TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-ONE
“There is another glove on the mantel, my lord,” the footman said.
Lord Northcott nodded and stepped away. But instead of bringing the single glove to Arabella, he slipped it over his own fingers and retrieved the iron from the footman. “If you would give your glove to Miss Latham,” he directed the footman while holding the iron out in front of him.
The footman was quick to comply. “Will that be all, my lord?”
“Yes, and thank you for stepping in at the last minute to help.”
The footman bowed and excused himself, leaving the door fully open behind him.
Putting on the oversized glove, Arabella found it difficult to bend her fingers against the material’s stiffness. “What must I do?” she asked, feeling both excited and slightly nervous about holding something that’d been completely consumed by flames.
Holding the iron at a safe distance, Lord Northcott moved to stand behind her, pinning her between himself and the billiards table.
When he remained silent, Arabella looked at him over her shoulder. “Lord Northcott?”
His eyes were fixated on her hair that flowed down her back and over her shoulder. “You—” His voice caught, and he cleared his throat. “You should do something to pin up your hair.” His eyes darted toward the hot iron in his hand. “It could ...” His words trailed off, and he swallowed, tentatively meeting her eyes.
“I do not have any pins,” she replied. “But here—” Arabella removed the large glove and gathered her hair, draping it over the shoulder farthest from the iron. “Will this work?”
He nodded and took half a step closer, his eyes lingering on her hair. With his free hand, he moved a few strands she’d missed. The light brush of his fingertips left a trail of warmth across her neck.
Clearing his throat, Lord Northcott dropped his hand and moved the hot iron around to the front until it hovered over the table. She could feel the heat rising from it and leaned forward with him until it touched the green baize.
“The idea is to pull the iron across the baize with enough pressure to smooth out the creases but not burn the wool.” He demonstrated the technique, his chest pressing up against her back the further he moved the iron toward the center.
Arabella’s breath hitched at the feel of his warm breath and the sound of his voice so close to her ear. She was fully engulfed in his arms. If only he’d kiss her.
“Would you like to try?” he whispered, his voice husky and deep.
Arabella felt a flash of heat all along her body, her heart racing. Had she said that last part out loud?
“Try what?” she asked, breathless.
He took an almost imperceptible step back. “The—” His voice caught, and he cleared his throat. “The iron.” He held it out to her.
Feeling a little foolish, she reached out and awkwardly attempted to slip her oversized glove beneath his to hold on to the end of the handle.
He put his free hand on the small of her back as if to steady her and helped her adjust the positions of their hands until she had a firm grip on the iron. It was heavier than she anticipated, and she was shocked she couldn’t feel the heat of it rising through her glove.
He guided her hand, and together they made a few passes over the table. The feel of his arms once again around her and his hand pressed over her own was calming. She let out a contented sigh, and then froze.
Please. Please. Please. Do not let him have heard that.
He cleared his throat.
Zounds!He had.
“Here,” he said, letting go of the iron while taking a step back. “You try.”
Internally berating herself, Arabella tightened her grip on the handle and acted as if nothing humiliating had escaped her lips. The weight of the iron was much more noticeable without his added strength, straining the muscles of her arm and wrist. The fear of dropping the iron and scorching the table was a good distraction.
Taking a fortifying breath, she lowered the iron to the table. Her hand shook, whether from the strain of the weight or because she was holding something that could very well burn the baize of her brother’s new billiards table she couldn’t tell. Perhaps she hadn’t thought this through ...
She had to do it, though, so Lord Northcott wouldn’t suspect that she’d only suggested he teach her so he’d have to put his arms around her. She gently pressed the iron to the green baize. Instantly, it began hissing, and she jerked the iron away from the table while clamping her eyes shut.
“Did I burn it?” she asked, too nervous to even look. Emerson would never let her live it down if she had.
“No,” Lord Northcott replied from behind her. “It barely touched the table.”
Cracking one eye open, she looked at him, her wrist aching from holding up the iron for so long. “Did you not hear it hisssssss?” She dragged out the word to further emphasize her cause for concern.
He stared down at her with a soft smile, and a chuckle rumbled deep within his chest. “It is going to hiss. Just keep moving the iron. You will be fine.”
“It did not hiss the first time,” she said adamantly.
“Yes. It did,” he replied with the utmost confidence.
Very well, perhaps it could have, though it was his fault for distracting her so she didn’t notice. But she couldn’t tell him that.
Knowing she had no argument, she returned her attention to the iron in her hand. Her wrist was about to snap under the strain, but she could complete at least one pass over the table; her stubborn spirit demanded it.
Lowering the iron, she prepared herself for the hiss. The muscles in her shoulders tensed while she squinted. She felt the iron meet the table, and she pressed against the green baize. There was no sound.
A surge of triumph filled her, and she swung around to face Lord Northcott, who lunged out of the way as she lifted the iron high. “Ha! See, no hiss!”
“That is likely because the iron has gone cold.” He reached for the iron with his gloved hand, taking it from her.
The screaming muscles in her weakening arm thanked him, while the triumphant fire in her chest burnt out. “Oh.”
His dark eyes flickered with humor, and she noticed how his mouth pressed into a thin line as if he were trying to hide a teasing smile from her.She liked seeing this side of him. He seemed lighter, happier, and it made her happier knowing she could bring that spark out in him.
“You mock me, sir,” Arabella said, placing her hands on her hips while holding back a smile.
“Hamlet,” he quickly replied. “And not at all.” Turning away from her, he returned the iron to the fireplace.
Unsure of what would happen now, but knowing she wasn’t ready to abandon this moment with him, Arabella moved to the sideboard, where an array of objects had been laid out.
“What are these?” she asked, abandoning her oversized glove and running her fingers along an ornate rectangular box. Carved on top of the box was a canopy of trees with three elephants standing beneath them.
Opening the small gold latch, she found three polished balls lying in blue velvet. Two were white and one was red.
Lord Northcott came to stand next to her and picked up one of the white balls. “These are referred to as cue balls, while the red is the object or target.”
Arabella picked up the other white ball, slightly surprised by its balanced weight. “What are they made from?” She tossed it up into the air and caught it again. It was too light to be marble or stone.
“Ivory.” He turned the ball around in his hand and examined it. “There should be a small spot on one of the cue balls to differentiate them during the game.”
Arabella searched her own, finding a dark blue dot near her thumb. “How is the game played?”
“Have you never played before?” He sounded surprised, though she probably deserved his disbelief considering that he knew how curious she could be.
“I have been able to watch a few games. My uncle—the earl—has a table, but none of my cousins have been willing to take the time to teach me.”
“Will your mother approve? Given her dislike of the game?” he asked.
Arabella shrugged. “No, she will probably not approve. But as the table is already in the house, we might as well use it to its full advantage.”
He nodded and returned his ball to the ornate box.
She nearly laughed with excitement. She couldn’t wait to best some of her cousins when next they visited her uncle.
Returning her ball to the box, Arabella picked up one of the long smooth sticks, which she knew were used to hit the balls around the table, and held it up like a sword.
“Is this for dueling when someone cheats?” She lunged forward, pretending to slice the air in front of him.
He caught the end of the stick easily, stopping her from landing any “fatal” blows. “The cue is not used as a weapon, though the mace sounds as if it should be.” He reached with his other hand for another stick that leaned against the sideboard. Instead of looking like the one she grabbed, the mace had a wide triangle piece at its tip.
“And why are there different sticks?”
“I will show you,” Lord Northcott replied. He released his hold on her cue stick and grabbed one of the white balls and the red ball from the box.
Placing the red ball on one side of the table and the white on the other, Lord Northcott motioned for her to join him. She pretended to sheath her sword at her hip and marched to stand next to him.
He shook his head fondly at her, his deep, soft chuckle heating her insides. She liked hearing him laugh so much.
“There are many different rules to play the game,” he began. “So, before a game can start, the players must agree upon them. For your first game, we shall say that cannons—which are points—will count as one when your cue ball hits your opponent’s cue ball and the red ball in succession. Hazard points—which are harder to get—will be two points for sinking the opponent’s cue ball in a pocket, and three points for pocketing the red. A foul—which occurs when you sink your own cue ball into a pocket—will result in a loss of two points.”
Arabella’s head was swimming with numbers and the actions associated with them. No wonder she couldn’t puzzle out the rules while watching. She might have to ask him to write them down for her to study later.
“Perhaps we should start with simply hitting the balls,” he said with an apologetic smile, no doubt reading the confusion in her face.
She nodded several times. “That would be greatly appreciated.”
“Switch me weapons.” He held out the mace to her. “The mace is generally used by beginners and ladies as it has a greater surface to strike the ball with.”
“Very well,” she said, trading him her cue stick. “But do not be surprised when I prove to be a quick learner and ask for my sword back.” She raised a challenging brow and quirked her lips, earning another chuckle from him.
Stepping up to the table, she tried to mimic on her own how her cousins had played. She gripped the thicker tail of the mace with her left hand, while her right hand slipped the skinnier tip with the flat triangular piece at the end between her pointer and middle finger. She leaned forward, resting her right hand on the baize, feeling awkward and strange.
“Almost,” Lord Northcott said, coming up behind her.
Her nerves jumped with anticipation. It was the iron all over again.
He placed both hands at her waist, guiding her to straighten her posture. She thought she’d melt on the spot, his hands warm at her sides.
“What does my posture have to do with hitting the ball?” she asked, grateful there was only a slight tremor in her tone, her heart racing.
“Much,” he replied. He released his hold on her waist and removed her hand from the cue’s tip. Enveloping her hand in his much larger one, he brought it to rest on the oak rail of the table.
Taking her other hand, he moved it to palm the butt of the stick, and then he helped her hold it at an angle until the flat triangular piece rested flush against the baize. The distracting pressure on her fingers made it difficult to pay attention to anything else.
Her cheeks flushed as she realized how big of an error she’d made.
After a much longer pause than necessary, he released his grip on her hand and cleared his throat. He took a step back. “Now, all you have to do is line up the mace with your cue ball in order to hit the red ball.”
That seemed simple enough.
Squaring her shoulders, she stepped to the right, leaned her neck forward for a better line of sight, and pushed with a good heave until the triangle piece connected with the ivory ball.
The cue ball shot forward, echoing a loud swack upon impact. It missed the red ball completely, but it hit the rail with such force that it bounced upward, going over the edge of the table and crashing to the floor.
With a terrified gasp, she dropped the mace, picked up her skirts, and ran for the fallen ball on the other side of the table. “Did I break it? Oh, please do not say I broke it!” Falling to her knees, she picked up the ivory ball and frantically searched for a chip or a crack.
Lord Northcott lowered himself beside her. “I am certain there is no harm done. Lord Digby sent a ball through a window once, and it landed in a garden without a scratch.”
Arabella recollected the very drunk Lord Digby from her adventure inside Brooks’s. “He could see straight enough to hit a ball?” she asked, already feeling better about her mishap.
“He did not hit it with a stick.” He smiled. “He was drunk and pitched forward, sprawling across one of the billiards tables. He, miraculously, hit one of the balls with a flailing hand, and his momentum was enough to send the ball over the edge of the table and through the nearby window.”
A laugh exploded from her lips, her delight in the comical image causing her shoulders to shake. “Oh, Lord Digby.”
“Come on.” He stood, offering her his hand. “Let’s have you try it a second time—just maybe not with so much force.”
Arabella slipped her hand in his, and he held on longer than was necessary after she regained her feet.
She took her cue ball and placed it directly behind the red ball, thus eliminating the risk of hitting the ball too hard and having it shoot off the table again. Lining up the mace, she made a second attempt.
The cue ball bounced backward, and the red ball stopped near one of the side pockets.
“Nicely done,” Lord Northcott said, a gentle smile on his lips. “How about trying to knock the red ball into the pocket?”
“All right,” Arabella said, feeling more confident this time. She lined up the mace with the cue ball and tried again.
The cue ball nicked the side of the red ball—nowhere near the spot where she’d been aiming—and ricocheted off the rail near the pocket and rolled toward the back end of the table.
“Close,” Lord Northcott said, coming up behind her and showing once more how to correct her posture.
“Will you take a turn?” she asked after another attempt.
He hesitated, then nodded, moving to retrieve the second cue stick. Lining up behind the white cue ball, he leaned forward. He held the cue how he’d taught her, though he looked much better doing it. The shoulders of his jacket bunched, and the seams of his sleeves strained against his muscles. She wondered why he didn’t remove the garment. She wouldn’t mind seeing him in his shirtsleeves once again.
Rocking the cue stick forward, he struck the ball with the tip. The white ball shot even faster than her first attempt had, but his appeared much more controlled as it hit the red ball at the edge, shooting it into the nearest corner pocket while the white ball spun in the exact place where it had collided with the red.
“You could easily beat my cousins,” she said with a devilish grin. “Where did you learn to play?”
He straightened from the table, the light gone from his eyes. “My father.”
She knew his father was dead, and she wondered if he still mourned him. She knew she would never be able to fully get over the loss of her own father.
“My apologies for bringing it up,” she said. “Were you close?”
“Not at all,” he said, shocking her with how cold and detached his tone sounded. “Forgive me; you did not need to hear that.”
“No, it’s all right,” she said, moving to him and grabbing his arm so he wouldn’t pull away from her. “I wish to know more about you. I—I care for you,” she said, imploring him with her eyes not to push her away. “Please, Lord Northcott,” she said after another long moment of silence.
There was so much to unearth about his family and their past. It had to be a heavy burden for him to bear alone.
His eyes studied her carefully. “Henry,” he said quietly.
“What?” she asked, not understanding.
“You may call me Henry.” He looked so nervous, waiting to hear what she’d do after he’d asked something so intimate of her.
“Henry,” she repeated, his name rolling naturally off her tongue as if it had always belonged there. Feeling emboldened by this sudden gift of trust, she asked, “If I let you call me Arabella, will you tell me about your father, Henry?”
His eyes lit with emotion, but there was no warmth to it. There was pain, there was heartbreak, and there was fear. His whole expression tightened, and for a moment she thought he wouldn’t agree.
“My father was a reckless gambler,” he began, and the indifference in his tone cut her.She couldn’t imagine feeling that way about her own father, and her heart broke for Henry.
Stepping away from her, Henry moved to the pocket where he’d sunk the red ball and pulled it out of the net, placing it back onto the table. He didn’t look at her as he started to play, his dark eyes solely fixed on the game as the balls collided and the red ball sank into another pocket. “His game of choice was billiards, and, unfortunately, he forced me to play as well.”
Regret instantly gripped her heart for asking him to teach her. “Forgive me; if I had known, I—”
He held up a hand and stopped her before she could finish. “Whatever you feel you need to apologize for, do not. He does not deserve another thought. His greed cost my mother, my sister, and me our home more times than I care to count. After the last time, all he could think to do was kill himself and leave us to fend for ourselves.”
Arabella’s heart shattered, and she rushed to his side. “Oh, Henry.” Tears burned her eyes as she watched him try to maintain an unaffected expression. Taking both of his hands in hers, she closed her eyes and pressed his fingers to her cheeks. “What can I do?”
She wanted to comfort him. Comfort the innocent child he’d obviously never had the chance to be.
“Kiss me.”
His words were so soft, she’d thought she misheard.
“Kiss me,” he whispered again, “so that I might know bliss.”
She opened her eyes to find the deepest, darkest eyes watching her as if Henry were a drowning man and she was his only rescue.
She wanted to be that rescue. Dropping her hands from his, she nodded, and her breath hitched.
His hands gently cradled her face, slowly tilting her lips toward his. Her heart pounded in her ears, and her breath froze in her lungs at his reverent touch. She thought she might die if he waited much longer.
His head lowered toward hers, and he touched his forehead against her own. She could hear their ragged breaths mingling. Then he bent his head the rest of the way down and captured her mouth in a slow and devastatingly thorough kiss.
His lips were warm and soft as they slanted over hers. Using his thumbs, he nudged her chin upward, deepening the angle of the kiss. She pressed her hands to his chest, needing to maintain her balance. Her every nerve burned with the overwhelming sensation of bliss. His hands slipped into her hair, and her knees went weak as he began to run his fingers through the long strands.
She sighed or he moaned, and the kiss deepened once again. She didn’t know if it was because of something she did or him. All she knew was that she didn’t want it to end.
“Arabella?” Her mother’s voice called out, and Henry pulled back mere moments before she stepped into the room. “What on earth is this?” she asked, her eyes fixed on the billiards table.
Henry turned to face the table, his back to Arabella’s mother, while Arabella, still in a kiss-induced haze, struggled to think of anything to say.
“Arabella?” her mother asked with concern as she looked at her more closely.
Arabella placed a hand over her mouth, knowing her lips had to be red or swollen from her passionate kiss with Henry. “Emerson ordered a billiards table,” she managed to say after another moment.
Her mother’s brow raised, but, mercifully, she said nothing.
Lord Northcott finally turned to face them, his posture rigid. “Forgive me, Mrs. Latham. I arrived earlier. Emerson wrote, asking me to oversee the table’s delivery.”
“I see that,” she replied, watching them carefully.
“Yes, well—if you will excuse me,” Henry said and, without waiting for a response, left.
“Heavens,” her mother said, watching his retreat. “I see you and I will have much to talk about at breakfast this morning.” Her eyes darted to Arabella’s lips and her wild, unbound hair.
Arabella’s cheeks burned, and she found it difficult to look her mother in the eye. She wouldn’t wish back what she and Henry had shared, but how to explain what had happened to her mother? And what would happen now between her and Henry?