To Love the Brooding Baron

TWENTY

TWENTY

“I don’t know why I let you talk me into this,” Hattie said, wincing into Arabella’s bedchamber mirror for what had to be the hundredth time that morning.

“I am beginning to wonder the same thing,” Arabella replied, struggling to shove one of her pearl hairpins into the horribly plaited chignon that sat lopsided on the back of Hattie’s head.

Arabella had awoken before dawn, her mind and body restless after yesterday’s ride in Hyde Park. Her chest infused with warmth at the memory of Lord Northcott’s arms around her after he’d lunged for the reins.

How his chest had pressed hard against her back, allowing her to feel the pounding beat of his heart.

How his fingers had curled around hers while she held the reins, adjusting her fingers with a gentleness she was learning was very much him.

How he’d opened up to her about his sister, and how he’d comforted her when her thoughts went to her father.

“Ouch!” Hattie hissed, rubbing the back of her head.

A tiny pearl pin-turned-dagger was sticking slightly askew out of the back of Hattie’s hair.

“I am so sorry. How have you never made my head into a pincushion?”

“Honestly, never thought it difficult before now,” Hattie said, letting out another sharp hiss. Her hands shot up to her head, her fingers pressing around the area where Arabella had managed to finally shove the pin.

“Finished,” Arabella said, taking a step back with a forced smile. It looked horrendous.

Hattie studied her hair in the mirror. “’Tis ... lovely,” she said after a moment. “What shape were you hopin’ for?”

“A bird’s nest,” Arabella replied, saying the first thing that popped into her head. Though this one looked as if it’d fallen from a tree and blown through the countryside.

“Elegant,” Hattie replied, forcing a smile.

They stared at one another in the mirror for an entire minute before their lips began to twitch.

“Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo,” Arabella chirped, mocking herself using Shakespeare’s words from Love’s Labours Lost.

They burst into fits of laughter until Arabella had to wrap her arms around her sides while Hattie brushed away the tears beneath her eyes.

“I don’t think ye should put this on your list of accomplishments,” Hattie said.

“I could not agree with you more,” Arabella replied, trying to catch her breath. “I should help you take it out.”

“No!” Hattie jumped from the chair. “I’ll do it. ’Tis fine. In fact, I should pin your hair up, then ye can go and break your fast.”

“Do not worry about it,” Arabella said. “I think I will leave it down for the morning.” She ran her fingers through her long, dark locks, arranging it all to one side. “The sun is out. I think I will walk through the back garden.”

Staying in London for so long while they waited for Emerson and Olivia to return was beginning to make her truly miss the openness of the countryside. There was nothing more freeing than the smell of earth, dew, and pine while the breeze whipped through your hair.

“Very well, miss,” Hattie said as Arabella made her way out the door.

When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she paused.

Something heavy momentarily scraped across the floor, followed by several distinct grunts. Was her mother having the servants rearrange the furniture?

Following the sound, she passed the breakfast room, then turned down the side corridor at the back of the house. She found two men with their sleeves rolled up, hefting a large rectangular table turned on its side into the room next to her brother’s study. Their grunts quickly changed into grumbles as they pivoted the table, trying to fit it through the doorway despite its curved, ornate legs that continually caught on the doorframe.

Studying the table, she noticed a hole had been cut out of each visible corner and net-like bags hung beneath them.

Billiards!

A rush of excitement filled her, and she followed the movers into the room. She needed to see for herself the green baize and padded wood rails before she’d truly believe it.

Emerson had often teased their mother that he’d someday purchase a billiards table for the house. Their mother had, in her motherly way, told him he’d be doing no such thing. Billiards tables were for gentlemen’s clubs and not a home. Apparently, Emerson had finally followed through on his threat by having one delivered while he was conveniently more than a hundred miles away, and with enough time between the delivery and his return to give their mother’s ire time to abate.

A familiar deep timbre sounded from somewhere inside the room, and Arabella stopped inside the doorway, her heart racing.

Her eyes scanned the space, looking for Lord Northcott; the billiards table could wait. She quickly counted three men in the room, one on either side of the billiards table, which they still carried on its side, while the third man was one of her footmen. He had his back to her as he bent down to grab the edge of the table closest to the floor.

As the men began flipping the large, rectangular table to stand on its feet, Arabella caught sight of two well-polished boots slowly being uncovered as the table was placed on its legs.

“That will do,” Lord Northcott’s deep tone once again filled the room, and, like the curtains in a play drawing open, the righting of the table revealed the man himself.

Her breath arrested in her lungs, her chest and throat suddenly tightening as she watched a rugged-looking Lord Northcott in a charcoal gray waistcoat and rolled-up white shirtsleeves help steady the substantial table and position it in the room.

The muscles exposed on his lower arms flexed and strained against the weight of the table, and his firm jaw clenched as his eyes remained solely focused on the task.

Romeo had said it best: Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight! For I ne’er saw true beauty till this night.

He was so strong. So handsome. And not above working alongside others, just like her father had been. That thought alone warmed her heart to near bursting.

The table securely placed, the other men began to hurry about, making final adjustments.

Lord Northcott took a step back and bent his neck from side to side before brushing his hands together. He released a deep exhale, looked forward, and froze.

Their eyes locked, and a rush of heat climbed up her neck and flooded her cheeks. His shoulders stiffened, and his eyes instantly looked anywhere else but at her.

Before she could say anything, he bolted to a chair at the back corner of the room.

With the skill of a valet, he whisked his discarded black jacket off the back of a chair and over his head, sliding one arm into the sleeve. But his rolled-up shirtsleeve caught in the tight fit of his jacket, and he began to flail his arm, trying to force it the rest of the way through.

Arabella’s lips twitched, and she covered a giggle behind her fingers.

Struggling, he turned his back to her, his arm still flailing in his jacket-turned-flag. Taking pity on him, she went to him, passing the two men and her footman who were doing their best to look busy.

“Here,” she said, coming around to face Lord Northcott and placing a staying hand on his shoulder.

He immediately stopped, and his eyes met hers with a scorching stare that heated the air around them. Slowly, his gaze moved to her hair that lay loose around her shoulders. He visibly swallowed, and his eyes snapped upward to meet hers again.

“May I?” she asked, her stomach giving an unexpected leap at the thought that he was fighting back the urge to touch her hair.

He nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving hers.

Sliding her hand from his shoulder to his forearm, she proceeded to pull his arm free from his jacket. His muscles twitched beneath her fingers, and his chest rose and fell with his quickened breaths.

When she freed his arm, she turned to place his jacket over the back of the chair. She took an extra moment to steady her own anxious breaths.

Turning around, she found him watching her as if he wasn’t certain what to do next. She reached out with slightly shaky fingers and slid them beneath the warmed material of his shirtsleeves, unrolling them until the cloth reached his wrist. They stood so close, she could smell the familiar, inviting scent of leather and warm spice upon his skin.

Finishing the first sleeve, she moved to do the other, but he finally moved and began unrolling the second sleeve himself. She collected his jacket and held it up for him to slip into.

He turned his back to her, though his eyes still watched her over his shoulder as he threaded his arms into his jacket. “Thank you,” he said, his voice gruff.

She smiled, any and all words fleeing from her mind as he turned to face her.

“My apologies for—” he began but was cut off as one of the men approached.

“Will that be all, my lord?”

He quickly surveyed the room. “Yes, thank you.”

The man nodded and pulled his cap from his back pocket, placing it to his chest. “Mr. Thurston thanks you and Mr. Latham for your business.”

On those parting words, the two men exited the room, leaving only the footman, who appeared to be busying himself with something by the fireplace.

Lord Northcott cleared his throat. “My apologies for the earliness of the hour. I hope we did not disturb you.” His eyes moved to her hair once again and jerked away.

“Not at all,” Arabella replied, unable to stop another smile.

“Your brother asked me to see to the delivery.” He was acting so stiff and so formal; she didn’t like it.

“My brother takes advantage of you,” she said.

He frowned in incomprehension.

“Because he is over a hundred miles away,” she explained. “And because he knows my mother would disapprove of having a billiards table in her home.”

His eyes briefly widened. “Forgive me, I was not aware.”

“Do not worry,” she teased. “She would never blame you. Any displeasure will be directed at Emerson, which could prove to be most entertaining—for us.”

A smile ghosted his lips, and he shook his head. “I would prefer to be left out of all of it.”

“I am afraid it is too late; what’s done is done.”

“Macbeth,” he replied, all stiffness melting away.

“The iron is ready, my lord,” the footman called from the fireplace, flames flickering beside him.

“Excuse me.” Lord Northcott moved to join the footman, and Arabella followed a few steps behind him.

The footman put on a large, thick black glove that Arabella imagined a blacksmith might use near his forge. He reached without hesitation into the flames and withdrew what appeared to be an iron brick, his gloved hand grasping a handle attached to the top.

“What is that?” Arabella asked, coming closer.

“It’s an iron used to smooth the green wool baize of the table.” Lord Northcott took a step back, giving plenty of room for the footman to walk to the billiards table.

Arabella watched as the footman carefully dragged the hot iron from one end of the green baize to the other. The noticeable bumps that had been near the center smoothed out until they were nonexistent. It was all so simple, and yet fascinating to watch. Who’d have thought one had to iron a billiards table?

“May I try?” Arabella asked, unable to resist.

“You wish to iron a billiards table?” Lord Northcott asked, amused.

“Why not?” she asked, shrugging. Her answer wasn’t a good argument, but it was the truth. She didn’t need to know how to iron a billiards table, but she wanted to try.

Another smile tugged at his lips. “If you wish.”