To Love the Brooding Baron

SIX

SIX

Arabella’s heart pounded hard inside her chest, matching her rapid breaths. The sound filled her ears, blocking out everything else in the room. In a matter of seconds, she had gone from being crushed beneath Lord Digby to being hit in the stomach by a book that had fallen out of Lord Northcott’s jacket.

A crisp, folded piece of paper had slipped free from somewhere inside the book’s pages, landing flat on the floor. She reached over to pick it up and froze the moment she turned it over. The cover showed the most frightening image of a person thrashing about, tied down with heavy chains, and the title on the pamphlet read:

Lunacy: mastering the animality after the loss of humanity.

The words were chilling, and her stomach twisted into a sickening knot.

She’d heard the gossip during the Season about Lord Northcott’s mother being a patient at the old Bedlam. But that story was contradicted by another claiming she was buried somewhere in an unmarked grave.

Before Arabella could puzzle anything out, she was unceremoniously lifted off the floor. She landed on unsteady feet and was practically dragged out of the room by the large and domineering figure that was Lord Northcott.

“Let me go,” she demanded in a panicked whisper.

He didn’t even look at her as they exited the coffee room.

Lord Northcott pulled them through the corridor and into a nearby room. It was much smaller, with only one tall window at the back, which didn’t fill the space with much light.

Keeping his grip on her arm, Lord Northcott turned Arabella around so his back was to the closed door.

“What are you doing?” He growled the words like he wanted to shout.

She’d never seen such a reaction from him. He was always so controlled, but standing here, looming over her with his fists clenched, he appeared the beast the ton accused him of being.

Unfortunately for him, she’d just spent the past year with an overprotective brother, so she wouldn’t be so easily intimidated.

“I owe you no explanation,” she replied, lifting her chin and taking a step toward him.

His eyes shot to the space she’d closed between them, and his back stiffened.

She squared her shoulders, prepared to argue further, but then he did the strangest thing.

He took a step back.

“You need to leave,” he said after a moment, his voice emotionless as he met her gaze.

“Not until I find the betting book,” she replied. “I came here for a reason, and I intend to see it through.”

“No.”

She felt her temper flare. “You cannot physically stop me. It would only draw more attention, which is something neither of us wants.” She placed her hands on her hips, and the sound of crinkling paper filled the tense room.

Lord Northcott’s eyes locked on her hand.

She’d forgotten she still held his pamphlet. She couldn’t read his exact reaction but, given his rigid stance, she knew it meant something to him—which meant she could bargain with it.

With slow movements, she held the pamphlet between them. “If you take me to the betting book, I will return your pamphlet and leave willingly.”

He said nothing, though she had the distinct impression his mind was weighing out all the consequences behind his dark and penetrating gaze.

Unbidden her body shivered. Not from fear, but from heat. Never before had a man stared at her in such a way.

“All right,” he said, his voice gruff. “The betting book for the pamphlet, and then I am taking you home.”

“To my carriage,” she countered. “It will be on the street waiting for me, along with my change of clothes. I understand you will have to tell my mother, but I do not want her to have to bear the shame of seeing me like this when you do.”

Lord Northcott nodded.

She tucked the pamphlet inside her jacket pocket, his eyes carefully watching her movements.

“Do not leave my side,” he said, an odd strain to his tone as if he feared more for her safety and less about what was in her possession.

“I will not,” she replied softly, feeling unbalanced by the different reactions he was causing in her.

The sudden urge to take his hand to reassure him overtook her, but he turned away just as her hand lifted, and he moved with stiff steps toward the door. Had she imagined something more happening between them?

They walked to the entrance hall in silence. Goliath stood at his post near the front door, his eyes following her as if he still had his suspicions. Her nerves prickled, making her eager to be away.

But instead, Lord Northcott approached him and engaged him in a brief conversation. Panic gripped her as Goliath abruptly left his post, leaving her to fear Lord Northcott had gone back on their arrangement.

“What did you—” she began, but Lord Northcott cut her off.

“I called for my carriage to be made ready for when we are finished,” he said, his expression guarded as if he expected her to think the worst of him.

And she had.

He walked away, and she felt as if someone had punched her in the stomach. He didn’t have to reassure her. He could’ve let her suffer in her panic, but he hadn’t.

Could a man the ton painted to be dark and brooding truly be so selfless? And if he wasn’t who the ton continuously made him out to be, then why didn’t he do anything to prove them otherwise?

She puzzled over the enigma that was the man before her as she followed him up a set of stairs. With her every step, she began to feel the weight of his every step, pulling her closer to him. The pressure of his large hand as it slid and then gripped its way up the wood banister left a warm, lingering caress that continually stroked the palm of her hand, igniting every nerve throughout her arm. His breaths, which were heavy and controlled, drove her to match his every inhale and exhale as if they were somehow becoming one.

She didn’t know how to explain what was happening between them, but she knew she’d never felt this way before. Never looked upon a man this way before.

“The book is in the cardroom,” Lord Northcott said, startling her into realizing they’d reached the landing. His eyes narrowed. “Are you all right?”

“I—I do not—” She blinked, their connection broken. “I—”

Her words were cut short by the arrival of Mr. Bradbury, who had come up the steps behind them. “There you are. I was beginning to think you’d left.” He stopped next to Arabella, a grin on his face. “Are we going to the cardroom?”

Arabella shot a glance at Lord Northcott, who held his usual stoic expression.

“We were,” he replied.

“Splendid,” Mr. Bradbury said, rubbing his hands together before leading the charge into the cardroom.

She waited for Lord Northcott to say something—this hadn’t been a factor in their plan—but he said nothing. His expression was like stone, unmovable, and his eyes stared right through her as he motioned for her to precede him. The moment her back was to him, she could feel his eyes upon her.

Walking into the cardroom, Arabella took in every sight she could. She would never have this opportunity again, and it was much simpler to focus on her surroundings than on the way Lord Northcott was making her feel.

There were three large, half-circular gaming tables running along one side of the room with a row of smaller, more private, square tables running along the opposite wall.

Only one of the larger tables was in use, while the rest of the room sat empty. Two of the four gentlemen at the table looked toward them but quickly averted their eyes the moment they landed on Mr. Bradbury.

“I would suggest a game of cards,” Mr. Bradbury began, glaring at the backs of their heads, “but trust me when I say you would not like what is being wagered in that game.”

Not wanting to stray from her promise to Lord Northcott, who remained directly behind her, she took Mr. Bradbury at his word, though she was curious to know what else besides money might be wagered at a gentlemen’s card game.

“My cousin talked of a betting book,” Arabella said, taking the opportunity to direct Mr. Bradbury to what she wanted.

A fire lit in Mr. Bradbury’s eyes. “The next best thing.”

He led them to a sideboard centered along the back wall. A very large, very ornate book lay open on top of its polished surface, a black feathered quill resting next to it, along with a crystal inkwell.

“This is our infamous betting book,” Mr. Bradbury said, motioning for her to come closer.

Arabella’s heart raced, and her hands shook as she stepped forward. Despite all that had happened, she’d done it. She was about to see the secrets that had been denied to her. Until now.

Placing her fingers on the tabletop to steady herself, she leaned over the pages, her eyes hungry for every word.

Mr. Bradbury stepped up beside her. “Let me show you one of our most recent wagers.”

Arabella resisted the urge to laugh. Mr. Bradbury was making winning his wager far too easy. She would have to find the perfect opportunity to tell him. How fun that would be!

“Ah, here it is,” Mr. Bradbury said, holding a finger at the top of a page.

Biting her lip to hold back her grin, she leaned forward to read the ledger:

1815. March 12th.

Mr. Bradbury and Mr. Latham bet Lord Digby and Lord Masdon twenty pounds to twenty-five pounds. A pig wearing Beau Brummel’s waistcoat shall be released inside the morning room of White’s gentlemen’s club without the participants ever being caught.

There were a few more wagers listed below it, all adding up to quite a hefty sum should her brother and Mr. Bradbury win. Then, on the last line, she read:

Won by Mr. Bradbury and Mr. Latham. Paid.

“My congratulations.” She smiled at Mr. Bradbury while secretly congratulating herself. She’d heard speculation about this very rumor during the Season, but Emerson had always denied it. Now she knew for certain.

Mr. Bradbury puffed up his chest and grinned. “I had to climb out a first-story window with a makeshift rope while your cousin jumped onto the roof of his carriage to avoid capture.”

“It sounds as if your bounteous winnings were well-earned. Are there any involving Lord Northcott?” she asked, curious to discover more about the stoic baron who had chosen to remain a few steps behind them.

Mr. Bradbury laughed and turned wry eyes on Lord Northcott. “Beasty refuses to take part in any fun.”

Arabella looked at Lord Northcott, wanting to know what that exactly meant, but he remained silent, his expression unreadable.

“Do not look for answers from him, Mr. Latham,” Mr. Bradbury said, patting her across the back and startling her into remembering she was Mr. Latham. “I have been asking that same question for years.” He scoffed. “Do not let his dour mood spoil this moment. Let me show you some of my other favorites.”

Arabella nodded, trying and failing to feel that strange connection with Lord Northcott once again. It was like he had built up his walls within himself and completely cut her off.

Mr. Bradbury flipped through several pages before he stopped and directed her to a certain spot on the page.

1814. October 22nd.

Doctor Fleetwood bets Lord Digby ten guineas to thirty guineas. Lord Digby will be dead by the end of the year if he does not reduce his consumption of spirits.

Won by Lord Digby. Paid.

Arabella blinked in shock. Had they truly wagered about a man’s death?

“Can this be true?” she asked Mr. Bradbury.

Mr. Bradbury nodded. “Lord Digby has been fleecing Doctor Fleetwood of his guineas for years. The man is like a fish happily swimming in his drink, much to the good doctor’s chagrin.”

Arabella laughed and shook her head as she turned back to the book. What other ridiculous things did gentlemen feel the need to gamble over?

She stopped turning the pages when a familiar name jumped out at her.

1815. June 18th.

Mr. Deighton bets Mr. Bradbury twenty guineas to fifteen guineas. Mr. Bradbury will be unable to walk down the streets of Pall Mall during daylight hours without being recognized by any passersby.

Won by Mr. Bradbury.

“This bet was completed, correct?” she asked, noticing something missing.

Bradbury leaned forward, looking at where she pointed. A grin spread across his face. “Yes, it was. Deighton thought he had me on that one, but I claimed my victory thanks to the protective covering of Beasty’s”—he pointed a thumb to Lord Northcott—“great-great-something-or-other’s armored helmet.”

Arabella gaped at Mr. Bradbury’s brilliance. “A very clever solution, indeed.”

Mr. Bradbury smirked. “Clever does not even begin to describe my many traits.”

Arabella resisted another urge to laugh at her brother’s boisterous friend. “Would you say noticing finer details is one of those many traits?”

Lord Northcott moved directly behind her, his unease palpable to her. Did he fear she would out her disguise to make her point?

“I suppose,” Mr. Bradbury said, his eyes darting toward Lord Northcott, a befuddled wrinkle forming between his fiery brows.

She was about to shock them both.

“Then tell me, Mr. Bradbury, has Mr. Deighton indeed paid you for this wager, or am I reading this incorrectly?” She slid her finger down to the empty spot on the ledger where it should have been marked as paid.

Bradbury’s eyes jerked to the page, then opened wide. “What in the blazes!” Pivoting on his heel, he stormed toward the one large gaming table currently in use. “Deighton, you brummagem, you still owe me twenty guineas—with interest—and do not even think that I will accept the hand of your sister.”

Arabella stifled a laugh.

“We should leave,” Lord Northcott said, leaning so close to her ear his breath sent shivers up and down her spine.

“Of course,” she said, suddenly breathless and trying to remember how to move her legs.

He was right; if she wanted to leave unnoticed, now was her chance. Every eye in the room was focused on the heated argument between Mr. Bradbury and Mr. Deighton.

“Miss Latham?” Lord Northcott whispered, her name on his lips so soft it felt more like a caress along her cheek. Had he moved even closer?

She swallowed, daring a look over her shoulder, the sudden scent of sandalwood and leather weakening her sensibilities.

“Yes?” she breathed.

His eyes dipped to her lips, but just as quickly, he looked away and took a large step back.

The connection severed, he held out his hand. “My pamphlet?”

His sudden indifference sliced through her, and she didn’t know what to think of that.