To Rescue or Ravish?

“You can’t refuse to marry forever, either. No one will believe a spinster of twenty-four—particularly one known for her sharp tongue and capricious ways—would willingly jilt such an eligible suitor. If you do not marry him, your reputation will be as good as ruined.”

Unfortunately, this was true.

And completely unfair. With the help of her servants, she’d been somewhat unscrupulous in fending off persistent suitors, but the occasional fit of temper didn’t ruin a lady’s reputation.

Blatant, heartless lies did. She’d given Sir Reginald no encouragement at all…so he’d decided to buy her instead.

“In other words,” Uncle Wilbur said with a self-satisfied twitch and a sniff, “you have no choice.”

“What about the settlements? I must speak to Mr. Brownley.” He was her trustee, an honourable man who would never agree to such coercion. She glanced past her uncle to the window. The wintry dusk was already setting in and Mr. Brownley’s house was almost a mile away, but she couldn’t risk Ralph’s position by requiring his escort.

Her uncle smirked. “I have already done so. The settlements have been drawn up according to the terms of your father’s will. You shall read and sign them immediately preceding the ceremony. Mr. Brownley was delighted to hear of the engagement and heartily approves.”

“What does that have to say to anything? I don’t approve.”

“Then you must think it over and change your mind.” He twitched and began tidying piles of paper on his desk, a clear sign of dismissal.

She crossed her arms and glared at him. “Hear me—regardless of the risk to my reputation, I will not wed that man!”

He chuckled unpleasantly and waved her away. “Don’t be absurd. Sir Reginald purchased the special license today. You had best go prepare yourself, for you will be married tomorrow morning at ten.”

* * *

Matthew Worcester was going to get drunk. Roaring drunk on blue ruin, meaning he would quite possibly kill himself in the process. He’d made the decision after seeing that notice in the papers.

Arabella Wilbanks was getting married.

He would have sloped straight off to a boozing ken and started his binge in midafternoon, except that he’d promised a friend suffering with a cold to drive his hackney for a night. Playing jarvey in January wasn’t exactly fun, and it meant making no money instead of winning some at cards, but Matt didn’t need the blunt anymore. He was well-heeled now, a man of substance. That didn’t mean he would desert a less fortunate friend.

Now, at a little past eleven in the evening, at a time of year when many of the nobs were still at their country estates, custom had grown scarce, and both Matt and the horses were cold and tired. “All right, fellas,” he told the nags as they plodded slowly round a corner onto Henrietta Street, “let’s call it a night. You to your cozy stable, and me to my bottle of gin.”

That was when he heard the screams.

* * *

After picking at her supper in infuriated silence and retreating to her bedchamber, Arabella waited in growing impatience until eleven o’clock, when everyone was in bed. She donned her warmest wool gown and a heavy cloak with a hood, and crept down the back stairs.

Mr. Brownley would not appreciate a visitor so late in the evening, but if he arrived in the morning with the settlements, the scene would be far, far worse. She intended to tear up the settlements tonight, write to inform Sir Reginald of the change in plans and draft her own notice for the papers, repudiating the engagement.

Something that would embarrass Uncle Wilbur. Something so mortifying that he wouldn’t show his face in public for weeks. She hadn’t quite decided what, but it would show him for the blackguard he was. She wished she could do the same for Sir Reginald, but he might retaliate by besmirching her reputation, whilst it wouldn’t serve Uncle Wilbur to do so.

She let herself out the kitchen door, crept through the tiny garden and slipped through the gate into the alley. Mr. Brownley’s house wasn’t so very far, but the dank, smoky air of London seemed denser in the dark. She didn’t like being out here alone one bit, but she hadn’t dared ask a servant to accompany her.

She emerged from the alley onto Henrietta Street, a chilly wind plucking at her cloak. Not a single hackney was in sight; what with the cold, blustery weather and the late hour, few people were out and about.

She wrapped her cloak tightly about her and hurried in the direction of Mr. Brownley’s house. From behind came the sound of an approaching carriage, but a glance told her that, alas, it wasn’t a hackney, so she set a brisk pace and—

“Oh, no, you don’t,” said a male voice. Strong arms grabbed her and pulled her against a burly chest. “Your uncle warned me you might try to escape.”

Sir Reginald! She struggled and tried to shove away, but he laughed and squeezed her tighter. “Don’t be a fool, girl. You’re marrying me, and that’s that.” His breath was hot and smelled of spirits.

“Let me go!” She kicked him hard in the shin, and when his grip loosened a fraction, she stomped on his booted foot.

“You little bitch,” he panted, tightening his arms again and dragging her back toward the carriage. She fought and kicked, shrieking for help. He put a gloved hand over her mouth. She twisted away and bit it. He swore.

But she couldn’t get away, and all at once, she knew. He wasn’t taking her home—he was abducting her.

“Are you mad?” she cried.

“Aye, mad for you, Arabella. Such a pretty filly you are, and spirited, too. Just what I want in my bed.”

She shuddered. “How much does it take to convince you? I will not marry you!”

“After tonight, you will have no choice,” he said.

* * *

Matt urged the nags forward. The woman was putting up a good fight, but she would never break free on her own. He swept the hack to a halt in front of the other coach to block it, leapt off the box and jumped the bastard from behind. Even if the woman was a whore, she didn’t want this particular fellow. The damned nobs thought they could get away with anything. The man yelped, released the woman and landed on his bum. The woman stumbled, pitching forward, and Matt caught her in one arm.

He set her on her feet, his arm still about her—and froze at a memory so subtle and yet so powerful that his cock stirred in response. That scent… She faced away from him, utterly still in his embrace. He moved to turn her—he had to know—when the assailant let out a stream of curses and lunged. Matt let go of the woman to block the man’s rush with a punch to the gut and a follow-up to the chin. The fellow plunged to the paving stones again with a satisfying thud.

Chest heaving, the woman gathered her cloak about herself and pulled the hood over her pale curls before Matt could catch a glimpse of her face.

It couldn’t be. His memory was playing tricks on him. No surprise, considering, but wealthy, privileged Arabella Wilbanks wouldn’t be out alone at night.

The coach driver watched Matt warily but didn’t move. Wise fellow, but in case he got ideas, Matt pulled the pistol from his belt.

“Tell your master there’s plenty of doxies about who’ll pretend to enjoy his nasty little games.” He’d half expected the woman to run. Judging by Matt’s appearance and his accent—the one that suited this particular job—he wasn’t worth even a sixpence to her, and no one in a cloak like that was a sixpenny whore. Did she think she’d have to pay for her rescue in bed?

He opened the door of the hackney and let down the steps. “Hop in, love. I’ll take you home, shall I? No charge.”

“Number Seventeen, Bunbury Place,” the woman said. “Thank you kindly for saving me from that horrid man, but of course I shall pay the fare.” Without a glance at him, she climbed into the coach.

Damn. It was Arabella. He would know that perfectly modulated, immeasurably proud voice anywhere. She hadn’t recognised him, of course. Even if he dressed in his best and put on airs, she wouldn’t know him from Adam. Two years ago their eyes had met across a street, and her gaze had slid past his in utter indifference.

Or it might have been the cut direct. He didn’t know which was worse—being forgotten or purposely ignored. He shouldn’t have been surprised; she’d gained a reputation as a cold-hearted shrew who toyed with her suitors and then spurned them. At first he hadn’t believed the tales, but that encounter in the street, followed by more gossip—this time about her cruelty to servants—had made it damnably difficult not to.

And yet he’d found himself seeking excuses for her, wishing the gossip was merely malicious tales, and that Arabella was still the lively, adorable girl he’d known long ago. He’d just decided how to settle the issue once and for all when that notice in the papers had knocked him flat.

An old, bitter misery roiled up inside him. Immediately, he set it aside. He’d learned to smother useless longings after his father had turfed him out to fend for himself, when he’d needed all his wits merely to survive. Now he could afford to drink himself into oblivion with the finest brandy, but gin seemed more appropriate tonight.

Arabella Wilbanks deserved to marry a pompous old prig like Sir Reginald Rotherton. Good luck to them both.

And yet…what the devil was she doing out here after dark, and who was at Bunbury Place? She lived a hop and a skip from here. Less, even. For the most part, Matt avoided this part of town. It reminded him of what she stood for and he didn’t. But even in this well-off neighbourhood, she shouldn’t be out at night alone.

He got the tired nags moving again. Behind him, the coachman climbed down from his box and helped his master to his feet. An altercation followed, but Matt was too far away to catch the words. The man got into his coach, staggering in a way that made Matt grin, but instead of following—which would have been the devil of a nuisance—they headed up Cavendish Street.

Good riddance. Now…why Bunbury Place?