Chapter Five
If Dominic knew the truth, then God only knew what would happen to Archie. Her son would be branded a bastard, his life ruined before it had barely begun whether Dominic acknowledged him or not. If he knew he had such a fine son, he might wish to raise Archie himself or send him away to be raised by someone of his own choosing. For what man, especially a duke, as rich and powerful and ruthless as Dominic, would leave his child with a woman he had found in a bordello, no matter the explanations she could offer? Archie would be taken away from her to be with people who did not love him, who did not understand a small boy’s tender needs. Arabella trembled from the force of the fear.
She wetted her suddenly dry lips and gave a false laugh to hide the fear. ‘But what more is there for us to talk about, your Grace? We have already settled upon all of the relevant details.’
She saw the flash of anger in those dark eyes. ‘I would have you call me by my given name. And there is the whole of the last six years that we have barely begun to discuss, Arabella.’
‘I thought you already knew.’ Attack is the best form of defence, she thought and gathered her weapons as best she could. ‘I married Henry Marlbrook. He died. I went to Mrs Silver’s. That is all you need know, Dominic.’ She turned away to gain some semblance of control over her emotions once more.
‘On the contrary, Arabella. I think I need to know a great deal more than that.’
‘What do you want me to tell you?’ she demanded bitterly. ‘How good a man Henry was?’
‘Infinitely better than me. You made that very clear.’ His eyes bored into hers.
‘He was a thousand times the man you are,’ she taunted.
‘You forget your position, Arabella.’
‘No,’ she said and tried to control the raggedness of her voice. She forced a tight smile to her mouth. ‘I understand my position exactly.’ She glared at him. ‘Do you want me in here? Perhaps on the sofa? Or on the rug before the fireplace? Shall I undress for you now?’ she demanded.
‘Arabella!’ he said harshly, but there was a flash of pain in his eyes that matched the pain in her heart.
And she realised that she was doing this all wrong, risking everything.
She closed her eyes, rallied her senses. ‘Forgive me,’ she said in her normal voice and when she opened her eyes she did not look at him.
‘Arabella,’ he said more softly.
But his kindness was worse than his contempt. It reminded her too much of the man she had loved.
‘What has happened to you?’
‘You already know the answer to that question,’ she said quietly.
‘No, Arabella, I do not.’ His eyes studied hers. ‘I wish that you would tell me.’
Her heart was knocking so hard against her ribcage that she was surprised he could not hear it.
‘All of it that happened across the years,’ he said.
She shook her head and forced a smile, trying to fool him.
His gaze did not waver.
‘In Mrs Silver’s, when you were pretending to be Miss Noir, you said that it was your first night there.’
‘A harlot’s lie. It is what men want to hear, is it not?’ She glanced away and pressed her fingers hard against her lips, hating the words she must say. But say them she would, for she did not want his pity. And she did could not risk his questions.
Dominic stood there still and silent.
‘Shall we go upstairs?’ She knew her part in all this, knew what he had come for. And once he had it, he would go and the ordeal would be over…at least for now.
He said not one word, but he followed her up the stairs to the large cream-coloured bedchamber on the first floor.
There could be no room for modesty, nor the last remaining shreds of her pride. She knew what was required, knew what she must do.
She turned away from him and forced herself to strip off her clothing, every last stitch. And when she was naked she sat down at the dressing table and took the pins from her hair, uncoiling its long length while her eyes watched his reflection in the looking glass. She watched while he slipped off his tailcoat and abandoned it over a chair. His waistcoat followed.
She sat there, waiting for the inevitable. Gathering her courage for what must come. But Dominic made no move towards her.
The nerves shivered right through her body. She swallowed. Did a mistress wait for her protector to come to her, or did he expect her to go to him? Arabella did not know the answer. But the quicker this was over, the better for herself. So she rose and walked to him. It took every ounce of Arabella’s strength not to wrap her arms around herself to cover her nakedness, to make herself stand there before him and let him look at her.
His touch, when it came, was gentle, reverent almost, and she shivered at the sudden flash of unbidden memories from a lifetime ago—of the passion and the love that had been between them.
He ran a hand over her hair, his hand sliding round to the nape of her neck. His fingers rested there light as a butterfly and the tingle beneath them seemed to run through the whole of her body. Slowly, deliberately, he trailed the tips of his fingers down the column of her throat.
Arabella deliberately masked any sign of emotion from her face as she stood there and let him touch her, angling her head to allow him access. He was her protector. This was what he was paying for. It meant nothing. But already she could feel the hard thud of her heart and everywhere his fingers touched, her skin burned, and she felt like weeping.
His hand dipped lower, so that she felt his fingers trace all the way out to the end of her collarbone and all the way back again. She tried to control the unsteadiness of her breathing, the gathering sob, but that only seemed to make it worse.
Not one word did he say. Not once did he meet her eyes, just kept his gaze fixed on the magic that his fingers were working.
He paused.
Arabella held her breath.
And then inch by tiny inch his fingers followed the path down into the valley between her breasts.
Again he halted, but whether it was to torture her, or himself, she did not know. If he continued like this, Arabella did not know if she could bear it. He placed a palm upon her left breast and beneath it she felt her heart jump and race all the harder. Beneath the cover of his hand her nipple was already taut and tender.
Arabella willed herself not to respond. He did not love her. She thought of all he had done six years ago. But when his palm slid away and his fingers teased at her nipple, plucking it, there was nothing she could do to prevent it bead all the harder. Her wantonness appalled her.
She squeezed her eyes closed to prevent the tears, knowing what would follow.
But his hand halted and dropped away, so that he was no longer even touching her.
Each tight line of his body and the bulge in his breeches revealed that he was every bit as aware as she of the tension that hummed between them. Slowly, his gaze raised to meet her own and there was something in his eyes as he stared at her. The strangest expression. Not lust as she had expected. Not victory or even arrogance. Realisation, maybe. And something else that she could not quite define. Something that looked almost haunted.
‘Dominic?’ she whispered.
But Dominic gave no sign of having heard her. He stood there frozen, staring as if he could see into the very depths of her soul.
And then he backed away, raking a hand through his hair as he did so.
‘I cannot…’ he said and his face was white. He turned away, gathered up his waistcoat and tailcoat and made for the door. ‘Dominic!’
He stopped where he was, hesitated with his hand stilled in its grip of the doorknob, but did not turn round.
And then he left, closing the door quietly behind him.
There was the tread of his boots upon the stairs, the murmur of voices in the hallway and, a short while after that, the sound of a carriage and horses outside.
Arabella watched the dark unmarked carriage drive away into the night. She shivered and pulled the shawl tight around her shoulders, not understanding what had just happened between them.
Dominic did not sleep for what remained of the night. He stood by the window of his library and looked out over the sleeping city and watched the dawn break over a charcoal sky.
He had been a fool to think that he could take Arabella as his mistress and use her as a whore, even if she was exactly that. The past was too strong between them. She might have slashed the ties that had bound them and walked away, but Dominic had only just come to see that what had bound them together could never be completely undone. She was his first and only love. And no matter what she had done, or what she had become, he could not forget that. Every time he looked at her it was flaunted before his eyes. Every time he touched her he felt it in his bones.
If he had thought it would be so easy to treat her just as he had treated all the other women who had come after her, without emotional attachment, he was wrong.
She was engrained upon his mind, engraved upon his heart. He had dreamt of nothing else for nigh on six years. He had longed for her and hated her and needed her all at once. It was Arabella whom he thought of constantly. It was Arabella he thought of even when he was bedding another woman.
He could taste her upon his tongue and smell her own scent, sweet and fresh like roses and summer rain. He could still feel the smooth softness of her pale skin, still feel the firm ripeness of her naked breasts. He wanted to possess every inch of her body with his mouth. He wanted to plunge his aching manhood into her silken flesh and take her in every way imaginable until this endless torment ceased.
But he could not.
The grey dress she wore in the bedchamber in Curzon Street was nothing of the courtesan’s guise she had donned before. It was old and shabby and respectable, Arabella’s own, rather than something of Mrs Silver’s. And when she had stripped it off and stood before him, offering what he had thought he had the right to take, he had willed himself to accept it. He had touched her and tried to coax himself, for God only knew how much his body burned to possess her. But beneath his hand he had felt the flutter of her heart and he had known that he could not do it.
Arabella’s words rang through his head. He was a thousand times the man you are!… A harlot’s lie. It is what men want to hear, is it not? And he realised there had been a part of him that had thought that she would have welcomed him, wanted him. That she would have told him that what happened in the past was all a mistake, that she had loved him all along.
He shook his head with disgust at his own absurdity. Nothing had changed. It never would. She still had the power to hurt him…and was wielding it with deliberation.
He had made this arrangement; he would not break it and see her thrown back down into the gutter. But for Dominic there could be no more visits to Curzon Street.
The decision made, Dominic stood back to watch the new day dawn over London.
In the dining room that morning Arabella was watching Archie eating his breakfast. After seeing him brought almost to the point of starvation she could not help but worry whether that last week in Flower and Dean Street had left its mark upon him. But looking at him now, wolfing down his buttered eggs and sausages and excitedly telling his story, she felt a sense of relief at the resilience of children. She smoothed down his hair and concentrated on listening to how he was going to have a whole stable of horses when he was a grown-up man. But she knew Mrs Tatton’s questions would not be deferred for long. Arabella could see from the corner of her eye the way her mother was watching her with concern written all over her face.
She tried to smile and act as if everything was just the same as it had been yesterday, but her heart was filled with humiliation and confusion and embarrassment over what had happened last night. She did not understand what she had done wrong. And she was relieved and angry and ashamed all at once.
Archie helped himself to another two sausages and then climbed down from the table and ran off to play a game of horses.
‘Archie, come back. We do not leave the table until we have finished eating,’ she called after him.
‘Oh, leave him be, Arabella. He will do no harm and has been so well behaved of late despite all of our troubles,’ said Mrs Tatton.
‘You are right, of course,’ Arabella said. ‘It has not been easy for him.’ The weight of guilt was heavy. She doubted that the memory of those awful last days when he had gone hungry would ever leave her.
‘Nor for any of us,’ answered her mother. ‘Now I know it is not my place to ask and that events of the bedchamber between a man and a woman are best kept that way, but…’ Mrs Tatton’s brow furrowed with concern. ‘I do not think that matters went so well for you last night.’
‘Those matters were fine,’ Arabella said quickly and felt her cheeks flush at the memory of Dominic’s rejection. She was his mistress. She was supposed to bed him, to let him take his pleasure. And she had been prepared to do just that, however much she resented it. What she had not been prepared for was that he would tease a response from her body and then just walk away.
‘Do not lie to me, girl. I have eyes to see and ears to hear. And I see your face is powder pale this morning and your eyes swollen and red as if you have spent the night weeping. And I heard him leaving the house before midnight.’
‘My eyes are a little irritated this morning, nothing more. And D—’ She stopped Dominic’s name on her tongue before it could escape. ‘And, yes, the gentleman had to leave early. There were others matters to which he had to attend.’
‘At midnight?’ her mother snorted. ‘He was barely here.’
‘If his visits are short, does it not suit us all the better?’
‘Some men can be inconsiderate in their haste to…to satisfy their own…’ Her mother’s cheeks blushed scarlet and she could not finish her words.
‘No,’ Arabella said hastily. ‘It was not like that.’
The sight of him. The scent of him. His fingers slowly tracing a line all the way along her collar bone, before meandering down to tease her nipples. The burn of her skin, the rush of her blood…
She winced with the shame of it.
‘Tell me the truth, Arabella.’ Mrs Tatton reached over and placed her hand on Arabella’s.
Her cheeks warmed, and she felt the gall of bitterness in her throat. ‘If you knew the truth, Mama, you would not believe it,’ she murmured.
‘Did he use you ill?’ Her mother’s face paled, the flash of fear in her eyes making Arabella feel a brute. She was supposed to be reassuring her mother, not worrying her all the more.
‘He did nothing, Mama.’ Even though she had offered herself to him like the harlot she had become. She was so angry at herself…and at him.
She was relieved that he had not taken her, so why did she feel so humiliated? It was a confusing hurtful mess.
‘Do not lie to me now, Arabella. If he has hurt you… Nothing is worth that. Better that we beg upon the streets than—’
She took her mother’s hand in her own and stroked the fragile veined skin. ‘Mama, he was gentle and demanded nothing of me. I wept only for what I am become.’
‘Oh, Arabella, we should leave this house.’ Arabella felt her mother’s hands twist within her own.
‘And return to Flower and Dean Street?’ Arabella raised her brows.
‘I could look for work. Between the two of us we could find a way.’
And the work would kill her mother. Arabella knew there was no other way. She shook her head. ‘It is too late, Mama.’
What was done, was done. She was a fallen woman. Besides, the past had caught up with Arabella. I cannot, his words seemed to whisper through the room and she thought of the haunted expression in his eyes.
‘Mama, we are staying here. I was foolish last night, that is all. Tonight will be different.’ She hoped. ‘You have nothing to worry over except to count the money and the days until we can return to the country.’
‘If you are sure about this, Arabella?’
‘I am quite certain.’
Her mother did not look happy, but she nodded and went back to eating her breakfast.
It was barely an hour later when the letter arrived. Again, written in Dominic’s familiar bold handwriting. Arabella’s heart began to trip as she broke the sealing wax and read the bold penned words within.
‘Well?’ Her mother glanced up from the chair on which she was sitting. The sunshine bathed the whole of the drawing room in its warm pale golden light.
‘He has arranged for a dressmaker to call tomorrow afternoon.’ Arabella folded the letter and slipped it into the pocket of her dress so that her mother would not see the crest embossed both upon the paper and impressed within the seal.
‘It is only to be expected,’ Mrs Tatton said and went back to pouring the tea.
‘I suppose you are right,’ Arabella murmured, and a vision of the scandalous silk black dress swam in her mind. She glanced down at her own grey gown and knew she would rather wear this every single day, old and shabby as it was, than anything Dominic would buy for her.
‘Archie and I will make ourselves scarce.’
Arabella nodded and glanced at her son, feeling a tug of guilt and worry. Hiding them away at night was not so very bad, for both her mother and son slept early. And although the room was near to the attic it was warm and cosy and nicely furnished, and better in every way than the one they had left in Flower and Dean Street. But to force them to stay quiet and hidden during the day while Dominic sat downstairs and chose a wardrobe of fast, provocative clothes in which to dress her sparked an angry resentment in Arabella.
Something of her feelings must have shown in her face for Mrs Tatton said, ‘It is only for one day, Arabella, and it will do us no harm. And as for the rest…well, the clothes are the least of it.’
There was no sign of Dominic by two o’clock the next day when the dressmaker called. Arabella smoothed her skirts for the umpteenth time and forced herself to at least pretend to be attending to her needlework, although she had the sudden thought, just as she heard the knock at the door, that perhaps mistresses did not spend their time in needlework. It was the first time that anyone would be seeing her as Dominic’s mistress and Arabella composed her face to conceal her humiliation.
When Gemmell showed the woman into the drawing room, Arabella’s heart sank to meet her shoes. Of all the dressmakers in London that Dominic could have chosen…
And she remembered those final dark days that had led her to Mrs Silver’s House of Rainbow Pleasures. It should not matter that it was Madame Boisseron waiting in the drawing room, for in her desperation Arabella had knocked on the door of every dressmaker, mantua maker and milliner, every corsetry house, tailor and seamstress, seeking work that was not to be found. Any one of London’s dressmakers coming here today would have recognised her. But somehow, the fact that it was the woman in whose shop she had met Mrs Silver just seemed to add to the humiliation for Arabella.
But if Madame Boisseron recognised Arabella the dressmaker was wise enough to make no sign of it. Arabella took a deep breath, swallowed down her embarrassment and knew that she had no choice but to deal with the situation as best she could.
Dominic had still not arrived when the little dark-eyed woman, whose accent was soft and French, brought out a book of dress designs. Arabella glanced at the clock, knowing she ought to wait for his arrival before they proceeded, but the thought that Dominic could dictate the clothes she wore, even right down to her underwear, made her feel so angry that she took the book from the modiste and began to flip through it.
Some of the designs were positively indecent, barely covering breasts, revealing nipples and leaving little to the imagination when it came to a woman’s figure. Not so very different from the black silk dress that she had been forced to wear within the brothel.
‘This one but with a higher neckline,’ she pointed to one of the sketches, ‘and a thicker material.’
Madame Boisseron glanced up at her in surprise. ‘You are sure, madam? Gentlemen, they usually prefer a little more…’ she paused ‘…daring in their ladies’ dress.’
‘I have had quite enough of daring. So if you would be so kind.’
‘Certainly, madam,’ Madame Boisseron said. ‘After all, the Duke, he said that the decision was with you.’
‘He did?’ Arabella heard the question in her own voice, and then tried to look as if she had known it all along.
‘Indeed. There are not many men that would leave their ladies to order the entirety of their new wardrobes alone. I was most surprised when the Duke, he asked me to attend to you without his presence. He will pay only if you are happy—a most unusual nobleman, non?’
‘Most unusual,’ Arabella said and glanced away. So Dominic would not be arriving this afternoon. She allowed herself to relax a little, and stopped looking at the clock.
By three o’clock, Arabella’s measurements had been taken, they had been through the fabric sample book twice and Arabella had ordered a minimal and conservative wardrobe. Madame Boisseron must have been disappointed, given that she knew Arabella had carte blanche to order exactly as she wished and as much as she desired. But rather than be tight-mouthed, the dressmaker only smiled and looked at Arabella kindly and told her the clothes would be delivered as each dress became ready.
Immediately the door closed Arabella made her way upstairs to Archie and her mother’s bedchamber and turned her mind away from Dominic Furneaux.
But she could not keep him from her thoughts for ever. Too soon the day faded into night and Arabella sat alone in the drawing room, waiting for him to arrive. She knew that he would expect her to thank him for the free rein with the dressmaker and for his generosity of purse, but the words stuck in Arabella’s throat and she knew that she would be unable to bring herself to say them.
She waited; the clock ticked loudly and its hands crawled slowly, and the embroidery within her lap remained untouched. She worried over what he might say to her. And she worried over what she might say to him. But most of all she worried over the moment when he would take her to bed.
But Dominic did not come to the house in Curzon Street. Not that night, or the next, or the night after that.
Dominic was trying to check through the accounts for the land that encompassed his estate. It was a tedious task and one that required sustained concentration, which was the very reason he was sitting with the books spread before him this afternoon. Anything to keep his mind off Arabella Tatton.
The tactic was not proving successful and so Hunter’s arrival in his study was something of a relief.
Hunter squinted at the pages lying open on the desk and then looked at Dominic with a knowing expression. ‘There’s enough crossed-out and overwritten ink on that paper to write a novel. Quite unlike your usual precision, Arlesford. Looks to me like you have got something—or someone—else on your mind.’ Hunter smiled and arched an eyebrow.
Dominic ignored the bait and bent his head to the columns of numbers on the page before him. Hunter was right, he acknowledged dismally. The page had been clear and legible before Dominic had started his checking.
‘Came by to drop you a warning.’
Dominic felt his stomach tighten. Hunter would not be here right now if it were not something concerning Dominic.
‘You are not going to like it,’ warned Hunter.
Dominic thought of Arabella.
Hunter helped himself to Dominic’s decanter of brandy and filled two glasses. ‘It’s Misbourne. Trying a new approach.’
Dominic released the breath he had been holding as he accepted the brandy from Hunter. He took a sip and watched his friend lounge in the chair on the other side of the desk.
‘He is saying that there was some kind of old agreement made between your father and him years ago. An oath to bind the two families by marriage between you and his daughter.’
The news was not anything Dominic wanted to hear, but at least it did not regard Arabella.
‘Aye, a pact sworn with the earl when the two of them were young, single and in their cups. My father never meant to hold me to a boy’s drunken foolishness. And I’ll be damned if I’m pushed to it by a louse like Misbourne.’
‘Misbourne is risking much with his tactic; he must be very determined to make a match between you and Lady Marianne Winslow.’
Dominic’s gaze met Hunter’s and with the mention of marriage the awkwardness of the past—of what Arabella had done—was in the room between them.
Hunter gave a nod. ‘Just have a care over him, Dominic. He is not a good man to have as an enemy.’
‘I know and I thank you for the warning, my friend.’
There was a silence in which Hunter sipped at his brandy. Then he smiled. ‘To change the subject to a lighter note…’
Dominic relaxed and raised the glass to his lips.
‘You are creating quite a stir with Miss Noir.’
Dominic stilled, then set the glass down on the desk without having taken a mouthful.
‘What do you mean?’ He thought of the lengths he had gone to, to keep the transition of Arabella from Mrs Silver’s to his mistress a secret. ‘You did not tell them anything of it?’
Hunter raised his brows and there was a genuine wounded look in his eyes. ‘I hope you deem me better than that.’
Dominic gave a nod. ‘Forgive me.’
‘I do not know how, but the whisper is out about you and the mysterious Miss Noir. People are intrigued by the story. And they are asking questions.’
‘Then let us hope that they find no answers.’ It should not matter if all of London knew that it was Arabella he had taken as his mistress. After what she had done, it was the very least she deserved. But knowing that and doing it were two different things. He knew what the gossips would do to her if they discovered who she was. They would have a field day with the complete and utter destruction of every last aspect of her character.
‘She must be something special that you are taking such a care to hide her,’ mused Hunter. ‘Who is she, Arlesford?’
‘None of your damn business,’ said Dominic and lifted his glass of brandy to his mouth. He wondered what Hunter would say if he knew the truth.
Hunter laughed. ‘Now I really am intrigued, if you are keeping her secret even from me.’
‘Especially from you, Hunter,’ Dominic said as if in jest, but he had never been more serious.
‘I am not such a bastard that I would steal my best friend’s woman,’ Hunter protested and finished his brandy in a gulp.
Dominic drew a wry smile. ‘Knowing your reputation, I am not about to take any chances.’ Better to blame it on that than let Hunter know it was Arabella.
Hunter laughed. ‘She must be something special.’
All levity vanished from Dominic’s face. He tapped the base of the glass against the wooden surface of his desk as he thought of Arabella.
‘She is,’ he said and glanced away.
‘Dominic?’ Hunter probed. But Dominic had no mind to discuss the matter even with Hunter, so he just shook his head.
‘Do not go further, friend,’ he said quietly.
Hunter gave a subtle nod, then smiled, refilled their glasses and raised his in a toast. ‘Miss Noir, long may the ton fail to unmask her.’
Dominic chinked his glass against Hunter’s, but he did not smile. And as he drank the brandy his mind was filled with Arabella Tatton and what it would mean to them both were she to be unmasked.
It was another reason he should not return to Curzon Street. And yet one more reason that did not relieve the compulsion that whispered to him night and day to retrace his steps straight back there.