Collector of Hearts Read online

  ‘Robert? What is going on?’ his friend asked as the carriage jerked and swayed over the cobbles.

  ‘I find it hard to believe that you are already letting her tell you what to do and when to do it, and she hasn’t even got your shackles fitted yet.’

  ‘Isabelle is not telling me what to do.’ His friend’s tone was defensive.

  ‘Quinn, dear, I’m awfully thirsty, could you get me some punch?’ he mocked in a high-pitched voice. ‘Shacklesbury, I think it is time to take my completely legless father home before he vomits all over the floor—’

  ‘Enough!’

  Damn, he had gone too far, again. But better to have told Shacklesbury now before the man fell any further under Isabelle’s thumb. So why did he feel like his world was slanting off its axis? It was making him reckless, even more so than normal. It was making him irritable and out of sorts.

  Was it because he feared that Quinn was too easily manipulated by his wife to be? Or was it because Arabella made him feel out of control? That she made him question his actions? Nobody knew better than he how easily a man in love could be manipulated by the object of his affection.

  ‘You have no idea what you’re talking about, Shelton.’

  Robert wanted out of this hack and now. This conversation had just crossed over the line into the emotional and he didn’t do emotional anything. ‘Fine. Can we change the subject now?’

  ‘You brought it up but you still don’t understand, do you? When you care for someone, you actually want to do things for them. I wouldn’t expect you to understand, seeing as you only care about seeing to your own needs. Others’ needs hardly matter, do they? As long as Robert is happy, as long as Robert gets what he wants, then the rest of us be damned!’ Shacklesbury had folded his arms over his chest.

  ‘Don’t hold back. Tell me what you really mean.’

  He tried to deflect Quinn’s ire but he still felt the sting of truth in his words. Quinn, of all people, knew why he did the things he did. Why he distrusted women the way he did. Why he was always trying to protect himself from others and, yes, that meant being selfish.

  He held his hands up in surrender. He owed Quinn an explanation, or at least an attempt to explain. ‘Look, you know that I sometimes do and say things that I shouldn’t. I admit I am a selfish bastard, always have been, but other than my mother, I care for no one more than you. All I’m saying is don’t...’ Why did his tongue suddenly feel like parchment? And why was his stomach tight? ‘Don’t let her take your power away. You must not let her sway your decisions. Make you do something you might... regret.’

  Quinn frowned in confusion. ‘Is this about... Catherine?’

  Of course it was about bloody Catherine. Every uncertainty he had stemmed from her and what she had done to him. ‘Just … promise me.’

  Shacklesbury’s frown softened. ‘I promise, but Isabelle is not Catherine. Neither is Arabella, for that matter. You need to let Catherine go if you are ever to be happy.’

  Happy. If only it were so easy to let it go, to forget. ‘Let’s not talk about her today. We have wedding clothes to buy.’

  Quinn simply raised a brow and nodded his head.

  Robert sighed in relief. That was as close to that conversation as he ever wanted to get. He had practically told Quinn he was worried he might lose his friendship, swayed by the wiles of his prospective wife. Who knew what idiotic thing might have come out of his mouth had Shacklesbury insisted on completing the conversation?

  ***

  ‘I’m taking Isabelle to Braxton Hall,’ Quinn announced casually as they sat in a coffee house on Old Bond Street after the fitting.

  Robert flicked his glance sideways. ‘When?’

  ‘Next week. I thought it might be nice for her to see it before the wedding. My sister Amy has written to say that she and her husband Snowden will join us. I think it might be good to get Tremaine away from the clubs and hells and, who knows, it may even be good for Lady Tremaine too. Isabelle is worried about her as she’s not been well.’ Quinn took a sip of his coffee.

  ‘That sounds cosy,’ Robert replied, thinking it sounded exceedingly dull.

  ‘I thought you might want to come too. I can’t vouch for the pheasant at this time of year but the fishing should be good.’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  Things were beginning to spin out of control. It was usually Quinn who followed him, not the other way around. Was he taking everyone to Braxton Hall? Whose idea had that been? Not that he would dare say anything, not after this morning.

  Last night had proved irrevocably that he must have more time with Arabella. How he was going to get it to look like it was her idea was something he was still working on, not having had to ever worry about this kind of thing before. He tried to convince himself he was still enjoying the chase, if that was what it was. Surely, once he had access to her in a more informal setting, things were bound to improve.

  He decided he would go to the Hall. By evening up the odds a little, he could ensure Quinn was not overrun by the ladies. In that matter, he was glad that John was going to be there too. If anything, Lord Snowden could be relied upon for good conversation.

  Everyone welcomed the invitation except for Lord Tremaine, who tried to squirm out of it. But in the end he was coerced by the thought of perhaps blowing a few birds out of the sky with a big noisy gun.

  It was decided that they would travel slowly, for the comfort of Quinn’s mother and Lady Tremaine. They stopped at a few respectable inns on the way and Robert bunked with Quinn. All in all, it was a pleasant enough journey. The fact that he had not had a single moment alone with Arabella since that night on the terrace was frustrating. The slightest of smiles played on her lips, making him think she was enjoying his discomfort. He actually looked forward to arriving at the Hall, just so he would have the opportunity to steal her away for a moment or two.

  The Hall, as it was mostly referred to, was a large U-shaped house, built and extended like so many others of its age. It boasted four storeys and over twenty bedrooms, extensive stables and a few fallen blocks of stone that were affectionately known as the ruins, even though no one actually knew what they were supposed to be the ruins of.

  Robert had always liked the Hall, the place of his convalescence all those many years ago. It had a welcoming presence and Robert had always felt more at home there than at his own estate at Bloomfield.

  Isabelle was quite exhausted by the whole idea of being mistress of this place. Arabella insisted that she rest for a few hours before dinner.

  He and Quinn had decided on a few games of billiards to while away the time until dinner. It was a comfortable routine that they’d had many years ago and they both slipped easily back into it.

  He was racking up the balls when he noticed her in the doorway. Had she had any other expression on her beautiful face than that of abject misery, he would have been happy to see her, but she was standing there as though someone had told her that she was to be beheaded in the morning.

  Arabella took a step into the room and hurled herself at him. He folded her in his arms, looking over her head at Quinn, and raised both his brows. Shacklesbury pulled at his waistcoat. Concern showed in his expression as he studied his future sister-in-law, who was crying fit to flood the room.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ For some reason his query only made her cry louder.

  ‘Perhaps she is overwrought?’ Quinn suggested as Robert stroked her hair.

  ‘I’ve never really understood that. Can someone be more wrought than normal? Can you be over-sick or over-drunk?’ He asked the questions but it was more to distract himself from the sobbing bundle in his arms than because he wanted answers. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been witness to countless crocodile tears and a few sincere ones, but they were usually observed from a distance, not close like this, wetting his shirt.

  ‘Well, you must have done something to her,’ Quinn accused.

  Robert laughed. That was just so typical. ‘Ha
ve I done something? Would she have her arms around me in a vice-like grip if I had? Would it be my shirt she is soaking?’

  Quinn bowed his head. ‘Sorry, that was unforgivable.’

  He’d make his friend pay for it later. Right now he was too busy fighting the urge to kiss away Arabella’s tears. ‘Bella? Shh! Come tell me all about it.’ He led her over to a chair.

  ‘Should I get some tea?’ Quinn offered.

  Brandy was decidedly more appropriate, but if it got Quinn out of the room… ‘I think that is a very good idea.’

  ‘There is a bellpull in the next room.’

  When the coast was clear, Robert sat in a chair and pulled Arabella onto his lap. ‘Now, miss, what has you so upset?’ He tipped her chin up again and used his thumb to wipe away the tears on her cheeks.

  ‘Oh, Robert, it is so silly,’ she murmured.

  ‘Silly as it may be, it has you upset, and we can’t have that.’ He couldn’t help but put an errant curl behind her ear. This kind of thing was so outside his experience he wasn’t really sure which way he should play this thing out. He didn’t want to make things worse.

  ‘I was just feeling sorry for myself, and then I saw you …’ She trailed off, playing with his cravat pin.

  ‘And you felt sorrier for yourself?’

  ‘No,’ she said giving him a trembling smile. ‘I was relieved.’

  ‘Oh, well, that would have to be a first.’ He smiled at his own joke but then she touched his face with her finger, trailing it along his jaw to his chin and the smile faded immediately.

  ‘I feel out of place. Like I’m not needed or wanted,’ she confessed. ‘You want me, don’t you, Robert?’ Her voice was just above a whisper. She cupped his face and kissed him. Placed soft kisses on the sides of his mouth before coming back to his lips.

  His hands gripped her waist as his mind imagined her splayed on the billiard table, skirts hiked up and her face flushed with pleasure as he thrust into her with his trusty cue. Then he thought of Quinn striding in, with a tea trolley in tow, yelling like a crazy man, before battering him with the teapot and challenging him to a duel of swords, so he could cut his guts out and have them for dinner.

  As pleasant as her kisses were, and however much the thought of fine bone china smashing over his head amused him, he gently pushed her away.

  ‘Quinn will be back soon with some tea. That would be nice, wouldn’t it?’ He deposited her in the chair before raking his fingers through his hair and striding to the safety of the other side of the table.

  ‘But Robert—’

  ‘Don’t “but Robert” me, young lady. There are places and then there are … places.’

  What was wrong with him? He was the last person who should be lecturing, especially on the subject of appropriateness.

  ‘Places?’ she asked, confused.

  Were they even talking the same language? ‘Yes, places, and this isn’t one of them.’ Christ, he didn’t even make sense to himself. Where was Quinn, for God’s sake? She was looking at him as if he had gone out of his mind, and maybe he had.

  Normally, this kind of predicament wouldn’t even be one, but because he was trying to … what? What was he trying to do? Not get caught mostly, but other than that he was trying not to kiss her or to imagine making love to her amongst billiard balls.

  The possibility of being caught had always thrilled him, but in this case, it was killing him. This had to end, this wanting her. It was beginning to cause him actual physical pain. Physical, sexual, frustrated pain.

  She had asked him if he wanted her, and had he not been standing in agitation with the table between them, she would have had her answer. As it was, he had to maintain a sense of self-preservation until such time as he could organise a more suitable arrangement.

  ‘When Isabelle marries, I will be alone. For the first time in my life I won’t have her by my side.’ She sniffed and, damn it, even that was adorable. ‘I’m not sure how I will cope without her.’

  ‘You will have your mother, and Isabelle will insist on long visits I’m sure.’

  ‘Won’t you miss Shacklesbury? You two are always in each other’s pockets.’

  ‘I shall find ways to amuse myself.’

  ‘I mean won’t you miss him? Who will you bicker with and have luncheon with every day? How will you be if you only see him when he is in London?’

  ‘I’m sure I will … adjust. Just as you will.’

  When Quinn finally came back, he glanced at them both. Arabella sitting in the chair looking miserable and then to him standing behind the billiard table, gripping it with white knuckles, and raised a brow. ‘Is everything all right?’ he asked.

  ‘Everything is fine. Miss Fleming is just feeling a bit … out of sorts.’ He made up the excuse because he didn’t really know what else to say. All he knew was that she was making him feel too much. Asking him about how he would cope when Shacklesbury and Isabelle were married and only strayed to London for the season. Playing on the very fears his mother thought he had about the changes in his life. They were both barking up the wrong tree. He would cope very well. He would. If it was the last thing he did, he would prove that the Collector of Hearts was quite capable of being on his own.

  ‘Arabella?’ Quinn squatted down in front of her.

  ‘I’m fine, Quinn, really. I just had a case of the deary me’s. I’m perfectly happy.’ And then she promptly burst into tears.

  A maid came in, quickly assessed the situation and left, leaving the tea trolley in the doorway.

  ‘Quinn!’ Robert strode over and poured a cup of tea. ‘She told you she was fine, but you had to push it, didn’t you?’ He stirred in three lumps of sugar and shoved the tea into her hands. Did she even take sugar? He led Quinn away. ‘I think perhaps she needs to lie down.’ With me on top of her.

  ‘Well, yes, if you think so.’ Quinn looked worried and was tugging at his waistcoat again.

  ‘I’ll escort her to her room. Perhaps you need to rest too?’ Quinn suggested.

  ‘I stopped having rests when I was four years old,’ he replied. Why the hell did Quinn think he needed to have a rest?

  She sat there watching the two of them talk, her head moving from one to the other as they argued. We must look ridiculous. He closed his mouth as she stood up.

  ‘There is nothing wrong with my legs.’ With that, she walked out of the room.

  He watched her until she disappeared from sight and then he punched Quinn in the arm.

  ‘Ouch! What was that for?’

  ‘For thinking what you were thinking.’ He had no idea what Quinn was thinking but giving him a dead-arm had certainly felt good. Quinn gave no reply, so he must have been thinking the worst. He could hardly blame him for that.

  ***

  Robert was pleased when Amy and John arrived just before breakfast the next day. They blew in like a breath of fresh air.

  ‘My, you are just as beautiful as my brother described,’ Lady Snowden announced when she met Isabelle. She ceremoniously handed over her baby, leaving a beaming Isabelle to tickle Brian until he squealed.

  Quinn’s expression could not have been prouder. Robert had to admit that Quinn and Isabelle were perfectly matched. Shacklesbury was strong and dependable and Isabelle was sweet and amiable. They would likely never quarrel.

  Arabella and her parents were introduced, and despite John getting Isabelle and Arabella mixed up throughout breakfast, the morning was perfectly amiable. Later, a few of them went out on a tour of the estate. Robert normally would have stayed behind, but John coaxed him into going. He hoped it would keep him occupied enough to forget about Arabella for a few hours. It didn’t work. Tremaine was eager to see just how impressive the Hall actually was and Shacklesbury was eager to prove it to him.

  He was still worried about her perplexing behaviour yesterday. His concern was unlike him but for some odd reason he wanted to make sure she was all right. What he really wanted was to find her in a quiet corner so he cou
ld kiss away her sadness. Instead, he spent the afternoon listening to Tremaine ask question after question about crops and tenants’ quarterly rents and such, so much so that even John, who was paying almost as little attention as Robert, made note of it.

  After dinner, when they had all retired to the parlour, Amy treated them to her very accomplished piano playing.

  ‘Robert, will you come do our song?’ Amy asked after having sung a beautiful little country dalliance.

  ‘Oh yes, Robert, do,’ Lady Shacklesbury urged.

  He wanted to refuse; he’d only sung with Amy all those many years ago because she had promised to practise the pianoforte if he learnt the song with her. His good deed was now going to haunt him for the rest of his days. Realising there was no way of getting out, he joined Amy behind the piano.

  ‘You are a very naughty young lady,’ he whispered in Amy’s ear before kissing her on the cheek.

  She smiled back and whispered, ‘A married young lady if you don’t mind. And you’re a saint, or so I hear.’

  He chuckled. ‘Cheeky minx.’

  She winked at him, settled her fingers on the keys and began to play.

  It was a simple duet about lovers meeting in a meadow of flowers or some such romantic notion and he was surprised to find that he still remembered the words after all this time.

  Amy had had a little crush on him back then, but that had dissolved quickly enough when John came onto the scene. Robert had been relieved; oddly enough he hadn’t been in the least attracted to her, even though she was very pretty. John had strolled in, all blond wavy hair and with a cheeky sparkle in his eye, and swept Amy off her feet. Snowden had only had eyes for Amy from the moment they had met.

  Arabella listened to Robert and Amy sing, struck by the clarity of his voice, the deep, full timbre of it. The air vibrating with their voices made her tingle all over and when he flicked a roguish glance her way, she actually blushed. It was unexpected and she hid it behind her fan, but she was sure that everyone had seen.

  When the duet was over, she expected Shelton to be relieved of any other need to show off, but Amy insisted Arabella show her skill on the pianoforte.