Stolen Away: A Regency Novella (2 page)

Turning, Audrey hurried down the stairs ahead of him. The porter jumped up from his chair beside the front door to hold out his lordship’s tall hat, his tan gloves, and his mahogany walking stick. She turned to her cousin’s husband-to-be, a smile pasted on her lips, her poise back in place. She could not let him see how those words had torn her open—she dared not. Oh, what a fool she was.

But at least she had the satisfaction of knowing she had done the right thing for him—and for Chloe.

* * *

“Why can you not write him for me?” Chloe protested. “You know how I hate when the ink stains my fingers—and it always spatters my gown! And I never think of the right words to put down until two days later—but you always think of them!”

Audrey turned from Chloe’s wardrobe where she had been selecting the gown for Chloe to wear tonight. “Because, cousin, I shan’t be there forever to write your notes to him. You must wish to express your thoughts and feelings. This is the most important occasion of your life!”

Frowning, Chloe held up her left hand. The diamonds on her finger winked in the candlelight. “Do you think that your toes ought to tingle when a gentleman kisses you?”

“No gentleman ought to kiss you unless he has proposed to you and been accepted—so you had best be speaking of Con—of Lord Arncliffe.”

“Oh, I was—in a fashion. And do stop giving me that head-mistress face, for it makes me feel I am back at that awful Miss Minton’s Academy. Besides, I cannot help it if gentlemen always seem to want to kiss me.”

“It is not the wanting that concerns me—it is the allowing. You are engaged now—to Arncliffe.”

Chloe sat up on her bed and hugged her knees. “Yes—and it is quite lovely. I shall be Lady Arncliffe! And that wretched Miss Dunlow who thought she would catch him will be quite put in her place!”

Coming over to Chloe’s bed, Audrey sat down, a white silk gown shot with gold clutched in her arms. “You do realize there is a man behind that title—a gentleman who cares a great deal for you. He is not a fish that you landed and should now parade to show your success.”

“Oh, yes, I know. A fish is horrid and smelly.” She gave a sigh. “But I do wish he could kiss better.”

“Better? Save his learning to kiss you at all for your wedding night. Now come and get dressed or you shall be late to dinner with his mother and his aunts.”

Chloe watched, eyelids lowered, as her cousin rose from the bed. When Audrey turned her back, Chloe stuck out her tongue. She pulled it back and bit the tip of it. She ought not to blame Audrey for having to dine with a bunch of old ladies who would no doubt be boring and would fall asleep after the tea tray. Well, at least they could admire her ring.

Feeling better, she sat up, all smiles.

She had stopped smiling by the time she met Arncliffe’s frosty mother and his staid, dour aunts. Stiff old biddies, far worse than she had expected. She had to put on her best manners, simpering like a ninny, keeping her eyes downcast, acting like a little dolt. The only spot of fun she had was when she winked at a rather dashing footman, making him blush. Of course, he could not keep his stare away from her for the rest of the night and that put her in better humor.

But Arncliffe did not even try to kiss her. Not once. No indiscreet whispers in her ears. No hot glances. No stolen presses of her hand in his wonderfully large ones.

He did look quite handsome, however, in his black evening clothes, his hair smooth as old gold. Although she wished he did not always look so sober. She could also wish that he had dark hair, and not such hard features. However, when she glimpsed their reflection in the library mirror after dinner and saw how well they looked together, she almost forgave him for his restraint. She did so like men with broad shoulders.

But, lud, what a dull, dull evening.

Would every night be like this?

That thought swept terror into her as she sat in the carriage on the way home, wedged between her cousin and her aunt. They had come along, too, although Audrey had looked oddly pale and said hardly anything to anyone. Anyone might have thought she was sickening, but Audrey was never ill.

Aunt Colbert was going on and on about such a beautiful house, and such polite company, and how Arncliffe was such a gentleman.

Chloe took a breath and forced her shoulders to relax. It could not possibly be like this every night. His mother would not live with them, nor would the aunts. Thank heavens his father had passed away years ago, otherwise, he would not now be a marquess. And he did have a lovely house, with its own square even—Arncliffe Square.

Why had he not at least kissed her hand?

Wistfully, Chloe stared out the window, remembering a man who had not been a gentleman with her—a man who had taken the kiss he wanted from her. A searing kiss, his lips so warm and firm, his tongue coaxing open her mouth until a jolt of intimacy at such a thing when straight through her.

He had also told her right after that he wanted her for her money, and her good looks were just a bonus. When she had scorned him, he had laughed at her. His Irish brogue lifted his taunting words as he told her that he would have her anyway. She had been thrilled—and a little terrified. She had slapped his dark face, spun on her heel and run from him, away from the terrace where he had led her after their dance.

She had met him since, riding in the park, or at the theater. Sometimes he escorted other ladies. But always he came to her, staying away long enough to make her angry with him, teasing her with his touches, with his assumption that she would have him.

Him? An Irishman? An obvious fortune hunter?

Never!

But still he had watched her. And she had watched him as well. She also had wondered what might have happened if she had not run from him that night?

However, a rogue such as him would not have made her a marchioness. He could give her nothing she really wanted. No position. No real security. She would always be fretting about his wandering eye, and would probably have to watch him fritter away her fortune.

No, she would marry Arncliffe. She would. And she would stay away from his boring mother, and his dull aunts, and she would make him make life fun for her. She would.

Even so, she fell asleep dreaming of black eyes and a dark-haired man with a glinting smile.

* * *

Audrey smothered a yawn as she opened the morning paper. She had always had breakfast with her father, she with
The London Times
and he with
The Morning Post
. She had still not given up the habit, even with him gone these past eight years.

However, the real truth behind her early rising of late was that she had been unable to sleep. It showed on her face, she feared, in the dark circles gathering under her eyes and the fatigue that even now numbed her mind.

But it would pass. Ten days had slipped away since the betrothal. The announcement had appeared in the papers. The vicar had only two more Sundays to call out and say that Connor Derwent, Lord Arncliffe, was to marry Miss Chloe Anne Colbert unless there should be anyone who could say why they should not marry. Of course, no one would ever say such a thing.

The invitations had gone out three days ago. No one would think twice now of how tired Audrey looked during the next fortnight, for everyone would be looking at Chloe, as they usually did. She would be mercifully busy, for there were still flowers to choose, wines to order, decorations to arrange for the wedding breakfast afterwards, and a dozen other things to keep one too occupied to feel anything other than exhaustion.

She heard her mother’s cane thumping—fast and unsteady—and she put down her paper. What was wrong?

Panic tightened her chest. She started for the door. Her mother stepped in, still in her nightcap and billowing dressing gown, her cane tight in one hand, and waving a note in the other hand. “She’s gone—Chloe’s gone. I think she’s been abducted!”

Audrey almost laughed, this news sounded so absurd. However, her mother’s expression did not look the least teasing—not with her cheeks flushed and worry glazing her eyes.

Taking the crumpled sheet from her mother’s trembling fingers, she scanned the black, strong hand scrawled across the vellum as her mother’s words tumbled out. “It’s that Irishman. It must be. He’s the only Fitzjoy we know! Oh, I ought to have warned Chloe against him!”

“You did, Mother. So did I. As well as warning him off as best possible,” Audrey said, rubbing the knot between her eyebrows. She could box Chloe’s ears for having proven such easy prey—running off to meet him at a midnight masquerade. Of all the silly things! A sick knot tightened in her stomach. She looked up from Fitzjoy’s note and glanced at the gilt-edged clock set on the carved mantle. Gone seven hours already. The girl would be ruined if word of this became known—her reputation would be fixed as a fast girl who had spent the night with a rogue.

Glancing at her mother, Audrey asked, “How did Fitzjoy get this note to Chloe? Was it through Meg?”

“Oh, but you cannot blame poor Meg if she is a touch foolish.”

“I can and I will dismiss her for her folly if this destroys Chloe’s life! I specifically told Meg about Fitzjoy the first time I intercepting one of his missives. The man’s a blackguard! For all we know, Chloe is already...already...”

“Please do not say it! We must hope that fence has not yet been jumped. But if it has, what are we to tell Arncliffe?”

Taking her mother’s hand, Audrey led her to the round, cherry-wood breakfast table, seated her, and poured her coffee. “Drink this, love, and do not distress yourself further. Fitzjoy must have marriage in mind, which may be her salvation, for it means a long carriage ride to Scotland. And you know how she is in a closed carriage.”

A faint smile lifted Mrs. Colbert’s mouth. “Oh, yes. Yes, I had not thought of that. That will slow them—but what are we to do? I supposed we ought to send for Uncle Ivor and—”

“Uncle Ivor? I cannot see him stirring his bulk from his club, not even for this disaster. And if we are to avoid scandal, there must be as little said about this as possible.”

“Does that me we must accept Fitzjoy as Chloe’s husband? How very uncomfortable a relation that shall be.”

Audrey threw Fitzjoy’s note onto the table. She saw her duty clear, and seeing it made her want to throttle her cousin. Of all the—

She caught the recriminations before they could fully form. Fuming wasted time. Starting for the door, she called back, “Tell everyone—even that simpleton Meg—that Chloe and I had to leave town of a sudden. Better still, I shall impress upon Meg the story I want her to know.”

Mrs. Colbert plucked the note from the table. “But what of this?”

“Oh, just say that Chloe departed with me after returning from that foolish masquerade.”

“Buy why would she—or you—gallop off in such a fashion?”

Pausing at the door, one hand on the cold, brass knob, Audrey waved her other hand, desperation tightening around her chest. “Darling, can you not make up some elderly, invalid relative, and some dreadful immediate illness?”

“There’s her Aunt Sylvie?”

“She’ll do.”

“But she’s quite a healthy sixty.”

“Then have her struck by lightning—or something else startling. I really cannot think of what just now.”

“But where ever will you be?

 
Audrey offered a grim smile and said, “Where else—chasing after Chloe!”

* * *

With her face turned toward the carriage window and her scented handkerchief pressed to her mouth, Chloe struggled for control over her body.

The voice, so melodious with its hint of Irish lilt, came from the opposite corner of the coach, a touch of amusement in the tone, and scraped across her nerves like a knife across slate. “Sulking still, dear one?”

Dragging the handkerchief from her lips, she shot the man a glare. “Do not speak to me, you...you...” Stomach churning, she turned away again, pressing the lace to her mouth as she muttered, “I wish I were dead.”

He laughed.
Laughed!
She glared at him again over the froth of lacy handkerchief. But he only lounged against the worn leather seat, arms crossed, long legs, still in black evening breeches, white stockings, and dancing pumps, stretched before him. “Now, now. You had your ball, did you not, as I gave you my word you would.”

“Your word!” She made a rude sound and turned away. “You may at least have the decency to open a window!”

“What—so you can scream rape, is it? You’ll have to wait for that. Least ‘till we’ve stopped for the night.”

Tight lipped, she glared at him. How had she ever thought that mocking face handsome? In truth, he had too swarthy a complexion. And too narrow a face. Lanky. Yes, he was lanky. Black hair spilled forward, falling into his eyes, unfashionably straight, and now she saw that he must have a heart as black as those inky eyes of his.

“Very well. Then I shall be ill inside the coach,” she said, and pressed her handkerchief to her mouth. The scent turned her stomach so she wadded the lace in a fist and threw it to the opposite side of the coach.

His easy smile faded for a moment. A flash of white, even teeth brightened the coach. “Try again, now. I’m not some green one who’ll believe such a story as that.”

Swallowing hard, Chloe pressed her hand to her mouth even harder, but she would loose the battle soon enough. Sweat beaded cold on her forehead. She hated traveling. Hated what swaying in a closed coach did to her. Hated how her head pounded and her insides churned.
I warned him
, she thought. The wave of nausea swept through her and she only wanted relief.

He must have seen the truth in her face, or her eyes. With a muffled curse, he sat up, moving faster than she would have thought he could, leaning across her to struggle with the latches to the glass window.

The bile rose. With a hiccup, she choked it back once. Her throat burned. She hated being ill.

With another curse, he gave up on the window and threw open the door, yelling at the coachman to stop.

She no longer cared. He jumped out and his hands wrapped around her to lift her down, but she could do no more than turn and be sick onto the opposite seat. She burst into choking, hot-faced tears.

“Ah, sweet Jaysus. I would pick a bloody heiress who can’t keep down her accounts.”

Eyes watering, sniffing now, Chloe pushed past him, stumbled out of the coach, and staggered onto the grass verge of the road. Dawn lit the eastern sky. She glanced at it, hating it, hating herself, but most of all hating this Irishman who had promised her a masquerade ball—and who had spirited her away last night.

Turning, she fisted her hands and propped them on her hips. “I want to go home.”

One black eyebrow cocked. “Too late, dear one. It’s a night we’ve been together in this coach, and you’ll wed me if you care to be welcomed again by anyone in the polite world.”

She wiped her fingers across her cheeks, brushing aside the tears. Her hair clung to her forehead, her curls limp. The stiff brocade of her masquerade gown—she had gone dressed as a shepherdess—itched. She wanted a bath, hot tea to settle her stomach, and her own bed.

“Take me home,” she demanded again, stamping her foot this time on the soggy grass. “I want to go home!”

Rolling his eyes, he lifted his palms and turned away, cursing. Glancing back at her, he scowled. The expression on his dark face almost made her wish she had not made him angry. “Well, now, and just how do I manage that in a coach that stinks worse than the back mews of a tavern?”

She glanced into the coach and shuddered. She could not—would not—get back into it. Looking around her, at the green of the countryside, she took in the wild oxeye daisies and yellow cowslips in the field opposite the road, the tidy stone wall that divided pasture from lane, the birdsong and the distant bleating of sheep.

She glanced at the man who had brought her to this—who had taken her away from her home. Who wanted her ruined! What did it matter if she made those black eyes flash with anger and that unsettlingly attractive mouth pull down? She did not care if she displeased him. Folding her arms, she lifted her chin. “You had best go and fetch something in which you can convey me home!”

He stalked to her side. The breeze lifted the lock of black hair from his forehead, stirring the soft strands. “Have you not heard a word I’ve said, or is it just you’re a bit slow?”

“Slow!”

“Your home’s with me now—or it will be soon as you’re my dear Mrs. Fitzjoy.”

Her mouth dried and her pulse quickened as he loomed over her, solid and masculine, and rather daunting, his eyes glittering like shards of black ice. But she would not be cowed. Not when she felt so miserable. However, she had to lift her chin a little more to keep it from trembling.

“I am not marrying you! I am going to be Lady Arncliffe! I only went with you last night to have a bit of fun before I married—not to run away with you!”

He grinned. He caught her around the waist, pulling him to her with an abruptness that took her breath. The glitter in his eyes quickened, as did her pulse. She braced the heels of her palms against unyielding muscles. Would he kiss her? Now? On the road? In the mist of a rosy summer dawn?

“I’ve a way of changing a maid’s mind about such things,” he said, the rumble of his voice vibrating through her. He let her go and pinched her chin. “But first, dear one, we need you smelling a bit better than you do.”

He turned away to saunter up to the driver, leaving her alone on the edge of the road, the morning dew soaking her silk slippers, her stomach no longer heaving, but now as hollow as if she were a porcelain doll. And the disappointment sharp.

With a low growl, she stomped one foot—it made no sound the grass, so she called out to him, “I hate you!” And she began to plan how to make his life an utter misery. Before he could make hers one.

* * *

Audrey thought about sending the footman to hire a traveling chaise, for they kept only a single pair of horses and an open landau with a leather top that could be put up in bad weather. However, the footman would then know that she and Chloe had not left the house together. If one servant knew, the entire house would soon hear the story—and servants from one house talked to servants from other houses.

She could not risk it.

Not if Chloe was to be extracted from this without talk, and without Arncliffe learning the truth. He might, of course, be gentleman enough that he would still hold to his betrothal to Chloe, even in such circumstances. But such knowledge must wound his pride and his heart. She would not allow that. No, somehow, she must fetch Chloe back—hopefully, with Chloe repentant for her folly, but otherwise unharmed. That meant, of course, hurriedly slipping a few things for herself—and Chloe—into a small portmanteau that she could carry and slipping out of the house.

A short, sharp questioning of Meg had at least made it clear that Chloe had left with no more than the clothes on her back. She must not have had planed an elopement—so Fitzjoy must have abducted her.

Well, he would be made to suffer. Abduction, particularly of an heiress, carried grave penalties. Only how could Great-uncle Ivor prosecute the fellow without the story becoming known? She would have to save that threat for only if the worst had happened to Chloe.

Her throat tightened. She smoothed a hand down the front of her short, Spencer jacket, her fingers brushing the mother-of-pearl buttons. The worst could not have happened—or so she prayed. She would cling to that thought, and she would bring Chloe home. Intact.

Taking a deep breath, she took up her soft-sided reticule, her York tan gloves, and a chip straw bonnet and slipped down the stairs and out the front door. A note given to the tearful and repentant Meg to hand to the porter had sent that servant elsewhere in the house on another task. Now she would have to hope that her mother carried off her part of the story well enough to convince both the staff and any callers that Audrey had left with Chloe to visit a relative.

At least Meg, guilt-ridden as she was, had been rehearsed into forgetting anything she knew about Chloe’s adventures.

Once outside the house and on Half Moon Street, Audrey hesitated. She knew that various mail coaches left from various London inns, but she had no idea which inns these might be, nor if these establishments hired out traveling chaises. They must, she assumed. But servants had always been sent to make such arrangements. She simply gave orders.

Biting her lower lip, Audrey glanced up and down the quiet street with its tidy, flanking rows of prosperous town houses. A breeze ruffled the hem of her skirt. The sun had not yet risen high and deep shadows from the plastered-covered buildings cast a chilly shade over her. She shivered. Should she have worn something more sturdy than a blue muslin day dress, even if it did have long sleeves. The short jacket that buttoned at the high waistline of her gown gave her little protection from the wind, but walking would warm her. If she saw a hackney, she would wave the driver down. Baring that, she could certainly make her way to one of the better hotels.

At that, she brightened.