Page 14 of A Lady Igniting Wicked Passions
“We have a few seconds before whoever that is has seen both of us. I can try and bribe his silence…”
“My father’s servants would never be so disloyal. They would see it as their duty. Oh, botheration!”
The exclamation took Aaron by surprise. Arabella darted past him and clambered over the chaise to crouch behind it. She would be seen in an instant if one were to stand close enough. But, in the poor light and from a distance…Aaron boldly stepped clear of the rack. A thin, stoop shouldered servant in his middle years stopped short, a lantern held his above his head.
“Who the devil are you?” He demanded.
“His Grace the Duke of Ashenwood!” Aaron barked. “And who the Devil might you be?”
The man gulped and bobbed a frantic bow, making the lantern swing crazily in his hand.
“Forgive me, Your Grace. I am Atkins, His Lordship’s wine steward. I was sent to fetch a bottle.”
There was an empty pause at the end of his sentence, an unasked question that Aaron had no intention of answering. Instead, he stepped closer to Atkins, looking at him from the height of a raised chin and beneath lowered brows. The image of the angry aristocrat.
“Yes?” He demanded, stepping past the man so that Atkins had to turn away from the nook containing the furniture.
“Forgive me, again, Your Grace…but I did not expect to find any of His Lordship’s guests in his wine cellar.”
“It is justly famous, is it not?” Aaron demanded. “I wanted to sample it for myself. Are guests forbidden from entering?”
“Well, no. It is just…irregular,” Atkins replied.
“I am an irregular sort of duke,” Aaron said. “Well, I have no desire to prevent you from going about your business. Which is the way out?”
Atkins looked perplexed and slightly relieved at the same time. He pointed into the gloom then hesitated, as though realizing that his directions may not be useful to someone unused to the layout of the cellars. Then he looked towards the aisle that Aaron had emerged from, craning his neck slightly as though peering in.
Aaron snapped his fingers together in front of the man’s face. Following the servant’s gaze, he had realized, with horror, that he could see the heel of Arabella’s shoe. He mentally berated himself for his reckless and irresponsible behaviour.
So much depended upon securing Helena’s dowry and he was threatening to burn it all down for a pretty face.
Except, Arabella was not a pretty face. She had a stunningly beautiful face. Perfect, in fact. There was a wildness to her that he found utterly intoxicating, that charged his sensibilities and routed them from the field of his mind. Leaving only his passion and desire in command of the field.
“I asked you how I may leave this cellar? Can’t you see I’ve lost my way, man?” Aaron demanded boorishly.
Atkins bobbed his head. “I must just procure the bottle in question from this aisle and then I will…”
“The Devil!” Aaron cried out. “You will do it now, man!”
Atkins acquiesced and turned just as Arabella realized her foot was visible and pulled it in. Atkins caught the movement and his head whipped around. He frowned, then looked back at Aaron from the corner of his eye. A look of realization crept over his thin face.
“Of course, Your Grace. I do apologize for not understanding. Please follow me.”
Aaron hoped that Arabella now had time to flee her hiding place because he was sure the man would go right back to that spot as soon as Aaron released him. Aaron’s face burned with embarrassment and shame at how close he had come to disaster. He lengthened his stride, forcing the servant to hurry. Presently, he was ascending a wooden staircase into a plain corridor of wood panels.
Atkins led him to another staircase which led to a small door in the Long Hall. Then the servant turned and hurried away, back down the stairs. Aaron hoped that Arabella had taken the opportunity. The Long Hall was almost empty, with the sound of music coming from the ballroom.
Pockets of conversation were held along the room’s length. Couples standing with heads together exchanging intimacies. Older guests not able or willing to partake in the dancing, and instead admiring the Long Hall’s paintings, or simply talking over wine or brandy or tea.
“What a strange way to enter a room?” said a female voice from behind him.
Aaron retained enough self-control not to jump or whirl at the voice. A young woman with long, straight brown hair and a face that was more handsome than pretty, regarded him with intent, hazel eyes. Aaron recognized her and forced a smile.
“Lady Isabella. How nice to see you again,” Aaron said.
“And you, Your Grace,” Isabella replied, precisely. “You are not partaking in the dancing?”
“Clearly not,” Aaron replied. “Like yourself.”
