Chapter 6
S ilas rolled over in his bed and opened one eye.
Apparently he hadn’t closed the curtains when he staggered home at dawn and the bright afternoon sunshine was flooding in.
He lifted a hand to block it with a curse.
He felt hungover even though he had hardly drunk a drop.
No, it was something else that made him feel like he’d been addled last night.
It was her. Arabella .
He moved to his back and stared up at the ceiling as he propped a hand behind his head. God, but she had been magnificent. He could still feel the grip of her, hear the sweet, husky sound when she came. That had been magic and he didn’t want to be let loose from the spell. Not yet.
There was a light knock at his door and he groaned as he thew the covers more fully over himself to hide the half-erection that had begun to bloom at thoughts of her.
“What is it?” he barked out.
The door opened to reveal the household butler, Poole.
Silas hardly knew him, for he’d only just let the place upon his arrival back in London.
The man always looked at him like he was something he barely tolerated and there was little different about him now as he sniffed at Silas’s state and then said, “My apologies, sir, but you’ve received a missive from the Marquess of Pentaghast.”
The servant arched a brow and Silas grunted. The message was clear. One of his betters had called for him and he had best get in line.
“My brother , you mean,” he said sharply. “The marquess, my brother .”
“Yes, sir,” Poole said with a slight incline of his head. He continued to stand at the door with his little silver tray and his judgmental face.
Silas threw the covers back and strode, fully naked, to the man. Poole made a little sound of surprise and threw his gaze toward the ceiling. Good, at least he could shock the bastard.
He snatched the note and broke the seal to read the message.
Join me for supper. Eight tonight.
That was all there was to the note aside from his brother’s mark. The mark of the title, not the man. Silas was put to mind of being summoned by his father years ago and only barely controlled a full-body shudder.
He tossed the heavy vellum back on the tray and said, “I grew up in that house. Of course you know. Below stairs always talks. You and Russell, my brother’s butler? Used to be my father’s. Probably you all talk between houses, eh?”
There was a moment when Poole’s eyes went a little wider and then he schooled his expression, but Silas had seen it. “Fuck, you actually do? Christ, there’s no way out of your tangled little webs, is there? That will be all.”
He pivoted away and heard the servant exit and quietly shut the door behind him.
Silas placed each hand on the edge of the table across the room from the bed and tried to calm his racing breath and heart.
He’d always hated being the subject of gossip in his father’s house.
Hated when the servants watched him, when his siblings stopped talking the moment he entered a room.
It put him on the outside so very firmly.
And there was no way back in from out in the cold.
Why that bothered him so much now, why it made him feel like a child again, was even more annoying. He pictured going to his brother, revisiting the same old arguments they’d had the night before and he couldn’t stand it.
He pursed his lips and drew a few breaths to calm himself from his upset. He could never let them see what he truly felt, after all. He’d never give them that power.
He threw on a robe before he sat down and dug through the drawers in the small writing desk before the window. Once he had his materials, he stared at the blank sheet, trying to find the right words.
And at last he wrote.
Dear Arabella,
I’m riding in Hyde Park today at one. I hope you’ll join me.
Windham
He folded the sheet and sealed it, then scribbled the direction she’d given him last night as they parted.
Perhaps it was petty, but while he might show up for Charles’s supper, he wasn’t about to give his brother notice.
Let him wait just as Silas had been made to wait so many times, standing in the shadows, not allowed to join in because he was bastard half-blood.
In the meantime, he intended to savor a day with Arabella if she would allow that. And anything else she’d give, too. At the very least, it gave him reason to cross to the bell and ring for his valet so he could dress. Until now his time in London had felt vague and shiftless and unpleasant.
But today it was going to be very different.
* * *
T wo hours later, Silas rode through the main gate at Hyde Park and fell into a trot on the main promenade.
He’d chosen the primary lane on purpose, because it was the place where people came to be seen.
He wanted his family’s friends and neighbors to observe him.
To whisper about his brothers and sister as much as they had always done to him.
Let them see he didn’t give a damn about their rumors and innuendos regarding the kind of man he was thanks to his birth.
No, he intended to embrace all that instead, lean into their worst assumptions if he had to.
He lifted up in his seat as he looked through the gathered crowd, right on time for the presentations before they all went off for their afternoon tea and gossip.
He hadn’t heard back from Arabella before he left for the park, but he still had hope she would join him.
After all, a woman like her might enjoy making him wait.
Wonder. It was all part of her game of cat and mouse.
Which role he would ultimately take was still uncertain, it seemed.
He began to feel disappointment as he let his gaze flit from group to group along the lane and gathered to the sides talking and exhibiting for the watchful eyes of their equals and betters.
He certainly felt a great many of those on him and occasionally heard his name whispered on the breeze, along with his father’s.
But just when he was ready to give up on her, he caught a glimpse of Arabella coming into the park from the opposite side.
She was wearing a fine riding habit in a midnight blue that he was certain precisely matched her eyes.
Her short jacket was of a similar shade and fit her perfectly.
She even wore a small, jaunty top hat, once more in dark blue and it was tipped ever so slightly to the side.
She would have looked exactly proper but for the fact that her white chemisette was low cut and bordering on sheer, leaving anyone who looked a really lovely view of the tops of her two perfect breasts.
And the gentlemen did look, even if they were standing with their wives and lovers.
Those same ladies also observed her, their faces reflecting irritation, jealousy and occasionally just as much heated interest as the men.
If Arabella noticed any of it, she didn’t make any indication. No, she rode through them all like some queen, without a care in the world for the paltry peasants at her feet.
She did see him at last and raised her hand when she did so. She urged her horse forward and rode a little faster in his direction, as he did in hers. It was remarkable how much his heart throbbed as they reached each other and she gifted him with a bright smile that seemed to challenge the sun.
“Mr. Windham,” she said. “How kind of you to invite me to ride you today.”
He choked on a laugh at the fact she had left out a key word in that sentence and he didn’t think it was accidental. “Well, as you already know, I love nothing more than a good ride.”
“Yes, I recall,” she teased back, and then turned her horse so they could maneuver through the park side by side. They began a slow meandering through the neatly trimmed paths that cut through the trees. “I will say that I often require more warning than a mere hour and a half to meet with a man.”
“It seems you are breaking all your rules for me.”
He expected her to tease with him further, but something in her expression changed a little with that observation.
A flicker of worry, even a hint of fear.
He hated to see it, for he had no intention of hurting this woman who had somehow stormed into the swirl of his life and reminded him of a Silas Windham from before everything had changed.
“You look well for a man who must have gotten home and taken to his bed at least as late as I did,” Arabella said.
“I sleep like a bear,” he admitted. “Especially after such strenuous exercise. And I woke with more pep to my gate than I’ve had in years.”
She glanced over at him. “What an admission. I should have you write my biography since you are capable of such poetry. Arabella Comerford brought her lovers back to life .”
“A fine opening for a wicked memoir. And I’m sure the sentiment is true and not just for me.” He shifted a little in his seat. “You seem the kind of woman who would shock any man to life. Even the ones who would claim not to wish it.”
She seemed to ponder those words at a deeper than surface level, though her expression betrayed nothing of her thoughts on the matter.
“I suppose I’m known for my wild,” she said after a pause. She glanced at him apologetically. “My sisters and I used to call it that. My wild.”
“Your wild,” he repeated, letting the word roll on his tongue. It suited her. “I assume you mean your personality. That brightness to you.”
She dropped her head with a soft chuckle. “And after one night he thinks he can spot it. And perhaps you can at that. I think it is also my tendency to laugh too loud and long, to do what I please without thinking of what is proper.”
“To me, that only sounds like a woman who knows how to live well. I admire it.”