Page 15 of A Lady Igniting Wicked Passions
“I dislike dancing. Such a frivolous pursuit,” Isabella replied airily. “I much prefer conversation. There is so much to learn from talk, do you not find?”
Aaron smiled in as bland a manner as he could, trying to see the direction in which Isabella was pointing the barb of her words. He did not know her well and that was by choice. She was the daughter of the Earl of Eyworth, a prominent Parliamentarian. Her husband was a member of the Commons, a baronet whose name he could not remember. Isabella breathed politics. He trusted her as much as he would have trusted a venomous snake.
“It depends on the person and the topic, I suppose,” Aaron replied.
“It does indeed,” Isabella said, her eyes darting to the door through which Aaron had been ushered.
It was likely that she had already deduced that it led to a servant’s passage and was wondering what Aaron had been doing there.
“For example, I have spoken to your wife-to-be, who was rather perplexed at your disappearance. And then to the Dowager Lady Sutton, who was convinced there were persons of ill repute skulking about in the grounds.”
The polite smile occupying Isabella’s face did not touch her eyes, which had the sharpness of augers.
“I must admit it does not sound such an interesting conversation to me,” Aaron replied smoothly. “Now, if you will excuse me. I must find my fiancée. A pleasure, as always, Lady Isabella.”
“One would wonder how a man would bring himself to be parted from so beautiful a fiancée,” Isabella called after him, attracting at least one glance from others nearby.
Aaron stopped, his back to her. He unclenched his jaw, forcing his hands to relax. The urge to clench them into fists was strong. Her probing insinuations were annoying. He had never wanted more to embrace the etiquette that others of the aristocracy valued so highly. It would enable him to shut off Isabella’s questioning immediately. Turning, he raised an eyebrow.
“Is there an insinuation in that statement, Lady Isabella?” He asked in a dangerously calm tone.
“No, insinuation. Merely curious. Helena is a very close friend of mine,” Isabella replied smoothly.
Aaron groaned inwardly. He had not been aware of the friendship. It made meeting Isabella doubly unfortunate. There were few worse people he could have been observed by. Helena or her father maybe.
“Of course,” Aaron said around a toothy grin that was more a baring of teeth than an expression of merriment. “I look forward to seeing more of you in the coming weeks, months and years.”
Taking his leave, he strode towards the ballroom, his mind whirling. If Isabella suspected, she may tell Helena. Might have already done so. It made his next steps clear to him. He would need to become assiduous in his devotion to Helena. But he could not rid himself of the face of the woman he most wanted to be devoted to. He could not forget Arabella.
Chapter 9
Arabella and Achilles flew over the moorland, outrunning the wind which lashed impotently at them. The road cut through hillsides swathed in purple heather and yellow gorse beneath an angry, bruised sky. She looked back over her shoulder, hair whipping into her face and momentarily obscuring her vision. With a toss of her head, she cleared it and saw Aaron chasing her.
His charger was dark, with fiery eyes. He lay close to its neck, eyes intent on Arabella and urging his mount to more speed. A savage grin split Arabella’s face and was answered on the face of the man she raced against. Achilles could not be beaten.
Looking ahead once more she guided her speeding horse through a series of curves in the road, following the contours of the hillside.
With sure-footed skill he leapt a stream that had eaten a channel into the hard-packed earth of the road. Then a gate, which stood closed before them. Each time he leapt she felt that he might leap forever, that they moved so fast and high that Achilles would take flight like Pegasus.
Then, the dark clouds gave voice. A sheet of white light startled her and terrified Achilles. He reared, pawing the air and Arabella fought to hold on. The thunderclap reached them, splitting the air and sending Achilles into a frenzy. Her hands slipped from the reins and she felt herself being thrown from the saddle.
It had been her greatest fear since childhood. Since the one and only time she had fallen from the saddle. Her father had urged his terrified and weeping daughter to climb immediately back onto the tall, powerful brute that she had fallen from.
He had been right and she had not fallen again. Except in dreams. The heather broke her fall but she fell awkwardly on her right ankle. A lance of pain ran up her leg and she clutched at it.
Achilles stood trembling, ears twitching and nostrils flaring. Then Aaron was there. He was sliding from the saddle and dashing towards her, falling to his knees in the heather.
“Are you hurt?” He asked.
“My pride and my ankle. In that order,” Arabella replied with a grin. “I am not sure I can put weight on it.”
Aaron looked around at another flash, followed closely by the peal.
“This moorland is too exposed in a storm like this. We will take shelter over there.”
Arabella looked and saw an old, stone crofter’s cottage on the hillside, half a mile away.
“Help me up. I will be fine once I’m back on Achilles.”
