He was playing with her, smirking as if he knew all her secrets. “I wonder at your knowledge that the diceman was cheating all those weeks ago and your skill at cards. The real secret, I think, is yours.”
“You have figured me out, Mr. Harrow,” Arabella answered dryly. “I was a pirate.”
“I do believe you were.”
She had no idea why, but she laughed, finding it difficult to behave properly with his teasing. “And look at us now.”
A sensuous mouth formed the taunt. “You make a terrible baroness.”
She had to agree. “I suppose I was far more content as a pirate.”
“Why did you marry Baron Iliffe?” He’d struck, his purpose for the banter revealed.
All the light went out of the woman. Arabe
lla set her teacup aside and looked instead at the portrait of Gregory’s mother. “I was madly in love with him.”
“Talk of the dead man sets you into quite a mood. Your hackles are raised, madam pirate,” Mr. Harrow pointed out. “It was a simple question. Answer it.”
Cold, Arabella replied, “I desired his fortune and title.”
“Liar.” He watched her shift, knowing the Imp was about to stand and make a run for it. “This little show in the corner, do you think it will curb my behavior? If you move from that chair, I will make a scene before the Parson. I will kiss your mouth and hold you where all of your household can see.”
Arabella was not sure if there was a possibility that she could feel more anger than she felt in that moment. Lips in a snarl, she hissed in a whisper, “You bloody bastard.”
The man shrugged. “We have been over that point before.”
“Why can you not be pleasant? I know you are capable of it when you want something.”
“Come now, my love...” He raised his teacup up for a sip, snide and arrogant as he held her attention. “Answer the question.”
“No.” Reaching for her sewing, Arabella ignored the man, knowing he was delighted by her sulking.
She kept to her chair attending the mending and holding her tongue until the Parson’s lessons had ended. Playing the role of hostess, she thanked the old man, noting his almost worried glances towards Mr. Harrow while she saw him out.
She knew that look. The man, like everyone else in the county, owed her landlord money, or a favor, or was simply wise enough to fear him.
Walking back into the great hall to find Mr. Harrow still seated as if he belonged there, Arabella lifted the pot of cold tea and dumped it straight into his lap. Whatever anger he may have harbored for her actions was ignored when, instead of retribution, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her to sit across his thighs.
Crushing his mouth against hers, he kissed her until she was breathless.
It was he who left her, Mr. Harrow pushing her away when she was complacent and baffled. Gaining his feet, he walked out as if nothing at all had occurred.
Chapter 9
“C ome, Mary.” Arabella reached up into the carriage, offering a hand to the young maid. “Let us enjoy ourselves.”
Dressed in a paisley frock, her hair bound in a knot with a pert bonnet atop her blonde head, Mary held tight to her mistress’s hand.
Once Arabella had the maid standing in the sun, the baroness straightened Mary’s fichu, tucked back a stray curl, and took the silent girl’s arm in hers. “Shall we begin by walking through the village shops, or would you like to see the market first?”
As usual, the girl only stared ahead.
“Perhaps we should peruse the milliner?”
With Payne acting as chaperone, Arabella took Mary towards the hat shop.
On the promenade, the few strolling redcoats already eyed them curiously, as did farmers’ wives and their children. Magdala had pointedly selected her manner of dress, a costly green gown and an intricate feathered bonnet—to be seen in, the Spaniard had said, while pinning the hideous contraption to overly curled hair.