Mad About the Major (14 page)

“Me?”

“Yes,” he said quietly as his head dipped down. “You are a bird with no song.”

I was until today
, she thought as his lips covered hers yet again, and their bodies fit back together, finding the rhythm that sang a song only they could hear.

W
hen Arabella awoke, the sun was starting to peek over the roofs and ridgelines of London. With it being so late in the spring, nearly summer, she knew the hour was early. Far earlier than she usually got up.

Today, she realized, smiling at the bright hint of sunshine, she was akin to the milkmaid.

And her smile only widened as she rolled over looking for Kingsley. But her joy was short-­lived, for to her shock she found herself alone, the space beside her cold.

He was gone.

“Not gone,” she told herself, as she scuttled out of the great bed, only to find her body was tender and shaky all at once—­unused as it was to spending a night making love.

He did love her.
He did.

Once she found her footing, she fished around for her clothes, scattered as they were over the Turkish carpet.

Kingsley's, she noted, were gone.

“Not to worry,” she told herself as she hurriedly dressed. “He's close at hand.”

But he wasn't. The library across the hall was empty. As was the rest of the floor. She hurried down the stairs, past the paintings, which the night before had seemed rakish and devil-­may-­care.

Now they all frowned down at her in scornful disdain.

“He is here,” she told an imperious-­looking matron hung over the last stair.

Yet he wasn't. The house was empty. She called for him, and then searched the main floor, even venturing down into the kitchen, which was cold and dark.

As she returned to the foyer by the front door, her heart raced.

He's here
, it seemed to be saying.
He must be
.

Yet when she got to the dining room, she spied the window they'd come in through, cracked open.

She went to the sill and hoisted the frame open the rest of the way, but there was no sign of him in the gardens beyond.

Kingsley was gone. Well and gone.

Arabella's legs gave out beneath her as the realization hit her full force; an echo of Mrs. Spenser's warning rang through her.

Or worse, something will change. Kingsley's opinions will change. And then. . .

Everything had changed and now . . . he'd abandoned her.

No, no, it cannot be
, her heart cried out.
You're mistaken.

Her fingers curled into the heavy frame and she laid her forehead against the smooth wood. Willed the tears rising in her eyes to remain where they belonged, shuttered tight inside her heart.

Yet they escaped, despite her best intentions, and the sobs that followed came in great, gulping moans.

For as only a Tremont would know, when one gambled, when one put all their cards on the table, it was just as likely that they would lose.

And Arabella had done just that, wagered everything she had on last night, and lost it all come morning.

Including her heart.

Sitting down on the hard parquet floor, she swiped at her nose with the back of her sleeve.

Oh, good heavens, whatever was she supposed to do now? She wasn't even too sure where in London she was, or how to get home. There was no footman to send for a carriage. No one to take a note to her father to come and fetch her.

She glanced down at herself and realized she was a rumpled mess.

Not even dear Cantley would recognize her if she even managed to find her own front door.

Home. She took another tremulous glance down at her state of
dishabille
and wondered if her father would even let her in.

If. . .

That
if
relied on the very unlikely hope of finding her way home.

Yet rescue came not like a knight on a horse, spurs jangling and horse snorting and pawing at the ground, but in the clank of a wagon and the bright notes of a jaunty whistle.

Arabella sat up, for the song was not unlike the one Kingsley had tried to teach her the night before. She sniffed one more time and then absently swiped at her nose and remaining tears.

Getting up, she poked her head out the opening and looked toward the mews.

Again that song sent a tingle down her spine, called to her even as she heard the clank of buckets that signaled not her knight errant, or rather her errant knight, but someone else.

Next door the garden gate swung open, and over the wall, Arabella spied a milkmaid dashing up the walk toward the kitchen door.

The milkmaid!
Her milkmaid.

She all but launched herself out the window, tumbling over the window frame and falling onto the grass below.

“Botheration,” she cursed as she righted herself, for now there was a large green stain down the front of her muslin gown.

No matter. She'd be home in no time.

She hurried out the garden gate and came nearly nose to nose with the girl she'd envied all these months.

Close up, the milkmaid had mousy brown hair and a stub of a nose, while her cheeks were bright like a bushel of fall apples. A dark spattering of freckles covered her face.

“Gar!” the girl said, stepping back. “You demmed well scared me witless! I've a good mind to—­” She raised her bucket and looked to be about to dash it over Arabella's head, when she stopped, her bucket held aloft while her mouth fell open. “Gar! I'm going bloody mad.” She closed her eyes and shook her head, but when she opened her stubby dark lashes again, she looked at Arabella like she was seeing a ghost.

Which in some sense, she was.

“You know who I am, don't you?” Arabella asked.

The girl nodded, and slowly the bucket came down to rest beside her hip.

“And you know where my house is, don't you?”

“Aye,” the girl replied as if testing the word.

“Can you take me there?”

The girl tipped her head and studied Arabella from the top of her tousled hair to the rumpled state of her hem. “Gotten lost, have ya?”

“Yes, I fear so,” Arabella admitted.

“Then you best be getting in beside me. London is no place for a lady.”

“So I've been told.” She followed the girl to the back of the wagon, where the milkmaid hopped up and in with a practiced ease. When she looked back and could see the hesitation in Arabella's stance, she held out her hand and pulled her up.

When she smiled, Arabella could see her teeth were crooked, but there was a kindness in her eyes that confirmed everything Arabella had ever suspected about her.

Then the milkmaid glanced over her shoulder, where the old man who drove the wagon gaped at the pair of them. “Oh, gar, close your mouth there, ol' Pete, afore you catch flies. She isn't the first girl to come home like this.” The girl turned around and winked at Arabella, her legs swinging over the end of the wagon. “And I feared you won't be the last.”

The wagon lurched to a start, and Arabella had to catch hold of the railing to keep from tumbling out.

Down the alleyway they went, stopping for the girl to deliver the milk, her jaunty whistle heralding in the day, just as dependable as the sun.

 

C
HAPTER 11

T
he Duke of Parkerton was at his wit's end.

“We'll find her,” his brother Jack promised for about the hundredth time. But even now, Jack's notorious rakish confidence seemed to be waning. “We'll find her,” he repeated, this time, it seemed, for himself.

“How?” Parkerton asked, looking up and down the traffic-­clogged streets. They'd searched for Arabella all the day before and through the night and now, without a lick of sleep, the duke was even more determined to find where his missing daughter had gone.

“By not giving up,” Jack replied. He turned and tipped his hat in promise to Elinor, and again to his wife, Miranda, who stood arm in arm with the duchess.

Parkerton ruffled at the very thought. Give up?
Never
. He'd forgive his daughter anything to have her back. She could take the rest of her life to find a husband if she so desired.

Just so she came home.

Arabella. His dear and beautiful daughter. His heart clenched tight in his chest and he wished for the thousandth time he could just summon her home.

Then as he swung up into his saddle, he heard the sunny whistle of the milkmaid coming down the street. The bright, merry refrain stopped him cold for it was the very same tune that Arabella had held out as the clarion call of freedom.

If only he'd listened to her then. Let her follow her heart.

What was it Elinor had said about holding her so tight?
She'd slip away eventually.

And she had.

“Parkerton,” Jack said, nudging him, and nodding toward the milk wagon.

Sitting alongside the milkmaid was a bedraggled but familiar figure.

“Arabella!” Parkerton exclaimed, leaping from his horse and crossing the distance between them in a flash.

“Papa!” Arabella said, rushing to him. “I'm so sorry.”

“No, no, I was wrong,” he told her as he enfolded her into his arms.

Oh, good God! She was home. Relief flooded him as he held her out at arm's length and gave her a sweeping examination.

That was until she spoke.

“I'll go to Landsdowne,” she said, agony biting at her words. “Take me today. I'll marry whoever you wish. Just take me far from London.”

K
ingsley had searched high and low for Birdie most of the morning, driving circles through Mayfair, hoping to catch sight of her blue bonnet or even a ringlet of chestnut hair.

He'd left the house for only a short time—­having gone out to find them something to break their fast, because he had grand plans for the day.

Yet by the time he'd returned, his Birdie had taken flight.

But his search was to no avail, until he was riding round Berkeley Square—­yet again—­when he spied someone he did know.

“Augie,” he called out, pulling his horses to a stop.

His friend nearly jumped out of his jacket. “What the devil! Kingsley! Don't sneak up on a fellow like that. Poorly done, my good man. Poorly done.” Lord Augustus tugged at his jacket, while his jaw worked back and forth.

“I need your assistance. You've got to help me find her,” Kingsley said, his hand raking through his hair.

“Find who?” Augie asked.

Find who? He needed to ask? Kingsley thought he was going mad. “Birdie. I've got to find Birdie.”

Augie's eyes widened and then turned murderous. “You lost her?”

“No. Well, sort of—­”

“Good God, man, what have you done?”

Kingsley groaned. “She ran away from me. I need to find her. Please, Augie, you must help me.”

“Don't see why I should help you if Birdie felt the need to run away,” he huffed, and turned to leave.

“I want to make her my wife,” he all but shouted at Augie's departing back.

The little man paused and slowly turned around. “Who? Birdie?”

“Yes. Who else?”

“Now there's a fine joke,” Augie barked. “Wait until Roscoe hears—­”

“I don't think this is any sort of joke, Augie. You are speaking of my soon-­to-­be wife.”

“You want to make some gel you barely know your future duchess?”

Kingsley flinched a bit. He wouldn't say he barely knew her.

And unfortunately Augie saw that as well. “Demmit, Kingsley! You didn't! Not Birdie! Oh, this is a fine fettle.”

Whyever did he sound so horrified? It wasn't like he'd ruined the Princess Royal. “It doesn't matter—­she's to be my wife,” Kingsley reminded him.

“I should certainly hope so,” Augie muttered, doffing his hat and giving the brim an absentminded tug before he put it back on, his jaw working back and forth. As if suddenly he was the one with the devil of a problem.

“You know who she is—­”

“Oh, no—­”

“Augie, if you know who she is, you must tell me.”

His old friend shook his head. Furiously. “Must? 'Fraid I can't.”

“Can't?”

This time, Augie nodded. “Won't. Promised the chit I wouldn't. And you know me, good to my word.”

Good to his word, indeed! Why, of all the traits provided to Lord Augustus Charles Hustings (and therein lack of) did his most shining one have to be “good to his word”?

Kingsley gave him the sort of murderous glance that used to have new recruits certain they were about to soil their uniform. “Tell me who she is.”

Augie, however, was made of sterner stuff. “No.”

“You rotten bastard,” Kingsley sputtered as he began to rise in his seat.

“
Tsk, tsk
, no reason to disparage my mother. Besides, 'tis my brother Teddy that we've always suspected wasn't all Hustings—­what with that ginger hair and those woeful blue eyes. Come to think of it, he rather looks like—­”

“Augie! We are talking about Birdie, not your brother Teddy.”

“Don't see why we can't discuss both!” he huffed.

“Then let's do so. You tell me where I can find Birdie,” Kingsley pressed.

Augie went to open his mouth, but then his lips snapped shut. He wagged a finger at his friend.
Nice try.

Kingsley groaned, slamming back into his seat, sending the horses prancing nervously.

“Might I suggest—­” Augie began.

“What?” Kingsley caught hold of the offer like a drowning man.

“—­you go home.”

“Go home? Can't do that,” Kingsley protested. “Have you forgotten—­they've got that gel all picked out and waiting for me. If I go home—­” He shuddered, for he knew exactly what would happen. He'd be pushed, prodded, and badgered to marry her.

Proper lineage. Good dowry. Well educated.

And he knew what he would find. A horse-­faced, sad-­eyed debutante with four Seasons under her belt and some very thin excuses as to why she hadn't already been married off.

Perhaps he could introduce her to that poor old sap Birdie's father was forcing upon her.

Now there would be a match.

“Go home, Kingsley,” Augie repeated.

He shook his head. Not until he'd found Birdie and had married her.

“Go home, or . . .” Augie scratched his chin as he came up with the real thrust of his threat. “Or I'll tell my mother you are in the mood to marry. Today. To the first chit you find. If only to spite your parents.”

Kingsley felt as if the bottom had dropped out of his carriage. “You wouldn't!” he said in a great exhale.

Augie nodded. Damned well grinned at the idea.

For he knew as well as Kingsley that if his mother thought such a thing, most of London would hear of it before the hour was out.

And it was as if he could hear Kingsley's panic. “Was on my way to call on her right now.” He nodded down the street to his parents' address and grinned. “Care to join me? Tell her yourself?”

There would be no place in London Kingsley could hide—­Augie's mother would have every marriage-­minded matron with a daughter dragging the city—­and the river—­in hopes of finding his carcass first.

He'd never find Birdie while being chased by a horde of would-­be duchesses.

“Augie!” Kingsley tried his best to sound murderous. It didn't take much effort, because he felt like strangling the man.

“Go home, Kingsley,” Augie told him, making his bow and setting off down the street, in the direction of his mother's gossipy salon, with the audacity to whistle merrily and swing his cane as if there wasn't a care in the world.

As if Birdie wasn't lost. As if the entire world wasn't bereft that she couldn't be found.

“Augie, you are a cold and heartless bastard!” he called after him, unable to turn his carriage around in the tight traffic so as to follow him.

“I'll remind you of that at your wedding,” Augie replied with a great laugh.

“Find her, Augie, find her for me,” Kingsley shot back, but all Augie did was airily wave his hand over his shoulder.

And if he hadn't picked up the reins and started for what was destined to be a wretched confrontation with his parents he might have heard Augie's reply.

“I'll find her. That is, if you don't find her first.”

I
t was some hours later that the Marquess of Somersale, the heir to the dukedom of Marbury, strode into Landsdowne Abbey, his family's ancestral home.

The pile of stones that would one day be his.

A life that was decidedly a far cry from the battlefields of Spain and Flanders. Honestly, a tent had always suited him.

Yet, there was no “Major Kingsley” allowed here, only the name that was lawfully and rightfully his.

Somersale.

Well, it was only temporary, he told himself as the family's ancient butler showed him down the hall, as if he didn't know where the dining room was located.

“Are you certain you wouldn't prefer to change before going in, my lord?” the man asked for the third time.

Kingsley passed a mirror and glanced at his reflection, knowing full well his mother would probably have vapors over his appearance—­dusty from the drive from Town, not to mention the shadow on his jaw, and that it was evident to anyone he hadn't slept much the night before.

“No, Rudges. I haven't the time. I must return to London immediately.”

The butler made a noise—­a disapproving one—­that suggested whatever he was about, it was folly for certain.

Which wasn't too far from the truth. Falling in love with Birdie was certain folly, but his heart hammered at the very thought.

All the way down from London, Kingsley had been formulating a plan in his mind.

In between images of hanging Augie off Tower Bridge . . . by his heels . . . until he told Kingsley where Birdie could be found or his boots gave way.

Whichever came first.

Yes, he'd have preferred to have confronted his parents with his marriage to Birdie a
fait accompli
, but then again, this was his battle to fight and better to have it won before he went and gained her hand.

Rudges stopped before the large double doors to the dining room and glanced over his shoulder at the prodigal son's rumpled appearance. He heaved an aggrieved sigh, apparently resigning himself to being the bearer of bad news, and pushed open the doors. “Your Grace, Somersale has arrived.”

There was a heavy scrape of a chair as it was pushed back. “About time,” the Duke of Marbury declared. “Where the devil is my heir?”

Taking a deep breath, Kingsley strode into the room, his entire speech planned.

My apologies to Parkerton and his daughter, but I cannot be part of any match where my heart is not engaged. . .

“Your Grace,” he said, bowing to his father and showing him the deference the old codger demanded—­even from his son and heir. As he straightened, he began the speech he'd practiced. “Father, Mother, I—­”

Yet he got no further.

For there was a loud gasp from a few seats down the table and then another hurried scrape of a chair.

“Kingsley?” came the strangled question.

“H
ow could you?” Arabella railed at the man who was now towing her down a long, dark hallway, and doing her best to ignore the way her heart was hammering.

Kingsley. Her Kingsley. He'd come to find her.

Well, her, but not her.

Oh, bother, it was all a dreadful muddle.

Yet here he was, Kingsley. Her Kingsley.

No. No. No. She couldn't think of him that way. He wasn't Kingsley, but the heir to the Duke of Marbury.

Oh, the devil take him. The Marquess of Somersale was supposed to be . . . well, poxy. And dull. And not so . . . so Kingsley.

“You made a fool of me,” she rushed to continue. “Why, you lied to me!” Arabella dug in the heels of her slippers—­not that it helped her slow him down.

Behind them came the hurried rush of boots.

“Now see here, Somersale!” the Duke of Parkerton was calling after them. “What the devil do you think you are doing with my daughter?”

At this, Kingsley came to a furious halt and she barreled into his back. He glanced down at her, a regal cock to his brow. “I lied?”

She had the decency to blush a bit—­for certainly she hadn't been terribly honest in her identity. Yet she wasn't about to concede anything, not right now, not when she was furious with him. “You are no gentleman.”

“Somersale!” the duke was now bellowing and had nearly caught up with them.

Arabella glanced over her shoulder to see her father and the Duke of Marbury coming down the hall—­the pair of them looking ready to commit murder.

“Oh, hell,” Kingsley muttered, and then, catching up the candlestick on a nearby highboy, he yanked open the door beside her, hauling her inside the dark room and slamming the door shut behind them.

He threw a latch, just as she managed to find her footing and spun around to face him.