One look at her and arms crossed over Harrow’s broad chest. Cold contempt, malevolent challenge, replaced Harrow’s anger. “And who are you to tell me what I can and cannot do on my own land, Imp? You are not mistress here, and when the old woman arrives, I will make it clear just what kind of circus the housekeeper has acquired.”
Fists clenched, Arabella shrieked, “I am the baroness, you addlebrained dolt!”
She heard the venom of her outburst, immediately cringing for her foolish tongue. Without looking over her shoulder, she knew the old servant had not missed her blunder or the title, already imagining the tales the kitchen maid would tell any who might listen.
Mr. Harrow clicked his tongue, smirking at her mortification. “Temper, temper, wee baroness.”
After a slow breath, Arabella tried again. “I am well aware you are a man of standing in this province, but you are as blind as you are wicked if you don't see that boy deserves a chance to be more than the beggar the gentry of the countryside take turns kicking.”
Black eyes began to glow; Mr. Harrow’s smile dripped menace. “Look at you standing there with your fur up like a hissing kitten. Would a cup of tea calm you, your ladyship?”
“So you can be civil...” If he expected a tantrum, he was going to be sorely disappointed. “Yes, Mr. Harrow, a cup of tea would be divine.”
Barking towards the startled housemaid, Harrow ordered, “Tea!”
The old woman scurried off.
In match to Arabella's false civility, Mr. Harrow straightened until his carriage was that of a gentleman, and gestured as if to guide her to a comfortable chair before the fire.
“Your cloak, your ladyship?” Large hands came out to take the sodden garment before her fingers found the frogs.
The simple covering was removed, exposing scarlet hair hanging loose to her waist, the tangled waves doing much to hide the meager stuff of her dress. Purposefully taking the largest chair for herself, Arabella sat back and smoothed the rough homespun fabric of her skirt as if it were the finest silk.
When a dog’s shrill whine was followed with instant silence in the yard, she cocked a brow, her words honeyed. “I do believe my horse just killed one of your mongrels.”
It was his turn to hide rage, but the angry glint in his eyes displayed enough.
Offering a mocking smile, she said, “Perhaps a cup of tea will help calm you.”
They sat in silence, each staring. She grew sick of his face, Arabella the first to look away. There was no feminine needlepoint in the cluttered space, no sign of any lady of the house. The room itself was masculine to the extreme—heavy leather furniture, books stacked about in haphazard piles, dusty.
The rattle of china and the nervous, old maid appeared with a heavy silver tray. Arabella waved the woman off so she might pour herself, uncaring if such a thing was absolutely against custom.
The old woman balked until the master of the house roared, “Be gone!”
With a quick step, the kitchen maid showed just how spry she could be.
Once the door closed, and privacy became theirs, Arabella prepared his tea following the request for no adornment of sugar or milk. Handing over cup and saucer she offered a glorious, and completely insincere, smile. Preparing her own in the same fashion, she once again settled comfortably back into the soft leather and took a sip of bitter brew.
“So I see your aggression is not just heaped upon solitary women you find in the wilderness and frightened orphans... you also abuse your servants.” Arabella smirked and took another sip. “Well, lord of the manor, are you not impressive.”
The way Mr. Harrow’s lips curved brought a chill to Arabella's bravado. In fact, the longer she sat in his presence the more she wanted out of it.
He didn’t answer her mockery. Awkward quietness stretched, both pretending to enjoy refreshment, the sound of the china and the crackling of the fire the only noise in the room.
Cup drained, Arabella set it back on the tray, preparing to stand.
Harrow interrupted her attempted escape. “Now that you have had your tea, shall we discuss my transgressions?”
Settling back, hands folded in her lap, she said, “You were cruel to Hugh.”
“Your precious stable boy is a thief.”
“I have seen a man lend money to his drunken neighbor. A man who knew full well that neighbor was being cheated by the diceman.” Arabella's point was made. “You assured that he would fail, lose his money, and be in debt to you. Now, define thief?”
“Spying, were you?” Mr. Harrow sprawled, elbow to the armrest, his chin resting upon his palm. “If fools wish to squander their lands by taking out loans they cannot afford and then waste the funds on gambling, that is their choice.”
“I know vindictiveness when I see it. You wanted your neighbor brought low.”