Stolen Away: A Regency Novella (3 page)

Brown’s!
That would be just the thing. They knew her and her mother at that respectable establishment. The hotel porter could summon a vehicle for her, and she had the household account money in her reticule to pay for any service. She hoped that eighteen pounds, five shillings, and tuppence would be sufficient. If not—well, she would think of something then.

Putting down her portmanteau, she pulled on her gloves, settled her bonnet in place, and tied the ribbon under her chin. She would manage. She must. For Chloe’s sake. For her mother’s. For Arncliffe.

She frowned again. She rather hoped that he and Chloe had not had any engagements set for the next day or so.

Bending down, she took up her bag.

As she straightened, a carriage turned the corner from Piccadilly—a black phaeton with a high perch seat and four smart, matched grays. A gentleman drove the team, for it was indeed a gentleman’s carriage. She glanced at it, worried. Could she avoid the driver’s notice? Turning, she tucked her chin down and started up the street, hoping the brim of her bonnet would obscure her features.

Behind her, the clop of hooves on the hard dirt of the street stopped. She glanced back.

The four thoroughbreds stood before the town house that her mother had rented for the Season. A short, stocky groom stood beside the leaders, settling the animals, smoothing a hand over first one gray dappled neck, then another. White manes fluttered in the breeze. The gentleman driver leapt down from the high-perch seat. The broad shoulders and the glimpse of gold hair from under his hat, betrayed his identity—Arncliffe!

Of course. Who else would call so early in the day, as if he were family?

Biting back a groan, Audrey started to hurry away, but he had already glimpsed her, for he called out, his tone uncertain, “Miss Colbert?”

She slowed her steps. It would be unforgivably rude to pretend she had not heard, but she had a craven desire to do just that. Instead, she turned.

A smile lifted his lips as he started toward her. He took off his hat as he reached her side, sweeping a polite half-bow.

Audrey swallowed. She swallowed again.

What in heavens did she tell him? And how did she explain why she was walking down the street with a portmanteau in one hand?

Taking in the startled look in Miss Colbert’s eyes and the bag grasped in her hand, Arncliffe asked, his tone intentionally flippant, “Running away from home?”

Instead of smiling at his jest, her eyes widened and her shoulders jerked, as if he had cracked a whip in front of her face. Did she disapprove of his levity?

She must not, for she curved her lips into what seemed meant to be a smile, but those expressive brown eyes of hers betrayed a haunted edge of nervous worry over something. She wet her lips and said, “Oh, the bag—yes. I’m...just off to pay a call. On a friend.”

He stared at her, trying to keep his features blandly polite. The excuse sounded as odd as her forced tone. A visit? At this hour? But he always rose unfashionably early himself, so how could he fault her for the same sin? Still, he could not shake the sense that something was amiss. He had arrived only to deposite flowers from his hothouse—a gesture for his bride-to-be, so she might wake to their fragrance, and so she might think him at least somewhat romantic—but now he put aside that task.

Keeping his tone light, he said, “I cannot allow a lady to continue on foot—not when I’ve a carriage at hand. Please allow me to escort you.”

He leaned forward to take her bag. He wrapped his hand over hers, expecting her to relinquish her hold. She did not, and so they stood there, her holding the bag, and him holding her hand.
We must look ridiculous
, he thought. But it did not feel so, not when he stood close enough to catch the sweet-tart scent of orange blossoms—what must be her scent—and close enough to see the faintest of freckles dusting her cheekbones. They gave her the charm of a schoolgirl.

The color rose in her cheeks as she stared at him. “I could not impose, my lord.”

“I thought we had progressed to Connor and Audrey? And why can you not impose—
cousin
? We are as good as related already, and what other use do relatives have, other than to be imposed upon, so they might return the favor?”

She wet her lips. She had a generous mouth, he would say, although at the moment it pulled down into a frown. But the lower lip curved ripe and lush and made for more than smiles.

“I...well, my friend is ill and I am just taking her a few things. But thank you. It is kind of you to offer.”

Puzzled, he released his hold. Why was a footman not carrying her bag for her? Why did she not have her carriage waiting? A half dozen more questions formed, but too many years of training on good manners held them in check. He only said, “Very well. I shall just call on Chloe, and—”

“Chloe? But you cannot!”

Startled by the urgency in her voice, he stopped his movement toward the steps, and asked, his forehead bunching tight, “Is she still abed? She swore to me she always rose early, no matter how late the hours she kept the night before. We made a wager on it, in fact.”

“Yes, but—she...she is not at home just now.” The breeze lifted and tugged her bonnet back to reveal a spill of brown curls. With her free hand, she crushed the chip-straw into place, but one lone curl dangled over her left eyebrow. She looked even more the guilty schoolgirl now, caught in some misadventure.

“Not at home?” he asked, startled into the question. “But where is she then?”

“She...went to visit a friend of ours, and she is now there, too, and sick...as well.”

“Something that contagious sounds rather dangerous.”

She shook her head, and the bonnet started to slip again. It was, he thought, an annoyance of a bonnet, with its deep brim and only a plain blue ribbon around the yellow, chip straw. She crushed it into place once more. “It is not serious. She is far improved. But, she...Chloe would be embarrassed if anyone were to see her just now.”

Concerned and bewildered, he asked, “Do you mean to say she has the measles or something like?”

“Yes—that is exactly it. Measles. She went just the other day to visit her friend, and now she must stay until she is better. Which ought to be only a matter of a few days.”

His mouth quirked. He could, of course, tell her that he did not believe one word she had just uttered. But that would be boorish of him. And she had his curiosity now well caught. Why could he not see Chloe? Where was Audrey going with that bag of hers? And what might she say next if he pressed her?

He kept his expression schooled and he hoped his eyes did not betray his lack of faith in her tale. “I did not think measles started up so quickly, nor ended so fast. But are you not afraid of catching them as well?”

She stared up at him, and he could see her mind working—those wide brown eyes betrayed the glitter of thoughts turning rapidly. She blurted out, “I had them as a child.”

With that Audrey bit the inside of her lower lip.

At least that part of this tale was the truth.

Arncliffe still did not look inclined to accept her excuses and go away—that stubborn chin of his! Instead, he said, his tone sounding grave, “It still is a disease that can turn dangerous, what with fever and all. I must insist on sending my doctor to—”

“Please no! I mean, it is very kind of you to think of Chloe, but she and her friend...our friend...” Oh, she sounded half-addled. Taking a breath, she pushed fraying nerves into order. “Our friend, Mrs. Fitzjoy, lives too far north to make it an easy journey, and I am certain they have a physician in attendance already. So I really cannot bother you further about this.”

Putting on her best, most charming smile, she prayed,
Oh, please, go away now.

His mouth pulled into a resolute line, and she did not know what to make of that odd, knowing look in the depths of his eyes. But what could he say? She knew him to be far too much the gentleman to accuse her of lying—and she had indeed stretched the truth beyond recognition. Throat hot, she swallowed. Her cause must justify her actions.

And she honestly would box Chloe’s ears when she caught up to her. Right after she finished with Fitzjoy!

Leaning forward, Arncliffe took her bag from her, this time with such command that it had gone from her grip before she could even tighten her fingers about the handles. “That settles it. I cannot allow my betrothed’s cousin to be jaunting about England without escort to someplace so distant.”

Turning, he settled his tall, beaver hat back on his golden hair. He offered her the crook of his arm. She struggled for another excuse and found only the weight of her lies pressing on her. Well, she had certainly earned a just reward for digging herself this hole. She could see no option other than to allow him to escort her somewhere.

She glanced at his team. At least they looked to be fast, and she could use speedy transportation to an inn where she might hire her own carriage. When the time came, she would just have to think of some excuse as to why they must part company. And she would have to hope she caught up with Fitzjoy and Chloe well south of the Scottish border.

* * *

Fitzjoy hired a farmer’s gig. A tawdry, narrow-seated carriage, its varnish faded away in spots, with a single dull-coated bay gelding put between the shafts.

Sniffing back her last storm of tears, Chloe stared at the ugly vehicle and the long-earned, placid gelding attached to it. “I am not riding in that!”

“So it’s walking you’d rather?” he asked, his smile back in place. He had come back whistling, driving the gig. He had paid off the coachman and sent them away. Now he wanted to usher her into that awful gig as if it were a royal carriage.

She folded her arms. “I cannot be seen in that tattered vehicle in London.”

His eyes danced with devilment. “Oh, you’ll not be, dear one. I’ll swear to that.”

“If that means you do not intent to take me to London, then I—oh, what are you doing? Put me down at once! I said—ohhhh! Why, you...you...you ruffian!”

Chloe struggled to right her clothes after being lifted from her feet and tossed onto the gig’s hard seat as if she were baggage. Before she could do more than straighten her evening cloak and skirts, Fitzjoy vaulted into the carriage and sat down next to her. If he had not already dismissed the other carriage and its drivers, she would have screamed to them for help.

Turning, she started to rise to climb out the other side of the gig, but something yanked her back. She twisted and found that he had tucked part of her cloak and masquerade dress under him. He sat on the velvet evening cloak and part of her white and gold brocade shepherdess gown. With a sharp tug, she pulled at the fabric. It stayed where it was under his black evening breeches.

He leaned toward her and smiled. “Sit still and enjoy yourself. It’s not far you’d be going, walking in those pretty slippers of yours, after all.”

Folding her arms, she turned away to give him her profile. “I hate you!”

She heard him cluck to the gelding and the gig lurched forward. “Do you now? We’ll see if you’re saying the same tonight still.”

She glanced at him, put her head back, pulled in a breath, shut her eyes and let out the longest, loudest scream she had.

The gelding startled forward at the screech, Fitzjoy cursed, his arm tightened around her waist and he dragged her to him, crushing his mouth over hers, his lips hot and his tongue dazzlingly clever. She half lay against him, her scream stopped, her breath ragged, her head spinning.

He pulled back, and she opened her eyes. She stared into those black eyes of his dark, liquid, endless depths. His breath, as rough as her own, brushed her face. With a grumbled curse, he pushed her back onto her seat. “Behave now, or I’ll give you something worth screaming over.”

Frowning, she stared at him, her heart beating far faster than the gelding’s brisk trot, and trying to reorient herself. The world seemed to have turned itself inside-out during that kiss. Had he not felt the same?

Her lips still burning, she lifted one eyebrow. “You wouldn’t dare!”

With his voice a low growl, he told her, “I’ve dared everything for you...” A quick warmth spread through her. She drew in a sharp breath. Would he kiss her again? He spoilt everything by adding, “For you and your fortune!”

With a frustrated snarl, she hit him.

He only grinned, caught her wrist as she started to draw back her hand to hit him again. “Ah, now, that’s enough of that if it’s a soft bed and a hot meal you want tonight. Otherwise, it’s an empty barn for the both of us and you’ll be spending the night wrapped up as tight as could be.”

Jerking away from him, she folded her arms and turned to stare at the countryside. Tears stung the back of her eyes, but she would not allow them to fall. She hated him.
Hated.

But why could she still feel that kiss tingling on her skin? And why did she want to provoke him into kissing her again?

* * *

Audrey chattered. Arncliffe had not expected it of her. He glanced at the woman seated next to him, his lips pressed tight, torn between a longing to beg her for silence, a simmering amusement, and the utter pleasure of letting that voice wash across him. Thankfully, she had a low-pitched voice, as rich as wild honey.

But two hours of any voice could wear, particularly when it rattled on about the proliferation of daisies and cowslip in the pastures, and the dazzling white woodruff growing under the oaks. She had also offered inane speculation on how long the blazingly fair skies might hold, and noted the charm of Finchley Common—which seemed more common than charming to him. She also asked odd questions about carriages they passed, speculating on their destinations, their speed, and how frequently one might wish to change horses to make the best time on the road.

He could almost suspect she wanted to give him a dislike of her company. But why? So that he might set her down?

At the Tyburn Turnpike, and the Islington tollgate, she had also put some rather odd questions to the gatekeepers, even asking one fellow, “Why you must meet all sorts passing through—even perhaps an Irishman?”

The fellow had scratched his head, offered as he supposed he might, but no Irishman of late that he could recall. After Arncliffe’s groom tossed the tollkeeper the shilling and six pence to pass, he lifted the gate and waved them through. Just beyond Barnet, and near to twenty miles now, the village of Hatfield, with its posting inns and cottages, came into view. Arncliffe almost sagged with relief.

Instead, he interrupted Audrey’s ramblings. “Do you care to take refreshments while I have the team changed here in Hatfield?”

She glanced at him, clutching her bonnet with one hand. The breeze from the road had flushed her cheeks an attractive pink. “Hatfield? Oh, but this is where I am to meet Mrs. Fitzjoy. I had not thought to arrive so soon. Do please stop—yes, there at...at the Swan please. Yes, that is where I am to meet Mrs. Fitzjoy.”

He glanced at her, fighting a smile. Obedient to her request, he gave his attention to getting his team into the stable yard. “I thought your Mrs. Fitzjoy lived a good deal north? And that she was ill?”

Her voice seemed the faintest touch clipped with irritation as she answered, “This does seem a good deal north when one is living in London. And she will have a carriage waiting for me.”

Halting his tired team—the horse sweaty and ready for a rest—Arncliffe let the reins drop. Joe, his groom, had already swung down from his perch behind the seats to go to the heads of the leaders, and the stable lads from the inn came forward to help unbuckle the harness.