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FORBIDDEN ARABELLE
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FORBIDDEN ARABELLE
Chapters
1 A Coach Full of Men
2 Forbidden Arabelle
3 To Corrupt the Innocent
4 The Roar of Rapids
5 Acting on an Impulse
6 Corset Bodices
7 Intrigue in High Circles
8 Corisande’s Wedding
9 A Daring Expedition
10 The Coveted Invitation
11 Thieves and a Self-Styled Romeo
12 The Prude
13 A Model Friendship
14 Caught Napping
15 The Duel
16 Courting Trouble
17 One Serenade after Another
18 Sneaking Suspicions
19 Lord Chesterfield’s Ball
20 For the Love of Money
21 Held without Consent
22 A-Mazing
23 The Victor
24 Sir Pomeroy’s Tittle-Tattle
25 Tracks in the Snow
26 The Wrong Bridegroom
27 The Wedding Night
28 A Picture of Bliss
BONUS Preview of Pursuing Genevieve
Glossary
1 A Coach Full of Men
2 Forbidden Arabelle
3 To Corrupt the Innocent
4 The Roar of Rapids
5 Acting on an Impulse
6 Corset Bodices
7 Intrigue in High Circles
8 Corisande’s Wedding
9 A Daring Expedition
10 The Coveted Invitation
11 Thieves and a Self-Styled Romeo
12 The Prude
13 A Model Friendship
14 Caught Napping
15 The Duel
16 Courting Trouble
17 One Serenade after Another
18 Sneaking Suspicions
19 Lord Chesterfield’s Ball
20 For the Love of Money
21 Held without Consent
22 A-Mazing
23 The Victor
24 Sir Pomeroy’s Tittle-Tattle
25 Tracks in the Snow
26 The Wrong Bridegroom
27 The Wedding Night
28 A Picture of Bliss
BONUS Preview of Pursuing Genevieve
Glossary
Chapter 1
A Coach Full of Men
“Do you know who I am?” Lady Bastwicke demanded, her close-set eyes snapping in fury.
The stolid coachman, wrapped to the eyes in a snow-encrusted scarf, merely stared defiance at her, dangerously uninterested in who she was.
Lady Bastwicke enunciated as though explaining to an idiot, “I am the Viscountess Bastwicke! You must take me to London, and this young lady with me.”
Arabelle, warming her hands at the inn’s fireplace, marveled at her mother’s aggressiveness. Could she really force a stranger to do her bidding by such means?
The coachman eyed the Viscountess from under his crop of gray eyebrows and declared, “I cannot do it, Madam.”
Lady Bastwicke shoved a chair noisily over the floorboards and hissed, “What insubordination! Obey your betters, and open up two spots in that coach at once!”
Arabelle lifted her fur muff to her face, hiding her chagrin. Her mother could have asked this coachman gently for the favor of a ride. How would she ever gain his cooperation in this abrasive manner? After all, he was not one of her servants to command.
The man drank deeply from a tankard, and slammed it onto the refectory table. “I told you, Madam, that I have three gentlemen, a tailor, and no extra seats!”
Undeterred, Lady Bastwicke put her beak of a nose to the frosty window, eyed the situation outside, and whirled to point at him before he escaped. “That commodious vehicle holds more than four persons, surely! Why do you even consider taking those people—a tailor, you say!—if not us?”
“In this blizzard, few stages dare to run,” he threw back. “A military man must return to Woolwich according to his Captain’s orders so I put myself at his service, seeing I have three teams of horses between here and London. But other folk, especially women,” he spat, eyeing the grandiose specimen before him, “should stay put!”
Lady Bastwicke exploded, “I am not folk! Or a mere woman! I am a Viscountess, man! My outriders tried and failed to dislodge my own coach from a snow bank. You stay and listen to me! It is already past midday, and the snow falls thicker than ever. I demand seats in your coach for myself and my daughter. She is already nineteen, and must—I repeat must—enter London Society this week, do you hear? There is nothing else to be done!”
The coachman snorted and cast the Viscountess a thoroughly disgusted look. “Enter Society! Not in my coach!” he growled, and took his last bites of bread and Cheddar.
Lady Bastwicke, yanking on her orange kid gloves, told Arabelle icily, “Let us be off.” To the man, she said, “I already ordered my outriders to put my trunks in your boot.”
At that, he turned menacing and threw his muffler across his neck, flinging chunks of ice over her. “Then I shall order my guard to toss them into a snow bank!” he roared into her face. He stomped across the uneven planks of the common room, making them vibrate, and plunged out the arched door into the white world. The door slammed and shuddered behind him.
Arabelle hurried to her quivering mother, whose small green eyes spat fire as she furiously swiped melted snow from her chin.
“Listen, Madam.” Arabelle was forming a daring idea. “I shall go and ask the soldier who hired the coach if he is willing to accommodate us. If he is, what objection can the coachman then have? He will make a higher profit, if he can squeeze us in.”
Lady Bastwicke pushed Arabelle to the door with sudden determination. “Go! Ask, of all things! Be forceful. After all, if you had not insisted on breaking our trip to see your useless Aunt Claracilla, we would not be in this fix.”
Arabelle winced. “Yes, Mother.”
“You’ve forgotten already. Call me Madam, not Mother.”
This, Arabelle had discerned, was to keep the public thinking, whenever possible, that the Viscountess was not old enough to have such a grown daughter. “Yes, Madam. If I do not return, please follow me.”
Lady Bastwicke grabbed her arm again, painfully. “Make sure you do not introduce yourself to any men in that coach. We are far above them, and do not forget it. No talking to that military chap beyond asking for space, mind.”
“No, Madam.”
Out in the quiet world, Arabelle took a deep breath of frosty air. The gold letters on the wine-red Aynscombe Stage were nearly covered by the fluffy snow that had fallen during the change of horses. Two wheelers were already in the tracks of the former team, with ostlers hooking their traces. A red-nosed groom held the four collared Percherons that snuffed out puffs of air, their dark manes and tails vivid in the whirling whiteness. Lanterns cast iridescent orbs of light at each corner of the coach with its snow-banked wheel spokes. Arabelle could not see through the steamed windows, but she hoped that the occupants would be more civil than their driver.
The coach door creaked open. Arabelle saw a gentleman’s head emerge. He had sleek, white hair pulled back into a queue at the nape of his well-shaped head. When he turned, she saw a smooth forehead and black brows that marked a dramatic contrast to his white hair. He looked to be in his mid-to upper twenties. Arabelle had never seen such an arresting man, so handsome, vital, and fit. One of Boucher’s paintings, which she had admired at a Canterbury exhibition, came close to portraying such a paragon, but this one lived. His midnight blue coat accentuated his wide shoulders and swung past shiny boots as he kicked down the steps. He placed a black three-cornered hat on his head as he spoke to the guard.
That individual held a silver horn. He cupped a hand to his mouth and bellowed, “Coach!” It was the signal for passengers to board.
The moment had come for Arabelle to address the man before her. Surely he was the military personage for whom the coachman ventured forth in such a snowfall. The grandeur of the man’s confident bearing made her heart thump. What could she say? She had not envisioned begging for space from a man with such an air of command.
Her mother’s words thrummed through her head: There is nothing else to be done!
He bent to reenter the vehicle. Soon he would be gone. And there went her mother’s outriders, trotting away through the falling snow to deal with the Bastwicke carriage, deeply stuck in a snowdrift.
“Sir?” called Arabelle, hurrying toward the Aynscombe Stage despite her qualms.
The man placed a white gauntlet on the doorframe and ducked back out. What a way he had of cocking his head as he searched the whirling snow for who had spoken.
“Sir,” she repeated, “would you possibly—” Drawing near, she met his interested look and felt so awestruck that she lost her train of thought.
“Would I possibly . . . what, my beauty?” his voice caressed her.
With astonished pleasure, she asked, “Would you have room in your coach, Sir, for two stranded ladies? We need . . . that is, we would like to reach London tonight.” She felt a prick of guilt, for tonight signaled a theatre party that her mother simply had to attend. Arabelle’s eyes nevertheless played over his sculpted face with hope.
For a moment he gave her no reply, just looked at her as though drinking her in.
Arabelle gave him a little curtsey. When a horse snorted, she looked up into the man’s black-lashed eyes. Was that a twinkle lurking in their blue depths?
“Yes, Miss,” he said with feeling. “We certainly have room for you.”
She blushed, and felt a dangerous thrill in accepting his offer.
The coach door next to them flew open and slammed against the body, knocking snow down like a waterfall. Within the vehicle, three men’s noses turned, and fascinated eyes regarded her.
* * *
The enrapturing of Simon Laurence was quick, and unlike anything he had ever imagined. This dark-haired beauty made him want to know her in every sense of the word. How did she do it? He gazed at her. By the power of a lively, appealing spirit that peeped at him from behind long lashes and a tender blush—that was how. Was she the desired dream that he so badly needed, hovering here before him in the ethereal whiteness? Surely so, for her hazel eyes seemed too fixed upon him in sweet curiosity to be real. But glorious reality hit him sharply in the leg as he backed into the iron coach step.
“Let me enter first and help you up,” he said with an elated timbre to his voice.
She glanced toward the inn over her shoulder, and then flashed him a dazzling smile. “Thank you, Sir; you are a most benevolent man. It surprises me to receive such help from a stranger.”
Instantly, he wanted to help her more. What incredible fortune had brought this cheer-producing beauty to his hired coach on this unlikely day? “As I said, you are infinitely welcome.” He viewed the curves of her face, framed by a burgundy hood with a dark fur lining. The seductive power of her eyebrows alone was enough to cause men to drop what they were doing to appreciate. What, he wondered with racing pulse, did she look like beneath the sweep of burgundy cloak?
As soon as she put her trusting hands into his, he felt himself flooded with the need to sing the song, I have found her! I have found her! The woman my heart doth crave. But he kept it to himself. He fought to ignore the sick accusation that pierced like a dagger to his midsection. You already have someone, it thrust home brutally.
He steadied her on the step. Her slender fingers in pink gloves tightened around his, making him proud that he could protect her from slipping, at least. A pink silk skirt appeared as her cloak parted. He saw one shapely high-heeled pink patten over a matching shoe, and caught a glimpse of her slim ankle in a pink stocking. A swirling gust of snowflakes blew her hood back from her long, dark hair, revealing her graceful neck.
She smiled her thanks at him. Simon’s heart did a drum roll as the lantern light glistened on her lips.
The other three men had scrambled aside or half to their feet in the confines of the interior, trying to make space for the dark-browed beauty with the enquiring eyes. They fell to their seats like dominoes as she passed through the doorway. The cool smell of snow came with her, sifting like sugar off the folds of her burgundy cloak. A sprinkling fell onto Simon’s glossy boots, and he felt the thrill of privilege.
“Do join us, Mademoiselle,” said Sir Pomeroy Chancet, seated inside, his throaty voice throbbing with delight. In his early thirties, the Baronet was full of zest as he exclaimed, “What a glorious treat!”
Simon winced at that gentleman’s overt reception, and said, “Sir Pomeroy, why not let the lady face forward?” He gestured that Sir Pomeroy should vacate his place and sit opposite her.
The obtuse Baronet, however, whisked his purple gauntlets off the seat, twitched his rump sidewise, and with an elegant gesture and an acquired French accent, said, “Of course she shall face forward. A window seat, Mademoiselle? ‘Tis the most scenic side of the Maidstone-London Road.” His red lips grinned widely and he patted the place he had hastily contrived for her next to himself. She sank into it with a grateful smile.
Simon, resuming his former place on the backward seat opposite her, heard his brother, Radford, clear his throat in curiosity. The other two men looked from her to him and back. Simon veiled his eyes to hide the fact that he wanted to sit next to her as well as they did. As he watched her dipping dark lashes on which snowflakes lingered, he realized that across from her was by far the best place to be. It would be a rare treat to feast his eyes on her for even a mile.
To think that God had made such a beautiful woman! And all Simon could do was delight in her presence for the space of a journey.
A Coach Full of Men
“Do you know who I am?” Lady Bastwicke demanded, her close-set eyes snapping in fury.
The stolid coachman, wrapped to the eyes in a snow-encrusted scarf, merely stared defiance at her, dangerously uninterested in who she was.
Lady Bastwicke enunciated as though explaining to an idiot, “I am the Viscountess Bastwicke! You must take me to London, and this young lady with me.”
Arabelle, warming her hands at the inn’s fireplace, marveled at her mother’s aggressiveness. Could she really force a stranger to do her bidding by such means?
The coachman eyed the Viscountess from under his crop of gray eyebrows and declared, “I cannot do it, Madam.”
Lady Bastwicke shoved a chair noisily over the floorboards and hissed, “What insubordination! Obey your betters, and open up two spots in that coach at once!”
Arabelle lifted her fur muff to her face, hiding her chagrin. Her mother could have asked this coachman gently for the favor of a ride. How would she ever gain his cooperation in this abrasive manner? After all, he was not one of her servants to command.
The man drank deeply from a tankard, and slammed it onto the refectory table. “I told you, Madam, that I have three gentlemen, a tailor, and no extra seats!”
Undeterred, Lady Bastwicke put her beak of a nose to the frosty window, eyed the situation outside, and whirled to point at him before he escaped. “That commodious vehicle holds more than four persons, surely! Why do you even consider taking those people—a tailor, you say!—if not us?”
“In this blizzard, few stages dare to run,” he threw back. “A military man must return to Woolwich according to his Captain’s orders so I put myself at his service, seeing I have three teams of horses between here and London. But other folk, especially women,” he spat, eyeing the grandiose specimen before him, “should stay put!”
Lady Bastwicke exploded, “I am not folk! Or a mere woman! I am a Viscountess, man! My outriders tried and failed to dislodge my own coach from a snow bank. You stay and listen to me! It is already past midday, and the snow falls thicker than ever. I demand seats in your coach for myself and my daughter. She is already nineteen, and must—I repeat must—enter London Society this week, do you hear? There is nothing else to be done!”
The coachman snorted and cast the Viscountess a thoroughly disgusted look. “Enter Society! Not in my coach!” he growled, and took his last bites of bread and Cheddar.
Lady Bastwicke, yanking on her orange kid gloves, told Arabelle icily, “Let us be off.” To the man, she said, “I already ordered my outriders to put my trunks in your boot.”
At that, he turned menacing and threw his muffler across his neck, flinging chunks of ice over her. “Then I shall order my guard to toss them into a snow bank!” he roared into her face. He stomped across the uneven planks of the common room, making them vibrate, and plunged out the arched door into the white world. The door slammed and shuddered behind him.
Arabelle hurried to her quivering mother, whose small green eyes spat fire as she furiously swiped melted snow from her chin.
“Listen, Madam.” Arabelle was forming a daring idea. “I shall go and ask the soldier who hired the coach if he is willing to accommodate us. If he is, what objection can the coachman then have? He will make a higher profit, if he can squeeze us in.”
Lady Bastwicke pushed Arabelle to the door with sudden determination. “Go! Ask, of all things! Be forceful. After all, if you had not insisted on breaking our trip to see your useless Aunt Claracilla, we would not be in this fix.”
Arabelle winced. “Yes, Mother.”
“You’ve forgotten already. Call me Madam, not Mother.”
This, Arabelle had discerned, was to keep the public thinking, whenever possible, that the Viscountess was not old enough to have such a grown daughter. “Yes, Madam. If I do not return, please follow me.”
Lady Bastwicke grabbed her arm again, painfully. “Make sure you do not introduce yourself to any men in that coach. We are far above them, and do not forget it. No talking to that military chap beyond asking for space, mind.”
“No, Madam.”
Out in the quiet world, Arabelle took a deep breath of frosty air. The gold letters on the wine-red Aynscombe Stage were nearly covered by the fluffy snow that had fallen during the change of horses. Two wheelers were already in the tracks of the former team, with ostlers hooking their traces. A red-nosed groom held the four collared Percherons that snuffed out puffs of air, their dark manes and tails vivid in the whirling whiteness. Lanterns cast iridescent orbs of light at each corner of the coach with its snow-banked wheel spokes. Arabelle could not see through the steamed windows, but she hoped that the occupants would be more civil than their driver.
The coach door creaked open. Arabelle saw a gentleman’s head emerge. He had sleek, white hair pulled back into a queue at the nape of his well-shaped head. When he turned, she saw a smooth forehead and black brows that marked a dramatic contrast to his white hair. He looked to be in his mid-to upper twenties. Arabelle had never seen such an arresting man, so handsome, vital, and fit. One of Boucher’s paintings, which she had admired at a Canterbury exhibition, came close to portraying such a paragon, but this one lived. His midnight blue coat accentuated his wide shoulders and swung past shiny boots as he kicked down the steps. He placed a black three-cornered hat on his head as he spoke to the guard.
That individual held a silver horn. He cupped a hand to his mouth and bellowed, “Coach!” It was the signal for passengers to board.
The moment had come for Arabelle to address the man before her. Surely he was the military personage for whom the coachman ventured forth in such a snowfall. The grandeur of the man’s confident bearing made her heart thump. What could she say? She had not envisioned begging for space from a man with such an air of command.
Her mother’s words thrummed through her head: There is nothing else to be done!
He bent to reenter the vehicle. Soon he would be gone. And there went her mother’s outriders, trotting away through the falling snow to deal with the Bastwicke carriage, deeply stuck in a snowdrift.
“Sir?” called Arabelle, hurrying toward the Aynscombe Stage despite her qualms.
The man placed a white gauntlet on the doorframe and ducked back out. What a way he had of cocking his head as he searched the whirling snow for who had spoken.
“Sir,” she repeated, “would you possibly—” Drawing near, she met his interested look and felt so awestruck that she lost her train of thought.
“Would I possibly . . . what, my beauty?” his voice caressed her.
With astonished pleasure, she asked, “Would you have room in your coach, Sir, for two stranded ladies? We need . . . that is, we would like to reach London tonight.” She felt a prick of guilt, for tonight signaled a theatre party that her mother simply had to attend. Arabelle’s eyes nevertheless played over his sculpted face with hope.
For a moment he gave her no reply, just looked at her as though drinking her in.
Arabelle gave him a little curtsey. When a horse snorted, she looked up into the man’s black-lashed eyes. Was that a twinkle lurking in their blue depths?
“Yes, Miss,” he said with feeling. “We certainly have room for you.”
She blushed, and felt a dangerous thrill in accepting his offer.
The coach door next to them flew open and slammed against the body, knocking snow down like a waterfall. Within the vehicle, three men’s noses turned, and fascinated eyes regarded her.
* * *
The enrapturing of Simon Laurence was quick, and unlike anything he had ever imagined. This dark-haired beauty made him want to know her in every sense of the word. How did she do it? He gazed at her. By the power of a lively, appealing spirit that peeped at him from behind long lashes and a tender blush—that was how. Was she the desired dream that he so badly needed, hovering here before him in the ethereal whiteness? Surely so, for her hazel eyes seemed too fixed upon him in sweet curiosity to be real. But glorious reality hit him sharply in the leg as he backed into the iron coach step.
“Let me enter first and help you up,” he said with an elated timbre to his voice.
She glanced toward the inn over her shoulder, and then flashed him a dazzling smile. “Thank you, Sir; you are a most benevolent man. It surprises me to receive such help from a stranger.”
Instantly, he wanted to help her more. What incredible fortune had brought this cheer-producing beauty to his hired coach on this unlikely day? “As I said, you are infinitely welcome.” He viewed the curves of her face, framed by a burgundy hood with a dark fur lining. The seductive power of her eyebrows alone was enough to cause men to drop what they were doing to appreciate. What, he wondered with racing pulse, did she look like beneath the sweep of burgundy cloak?
As soon as she put her trusting hands into his, he felt himself flooded with the need to sing the song, I have found her! I have found her! The woman my heart doth crave. But he kept it to himself. He fought to ignore the sick accusation that pierced like a dagger to his midsection. You already have someone, it thrust home brutally.
He steadied her on the step. Her slender fingers in pink gloves tightened around his, making him proud that he could protect her from slipping, at least. A pink silk skirt appeared as her cloak parted. He saw one shapely high-heeled pink patten over a matching shoe, and caught a glimpse of her slim ankle in a pink stocking. A swirling gust of snowflakes blew her hood back from her long, dark hair, revealing her graceful neck.
She smiled her thanks at him. Simon’s heart did a drum roll as the lantern light glistened on her lips.
The other three men had scrambled aside or half to their feet in the confines of the interior, trying to make space for the dark-browed beauty with the enquiring eyes. They fell to their seats like dominoes as she passed through the doorway. The cool smell of snow came with her, sifting like sugar off the folds of her burgundy cloak. A sprinkling fell onto Simon’s glossy boots, and he felt the thrill of privilege.
“Do join us, Mademoiselle,” said Sir Pomeroy Chancet, seated inside, his throaty voice throbbing with delight. In his early thirties, the Baronet was full of zest as he exclaimed, “What a glorious treat!”
Simon winced at that gentleman’s overt reception, and said, “Sir Pomeroy, why not let the lady face forward?” He gestured that Sir Pomeroy should vacate his place and sit opposite her.
The obtuse Baronet, however, whisked his purple gauntlets off the seat, twitched his rump sidewise, and with an elegant gesture and an acquired French accent, said, “Of course she shall face forward. A window seat, Mademoiselle? ‘Tis the most scenic side of the Maidstone-London Road.” His red lips grinned widely and he patted the place he had hastily contrived for her next to himself. She sank into it with a grateful smile.
Simon, resuming his former place on the backward seat opposite her, heard his brother, Radford, clear his throat in curiosity. The other two men looked from her to him and back. Simon veiled his eyes to hide the fact that he wanted to sit next to her as well as they did. As he watched her dipping dark lashes on which snowflakes lingered, he realized that across from her was by far the best place to be. It would be a rare treat to feast his eyes on her for even a mile.
To think that God had made such a beautiful woman! And all Simon could do was delight in her presence for the space of a journey.
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