Page 59 of A Lady Igniting Wicked Passions
He saw the heartbreak on her face. The disbelief which slowly gave way to anger.
“I am your wife…”
“And this is my business. Not yours,” Aaron replied angrily.
This was too good an opportunity to pass up. It was not a gamble. It was a certainty, and he would make it up to Arabella after the horse romped home to victory. When he had cleared his debts, he would tell all.
The partnership with Blakehill would be ended, there would be nothing that he could not share with Arabella then. Nothing of which he was ashamed or wished to keep her out of. They could start again and be truly happen. But this was the first step. Arabella dropped her champagne glass and whirled away to stalk back to the gates.
Chapter 35
Arabella stoked her anger as she made her way back to the carriage. It helped keep the tears from her eyes. The crowds were harder to negotiate now that she did not have a steward walking before her to cut a swathe through them.
The whispers became louder, as though they saw her as more vulnerable now that her husband was elsewhere. Words filtered through the babble of the occasion, reaching Arabella with the force of stinging blows.
“Shameful.”
“Hussy.”
“Wicked.”
Then a woman stood before her. She was well dressed, wearing a large-brimmed hat, and clutching a pair of opera glasses in one gloved hand. A typical lady of the ton. She regarded Arabella from the height of a raised chin.
“I will say what many are too polite to. You should be thoroughly ashamed of yourself. A man may philander, and it will only enhance his reputation. But when a woman falls, she falls forever. You are not worthy of your father, and you are not worthy of the title you now bear.”
Arabella stood stock-still. Shock gripped her at the confrontation. She had thought that an outright accusation would be easier to bear than whispering or gossip. But in reality, it was not. Every eye seemed turned to her. Even the hubbub seemed to die down, as though all present were listening. Arabella felt her cheeks flush and she opened her mouth but could find no words.
“You have no right being here, showing your face,” said another woman, behind Arabella.
“You are dragging down the good name of a duke. You snared him from under your sister’s nose.”
“I feel nothing but sympathy for Lady Helena and nothing but contempt for a tramp like you.”
The voices were becoming louder, more aggressive in tone, as though taking confidence in each other. Arabella turned at each new voice, looking for her accuser and seeing only an ocean of hostile faces. Angry faces. Contemptuous faces. Panic rose inside her. She felt hemmed in and attacked.
Looking this way and that revealed no way out. A wall of cold eyes faced her. The voices seemed to get louder. She tried to resume walking in the direction of the carriages, but the people only gave way slowly. Some actually stood in her path, forcing her to shove them aside.
This was not how civilized people were supposed to behave. These people were the county set, they were members of the ton; the supposed elite of society. They were behaving like feral children.
Something caught her foot. Perhaps it was the foot of one of those ladies. Perhaps it was simply an object which had been discarded on the ground. Or else a thick tuft of grass. Whatever it was, Arabella went sprawling. She put out her hands and caught her weight on them and on her knees.
Laughter rose around her, peppered with mocking comments. No one tried to help her up. Arabella, face scarlet and tears filling her eyes, tried to rise with as much dignity as she could muster.
But before she could take a step there was another trip, caused by an out-thrust leg. Her hands weren’t quick enough to save her. The wind was knocked from her as she hit the ground with her chest, one cheek rubbing against the trampled grass. Her eyes met those of a young man, face red from drink, cravat undone. He was laughing openly, and pointing.
Then something spun him around from behind. A blow hit him so hard about the face that he spun like a top, falling to the ground senseless. Arabella looked up into the eyes of her husband.
Fury made his handsome face terrifying. A circle rapidly opened about him as those who had laughed at Arabella’s predicament pressed themselves back into the safety of the mob. Aaron reached her, knelt, and picked her up in his arms.
“I’m sorry I doubted you. I did not place the wager. I don’t think Bredwardine will ever forgive me, but I don’t care, as long as you do.”
“Take me home,” Arabella whispered.
Aaron kissed her. It was the kind of kiss that would live on in scandalous gossip for a century. The kind of kiss that none but a French or Italian man would ever bestow in public. It was not the act of an Englishman. Arabella’s head spun and she wrapped her arms about him. She didn’t care who was watching.
Didn’t care what they thought of her or what they said. In Aaron’s arms, she felt safe. His embrace was her armour. Aaron strode through the crowd which parted before him like the Red Sea. At the carriage he yanked open the door so that it slammed against the side of the carriage and almost bounced shut again.
But then ever so gently set Arabella down, and she stepped out of his embrace into the carriage. He followed, barking an order to the driver.
