Love on a Midsummer Night (Shakespeare in Love #2) by Christy English Page B

his mind as much as his body. The first night alone in the sitting room at the inn had been the hardest.
    He knew his own weakness and despised it. He had given up brandy once before while on campaign. He had done so to stay alive long enough to watch Anthony Carrington’s back when they were at war. Life without brandy had not been worth living. He wondered if he would be able to give it up now.
    He held the flask where Arabella could see it because it irritated her to watch him drink. She eyed him from beneath her hideous bonnet, moving her gaze between the scenery beyond the window and him.
    Pembroke wondered where she had acquired her distaste for alcohol. Her father had not been much of a drinker. Old Mr. Swanson had come straight into his fortune from the slave trade in the West Indies and had never needed the liquor to make him a violent man. His reputation for striking servants had covered the county. Pembroke wondered how often he had raised his hand to his daughter.
    Arabella sat as calm and still as a church mouse, the black crepe of her veil pushed back over the brim so that he could see her face. Since he did not want to look her in the eye, instead he watched the curve of her throat, the fall of her hands in her lap, where they lay encased in black cotton gloves. She had not completely left off her mourning, though if he had his way, she would give up her hideous black before the week was out.
    Of course, he had never gotten his way where she was concerned. Why he thought that he might now was a mystery to him.
    He spoke without thinking. He knew only that he could not endure another moment of the silence.
    “So you will give up your mourning?” he asked.
    Arabella turned to him, the wings of her bonnet making her face him straight on. “I beg your pardon?”
    “You didn’t love your husband. You aren’t sorry he’s dead. So why wear black when you look so terrible in it?”
    He almost wished his words back. For one hideous moment, he thought she might cry. But then he saw that the gleam in her eyes was not tears but barely repressed fury.
    “You have no right to speak to me in such a manner.”
    “I’m the one saving you from a fate worse than death. I think that gives me plenty of rights where you’re concerned.”
    “I beg to differ, my lord.”
    “I have always wanted to hear you beg. Somehow, I thought it would sound sweeter.”
    She was almost spitting in her rage. She breathed deeply, her beautiful breasts rising and falling beneath the blue gown she wore and the hideous black bombazine of her cloak. He wanted to peel the crepe and silk away and touch her as he had always longed to touch her, to feel her beneath him as he never had.
    Pembroke raised his flask and found that his hand was shaking. He knew this time it was not for need of drink, but he took a swig anyway.
    “You are a perfidious bastard.”
    The words seemed to slip from between her lips of their own accord, so incongruous and unladylike. Pembroke stared at her in shock, his flask forgotten. And then he laughed.
    “I absolutely agree with you. I can only hope for my mother’s sake that I am not my father’s son, though I fear on that count you are mistaken. More’s the pity.”
    She had shocked herself with her own words. He could see that in the sudden flush in her cheeks, in the quickness of her breath. If she were any other woman, he would have drawn her across his lap and let his hands and lips feast on her body. But she was a lady. And he was a blackguard and a cad, but he would never touch a woman against her will. He wondered if he could put his years of experience to the test, if he might seduce even her. Part of him wanted to reach for her and damn the consequences.
    Arabella stared at him. If looks could kill, he would lie bleeding across the velvet squabs of his coach. She reached up then with trembling fingers and untied the ribbons of her hideous black bonnet. She lowered the window beside her very