Love on a Midsummer Night (Shakespeare in Love #2) (23 page)

Arabella did not retire as soon as she returned to Pembroke House but sat alone in the drawing room, waiting for Raymond to come home. They would marry in the morning. She almost could not believe it. She should be panicking, thinking of some way to run and preserve her freedom. But she found that as much as she cherished her independence, she cherished her freedom to love him more. She would never be happy without him. So she would stay, and marry him, and take what came.

She stood in the open door to the garden, breathing in the scent of the roses his mother had planted so many years before. Most of the candles were already put out, but one branch burned by the door, ready to light her way to her bedroom with Pembroke beside her.

Caroline and baby Freddie had returned with her in Anthony’s barouche, and both now slept, tucked away in their suite. Pembroke and Anthony had stayed in the village, drinking with the miller and the mayor, discussing plans for a new thoroughfare through the town to be built sometime next year.

Angelique had left the Midsummer festival with her sea captain. Arabella would see her in the morning at the church, for Angelique was standing up with her, just as Anthony was standing up as witness for Pembroke. She hoped she had half a moment to inquire who James Montgomery was and who he was to Angelique.

As Arabella was musing on Angelique’s penchant for taking inappropriate lovers, she heard a crunch of gravel in the rose garden beyond the window. She could not see him in the dark, but she was sure Pembroke had come home at last. She moved back into the room, sitting down by the hearth though no fire burned there. She waited patiently, her hands folded in her lap, for the man she loved to step into the room.

A figure stepped through the French doors that led to the garden. The man who stood there for one long moment was tall and thin. Though his face was in shadow, she knew him at once.

“Hawthorne,” she said.

Her enemy stepped into the circle of feeble light. “I prefer the title ‘Your Grace.’ I believe I have earned it.”

The signing of her new inheritance agreement had been a farce. It was too good to be true, that he would simply let her leave him, simply let her go.

Hawthorne carried no bouquet of poisoned flowers with him this night. His gloved hands were empty, their clear white kidskin glowing against his evening clothes of midnight black. All Arabella could see of him were those hands in their dyed leather and his face.

“You have defied me for the last time, Arabella. I have been more than reasonable, but my patience has come to an end.”

“What man of reason comes to rape a woman in her own bed and threatens her with a knife?”

Arabella still had not moved from the settee. She could not believe the words that kept rising to her tongue and falling from her mouth, unbidden.

To agitate a man who was potentially violent was foolhardy. The rules of survival had been drummed into her by her childhood. Hide your feelings. Wait for the man to leave. If he will not leave, run away. If you cannot run away, brace yourself as best you can for the blows that you know are coming.

But now she did none of these things. Instead, she rose to her feet and faced him, smoothing the silk skirt of her gown.

“I do not make threats,” Hawthorne said. “You left me in your husband’s bed, alone. Did you think I would require no recompense for that? You will leave your lover behind, and you will come with me.”

“I will not.”

“Then I will have you here.”

Arabella moved quickly, not toward the light and the hallway as he expected, but toward the darkness of the rose garden. She was quick, but he was quicker. Hawthorne’s long fingers wrapped around her arm, drawing her close to his body, so that she could smell the cedar his clothes had been pressed in. She raised her hands to strike at his face with her nails, trying desperately to pull away, but he was too strong for her.

He drew her close, his breath on her cheek. She could feel his arousal beneath his trousers through the thin silk of her gown. She also felt the sheath of his knife tucked away in the breast pocket of his coat. She reached for it, fumbling against his chest, until he caught her hand in his and bent her arm behind her.

The pain shot up from her elbow to her shoulder, and she cried out as he bore her down on the hearthrug where she and Pembroke had once made love. He used her body to trap her arm behind her, leaving both of his hands free. She felt his fingers tearing at the bodice of her gown. She heard the silk rip even as she felt the night air on her breast. He drew the knife from his pocket slowly then and ran the edge of the blade over her.

She screamed, and he slapped her, the knife nicking her skin so that a well of blood rose on the curve of her breast. She held her tongue then, knowing that he would kill her before help came.

He reached down to draw her skirts up, and she lay quiet under him as if he had conquered her. She waited until his vigilance had waned, as he began to unfasten his trousers. She reached for his hand then, the one that held the knife. She kissed it, running her tongue over his thumb. His eyes met hers and he shuddered with pleasure, fumbling at his clothes so that he might enter her faster.

She bit him then, digging her teeth into his hand until she drew blood. And in the same moment, she turned the knife away from her breast, toward his heart.

She missed and caught his shoulder instead.

He howled with pain and backhanded her once, but then he was lifted off and away from her, his weight gone as suddenly as it had fallen on her. She sat up, drawing the ruined bodice of her gown over her breasts as she watched Pembroke drag the duke by the throat to the settee.

Pembroke’s large hand cut off Hawthorne’s air. He used his body to weigh the duke down, taking the handle of the knife and driving it deeper into Hawthorne’s shoulder. The duke made a strangled sound of pain with what little air he had left.

“If I ever see you again, in London, or in the country, by the seaside, or by the Thames, I will kill you. I will not be merciful as I would have been tonight. I will make it slow. You will beg for death before the end. I will not use some puny blade meant to menace women. I will bring my own. Be warned. This is the only warning you will ever get.”

Pembroke got to his feet, and the duke lay gasping on the cushions. Ravensbrook stepped into the room, circling Pembroke carefully, moving between his friend and the duke.

He need not have bothered with his caution though, for Pembroke turned to Arabella, taking off his coat to cover her with it, pressing his handkerchief to the blood on her breast.

“Dear God, he cut you.”

Pembroke sprang across the room, and Hawthorne flinched away from the death he saw in his eyes. Ravensbrook caught his friend around the middle and held him back.

“You can’t kill him here. Wait until later. There are too many people in the village. There will be talk, and not even the Prince Regent will be able to save you. You have to let him go.”

Pembroke did not answer. For one horrible moment, Arabella was afraid he had forgotten how to speak. Then he drew a ragged breath and shook Ravensbrook off.

“All right. I’ll kill him later. But get him out of my sight.”

Caroline stepped out of the shadows then, a knife in her hand. She watched Hawthorne as Ravensbrook came to take him up. When the duke tried to remove his own knife from his shoulder, Caroline said, her voice laden with contempt, “No,
Your
Grace
. Leave it where it is, unless you want the next one lodged in your throat.”

Hawthorne did not speak but blinked at her, the reflection of his pain mirrored on his face, blood welling between his hand, pressed to the open wound. His knife stood out from his shoulder, its steel handle glinting in the candlelight.

Ravensbrook took him by his good arm and dragged him out through the front door, careful to catch the blood in Hawthorne’s coat so that it would not stain the rug in the front hall.

Pembroke cradled Arabella close to his heart, making sure that she had room to breathe. “I will go after them and kill him now, if you wish it.”

“No,” Arabella said, reaching out to touch Raymond’s face. “Let him go. It’s our wedding day.”

The clock struck midnight in the hallway. Pembroke pressed his lips to hers gently, keeping his great body between her and the rest of the world.

Pembroke lifted her, holding her against his chest. He moved to carry her from the room, to take her upstairs where he would place her in their soft bed, but Arabella stopped him with a touch.

“Thank you for your help,” she said to Caroline.

The Countess of Ravensbrook smiled, lifting the skirt of her evening gown so that she might sheath her long knife in her boot. Her weapon secured, she met Arabella’s eyes. “I wish I had gotten here sooner. But what little I did was my pleasure.”

“One turf shall serve as pillow for us both,
One heart, one bed, two bosoms, and one troth.”

A
Midsummer
Night’s Dream

Act 2, Scene 2

Arabella slept well in Pembroke’s arms, but when she woke just before dawn, he was already gone. A rose from his mother’s garden lay beside her on his pillow, the first thing she saw as she woke on their wedding day. The horrors of the night before had followed her into her dreams, but Raymond’s touch had comforted her when she thrashed in her sleep. He would be there all the nights to come.

Rose, newly promoted to lady’s maid, came in with tea and toast and helped her bathe. Her wedding gown lay on the bed ready to draw on, a light blue silk the same color as her eyes, fashioned by Mrs. Bonner, and a white bonnet trimmed with lace, white roses, and cornflowers. Arabella stood looking at herself in the full-length mirror. A patch of morning sun fell across the carpet, catching the sheen of silver thread woven into the embroidery on her slippers.

Her cheeks were not pale this morning but glowed pink, and her eyes shone with joy. She touched the pearl choker around her neck, the something borrowed that Angelique had given her to wear that day.

The strands of pearls bound with a diamond clasp had once belonged to Angelique’s mother, and the pearls were so white and fine that Arabella was almost afraid to wear them. They were also her something old, for they had been strung during the Old Regime, long before Napoleon had ever shown his face.

Angelique waited for her at the door of the parish church. All the village had come to welcome the bride, waving bright ribbons strung on slender branches shorn of leaves. Arabella waved back at them, and Caroline smiled as she kissed her before she went to sit with baby Freddie and his nurse at the front of the church. Only Angelique walked before her down the aisle.

Pembroke was dressed in midnight blue superfine, a coat so tight that every muscle of his upper arms was bared to the eyes of the crowd. His cravat was snow white, his waistcoat silver and dark blue. His hair was trimmed for the occasion, but the long lock was there as it always was, falling in a shadow of dark blond across his forehead so that he had to push it out of his eyes. As Arabella took her place beside him at the altar, she raised one gloved hand and pushed that errant lock of hair back, only to watch it fall again.

She laughed, and then he kissed her before they turned to the scandalized curate to hear the service read over them, to exchange their vows. Titania and a few of her actors had decided to stay as well, though most of the troupe had moved on to Leeds early that morning, Cassie included.

Captain Montgomery sat in the front of the church, his eyes never wavering from Angelique. Arabella was far gone in her contemplation of the man she loved, of the joy of marrying him at last, but she was not so far gone that she did not see the auburn-haired man watching her friend as if she were the answer he had been seeking to the only question worth asking.

Angelique for her part ignored him, just as she ignored Anthony where he stood beside Pembroke. But Arabella knew her friend well and saw a blush rising in her cheeks, a sparkle in her eyes that looked suspiciously like hope.

Their vows made and blessed, Pembroke defied convention and propriety and kissed her. Baby Freddie cooed, then squealed so loudly that Caroline and his nurse offered sweetmeats to shush him. He ignored them both, waving his fat fists in triumph as Pembroke and Arabella walked past him down the aisle, out into the warmth of the midsummer day.

Their wedding breakfast was not in the formal dining room but was held on the lawn of Pembroke House. All the villagers came to celebrate the wedding, which became almost an extension of the Midsummer festivities of the night before. There was wine and mead for all who wanted it, though after one glass of champagne, Arabella stuck to cider.

Angelique stayed at the party until mid-afternoon, Captain Montgomery never far from her side. Her friend left, saying that she had pressing business in Shropshire that she must attend to.

“Keep the pearls for the moment,” Angelique said. “They will give me an excuse to return to Derbyshire to see you.”

“You need no excuse,” Arabella said. “You are always welcome in my home. You need not even send word. Just come.”

Arabella watched her friend and her sea captain drive away, feeling bereft for a moment.

“I hope he is good to her,” she said.

Pembroke drew her close, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. She had long since taken her bonnet off, and the sun had begun to freckle her nose. She was a country woman now indeed, since she did not notice or care.

“I hope she leaves him his manhood intact,” he said.

They climbed the staircase to the sanctuary that was her bedroom, done in soft blond woods and ice blue silk. They were going to sleep in that room for the rest of their lives, for Pembroke was abandoning the master suite down the hall. Blueprints lay on the table by the fireplace, plans for the expansion of her room that would soon begin.

Arabella entered their room to find a bed of cambric laid before the fire. Rose petals were strewn on the soft nest, and there was a small fire in the hearth, giving off light and warmth.

“I know it is summer,” Pembroke said. “But I wanted to make love to you as my wife for the first time by this fire.”

Arabella did not speak but drew him close, her arms rising to circle his neck, her fingers delving into the silky softness of his hair. His mouth was on hers then as he drew her gown from her body, laying the delicate silk aside, draping it carefully over an armchair. He took off his own clothes, and she watched him wearing just her stockings and Angelique’s pearls. Pembroke stood looking at her for a long moment before he took the pearls off and laid them aside as well.

He moved naked across the room to a box he had set by the bed. He brought the box closer and laid it in her hands.

A deep ruby pendant sat nestled in velvet, already strung on her mother’s gold chain. The ruby was as large as a robin’s egg and shone in the firelight like the heart’s blood of some mythical dragon, like the one St. George had slain so long ago.

“It was my mother’s,” Pembroke said.

Arabella raised her hand and the ruby on her finger flashed in the light of the fire. The two stones were perfectly matched and had been part of a set. “There are earrings, too,” Pembroke said, “and a bracelet. But I wanted you to have this first tonight.”

Arabella could not speak for the tears in her eyes, so Pembroke fastened the necklace around her throat before laying her down on the bed of soft cambric. They lay naked together in the firelight, and Pembroke did not tarry with love play but pressed himself into her as if to seal their vows again.

Arabella gasped at the onslaught of his body on hers, of his body in hers, but she was ready to receive him. Her own desire rose like an incantation out of thin air to slide along her skin, to bury itself in her innermost parts just as Pembroke buried himself in her. She moaned and rose with him as his body pounded into hers, feeling as if she were a wave of the sea, being pressed again and again against the shore.

Pleasure uncoiled within her, raising her up only to cast her down once more, breathless, with Pembroke’s body over hers, lying heavy against her. His breath was harsh in her ears, his body a great weight on her limbs. She smiled and stretched beneath him, feeling the delicious lassitude that would soon turn once again to desire. The fire warmed her where Pembroke did not, and she lay back against the soft carpet and bedding, contentment filling every curve of her body and every limb, overflowing in her heart.

“I am sorry I was rough with you,” Pembroke said when he could speak again.

Arabella laughed, pressing her lips to his jaw. His stubble had begun to grow back, and in his ardor, he had forgotten to shave before coming to her. He had carried her into the house and up the stairs to their room. He had not stopped for anything, and Arabella knew that she would have had their wedding night no other way.

“I like you rough,” she said. “I want you any way you’ll have me, Pembroke. I am yours, now and forever.”

He smiled at her, tears in the blue of his eyes. He raised himself on one elbow, fingering the ruby that lay nestled between her breasts. “Forever is a long time,” he said.

He lifted her in his arms and carried her toward the soft feathered mattress of their marriage bed. “Our love will last at least that long,” she said.

He kissed her, his lips lingering over hers. “Longer.”