Page 40 of Wickedly Yours
“The carriage is slowing.”
Carefully he straightened her skirts and pulled up her bodice neatly tucking in her breast before placing Arabella on the seat beside him. He moved to pick up the pins from the coach floor and handed them to her, watching her intently.
Hands shaking with the intimacy of what had just occurred, Arabella took the pins and tried to give her hair some semblance of order.
A soft chuckle came from him as his lips brushed her temple. Then he pulled her close to him.
Arabella clutched at the buttons of his coat, the sense of loss at parting from him nearly as profound as the pleasure she’d just experienced. Her thoughts ran wild at her behavior. At the first opportunity she’d allowed almost complete ruination. In acarriage,of all places.
“Don’t, Bella.” Rowan murmured, likely sensing the tension in her body. “You are not your mother.” He kissed her cheek, then took her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm. “You aremagnificent.”
Arabella sucked in a deep breath and nodded, not trusting herself to answer. When the coach came to a stop, she reluctantly pulled away from him.
The warmth of his hands brushed the top of her breasts as he straightened her bodice and Arabella’s body flared to attention again. God, what was happening to her?
Rowan stepped out of the coach and stood with his hand outstretched to clasp hers. He moved to walk her to the door but Arabella abruptly released his fingers. “Good night, my lord.”
Telling her legs to move forward, Arabella made it up the steps just as a footman swung open the door. She did not look back.
25
The stunning brunette smiled back at Arabella and turned sideways, smoothing her skirts. It was amazing what a new hairstyle and fashionable clothing could do for a person. At Aunt Maisy’s insistence, Arabella had accompanied her to Madame Moliere’s, one of the most well-known modistes in London. Arabella had tried to beg off, insisting she already engaged the services of a lesser known dressmaker.
Aunt Maisy was remarkably persistent.
“My lady, you are a vision, if I may say so.” Edith, her new lady’s maid, clapped her small hands in delight. Edith was another new addition at the behest of Aunt Maisy. She was to be married, Aunt Maisy explained, and needed a new wardrobe as well as a proper lady’s maid. And Edith did wonderful hair.
Arabella allowed a tentative smile. She’d felt beautiful the night of the opera, but that had been a special occasion. “You may, Edith.”
Dressed in a walking dress of deep green, with her hair in a loose cluster of waves at her back, Arabella nearly didn’t recognize herself. After so many years dressed in brown and gray, she had yet to get over the shock of seeing herself in colors. Aunt Maisy went a bit wild, choosing fabrics in a variety of hues Arabella might not have considered otherwise. Nothing high-necked, though aside from a ballgown, most of her dresses would still be considered demure. No browns or grays. No questions about Rowan, either. Whatever thoughts Aunt Maisy may have had in that regard, she wisely kept to herself.
Arabella had resigned herself to marrying Rowan and stopped protesting or making plans to leave the country. Which was a good thing. The banns had been read. She and Rowan were to be wed at his parent’s home under the same wooden arch used only a short time ago for Jemma and Nick. At her request, the wedding would be small. Only family as well as Miranda and her husband, the Dowager Marchioness of Cambourne and Lord and Lady Cambourne in attendance.
“Here my lady,” Edith handed her a small reticule made to match the dress. The maid cocked her head, examining Arabella for any small flaw in her attire. Satisfied, the maid nodded in approval.
Arabella gave Edith a stern look. “I suppose I should go down.”
The maid bobbed and her eyes twinkled as she looked up at Arabella. “I did hear a carriage arrive.”
Heart racing with anticipation, Arabella carefully made her way downstairs, telling herself she’d been to Gunter’s, purveyor of flavored ices and all things epicurean, dozens of times. There was absolutely no reason for her to feel such excitement. Except today she was going to Gunter’s with Rowan.
Arabella hadn’t spoken to Rowan since the night of the opera. Not intentionally, though she had made plans to put him off should he call the following day. When he did call, she was still abed. She assumed he planned his visit on purpose, knowing she wouldn’t be awake. Instead he left word he had to leave London for a few days on business. That had been a fortnight ago. Rowan had an unfailing ability to guess at her moods, assuming correctly Arabella needed time to think after what had happened between them.
He’d only sent her one note, accompanied by a lovely box of the most exquisite cherry tarts from Gunter’s.
‘I’m taking you for a ride in the park and then to Gunter’s tomorrow for a lemon ice. I beg you to wear something that is not appropriate for a nun to take her vows in.’
It occurred to Arabella that she could refuse. Or accept his invitation and wear something horrid and brown. But she took one look at her old wardrobe and decided against dressing like a drab matron. Nor did she have any desire to refuse him by pointing out his invitation was actually more of a command. It was exhausting to constantly be at odds with everyone around you, and that included Rowan. Much more surprising was how much Arabella missed him.
“Good God, are you ill?” Her brother thundered from the foot of the stairs, a look of astonishment in his eyes.
Jemma trailed behind Nick, rubbing the small mound of her stomach, a chocolate pastry of some sort clutched in her hand.
Arabella’s mood was so light she didn’t even feel the need to point out to her sister-in-law that if she continued to stuff herself in such a way she’d be as big as a barn.
But I can think it.A smile crossed her lips.
Jemma was staring at her so hard she bumped into Nick’s side before coming to a full stop alongside her husband, horror on her face.
