Love on a Midsummer Night (Shakespeare in Love #2) (8 page)

The journey into Derbyshire took another two days. Pembroke sat across from Arabella in his traveling chaise, taking the occasional sip from his brandy flask.

He found that he needed less and less of the stuff to keep his hands from trembling. He wondered if his dependence on the alcohol lived in his mind as much as his body. The first night alone in the sitting room at the inn had been the hardest.

He knew his own weakness and despised it. He had given up brandy once before while on campaign. He had done so to stay alive long enough to watch Anthony Carrington’s back when they were at war. Life without brandy had not been worth living. He wondered if he would be able to give it up now.

He held the flask where Arabella could see it because it irritated her to watch him drink. She eyed him from beneath her hideous bonnet, moving her gaze between the scenery beyond the window and him.

Pembroke wondered where she had acquired her distaste for alcohol. Her father had not been much of a drinker. Old Mr. Swanson had come straight into his fortune from the slave trade in the West Indies and had never needed the liquor to make him a violent man. His reputation for striking servants had covered the county. Pembroke wondered how often he had raised his hand to his daughter.

Arabella sat as calm and still as a church mouse, the black crepe of her veil pushed back over the brim so that he could see her face. Since he did not want to look her in the eye, instead he watched the curve of her throat, the fall of her hands in her lap, where they lay encased in black cotton gloves. She had not completely left off her mourning, though if he had his way, she would give up her hideous black before the week was out.

Of course, he had never gotten his way where she was concerned. Why he thought that he might now was a mystery to him.

He spoke without thinking. He knew only that he could not endure another moment of the silence.

“So you will give up your mourning?” he asked.

Arabella turned to him, the wings of her bonnet making her face him straight on. “I beg your pardon?”

“You didn’t love your husband. You aren’t sorry he’s dead. So why wear black when you look so terrible in it?”

He almost wished his words back. For one hideous moment, he thought she might cry. But then he saw that the gleam in her eyes was not tears but barely repressed fury.

“You have no right to speak to me in such a manner.”

“I’m the one saving you from a fate worse than death. I think that gives me plenty of rights where you’re concerned.”

“I beg to differ, my lord.”

“I have always wanted to hear you beg. Somehow, I thought it would sound sweeter.”

She was almost spitting in her rage. She breathed deeply, her beautiful breasts rising and falling beneath the blue gown she wore and the hideous black bombazine of her cloak. He wanted to peel the crepe and silk away and touch her as he had always longed to touch her, to feel her beneath him as he never had.

Pembroke raised his flask and found that his hand was shaking. He knew this time it was not for need of drink, but he took a swig anyway.

“You are a perfidious bastard.”

The words seemed to slip from between her lips of their own accord, so incongruous and unladylike. Pembroke stared at her in shock, his flask forgotten. And then he laughed.

“I absolutely agree with you. I can only hope for my mother’s sake that I am not my father’s son, though I fear on that count you are mistaken. More’s the pity.”

She had shocked herself with her own words. He could see that in the sudden flush in her cheeks, in the quickness of her breath. If she were any other woman, he would have drawn her across his lap and let his hands and lips feast on her body. But she was a lady. And he was a blackguard and a cad, but he would never touch a woman against her will. He wondered if he could put his years of experience to the test, if he might seduce even her. Part of him wanted to reach for her and damn the consequences.

Arabella stared at him. If looks could kill, he would lie bleeding across the velvet squabs of his coach. She reached up then with trembling fingers and untied the ribbons of her hideous black bonnet. She lowered the window beside her very deliberately. The glass tried to stick at first, but she was determined, and the window finally gave way to her wrath. She took the black-dyed straw in one hand, crumpling it, forcing it through the window beside her.

The chaise was traveling at a good clip, for his matched blacks were some of the best horses in the country. The wind of their passing took her bonnet, and it flew out of her black-gloved hands. He stared at her, wondering if he had lost his mind and was dreaming the entire thing, but then, her eyes snapping fire, she drew her gloves off and tossed them after her hat.

Pembroke closed his flask and slipped it back into the pocket of his coat. He thought for a moment that he had swallowed his tongue with lust, but he found it still functional.

“Might I help you with the rest of your gown? I’m not certain it will fit through that window.”

He thought she might strike him then. He was sure her hand itched to slap the smug smile from his face. He could not take his gaze away from the cornflower blue of her eyes that seemed to flash silver in her ire. Her cheeks were pink, and he imagined that if he moved to sit beside her, if he pressed his fingertips to those cheeks, they would be warm beneath his touch.

She reached for the top button of her gown and loosened it. She undid the second one, and then the third, until he could see the swell of her breasts beneath. She extended her hand to him, and he almost took it. But he did not, for she did not want him.

“Your flask,” she said. “I would have a sip.”

He drew it from his pocket and handed it to her, careful not to touch her bare fingers with his own. She took a swig as she had no doubt seen him do, the same practiced flair, the same smile after. Either she drank on the quiet, or she had been watching him very closely over the last two days.

She offered the flask to him. “Thank you. You are rude and you are a thorn in my side, but you are right. I do not mourn my husband. I hate these clothes. I need new ones.”

Pembroke swallowed hard. “I will be happy to pay for a new wardrobe, Your Grace.”

She laughed at that. “No doubt you would, my lord. But I am not your mistress, nor will I ever be. I’ll make my own clothes, and I’ll pay my own way.”

“With what money?”

“With my father’s money.”

“Ah.” Pembroke did not argue with her inanity, for he was too distracted by the hint of creamy skin above her bodice. He had seen many beautiful women in various states of undress, but none were as erotic as the sight of Arabella with the first buttons of her gown undone.

She did not speak again but leaned back against the squabs of his coach, settling against the velvet as against the pillows of a feather bed. As he watched, she closed her eyes, finally able to lean comfortably now that the hideous bonnet was gone. She slept in the next moment, and he was left watching the rise and fall of her breasts beneath the loosened silk of her gown.

He shifted on his bench, uncomfortable in spite of the cushions beneath him. They were only two hours from Pembroke House, but he knew that they would be two of the longest hours of his life. Still, he did not close his eyes. He let his gaze roam over the curves of her body. He breathed in the cornflower scent of her skin and hair, wishing himself back in time, to the Forest of Arden, where they had both been young, when he once might have touched her.

***

Arabella tried to sleep, but with Pembroke’s eyes devouring her, she could not. She managed to keep her breathing even, and her eyes closed, but that was as far as her deception went. She was almost glad that she did not sleep, for at least then she did not dream.

Every night since she had left London, she had dreamed of Pembroke coming to her bed. Her sudden obsession with this fantasy was a mystery to her. She hated the marriage bed and all that went with it. But somehow, when Pembroke touched her, it was different. All the world seemed different when she was with him.

She hoped to put her fascination with the carnal aspect of her own mind behind her, but it seemed that her body had different ideas.

In spite of the layers of her gown, shift, and pelisse, she could feel the heat of his body radiating from across the expanse of the coach. She did not know what had possessed her to throw her hated bonnet out of the window, to unbutton her gown, to toss her gloves away. She had never behaved so badly in her life, but suddenly she wondered, why not?

She had obeyed her father and her husband after him. Obedience had never gotten her far. It had brought her to the road she traveled now, fleeing for her life into the forests of Derbyshire. Perhaps she might cast away more than just an ugly bonnet. This flight was more than just a desperate measure to save herself. She could change her life.

Something about Pembroke’s presence had always inspired madness in her. As a girl, she had been ready to throw all of her life away and follow him to the Continent and beyond. They had planned to marry and live in Italy, where he would hire out his sword to the highest bidder, where she would bear their children and learn to speak Italian. This madness had seemed almost commonplace when he described it to her all those years ago. Now, sitting across from him in his traveling chaise, she began to feel the rising excitement in her soul once again.

She could not be with him again, that much was abundantly clear. But she could live her own life. She did not have to seclude herself in a quiet cottage for the rest of her days. She could actually enjoy being free.

Arabella felt a rising excitement, a rising joy fill her heart, stealing her breath. She fought it down, trying to be sensible, but to no avail. She kept her hands folded demurely in her lap, but it did not help. She was free, and she might do anything at all with that freedom.

It was enough to make her swoon if she had been the swooning type.

They arrived at Pembroke House just as the sun had begun to set. Though the moat had long since been filled in, the castle looked like a picturesque medieval fortress with modern windows dominating the walls like winking eyes as the slanting sun caught them in its light. The house sat on a bluff surrounded by a well-kept park of oaks and hawthorns. Ivy clung to the old walls, and wisteria rose against the gray stone to bloom white and purple in the fading light.

They both held their silence as Pembroke helped her down from the carriage. The warmth of his hand on hers made her shiver, but she kept her gaze scrupulously away from his. Her unbuttoned gown was hidden beneath her black pelisse now, but she could feel the open air on her skin, the softness of the silk against her throat. It made her feel wanton.

Arabella ignored her own strange reaction and craned her neck to gaze up at the high walls of the house, taking in the sweet scent of wisteria. It had just begun to bloom, and even as day slid into dusk, the heavy perfume of those flowers reached out to touch her where she stood.

She had never before been to his childhood home. She might have been mistress of that place if her father had not promised her elsewhere, if Pembroke’s father had not been such a spiteful man. When they were young, she and Pembroke had met at a dance at the assembly hall in the village. He had come to her house to court her once or twice, but they had soon broken that off in the face of their fathers’ disapproval. It seemed that the Earl of Pembroke would not receive the daughter of a slave trader, much less allow her to wed his heir. Though Raymond Pembroke would one day be an earl in his own right, her father had set his sights higher for her, and in the end, he used his ill-gotten gains to buy her a duchess’s coronet. Pembroke’s father told him that he need not waste his time courting a tradesman’s daughter, a slave trader’s daughter at that.

She wondered what her life would have been like if Pembroke had been allowed to court her openly. They might have married in the village church. They might have three or four children by now. She forced her thoughts into silence, that long-ago loss like a sword point driven into her lungs. She must have shown something of her pain in her face, for Pembroke was beside her in an instant, offering his hand.

He steadied her, and she took comfort from the warmth of his touch on her fingertips. There was no lust between them in that moment, only a shared sympathy, unremitting pain. She thought she saw a shadow of what she felt pass over his face, but then his butler Codington appeared at the doorway of the house, and the moment was broken.

Pembroke’s man came down the steps and bowed before them. Arabella was shocked to see him, for he had been in London at Pembroke’s townhouse only three days before. If Codington remembered her from the time before, she could discern no sign of it. He was as cool and polite to her as he would have been to any guest of Pembroke House.

For some reason, this indifference was painful, too. He had been her friend once, of a sort. She supposed that Codington was her friend no longer. And who indeed could blame him? She had made his master suffer for years. Had she been in his place, she would not have forgiven her either.

Pembroke must have seen the surprise on her face at the emergence of his butler, for he smiled, clearly grateful to have something easy to talk about. “Codington prides himself on his ability to move troops even faster than Bonaparte.”

The older man seemed to notice nothing shocking in the fact that he had traveled over three hundred miles with lightning speed. His voice was as indifferent as if he were addressing an empty chair. “You are welcome to Pembroke House, Your Grace. Your room has been prepared, and I believe you will find everything in order.”

“Thank you, Codington.”

“I will see you at dinner, Arabella.” Pembroke raised her hand, pressing his lips to her palm. She shivered, the heat of his breath warming her to her toes. She thought to chastise him for his familiarity, but she could not seem to find her voice.

Arabella struggled to maintain her façade of false calm as the housekeeper, Mrs. Marks, greeted her in the entrance hall. The older woman wore unrelieved black, but for a cap of Brussels lace that covered her hair. Her dark brown eyes were kind.