Page 5 of A Lady Igniting Wicked Passions
Aaron scowled. “The daughter of some country squire by the name of Harrington. Helena is her name. Daughter of the Earl of Eversden.”
Chapter 3
Arabella led Achilles under the tall, brick arch that marked the entry to Eversden Abbey’s stables. Ahead of her were two rows of white stone buildings, each housing twelve stalls. The yard in between the two stables was immaculately scrubbed and gleaming terracotta red.
Horses poked their heads from their stalls at the new arrivals, smelling Achilles’ return. A stable hand wearing a flat cap and a collarless, grey shirt hurried forward. Arabella smiled at him as she handed over Achilles’ reigns.
“Give him a good brush and a cool down, Billy. He has run hard today and had a bit of a scare. Take good care of him.”
The young man bobbed and tugged at the brim of his cap as he took the large horse towards an empty stall, talking soothingly to it. Arabella watched the horse go with a fond smile for the adventure they had shared. Then she turned to look upon the Abbey. Her home and the house in which she had been born.
And, currently, the last place she wanted to be. A small door at the end of a lane, enclosed by a bare, brick wall and the edifice of the house itself, let Arabella into the servant’s wing. She walked quickly between doors marked neatly with the surnames of the staff member whose room lay beyond.
Skirting the bustling kitchens, she reached the stone staircase that would carry her up the south face of the house to the third floor, where her own suite of rooms lay.
But, as she rose from the sub level of the servant’s quarters to the first floor of the house’s residential level, she found herself intercepted. A door stood open and a man stood, leaning against the door frame.
He had a circlet of hair that still clung to the golden hue of its youth and a face browned by the sun. Green eyes were narrowed and rimmed with lines. He was tapping a finger against lips that bore a similar shape to Arabella’s own. She stopped halfway up the flight of stairs to the doorway in which her father stood.
“Papa. Were you on your way to speak to the staff?” She asked innocently.
“Wilkes informed me that you had deigned to return. I guessed you would try and evade me via the back stairs,” Marcus Harrington, Earl of Eversden said.
Arabella slowly resumed her upward progress until she stood level with him. They were of a height to each other, she taller than average, he shorter.
“You were expected for luncheon, dearest,” Eversden said with reproach.
“I apologize, Papa. I took Achilles out to put him through his paces. Time and, in fact, distance quite escaped me.”
Eversden seemed to brighten. He straightened from the door jamb, eyes widening and hands thrusting into his pockets. He pushed his head forward like an inquisitive bird.
“Achilles? Really? How far did you take him?”
“As far as Wimpole,” Arabella replied with a grin.
She laced her arm through her father’s and led him into the hallway beyond the door. She steered him towards the grand staircase that was the dominant feature of the Abbey’s Long Hall.
“That far? How long did it take you?”
“I reached it in about a quarter hour as near as I can tell,” Arabella said. “At a gallop.”
“Fantastic!” Eversden enthused as they turned a corner and entered the Long Hall. “I knew he had it in him! He will be a champion.”
Arabella laughed, answering a further barrage of questions about horseflesh, answering each with expertise born of a lifetime around the animals and a parent obsessed with them. The Long Hall ran the length of Eversden Abbey, from north to south.
At one end were the tall, double doors that were the house’s main entrance. At the other was a south-facing wall comprising multiple rows of windows, rising three stories tall and providing a spectacular view over the immaculate south grounds.
The grand staircase, with its bold purple carpeting rose to the west of the South Aspect, as the windows were known. Arabella steered her father towards it. Before stepping onto the staircase though, he stopped. Arabella looked at him and saw that the good humour and equine enthusiasm had faded.
“Give me some credit, child,” he said. “I cannot be deflected so easily. If it were only me, then perhaps I would have been content to talk horses for a while and let you away. But your mother is different. She wishes us all to speak and she will not be diverted. Therefore, I cannot be diverted.”
Arabella sighed, then scowled. “I knew it, Papa. But I still had to try.”
Eversden grinned, a sudden flashing smile that struck like lightning and vanished as suddenly. He turned on his heel. “Rose Drawing Room, if you please.”
Arabella fell into step alongside her father, as he led her across the South Aspect to the east wing. Doors painted a pastel shade of pink led into the drawing room, the decor of which was the sole responsibility of Arabella’s mother. Vases of the flowers for which the room was named stood on plinths to either side of the entrance.
Further, roses were placed on windowsills and tables, artfully arranged, and filling the air with their fragrance. To Arabella it was heavy and noxious. Her mother, Lady Amelia Harrington, Countess of Eversden, sat on a chaise long fanning herself.
