Page 37 of A Lady Igniting Wicked Passions
“I see. May I ask your reasoning?” Flint said stiffly.
“You may not,” Aaron replied.
“Your vote will not decide matters of course. As it stands, we have enough votes to table some amendments that I have drawn up.”
Aaron nodded. He had not expected such things to be decided on a single vote but also knew that the decision of a duke one way or the other, carried a great deal of weight. How many men would be swayed because Ashenwood voted a particular way? But Aaron would not apologize nor give his old friend any indication that he was acting unwillingly. That would give a man like Flint hope. He would bend his will to changing Aaron’s mind, believing it to be possible to change his mind.
And that would be unfair. Because no such change was possible. Aaron had to be as hard as steel, stand firm no matter how many friends or comrades it cost him. Even Bredwardine, devoted follower of Bacchus, would balk at what Aaron was about to do.
“I see. Well, Your Grace, that is regretful. As a courtesy then, I should tell you that you are wasting your time being here now. The vote will not take place until this evening at the earliest. And if I have my way will be delayed further. And I will have it. Good day to you.”
Flint turned on his heel and walked up to the door of the Painted Chamber without looking back. Aaron scowled and turned in the opposite direction. He retraced his steps, ignoring greetings from those he passed until he reached what had been the Lobby.
It was the entrance to the Houses of Parliament and the place where members and peers mingled and whispered, coming to open or clandestine agreements. Or not. There was a large group of men in his way, one of whom looked up as he walked around them and reached out a hand as though to stop him.
The hand was subsequently lowered at a glance at Aaron’s fiery expression. But the man excused himself from the group and moved to stand in front of Aaron.
He was tall and thin, with a long face and large, intelligent eyes of dark blue. His head seemed larger at the top, where an unruly thatch of dark hair topped a domed forehead.
“Your Grace. I apologize for interrupting you but I wanted to introduce myself. I am Sir William Gove. I believe I can thank you for your support today.”
Aaron stared at the crow-like man, unable to believe his gall. He became aware that his hands hand clenched into fists, with his left hand raised to waist height and grasping for a sword that was not there. Gove saw it too, eyes darting to that hand, then back to Aaron’s face.
A smile twitched his lips and, in that moment, he came within a hair’s breadth of being struck down. Aaron forced down the impulse to strike him, and to keep on striking him. He was sure that if no other reputation than his own was at stake, he would have been capable of killing this blackmailing carrion feeder.
“You can,” Aaron replied. “Now, get out of my way.”
Gove stepped aside but grabbed Aaron’s upper arm as he passed by.
“This is only the beginning. You and I will be close allies. In time, you may even realize it was all for the best.”
Aaron seized Gove’s wrist and squeezed. Fingers hardened by gripping the hilt of a sword dug at Gove’s bony wrist. Nothing changed in Aaron’s face while Gove struggled to keep the sudden pain from his own. Nearby the group that he had been part of were talking and guffawing loudly.
Aaron dug deeper until he could see the involuntary tears of pain in the other man’s eyes. Then, he released him. Gove showed admirable self-control by not rubbing his wrist once he had retrieved it. He gave no sign that anything had occurred, except for his eyes, which regarded Aaron murderously.
“You will learn,” he said in a whisper. “You will learn to fear me. And I will make you regret your insolence. The vote is likely to be delayed. Be here at seven, horse boy.”
With that, he turned away, joining in the laughter behind him as though he had never left it. Aaron hurried away, fearing that he was about to commit murder with his bare hands. He was shaking with rage as he stepped out into the June sunlight. Hailing a cab he gave his address, then stopped. He did not want to be alone.
Chapter 22
“Arabella, old thing. I am going to take a ride in Hyde Park. Care to join me?”
Arabella looked up from the book she had been pretending to read. She had not turned a page in ten minutes and had looked over the same paragraph several times without absorbing a single word. Her father stood in the doorway of her room, dressed for riding. Arabella forced a smile and shook her head.
“No, thank you, Father. I am not feeling myself today. I think a day out of the sun is called for.”
Eversden frowned. “Another one? You have hardly been out of this house for three weeks for one reason or another. Are you quite well?”
“Evidently not,” Arabella replied before she could stop herself. “What I mean to say is, I think that London does not particularly agree with me. I yearn for the open spaces of Cambridgeshire and Eversden. I am, at heart, a country girl.”
“Well, all the more reason to come along with me for a ride. Hyde Park is as open as London gets,” Eversden said.
“But not open enough. Thank you, Father. But I think not,” Arabella replied.
Eversden huffed for a moment and then took his leave, clearly disappointed. Arabella felt a stab of pain at that. Always before she would have jumped at the chance to ride with her father. Ever since she was old enough to ride. She thought that he saw her as the son he’d never had.
But she could not bring herself to pretend at the joy she would have felt on horseback. The very thought of a pretence seemed impossible to her at that moment. A visceral, physical impossibility. She closed the book and put it aside, seating herself upon a window seat and looking out over Portman Square.
