her shoulders as if bracing herself for his interrogation.

“Why do you want to marry if you are rich?”

“Because I want a husband and children,
and an honorable woman has few other choices when it comes to her future.”

“How do you feel about my father?”

“I respect him and am grateful for his guardianship.”

“So you think him a fine man?”

“I think he is a man who can be fine but also stubborn. He holds his own opinions dear and will not allow dissent.”

Neville laughed softly and stepped closer to her. “I credit your perception. What do you think of me?”

“That you are not as you pretend to be.”

“What is that?”

“Unfeeling. Uncaring. Unconcerned.”

“You would tear all my masks off, is that it?”

“Yes, for they do not become you.”

“You had best take care, Arabella. Say much more, and I shall believe you care about me.”

“Should I not?”

“My father would tell you I am unfeeling, uncaring and unconcerned about anybody but myself.”

“That is not so.”

“Perhaps,” he whispered as he reached for her and pulled her gently into his arms.

He felt her initial resistance and drew back slightly. “I would change for you,” he whispered.

Her gaze searched his face, and then she smiled.

Once more he kissed her, struggling to control his fierce desire so that she wouldn’t run away. Embracing him tightly as if she longed to stay in his arms forever, she laid her cheek against his rapidly rising and falling chest.

Then, to his infinite joy, she raised herself on her toes and kissed him fervently. Her mouth took his with all the passion he could ever hope for and with a boldness all the more exciting because this was not a woman who would ever do such a thing merely for a moment’s fleeting excitement.

Here and now, hers was a willing, seemingly selfless surrender, as if she was giving not just her lips or her body to him but something of her self. Her soul.

As if she found him worthy of so great a gift.

Then he knew that no matter what his father planned, he respected and cherished Arabella as he had no other woman.

And he wanted her more than he had wanted any other woman.

His arms tightened about her as if he would never let her go. With an urgency that was tender yet imperative, his tongue probed, and she yielded.

Their kiss deepened as he guided her further into the shadows, until her back met the garden wall.

He never wanted to stop kissing her.

And he wanted to give her all the pleasure he could.

His mouth still upon hers, his hand slipped inside her bodice and found her soft, rounded breast. How perfect, and how arousing to note the hardened nub beneath his fingers.

Moaning softly, she arched as if offering him whatever he chose. With her, there would be no giving and taking as if their bodies and passion were goods to be exchanged or bartered, or a competition to prove skill.

They would share freely, as true lovers should.