A Terrible Beauty (Season of the Furies Book 1) (6 page)

Drew’s face flushed and he shrugged. “Nothing. I’m just not interested, that’s all. Besides, why would Cecile’s girls be interested in me? I can’t afford them.”

Michael chuckled. “Neither could I at your age, but like you, I had a big brother who could.” He clapped Drew on the shoulder and watched as an embarrassed smile turned up the corners of his brother’s mouth. As quickly as that smile came, it left.

“I appreciate the offer, Michael, but I think I’d rather stay in tonight.”

Michael sighed. “It’s that Winston girl, isn’t it?”

Drew stiffened at Michael’s question and then, as if all the air had left his body, his shoulders drooped. “I love her, Michael. I know you thinks it’s impossible that she’d ever have me – gad, it’s not as if I deserve her either. Araby is so full of life, so beautiful. She’s an angel.” Michael snorted and Drew glared at him. “You see, this is exactly why I don’t want to talk to you about her. You’ll never understand her – her passion, her spirit,” he dropped his voice, “her vulnerability.”

And there it was, the two sides of Araby Winston – the heartless temptress and the waif, both equally captivating. Michael strode across the room barely resisting the impulse to shake some sense into his brother. “Damn it, Drew there are beautiful women all over the world, women who welcome a man, not tear up his heart for fun. Araby Winston is a spoiled brat. If she were my responsibility I’d tan her backside regularly, believe me. Any self-respecting father would, given her behavior and he’d be justified....”

Drew recoiled as if Michael had struck him. “Shut up, Michael,” Drew yelled, “You think life is so easy for her don’t you? You’re just like everyone else. You never look past the surface. She’s just a beautiful, willful girl and you all know what should be done with her, don’t you.” Michael stared dumfounded into his brother’s fury. “None of you have the slightest idea and none of you give a damn.” Drew stormed from the room leaving Michael standing in shocked silence.

***

“Then, damn me if she didn’t run off with everything but the chamber pot. It was the last time I engaged a mistress without a written contract, I can tell you that.” Michael winced at the conclusion of Skeffy Arlington’s woeful tale of his first mistress. Most of the other men assembled in the Earl of Delafield’s library merely looked uncomfortable at Skeffy’s story that would have best been recounted on a late evening at a gentlemen’s club and after a considerable amount of brandy. Some of the older men in the room glared. This was a picnic, after all, and ladies glided gently about the place just steps beyond the doors of this manly retreat.

Michael caught the eye of one particular gentleman in the group and shook his head to indicate his own disapproval. He was a director of Barclay’s Bank and Michael had come today with Arlington in hopes of an introduction to him. Arlington might be considered a buffoon, but he was very wealthy and had important family connections in both finance and government – connections Michael needed if he wished to buy the foundry outside Liverpool and seize some of Her Majesty’s very lucrative naval contracts as his own. The older man frowned at Skeffy’s horsey laugh and turned to regard Michael who raised his own eyes heavenward before giving the other man a half smile of commiseration. Within moments the older man gestured for Michael to join him at the sideboard, leaving Skeffy to entertain his remaining audience with another off color anecdote. Michael turned his opportunity to even greater advantage and before long had secured an appointment at Barclay’s to discuss financing his purchase of the foundry. All in all, a satisfying days work.

As Michael turned to leave the room he heard his younger brother’s name mentioned. “Gad, you should have seen young Lassiter’s face. Then she says, coolly as you please, ‘Everyone knows that a third son is only one step above a by-blow. Come to think of it, you are a third son, aren’t you, Mr. Lassiter?’ ” Michael froze. Edmond Bennet stood by the window regaling the circle of young men surrounding him. They all laughed long and loud at Drew’s expense. Michael fought the impulse to drag Bennet outside and give him a sound thrashing. It would only make matters worse.

“Iredale will have his hands full with her, won’t he?” exclaimed one young man, whipping a mirthful tear from his eye.

“A couple of rather delightful handfuls, I should think,” Bennet rejoined, leaving no doubt what part of her would fill a man's hands so amply. He lifted his whiskey glass. “To Araby Winston, a spirited girl whom I’d very much enjoy breaking to bridle.” The young men cheered as they drank to their own fantasies of doing the same.

Michael searched the room to see who else bore witness to Drew’s humiliation. Lord Ambrose stood quietly by himself. He gave Michael a considering look. Perhaps he should call on the man after all. He hadn’t given the man’s invitation serious consideration until now – until he remembered what a vicious little viper Araby Winston could be. He'd let himself be deluded by the incident with the flower girl and his memory quickly drew him back to another woman with soft skin, the color of cafe au lait. He remembered her exotic scent, a blend of jungle flowers, musk and sexual arousal. Revati – temptress, she-devil. He’d been not much older than Drew when he’d met her and fallen completely under her spell. Six months later he'd become a penniless, husk of the young man he’d once been, running for his life with her laughter still echoing in his head. He nodded to Lord Ambrose, an unspoken promise on his lips.

***

Arabella waited on the terrace steps as Katherine and Sarah descended into the garden. She’d dressed with particular care today, intent on catching a certain viscount’s eye. Her new carriage dress, a pale, blue-green taffeta creation with its complimenting bonnet cost a small fortune, but the ensemble set off her face and figure to perfection. With luck and the right opportunity, Lord Iredale would very quickly be brought up to scratch – perhaps even today. Arabella brushed her hand down the skirt of her dress, admiring the sheen of the material. Madame Marchant didn’t create her fabric confections for just anyone. This particular gown with its four flounces edged with dark, green velvet and embossed with a trailing vine motif had been designed specifically with Arabella in mind. Madame sent the gown and embroidered mantle to her for approval and of course, Arabella approved it immediately. One must have the newest and best weaponry available when hunting in the marriage mart.

Merchandise from the most exclusive shops in London found its way to her door as if by magic. Everyone wanted the reigning Incomparable to wear their gowns, gloves, boots, or jewels. Should she admire a fan, within two days a box of them in all manner of intriguing designs and colors arrived for her. The fan maker, the cobbler, the haberdasher, all were willing to wager their merchandise on her marital success simply to have bragging rights to Arabella’s patronage. Even her stepfather benefited from the credit offered him because all of fashionable London believed she would make a spectacular match. And how could she fail? She closed her eyes against the flash of fear that threatened to overwhelm her. She couldn’t fail. The consequences to both herself and her mother were too grave to be considered.

Arabella straightened her shoulders. Iredale must have been detained by some of the other gentlemen in the library. She drew a calming breath. Today she would show him that no other gentleman had secured her favor. The image of a pair of pale, gray eyes flashed in her memory. She frowned at their intrusion on her well-ordered plan. Michael Lassiter was a rogue and dangerous to her cause as well as to her peace of mind. Still, no other man looked as well in evening dress, nor did they take command of a moment as well as he did. She forced her thoughts back to Iredale and the importance of securing his attentions. What on earth could be keeping him. Arabella tapped her foot on the flagstone steps. She was about to give up and join her friends when a hand reached out and grabbed her firmly by the arm.

“Good morning, Araby.” She turned and looked up into the handsome face of Michael Lassiter. Her heart jumped in response. It was as if her wayward thoughts had conjured him. His cool gaze swept over her. “I see you’ve equipped yourself for today’s hunt. Tell me, is it Lord Iredale who has the honor of being your prey, or some other simple- minded fool?”

“It’s none of your concern and he is not simple-minded,” she snapped, discomforted by the similarity in their hunting metaphors. He chuckled and she tried to sweep him with a contemptuous glance – something nearly impossible to do because he filled out his jacket and trousers as well as he did his evening dress.

“I...I mean,” she sputtered, trying to gather her thoughts, “the very idea of ladies as hunters and gentlemen as their unwilling quarry – it is ridiculous.” How easily he turned her into a stammering idiot. She glared at him. “If you’ll excuse me, the Deering’s have arranged a lovely day and I don’t wish to see it spoiled.” She made to pull away from him, but he tightened his grip.

“The only thing spoiled here today, love, is you. We need to have a conversation.” He led her firmly down the steps into the formal garden, unmoved by her protests. As Arabella increased her struggle to be free of him, he increased the strength of his grip. He took an abrupt turn down a side path leading into a secluded section of the gardens. There they would be hidden from view by a high laurel hedge. Arabella's heart skipped a beat. It was scandalous behavior and if they were discovered she could be ruined, yet short of screaming, she had no way to stop him. That would positively ruin her. He knew where he was going as if he’d used this spot before. She remembered old gossip connecting Michael Lassiter to their hostess, Amanda Deering, Countess Delafield. Rumor had it that she had been Lassiter’s lover. An appalling idea, in Arabella’s opinion. The woman was thirty-three, if she was a day – virtually a crone.

He spun Arabella around quickly and caught her other arm in an equally tight grip. Oddly, she felt no real fear, as when her stepfather grabbed her. Instead, she felt that peculiar stirring below her stomach and she fought the urge to lean into him.

“I told you to leave Drew alone,” he said, tightly. “You can carve your initials on as many other hearts as you like – I don’t care – but you will leave my brother's alone.”

Arabella lifted her chin. “Drew is very fond of me and I find him...delightful. It’s a harmless enough flirtation.”

He gave her a shake. “The hell it is. You enticed him at the Esterly’s ball last week and then sent him away as if he were a dog who’d fouled the carpet. You humiliated him by inferring that he's no better than a bastard – all because I left you standing in a ballroom. He's the son of an earl and who are you but the step-daughter of a baron known for his drinking and excessive gaming. By God, if you were a man I’d be justified in calling you out.”

Arabella looked away from him too ashamed by her treatment of Drew to defend her own birthright as an earl’s daughter. He was right. She’d acted more like Seaton’s get. Certainly she’d been angry with Drew’s older brother for leaving her stranded after their at waltz, but it had been more than that. Drew had also angered her. He was too observant by half and his observations could be her undoing. He’d come dangerously close to revealing part of his speculations to Bennet and his crowd. To teach him his place and to drive him away, she’d lashed out at him. In truth, the depth of her own spite had shocked her. Drew was a sweet boy, genuinely kind and honest. His only crimes against her were being too astute and being a third son. She'd treated him despicably.

“Well, well,” Michael said, releasing her. “I had no idea you could look ashamed.”

Arabella quickly schooled her features. No one must ever know why she'd spoken so to Drew. “This isn’t shame,” she stated coolly. “This is boredom. You are tiresomely predictable, Mr. Lassiter. Your brother’s behavior at the Esterly’s grew presumptuous and I was forced to admonish him, nothing more.”

“You led him on and you know it.” His eyes narrowed. “You think his behavior was out of bounds, do you? I think you need to be schooled in the definition of the word, ‘presumption.’” He swept her into an embrace, bending her backward over his arm. In a flash his mouth covered hers with a harsh and demanding kiss. His lips ground against hers seeking conquest rather than response. She tried to twisted away, but he held her fast. Her bonnet fell back from her head and the only thing that prevented it from falling to the ground were the ribbons tied under her chin.

Gradually, the pressure of his mouth upon hers changed, grew gentler. The tip of his tongue traced the seam of her lips, teasing for entrance into her mouth. When none was granted, Michael gently nipped her lower lip. Arabella gasped in surprise and he quickly claimed his advantage by gliding his tongue past her lips and into her mouth. It wasn’t a ruthless thrust, but more of a gentle insistence – a teasing stroke that promised so much more. Arabella gripped his shoulders, raising her mouth to his. She mimicked the movements of his tongue with hers, pressing her lips and her body against his. The flutters she'd felt moments ago moved down her body, becoming stronger, making her restless for something she couldn’t define. He drew her closer and changed the angle of his tender assault on her mouth. The world receded, and time held its breath. These were the kisses of dreams, Arabella thought, the sort of kisses you read about in tales of great passion, but never truly believed you'd experience yourself. His hand moved from the back of her head as he cupped one of her breasts. Without conscious thought, she arched against him as his fingers skillfully traced the area were her nipple lay sedately hidden beneath layers of fabric. She felt it pearl in response to his touch and her cheeks flushed, knowing he could feel it as well. This was wrong, it was forbidden and she needed to stop him, but forbidden fruit tasted the sweetest of all. She felt a sharp tug of need at her core. What was happening? Her body longed to surge against his, to press and rub and for a brief instant she obeyed its command.