The Contraband Courtship (The Arlingbys Book 2) (3 page)

One week later Malcolm rode up to Keighley Hall on a well-made dark bay hack. He eyed the timber-framed manor house closely; while it was several centuries old, it was well-kept, and the paths and grounds surrounding it were manicured and verdant. Clearly, whoever was attending to the property had a fine attention to detail.

A footman emerged from the house to take the reins of his horse, and he dismounted gracefully, with a word of thanks.

“Is Sir Arthur at home?” he asked.

“Sir Arthur is out,” said the manservant. “But if your business is anything to do with the estate, you’d be wanting Miss Keighley.”

Malcolm sighed. He had hoped he might be able to avoid the redoubtable Miss Keighley. But he knew when he was defeated. “Is Miss Keighley available, then?”

“She’s not in the house,” ventured the footman. “She’d be down at the stables. I don’t know how long it will be before she returns.”

“I have business with her that can’t wait. I’ll find her for myself.”

“Miss Keighley might prefer that you wait in the house,” said the footman doubtfully. “I could show you in and fetch her for you.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Malcolm assured him. “I know her from when we were children. I doubt she will care.”

Under the manservant’s doubtful gaze, Malcolm stalked off in the direction of the stables. As he walked, he looked around him, absently admiring the tidiness of the grounds. It compared favorably to Wroxton, and he felt a pang of guilt about the neglect his ancestral lands had suffered over the past months. Miss Keighley clearly knew well how to run an estate. He was too accustomed to Rowena’s unconventional behavior to consider that odd, but he nonetheless felt a reluctance to meet her. He had a constitutional dislike of being managed, and feared that Miss Keighley was very much the sort of woman who would feel he was in need of guidance.

Miss Helena Keighley pushed a lock of auburn hair out of her eyes and sighed, as she felt at the loose bun into which she had gathered her hair before coming out to check on the horses that morning. Reassured that it was not going to come down completely, she rubbed her hands over the canvas apron that covered her faded blue-grey linsey-woolsey dress, and the equally worn dark blue spencer she wore over it, and gazed at the groom and the horse he was holding in the barn aisle.

“Is he lame, Macklin?” she asked.

“Yes, came out of his stall this morning limping, miss,” the groom replied.

“Poor boy,” Helena crooned to the horse, as she reached down to lift his hoof. She felt it carefully, finding a sensitive spot. “You can feel the heat in it. ‘Tis almost certainly an abscess. Soak it in epsom salts, and put a drawing poultice on it. Perhaps we can bring it to the surface, so it will drain.”

“Aye miss, I thought the same. I expect we’ll have a bit of a time with him for the next few weeks though. The wet weather in the spring always seems to bring it out in him.”

Helena smiled her agreement, and patted the horse’s neck in sympathy, then blew gently at his soft nose. The smile brought a glow to her face, and lit up her large brown eyes. Framed with thick black lashes despite her auburn hair, and surmounted by finely shaped brows, they typically surveyed the world with a bit of cynicism, but were softened now by her affection for the horse. She had a straight nose, high cheekbones and plush-lipped mouth above a very firm chin. With her fine complexion and delicate color, she presented a rather startling contrast to the decidedly shabby garments she wore. Helena turned her attention from the horse, removed her apron and looked at the groom.

“Thank you, Macklin,” she said. “I suppose I will go back to the house now.”

The groom nodded and walked away, leading the limping horse slowly. Helena stood for moment, enjoying the pleasant scent of the hay in the stalls and savoring the time alone. While she was truly devoted to tending the estate that had belonged to her father and passed from him to her brother, at times it seemed as though she never had a moment for herself. If tomorrow were fine, perhaps she would shirk some of her duties and take “The Wanderer” down to the cliffs for a few hours of reading.

Her reverie was interrupted by the sounds of boot heels ringing on the floor of the stables, and a cheerful whistle. She looked up to see a tall, slender gentleman sauntering towards her, dressed very elegantly in a riding coat of a green so dark it was reminiscent of a pine forest at night, buff-colored breeches, and white-topped riding boots, clearly made to measure and polished to a mirrorlike shine. His pale hair was modishly cut
à la Brutus
, and his angelic blue eyes were wide set in a face that, while not classically handsome, held a great deal of charm. She drew in her breath slightly. Many years had passed, but she certainly recognized Malcolm Arlingby, despite the tiny lines that now creased the outer edges of his eyelids. It seemed her letter to Rowena had done its work.

She looked down at herself, momentarily dismayed by the shabbiness of the faded dress she was wearing, but then dismissed the thought. If Malcolm had not already heard of her scandalous past, someone was bound to enlighten him soon. It made very little difference how she looked. She stepped forward into the sunlight that slanted across the stable.

Malcolm stopped, the whistle arrested on his lips. His eyes trailed over Helena’s slender figure and widened.

“I was expecting a groom, or perhaps a stable boy,” he said cheerfully. “But I think you’ll do, my girl.”

Helena’s froze at his impertinent words, and she opened her mouth to give him a sharp set down, but Malcolm continued.

“Where’s your mistress? I have business with her, and was told she was to be found in the stables.”

Helena froze. Clearly, he not only did not recognize her, he had mistaken her for a servant. She glared at him disdainfully.

“You’re a haughty one, aren’t you?” said Malcolm, a laugh in his voice. “Is Miss Keighley not about then?”

Aware that her genteel speech would give her away, Helena said nothing.

Malcolm shrugged. “Women,” he said. “Never where you want them to be. But you, on the other hand—well, if I’d remembered the serving girls were so lovely in Kent, I’d have been back before this.”

Before Helena could react, Malcolm had an arm firmly about her shoulders and had pulled her close to his lean body. Helena was startled to realize that, despite her own height, her head just barely overtopped his shoulder. Before she could contemplate that fact any further, however, Malcolm lowered his head to hers and kissed her firmly on the lips. She made an outraged sound.

“Hush,” said Malcolm cheerfully. “It’s not as though you haven’t been kissed before, my girl.”

Helena raised her hands to his chest to push him away, but somehow found herself only pressing her palms against his broad shoulders, as she breathed in the hint of sandalwood and cinnamon that must have lingered from his morning ablutions, spiked with the warm scent of his skin. It was remarkably appealing, and she breathed in deeply. Malcolm’s hands slid to her waist, drawing her closer as he slanted his head, seeking the perfect angle. His mouth touched hers again, gently encouraging her to open to him, and she responded almost without knowing it. When she felt the hot slick slide of Malcolm’s tongue against hers, she succumbed to the overwhelming urge to press her hips against his and he murmured his approval as he slid one hand down to cup her bottom and deepened the kiss, delving more deeply, leaving her breathless and aflame. She responded, raising her face to his, leaning into him as her breasts grew taut, matching him stroke for stroke. It was only when she felt his growing hardness that reality intruded, and she gasped, wrenching her lips away from his and pushing against his chest with both hands.

Malcolm released her immediately, moving back a half step and gazing down at her, a hint of perturbation in his eyes. “That was—remarkable,” he said softly. “Some local lad is a lucky fellow, to be sure.”

Helena stepped back, fighting the urge to press her hand to her lips. It seemed she had made a grave mistake in not informing the earl who she was. But that was, nonetheless, no excuse for his behavior. It was clear his years abroad had not taught him discretion. But, she realized ruefully, hers had been equally lacking. Something about Wroxton’s scent, feel, and presence seemed to call to her on an elemental level.

Malcolm pulled himself together and, fishing in his pocket, produced a guinea, which he pressed into her hand. “I thank you, my dear. I did not mean to impose upon you, but your loveliness could not be resisted. I meant to see your mistress, but somehow I cannot regret her absence. Do you know where I might find her?”

Helena paused a moment, and then tilted her chin at him proudly. “I don’t know,” she said, producing her finest Kentish accent. It was imperfect, but the earl did not appear to notice. “But her abigail told me she means to go to the assembly at Folkestone tonight.”

Malcolm groaned. “I can’t abide country dances. So provincial, and the refreshments are terrible. Do you think Miss Keighley has returned to the house?”

Helena shook her head firmly. “No, she’s not in the house, sir,” she assured him.

“Blast. Perhaps I shall have to go to the assembly after all. She means to cross swords with me, and perhaps in company she will be less bold.”

“There is very little that makes Miss Keighley retreat,” Helena assured him.

“Well, I shall simply have to find a way to charm her then.” Malcolm smiled impishly and slid one long finger under her chin, turning her face up towards him. “If you find your employment here to be onerous, there is always a place for you at Wroxton.” He patted her cheek gently and walked away.

Helena gazed after him, bemused. She should have told him who she was, she realized, but that did not excuse his behavior. Kissing servant girls might be all very well for a young man about town, but Malcolm was now the Earl of Wroxton. His behavior was unacceptable, and only added to the list of grievances she had with him. She would let him know what she thought when next she saw him.

Startled, she realized it might well be that very evening. She had indeed planned on attending the assembly at Folkestone with her friend, Mrs. Honeysett, although she had had some thoughts of crying off. But now it seemed imperative that she go. After all, she had told Malcolm she would be in attendance. Lifting her skirts so they did not drag on the stable floors, she made her way out of the building and back to the manor house.

Helena entered the house through the servant’s door and stopped in the kitchen to discuss that night’s dinner with the cook. Satisfied all was well, she asked that her abigail be sent to her room, and wound her way through the passages to the front of the house, where she started up the stairs to the upper floor.

“Helena!”

She turned to see her younger brother in the front hall, clearly just returned from a ride. His hair, a brighter shade of copper than her own, was tousled, and his cheeks were flushed from the wind.

“Yes, Arthur, what is it? I must hurry if I mean to dress for dinner and the assembly tonight.”

He wrinkled his nose. “I wonder you can bear those assemblies. It’s not as though you are seeking a husband.”

“No, but that does not mean I wish to see only you,” she replied with a laugh. “The local gentry may not be scintillating, but attending an assembly gets me away from Keighley Manor from time to time, and even you must admit that Damaris is very amusing.”

“She’s likely the only one. But that is not what I wished to talk to you about. I was in the village, and they tell me Wroxton is here!”

“Yes, I’ve—I’ve heard that is so,” replied Helena, realizing that she could hardly share with her brother the circumstances of her recent encounter with the earl.

“I very much wish to meet him,” continued Arthur. “He must be such an interesting gentleman; he has experienced so much in life. Only think, he was wrongly accused of murder, and had to flee to escape the hangman’s noose!”

Helena sighed. Arthur had been a child when the scandal that disrupted Malcolm Arlingby’s life had occurred, and he had been raised on the local stories of the Wicked Earl. Wroxton’s sensational reappearance and restoration to his inheritance had only caused her brother to find the earl still more romantic than he had before.

“If he had not led such an irresponsible life, hanging about in gambling hells and drinking like a fish, he would not have had to flee,” she said repressively. “I ask of you, my dear, that you not emulate Malcolm Arlingby.”

“Of course not,” said Arthur, a shade defensively. “But I would love to hear some of his stories. He must have led a very exciting existence on the Continent!”

“Or a very uncomfortable one. He had no money and no family to support him; it must have been a hand-to-mouth existence.” At Arthur’s crestfallen expression, she relented. “But you shall, of course, meet him and he can tell you about it himself. He may be at the assembly tonight, you know.”

“Who told you that?”

Helena blinked. “’Twas just something I heard from the servants,” she answered. “You know how word spreads among them.”

“Perhaps I will come to Folkestone tonight after all,” said Arthur.

“I thought you hated assemblies,” teased Helena.

“Only because everyone tries to introduce me to their daughters. As though I mean to marry any time soon. Nor, when I do, will it be someone I’ve known since my cradle.”

“You may find the presence of an unmarried earl will cast you into the shade! But I would be pleased to have your company, and I’m sure Damaris will enjoy it as well,” said Helena. “Now, I must hurry if I mean to be ready in time for dinner—and you must too!”

Malcolm rode back to Wroxton slowly, admiring the countryside. He was not wholly disappointed not to have met the formidable Miss Keighley; he realized that at some point it must happen, but had no qualms about delaying it. The appearance of the Keighley estate had startled him; the trim gardens and polished cleanliness of the stables had emphasized to him how much he had neglected his own lands.

When he reached Wroxton he dismounted and gazed up at the house. Its Palladian façade of silver-white stone shone in the late afternoon sun, prompting long buried memories, and he reluctantly acknowledged a desire to see it restored to the appearance he recalled from his youth. He handed the reins to a servant, and walked up the stairs, entering the spacious hallway, with its elegant and simple proportions, white stone walls, and floor of black and white checked marble. He gave a tiny sigh of contentment and strolled into the library.

“There you are,” said his friend, Mr. Stephen Delaney. He lounged in a dark leather chair, a glass of brandy cradled in his hand. “Did you beard the lioness in her den?”

“No such luck, Del,” said Malcolm, dropping into a chair across from him. He reached for the crystal decanter with one strong, slender hand and poured his own glass of liquor. “She was nowhere to be found.”

“What a pity,” said Stephen.

“Oh, I’m not so sure it was a pity,” answered Malcolm, taking a sip of the brandy. He looked down at it appreciatively. “A fine vintage,” he observed.

“Yes, I’ve learned that your ancestors laid down some excellent pipes of brandy years ago. A very pleasant discovery. I thought being immured here in the country with you would be dull, but I believe an exploration of your wine cellar could ease my boredom.”

“That might be one way to do it,” said Malcolm thoughtfully.

Stephen raised his eyebrows. “Have you another?”

Malcolm grinned easily and shook his head. “There was a fetching wench in the Keighley’s stables. But I cannot afford to offend the locals at this point, and particularly not Miss Keighley. Something tells me she’d rather I not involve myself with her staff.”

“How fetching?” demanded Stephen.

“Tall, slender, milky skin. Not the sort of woman in fashion just now, but truly a beauty.” Malcolm took a sip of brandy. “But it would not do,” he added regretfully.

“I am not connected locally,” said Stephen mischievously.

“You are—to me!” said Malcolm. “Stay away from the Keighleys’ servants!”

Stephen laughed. “Afraid I’ll steal a march on you, Mal?”

“If you must make a conquest while you are here, I’d prefer it was some squire’s merry widow. But I still hope we will not be here long. I’m told that Miss Keighley goes to the assembly at Folkestone tonight, and think I might follow her there.”

Stephen groaned. “A provincial dance? Really, Mal, must we? When I agreed to come down here for a few days, I didn’t think I’d have to do the pretty with the locals.”

“You may stay here and explore the wine cellar, if you prefer,” said Malcolm with a grin. “But yes, I believe I must.”

His friend shrugged. “I suppose I cannot allow you to venture into such a tedious situation without some backing, and I must admit that I too am curious about the infamous Miss Keighley.”

“Were you in London a few years ago when the scandal occurred?”

“I was, but I paid little attention. I heard only that she was seen kissing Denby, but refused to marry him. It seemed at bit odd to me.”

“Well, it’s no concern of mine,” said Malcolm lightly. He drained his glass. “I suppose I must dress; if you are coming with me, so must you.”

Stephen groaned again, but followed Malcolm out of the room, carrying the brandy decanter with him.

Helena surprised her abigail that evening by taking a much greater interest in her appearance than was normal. Usually Helena had to be cajoled into sitting still while Sherburne coaxed her unruly curls into fashionable ringlets, but today she sat docilely, and even expressed a decided opinion over which dress she would wear. She selected a gown of dull gold silk, shot through with dark grey, so that its color shifted from a bright hue to an old gold as she moved. The deep neckline was embroidered with silver thread, as was the hem, and silver lace puff sleeves emerged from the bodice. When she was ready, she stood and looked solemnly in the cheval glass.

“You look lovely, Miss Helena, if I do say so myself,” said the abigail with pride.

“Thank you, Sherburne,” said Helena. “I’m sure it’s due to your skill.”

“Not at all,” said the maid. “You have a lovely figure, and such a pretty face. It’s a pity you go out in public so seldom.”

“It can’t be helped,” said Helena, as Sherburne arranged a delicate shawl across her arms. “I have little time or inclination for it.”

“You shouldn’t immure yourself here in the country, with only your brother for company. It’s high time you were married, Miss Helena,” said Sherburne firmly.

Helena laughed. Sherburne had been her mother’s abigail, and had known her young mistress all her life. “That is very sweet of you, but you know very well that marriage for me is not possible. I shall make a doting aunt to Arthur’s children, I have no doubt.”

Sherburne frowned. “It’s not right. If I could get my hands on that Lord Denby—”

“Hush, Sherburne,” said Helena. “It was long ago and means nothing now.”

The abigail subsided, but gave Helena a speaking glance.

“Thank you for making me look so lovely,” said Helena. “I couldn’t manage without you.”

She patted Sherburne’s hand reassuringly, and descended to the dining room, where she found Arthur waiting, dressed in evening garb. She smiled at him teasingly.

“So you do mean to go to Folkestone? I presume the Earl of Wroxton is the attraction, and not my company?”

Arthur colored a bit, but laughed easily. “I can see you any day, Helena, but a wicked earl is a new enticement, certainly. Nor have I seen Mrs. Honeysett in some weeks.”

“I’m sure she will be delighted you have decided to join us,” said Helena. She looked around the room, its oak wainscoting glowing in the firelight. “Shall we go in to dinner now?”