Page 38 of Wickedly Yours
His mother placed a hand on his sleeve. “Let her go, Rowan. It was clear she wasn’t enjoying herself. And now that His Grace has left it would have been awkward had she stayed. Lady Gwendolyn has promised to return to our box and—”
He shook off his mother’s hand. “If anything has happened to her you will be held responsible, Mother.” He turned and said over his shoulder. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.” He was furious. Bloody furious. First Lord White and now this. He’d coddled his parents for far too long. Because of James.
I am not James. James would have married Lady Gwendolyn happily whether he wished to or not.
He searched the thinning crowds of the refreshment area, looking towards the terrace in case Arabella sought out her brother instead of leaving. She would not know Nick had taken the Dunbar coach and Rowan didn’t care for the thought of Arabella wandering down the dark line of coaches where she could be easily accosted. Or worse, hire a hackney.
Rowan hurried down the sidewalk. Several couples mingled about, enjoying the night air. He could hear throaty laughter somewhere to his right. But no Arabella. Perhaps she’d gone back inside to look for him.
A slender woman, the folds of her cloak flashing open to show the brilliants lining her skirts, walked from between two coaches. She put her hands on her hips, turning to look up and down the street as if searching for something.
Arabella.
Instantly he walked to her side before she could try to elude him. “There you are. I didn’t realize Balderez had the effect of making one ill. Or induce ladies to run from the theater.” He took her arm and turned her to face him.
A sheen of tears coated the dark velvet eyes. Arabella was clearly upset. She twisted away from him. “Let go. I’ll see myself home. You are relieved of your duty to me,” she said, the militant attitude she often assumed on clear display.
“It is not duty and I did not mean to abandon you.” The sight of her distress unexpectedly tugged at his heart. His fingers closed over her elbow. “You should have waited.”
Her chin lifted defiantly. “Perhaps I didn’t care to be treated to Lady Gwendolyn sneering at me from across the room. And your sister has all the personality of a tea cake. I would have enjoyed my evening more had there actually been cats wailing onstage.”
So, it hadn’t been his mother, but Petra who’d caused Arabella to flee. A possibility he’d not foreseen. He wondered what his dear sister, who had the most pleasing of personalities when permitted to be anything other than demure, had said to upset Arabella. Rowan fought back the urge to defend his sister. But he was infinitely happier with Arabella’s insults than the horrible wounded look he’d first seen in her eyes.
“Come. I’ll see you home.” He started to lead her towards his own coach.
“As I said, I can see myself home. Direct me to the Dunbar coach if you please, and I’ll be on my way.”
“Jemma was feeling ill. Your brother and she have already left and taken the coach. You are left with me to see you home safely.” A curl had fallen from her coiffure to land on her cheek and without thinking he reached out and tucked it behind her ear.
“No, thank you, Malden.” She shied from his touch and tried to get closer to the street. “I shall hire a hackney.”
Obstinate woman. “Rowan. Stop calling me Malden with that dismissive tone you like to use. My name is Rowan.” He gripped her arm and half-led, half-dragged her down to his waiting coach ignoring the stares of the few people they passed. “Unless you wish to add to the gossip about us, you’ll cease your dramatics.”
“Dramatics?” Her cheeks puffed out in outrage.
Finally seeing his coach, Rowan placed both hands on Arabella’s waist and shoved her into the interior. He instructed the driver before climbing in himself and latching the door.
The coach started to inch down the street, surprisingly thick with evening traffic.
Arabella glared daggers from her place on the leather squabs. Her struggles had caused more of her hair to spill down one side of her face. Deep, angry breaths erupted from her, forcing her breasts to nearly spill from the gown.
Rowan found her glorious to behold.
“I will not marry you. I don’t care if the entiretonspits at me as I walk past and am reduced to growing fat in an obscure Italian city.”
Rowan wasn’t sure, exactly, why Arabella should grow fat in Italy, but he didn’t interrupt.
“You are much more suited to a woman of Lady Gwendolyn’s stature, whom your sister was kind enough to inform me actually desires to wed you. A simpering pea-wit who will obey your every whim and call on your mother for tea and needlepoint.”
“My mother doesn’t needlepoint.” He leaned forward. “You’re jealous.”
Arabella swatted at his shoulders. “I am not jealous. I resent being abandoned.”And hurt.“You arrogant—”
The rest of her tirade ceased as his mouth fell firmly on hers. Grabbing her roughly, he trapped her, pushing her back against the squabs. With a groan, his hands slid beneath her cloak to wrap around her waist as his lips moved possessively over hers. There was madness in the kiss, the insanity of his desire for her. He nipped at her full bottom lip.
Arabella whimpered softly, the sound of her surrender. The lush lines of her body molded against his chest as her arms wound seductively around his neck.
Then she nipped him back.
