“Well,” said Martin, wondering why the information so thrilled him, “just subdue any of these sudden impulses of yours. Except around me, of course. I dare say it’s perfectly all right with me, in the circumstances. You are my brother’s ward, after all.”
Lizzie, still stunned by her forward behaviour, and the sudden impulse that had driven her to it, smiled trustingly up at him.
———
Caroline smiled her practised smile and wished, for at least the hundredth time, that Max Rotherbridge were not their guardian. At least, she amended, not her guardian. He was proving a tower of strength in all other respects and she could only be grateful, both for his continuing support and protection, as well as his experienced counsel over the affair of Sarah and Lord Darcy. But there was no doubt in her mind that her own confusion would be immeasurably eased by dissolution of the guardianship clause which tied her so irrevocably to His Grace of Twyford.
While she circled the floor in the respectful arms of Mr. Willoughby who, she knew, was daily moving closer to a declaration despite her attempts to dampen his confidence, she was conscious of a wish that it was her guardian’s far less gentle clasp she was in. Mr. Willoughby, she had discovered, was worthy. Which was almost as bad as righteous. She sighed and covered the lapse with a brilliant smile into his mild eyes, slightly below her own. It was not that she despised short men, just that they lacked the ability to make her feel delicate and vulnerable, womanly, as Max Rotherbridge certainly could. In fact, the feeling of utter helplessness that seemed to overcome her every time she found herself in his powerful arms was an increasing concern.
As she and her partner turned with the music, she sighted Sarah, dancing with one
of her numerous court, trying, not entirely successfully, to look as if she was enjoying it. Her heart went out to her sister. They had stayed at home the previous night and, in unusual privacy, thrashed out the happenings of the night before. While Sarah skated somewhat thinly over certain aspects, it had been clear that she, at least, knew her heart But Max had taken the opportunity of a few minutes’ wait in the hall at Twyford House to let both herself and Sarah know, in the most subtle way, that Lord Darcy had left town for his estates. She swallowed another sigh and smiled absently at Mr. Willoughby.
As the eldest, she had, in recent years, adopted the role of surrogate mother to her sisters. One unfortunate aspect of that situation was that she had no one to turn to herself. If the gentleman involved had been anyone other than her guardian, she would have sought advice from Lady Benborough. In the circumstances, that avenue, too, was closed to her. But, after that interlude in the Overtons’s summer-house, she was abysmally aware that she needed advice. All he had to do was to take her into his arms and her well-ordered defences fell flat. And his kiss! The effect of that seemed totally to disorder her mind, let alone her senses. She had not yet fathomed what, exactly, he was about, yet it seemed inconceivable that he would seduce his own ward. Which fact, she ruefully admitted, but only to herself when at her most candid, was at the seat of her desire to no longer be his ward.
It was not that she had any wish to join the demimonde. But face facts she must. She was nearly twenty-six and she knew what she wanted. She wanted Max Rotherbridge. She knew he was a rake and, if she had not instantly divined him standing as soon as she had laid eyes on him, Lady Benborough’s forthright remarks on the subject left no room for doubt. But every tiny particle of her screamed that he was the one. Which was why she was calmly dancing with each of her most ardent suitors, careful not to give any one of them the slightest encouragement, while waiting for her guardian to claim her for the dance before supper. On their arrival in the overheated ballroom, he had, in a sensual murmur that had wafted the curls over her ear and sent shivery tingles all the way down her spine, asked her to hold that waltz for him. She looked into Mr. Willoughby’s pale eyes. And sighed.
———
“Sir Malcolm, I do declare you’re flirting with me!” Desperation lent Arabella’s bell-like voice a definite edge. Using her delicate feather fan to great purpose, she flashed her large eyes at the horrendously rich but essentially dim-witted Scottish baronet, managing meanwhile to keep Hugo, Lord Denbigh, in view. Her true prey was standing only feet away, conversing amiably with a plain matron with an even plainer daughter. What was the matter with him? She had tried every trick she knew to bring the great oaf to her tiny feet, yet he persistently drifted away. He would be politely attentive but seemed incapable of settling long enough even to be considered one of her court. She had kept the supper waltz free, declaring it to be taken to all her suitors, convinced he would ask her for that most favoured dance. But now, with supper time fast approaching, she suddenly found herself facing the prospect of having no partner at all. Her eyes flashing, she tinned in welcome to Mr. Pritchard and Viscount Molesworth.
She readily captivated both gentlemen, skilfully steering clear of any lapse of her own rigidly imposed standards. She was an outrageous flirt, she knew, but a discerning flirt, and she had long made it her policy never to hurt anyone with her artless chatter. She enjoyed the occupation but it had never involved her heart. Normally, her suitors happily fell at her feet without the slightest assistance from her. But, now that she had at last found someone she wished to attract, she had, to her horror, found she had less idea of how to draw a man to her side than plainer girls who had had to learn the art.
To her chagrin, she saw the musicians take then-places on the rostrum. There was only one thing to do. She smiled sweetly at the three gentlemen around her. “My dear sirs,” she murmured, her voice mysteriously low, “I’m afraid I must leave you. No! Truly. Don’t argue.” Another playful smile went around. “Until later, Sir Malcolm, Mr. Pritchard, my lord.” With a nod and a mysterious smile she moved away, leaving the three gentlemen wondering who the lucky man was.
Slipping through the crowd, Arabella headed for the exit to the ballroom. Doubtless there would be an antechamber somewhere where she could hide. She was not hungry anyway. She timed her exit to coincide with the movement of a group of people across the door, making it unlikely that anyone would see her retreat. Once in the passage, she glanced about. The main stairs lay directly in front of her. She glanced to her left in time to see two ladies enter one of the rooms. The last thing she needed was the endless chatter of a withdrawing-room. She turned purposefully to her right. At the end of the dimly lit corridor, a door stood open, light from the flames of a hidden fire flickering on its panels. She hurried down the corridor and, looking in, saw a small study. It was empty. A carafe and glasses set in readiness on a small table suggested it was yet another room set aside for the use of guests who found the heat of the ballroom too trying. With a sigh of relief, Arabella entered. After some consideration, she left the door open.
She went to the table and poured herself a glass of water. As she was replacing the glass, she heard voices approaching. Her eyes scanned the room and lit on the deep window alcove; the curtain across it, if fully drawn, would make it a small room. On the thought, she was through, drawing the heavy curtain tightly shut.
In silence, her heart beating in her ears, she listened as the voices came nearer and entered the room, going towards the fire. She waited a moment, breathless, but no one came to the curtain. Relaxing, she turned. And almost fell over the large pair of feet belonging to the gentleman stretched at his ease in the armchair behind the curtain.
“Oh!” Her hand flew to her lips in her effort to smother the sound. “What are you doing here?” she whispered furiously.
Slowly, the man turned his head towards her. He smiled. “Waiting for you, my dear.”
Arabella closed her eyes tightly, then opened them again but he was still there. As she watched, Lord Denbigh unfurled his long length and stood, magnificent and, suddenly, to Arabella at least, oddly intimidating, before her. In the light of the full moon spilling through the large windows, his tawny eyes roved appreciatively over her. He caught her small hand in his and raised it to his lips. “I didn’t think you’d be long.”
His lazy tones, pitched very low, washed languidly over Arabella. With a conscious effort, she tried to break free of their hypnotic hold. “How could you know I was coming here? I didn’t.”
“Well,” he answered reasonably, “I couldn’t think where else you would go, if you didn’t have a partner for the supper waltz.”
He knew! In the moonlight, Arabella’s fiery blush faded into more delicate tints but the effect on her temper was the same. “You oaf!” she said in a fierce whisper, aiming a stinging slap at the grin on his large face. But the grin grew into a smile as he easily caught her hand and drew it down and then behind her, drawing her towards him. He captured her other hand as well and imprisoned that in the same large hand behind her back.
“Lord Denbigh! Let me go!” Arabella pleaded, keeping her voice low for fear the others beyond the curtain would hear. How hideously embarrassing to be found in such a situation. And now she had another problem. What was Hugo up to? As her anger drained, all sorts of other emotions came to the fore. She looked up, her eyes huge and shining in the moonlight, her lips slightly parted in surprise.
Hugo lifted his free hand and one long finger traced the curve of her full lower lip.
Even with only the moon to light his face, Arabella saw the glimmer of desire in his eyes. “Hugo, let me go. Please?”
He smiled lazily down at her. “In a moment, sweetheart. After I’ve rendered you incapable of scratching my eyes out.”
His fingers had taken hold of her chin and he waited to see the fury in her eyes before he chuckled and bent his head until his lips met hers.
Arabella had every intention of remaini
ng aloof from his kisses. Damn him—he’d tricked her! She tried to whip up her anger, but all she could think of was how wonderfully warm his lips felt against hers. And what delicious sensations were running along her nerves. Everywhere. Her body, entirely of its own volition, melted into his arms.
She felt, rather than heard, his deep chuckle as his arms shifted and tightened about her. Finding her hands free and resting on his shoulders, she did not quite know what to do with them. Box his ears? In the end, she twined them about his neck, holding him close.