To Rescue or Ravish?. Barbara Monajem

the fare.” Without a glance at him, she climbed into the coach.

      Damn. It was Arabella. He would know that perfectly modulated, immeasurably proud voice anywhere. She hadn’t recognised him, of course. Even if he dressed in his best and put on airs, she wouldn’t know him from Adam. Two years ago their eyes had met across a street, and her gaze had slid past his in utter indifference.

      Or it might have been the cut direct. He didn’t know which was worse—being forgotten or purposely ignored. He shouldn’t have been surprised; she’d gained a reputation as a cold-hearted shrew who toyed with her suitors and then spurned them. At first he hadn’t believed the tales, but that encounter in the street, followed by more gossip—this time about her cruelty to servants—had made it damnably difficult not to.

      And yet he’d found himself seeking excuses for her, wishing the gossip was merely malicious tales, and that Arabella was still the lively, adorable girl he’d known long ago. He’d just decided how to settle the issue once and for all when that notice in the papers had knocked him flat.

      An old, bitter misery roiled up inside him. Immediately, he set it aside. He’d learned to smother useless longings after his father had turfed him out to fend for himself, when he’d needed all his wits merely to survive. Now he could afford to drink himself into oblivion with the finest brandy, but gin seemed more appropriate tonight.

      Arabella Wilbanks deserved to marry a pompous old prig like Sir Reginald Rotherton. Good luck to them both.

      And yet…what the devil was she doing out here after dark, and who was at Bunbury Place? She lived a hop and a skip from here. Less, even. For the most part, Matt avoided this part of town. It reminded him of what she stood for and he didn’t. But even in this well-off neighbourhood, she shouldn’t be out at night alone.

      He got the tired nags moving again. Behind him, the coachman climbed down from his box and helped his master to his feet. An altercation followed, but Matt was too far away to catch the words. The man got into his coach, staggering in a way that made Matt grin, but instead of following—which would have been the devil of a nuisance—they headed up Cavendish Street.

      Good riddance. Now…why Bunbury Place?

      * * *

      That couldn’t possibly be Matthew Worcester.

      Oh, who was she trying to fool? She hadn’t seen him in ages, and yet she would know him anywhere. Thank God he hadn’t recognised her. What a struggle she’d had to regain her wits with his arm around her, so strong and yet gentle, and his beloved voice sending quivers through her blood. Memories blossomed inside her of a night almost seven years ago.

      She stomped on them and squished them to a pulp.

      How typical of him to dash to the rescue and then call the damsel in distress a whore. He’d never cared for people’s sensibilities. Shivering with cold and reaction, she fumbled in her reticule for hackney fare and a reasonable tip for a jarvey who had saved one’s virtue. Supposed virtue; if Matthew recognized her, he would realize he had wasted his time.

      No, that was unfair. He wasn’t the sort to permit a rape even of a fallen woman or a prostitute. Still, if he recognized her… Her face grew hot at the thought. She thought she might die of shame, which made no sense, as she had done nothing wrong. She peered out the window, clutching a guinea. It was too dark to see well, but they must be nearing Bunbury Place.

      A dreadful thought occurred. Sir Reginald’s coachman must have heard her give Mr. Brownley’s address. They might go to warn her uncle. Worse, they might follow, might get to Bunbury Place ahead of her, might even abduct her successfully this time. She mustn’t approach the house unless she knew it was safe.

      She rapped hard on the roof of the coach. It lurched around a corner into darkness broken only by the glimmer of the hack’s carriage lamps and stopped.

      She put down the window. “How far are we from Bunbury Place?”

      The jarvey got down from the box and slouched against the coach, a nonchalant shape with an impertinent voice. “Not far, love. Changed your mind, have you?”

      “I have not changed my mind. I am merely asking for information.” She put her hand through the window, proffering the guinea. “I trust this suffices. Kindly open the door and point me in the right direction. I shall walk the rest of the way.”

      He didn’t take the coin. After a brief, horrid silence during which she concentrated on thinking of him as the jarvey and not her once-and-never-again lover, he said, “Can’t do that.”

      “I beg your pardon?” She pushed on the door, but he had moved forward to block it.

      “It’s not safe for a lady alone at night. This, er, Number Seventeen, Bunbury Place—it’s where you live, is it?”

      How dare he? “Where I live is none of your business.” She shrank away from the door and kept her hood well over her face.

      “So it’s not where you live. Who does live there, then?”

      Why couldn’t she have just told him that yes, she lived there? Must every man in the entire country try to order her about? “Let me out at once.”

      “Sorry, love. When I rescue a lady from deathly peril, I see her home safe and sound.”

      Some shred of common sense deep inside her told her this was extraordinarily kind of him, but it made her want to slap his craggy, insolent face. Home wasn’t safe for her anymore. Nowhere was safe, and meanwhile Matthew Worcester was playing stupid games.

      “Cat got your tongue?”

      She exploded. “Damn you, Matthew! Stop playing at being a jarvey. It makes me positively ill.”

      There was another ghastly silence. It stretched and stretched. Good God, what if he actually was a jarvey? Surely he hadn’t come down that far in the world. A different shame—a valid one—swelled inside her.

      “You recognised me,” he said at last. “What a surprise.”

      * * *

      “Of course I recognised you. How could I not?”

      “You might have said something to that effect.” He mimicked her proud voice. “‘Good evening, Matthew. How do you do?’ Friendly-like,” he added, lapsing into the role of jarvey.

      “After I’d almost been abducted and then called a whore?” Her voice shook.

      In spite of himself he took pity. “Sorry, but that was before I realized who you were. Respectable women don’t wander about by themselves at night.”

      She opened her mouth as if to say something cutting, but shut it again, flapping a hand as if he were irrelevant. Which he was, in the ordinary course of Arabella’s exalted life, but she was stuck with him for the moment. He’d been contemplating whether to stop and question her when she’d banged on the coach roof. “Who lives in Bunbury Place? Your…” He got his mouth around the word. “Fiancé?”

      “No, my trustee lives there. My supposed fiancé is the man who tried to abduct me.”

      “What the deuce?” He opened the door and was about to climb inside—perishing cold out tonight—when he caught the sound of hooves. “Hold on a jiff. Stay there.” He slipped behind the hack and ducked back to the street. Sure enough, that same coach—her fiancé’s coach?moved quickly past.

      Supposed fiancé, she’d said. So she wasn’t really engaged? Absurdly, relief bourgeoned inside him. He returned, bumping into her as she rounded the hackney, and grasped her arm to steady her. A big mistake, for even in the chilly air her unique aroma reached out to him, lured him to the edge of lunacy. “Didn’t I tell you to stay put?”

      She put her nose in the air. “Where did you go?” Peremptory as ever, and yet no woman had ever fired his blood as she did.

      “Looks like your, er, supposed fiancé hasn’t given up,” he said. “That