Margaret Moore (14 page)

“Well, what of Lady Lippet?”

Now truly desperate, Arabella said, “She went to fetch Lord Belmaris, who was with the Duke of Buckingham. I—”

His eyes lit up with genuine pleasure as he smiled. “You fled.”

“Come, Farrington, enough flirting in the corner!” Sedley called. “Bring her out!”

“Yes, my lord, I did,” she said rather desperately, “as I would flee these men, too.”

“I don’t think he’s going to,” the blue-clad fellow jeered. “Wants to keep her all to himself, the selfish cad.”

“I’faith, Lady Arabella, this is scarcely the way to find a husband!” Neville noted softly. “Of course, I would rather hide here with you, away from curious eyes.”

Arabella suddenly felt as if she had just asked a snake to nestle in her bosom like Cleopatra’s asp. “Can you not make them go away?”
And take your disconcertingly attractive self with them?
she added to herself.

“Are you asking for my help?”

“If you are a gentleman, yes!”

“Even if I am not, no doubt you will be grateful if I succeed. That is a most tempting lure to do good, I must say. Much better than anything my father has suggested.”

Arabella had had enough—of him, of those men, of feeling like a baited bear. She took a step forward, silently challenging him to try to block her way. “If you will not help me—”

He neatly intercepted her, taking hold of her hand. He raised it to his lips and kissed it in an elegant fashion. “I merely note I shall have to take some responsibility at last.”

Unfortunately, her internal response to the sensation of his lips on her skin could only be called primitive. Now she wished she had stayed away from Whitehall entirely, especially when he coolly led her forth as if he encountered young ladies hiding from courtiers with some frequency.

“Demme, Farrington, this is the beauty from
the theater! I thought she belonged to your father,” Sedley said as he ran a most insolent gaze over Arabella. “Or does he share?”

“Lady Arabella, this rude fellow is Sir Charles Sedley, who will, I trust, eventually learn the value of keeping his sordid opinions to himself.”

Before Sedley could answer, Neville turned to the man in blue. “This is Lord Buckhurst, and this,” he continued, facing the other man, “is Henry Jermyn, a great favorite of my lady Castlemaine these days.”

Jermyn seemed not to know whether to smile or scowl at this introduction and finally settled upon looking at Arabella with the most disgusting leer she had ever seen. He made the Duke of Buckingham look subtle.

“What a pretty little friend,” Jermyn observed.

Thinking of Mrs. Hankerton at the theater, the duke’s “friend,” Arabella bristled. Before she could reply, however, Neville spoke. “She is not my friend.”

Then he took hold of her hand and pressed a long, lingering kiss upon her palm. His gaze seemed to burn into hers before he glanced at the others. “Yet.”

The men chortled knowingly, and Arabella was tempted to wipe her hand on her skirt, as if that could erase the burning desire that his touch always created within her.

“Come, Arabella, these are men of the world!” Neville cried. “There is no need to feign maidenly modesty.” Grinning slyly, he looked at the others. “Privacy, gentlemen, if you please, for wooing in a mob is never successful.”

Arabella wanted to denounce Neville, his words, and his insolent intention. She would have done so, had Buckhurst and Jermyn not moved away, chuckling in a manner obviously intended to indicate that they were men of the world and they did understand.

Sedley, however, remained.

With a barely perceptible glance at the courtier, Neville suddenly pulled her to him and in full view of Sedley—and anybody else who happened to be looking—kissed her on the mouth.

Not tenderly. Not gently.

Possessively.

As if he were her master and she his slave.

Chapter 10

H
er chest heaving with anger, Arabella pushed Neville away and glared at him. “Are you mad?”

He held a finger to his lips and glanced over his shoulder. “He has gone.”

“I don’t care about him! You impudent, disgusting scoundrel!”

“Do not go into hysterics, Arabella. That kiss was merely a tactic to rid you of the attention of those coxcombs. Now I shall escort you back to your charming little sanctuary.”

Sanctuary? As long as Neville was anywhere near her, she could not feel safe, and not just from his lascivious attention.

Her own rebellious desire gave her as much discomfort as he did—perhaps more. She had to admit that, but only to herself. “Surely a clever man could have thought of a better tactic!”

Frowning gravely, he said, “That demonstrates how little you know of the men of the court. Those three are cronies of Buckingham and the worst knaves in all of London. They require strong evidence.”

“No doubt you know them so well because you frequent the same places of debauchery in … in Bankside!”

His lips jerked. “I see you have been learning about London. Frequent is, perhaps, too strong a word for my occasional visits there, but if that will lend credence to what I say of them, so be it,” he said with a little bow. His tone grew serious again. “As long as you do believe it.”

“Nevertheless, your behavior is unacceptable. You must stop kissing me!”

His eyes narrowed. “Are you upset because I kissed you again or because I kissed you in Whitehall?”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “It was surely not a necessity to choose so extreme a method and in so public a place.”

He lowered his voice to a husky, seductive tone. “Naturally there are more private places I would rather kiss you.”

“You are incorrigible,” she said disdainfully, leaving him to return to her place in the corner, only to realize he had followed when she turned and found him directly in front of her, his body mere inches away.

Why did he have to have such fascinating lips, neither too thin, nor too full, and with a perfect shape?

How was it that simply by moving the corners of his mouth ever so slightly, he could make her want to laugh or frown or sigh with desire?

Or hide.

With him. Preferably in a bed with the curtains drawn.

Clearly, being in London was addling her wits.

“I thought you might not want to be the object of their pursuit,” he remarked, smiling in a way that made her resolve to curb her outlandish imaginings once and for all.

“I do not wish to be anyone’s object. Please go away.”

“Except a potential husband’s, I assume. Is that why you are here, to cast your net for a suitable candidate?”

“The king himself invited us,” she replied haughtily.

Neville’s expression altered for the blink of an eye, then returned to its usual cool nonchalance. “The king himself. How thrilling for you.”

“It was, until—”

“Until a most terrible scoundrel kissed you in front of a debased rogue.” His smile was annoyingly condescending. “But if those other
terrible scoundrels believe
I
intend to seduce you, they will stay away from you, at least for a little while.”

Although she was appalled by his explanation, she could believe that might be so, while a tiny portion of her mind simultaneously envisioned allowing herself to be seduced by Neville Farrington.

She could almost feel the pressure of his mouth upon her lips, his arousing caresses, the weight of his body, the thrust of his hips—

She must not give in to the sinful lust coursing through her body. She must be honorable. She must be good.

Or else she would be no more than a weak, wicked female full of original sin, as her father always claimed.

As if reading her mind and finding her fevered thoughts amusing, Neville smiled his devilish little smile.

“I can think of many a worse fate than sharing my bed,” he murmured softly, reaching out to cup her chin in his hand.

She was powerless to resist as he eased his mouth over hers in a slow and leisurely kiss. His gentle touch proved as thrilling as his most impassioned embrace, and this unexpected tenderness even more compelling.

How easy it would be to allow him to continue. How simple to let him do whatever he
wanted. How tempting to respond without restraint.

And how very wrong.

She shook her head, making him stop and let go of her. “I can think of nothing worse than being in your bed!” she lied, desperate to regain some measure of self-control.

His jaw clenched. “I can. You could be dispossessed or forced into a loveless marriage with a man who sees you only as a fat purse and pleasing bedmate.”

“I will not be
forced
into marriage!”

His expression changed. “I can believe you mean that.” Then he smiled. “But calm yourself, my dear. My action is unlikely to cause a scandal.”

He made a great show of looking about the assembly.

“Let me see,” he began pensively. “Over there I see Sir Daniel Templeton and his third favorite mistress doing somewhat more than kissing.”

Arabella commanded herself not to follow his gaze.

Neville gestured languidly in the other direction. “And over there, by the second column, is old Sir Douglas Whattley with his young wife—his fourth, she is, the others having perished from a surfeit of Sir Douglas.

“By the world,” he cried with mock horror,
“I do believe that is his hand disappearing down her bodice.”

Then his tone grew studiously concerned. “Perhaps she has lost something and he only seeks to retrieve it.”

Arabella would not look at what had to be a disgusting spectacle and she assuredly would not smile, no matter how merry his reportage.

“There is something that is sure to shock your delicate sensibilities,” he continued in a loud whisper. “Mrs. Hermione Fotheringham—or so she calls herself, when everybody knows her name is really Polly Jones—has let her bodice slip far too low.” He glanced at Arabella’s bodice. “With none of the charms of certain young ladies to show.”

Arabella blushed and told herself to walk away, despite the enthralling allure of his rich voice.

“Now watch as she laughs and pretends the display was all an accident.”

Finally, Arabella could not resist the temptation to look at the woman across the room, who was now in the company of Sedley and his cronies. She was not unattractive, from what Arabella could see, yet there was a faded, desperate air in her smiles and posing, and her loose bodice was truly cut scandalously low.

Perhaps, at one time, she, too, had come to London from the country. Maybe she had met a man she found attractive and exciting, who
had seemed to promise bliss if she would but surrender to her passionate desire, only to find herself abandoned, save as an amusement for ignoble courtiers with cruel eyes, like those of the men cheering her efforts.

“Look how she smiles as if her action was not calculated to get the attention of her former lover, the Earl of Easterbough, who is doing his best to ignore her. Poor Mrs. Fotheringham. He is not playing the game tonight.”

“Poor Mrs. Fotheringham indeed,” Arabella affirmed, pitying the faded beauty despite her vulgar behavior.

“You are sorry for her?”

“Who would not be sorry to see any woman reduced to such a sorry state that she feels it necessary to behave so?”

“Indeed,” he said softly and with genuine sympathy.

His dark eyes held hers for a long moment, and in that moment her heart leaped, for she saw again the compassionate eyes of the youth in the garden.

Did Neville feel a tie that bound them yet? Did he sense that she cared about him and regretted the changes life in London had wrought in him?

Unfortunately, in the next moment, she felt sure she must have been mistaken, for he struck a courtly pose and coolly drawled, “I’faith, Lady Arabella, I confess myself
shocked that a woman raised in a Puritan household would rush to the defense of so obvious a sinner.”

Arabella told herself she was a fool to imagine that any vestige of the youth remained in the fellow before her. “We are all sinners, Lord Farrington, only unlike some, Puritans admit it and do not claim that since sin is the way of the world, there is no reason to attempt to rise above it.”

“My father thinks you are not a sinner. He considers you the very model of womanly virtue.”

Even though she flushed under his sardonic scrutiny, she raised her chin defiantly. “I am pleased that he thinks so highly of me. I shall endeavor to maintain that good opinion, even here.”

Without another word, he turned away to look again across the room, then straightened abruptly.

“What ho!” he cried softly. “I was premature! Hoorah for spurned mistresses everywhere! Lo, the errant lover comes!”

He pointed triumphantly to a middle-aged man who was charging toward Mrs. Fotheringham like a mad bull.

“No doubt he fears she will strip naked next if he does not speak with her. So you see, Lady Arabella, one hasty embrace is hardly worth a glance to these people.”

If he could think of the kiss they had shared as nothing more than a hasty embrace, so could she.

And so she would, she vowed, no matter what she had felt at the time.