“Na ...ahhoo-nnnoo... No, Siiiir,” Hugh answered, his eyes trained upon the packed dirt under his feet.
“Ahhhhh.” Wicked, Harrow glanced back to the baroness and found her jaw clenched so tightly her lips were white. He kept his tone conversational. “But you should know, boy, as a good servant, it is not what you think that matters, but what she thinks. And as a gentleman, I must abide by it. So, you cur, I beg your pardon for my speech in pointing out the truth of your well-known transgressions.”
Even with the distance between them, Mr. Harrow could hear the growl in her throat. Leering he asked, “There, your ladyship, was that not prettily said?”
Arabella placed a comforting hand on young Hugh's boney shoulder. “Be aware that it must have cost Mr. Harrow a fraction of his staggering pride to even admit a hint of wrongdoing. Thank you, Hugh. You're dismissed.”
At her word, Hugh dashed back to his chores and left the two adversaries in the yard.
Folding her expression into derision, Arabella asked, “Tell me, how many days did you pick and choose the words of that warped apology?”
The languid way he leaned against her house ceased, the man bearing down upon her instead. “Less than a few seconds, your ladyship. You see, I have come for the rent. Seeing as I want for refreshment, I was willing to acquiesce to your demand so I may take my rest and darken your door... which is actually my door.”
She was almost tempted to laugh. “Then by all means, won't you please come inside?”
They entered the manor as if they did not find one another detestable.
In the great hall Arabella found Mary standing too close to the fire. Hurrying forward, physically turning the unblinking maid in the direction of the kitchens, she asked for tea.
Mary obeyed, an automaton with a scorched skirt.
Preparing to defend her maid’s behavior, Arabella turned but found the portrait of the blonde beauty hung above the mantle was all that held Mr. Harrow's attention. He was as engrossed with the painting as Mary had been with the fire.
“I found her in the study... she is beautiful.”
Turning from the hearth, Mr. Harrow took a seat. “So I was told. She was also miserably bitter in life.”
Pleased the man had not removed his greatcoat, Arabella took it as a sign he did not intend to linger. From a nearby writing table, the prepared banknotes were collected and handed over.
“I will take a glass of wine.”
She didn’t flinch at his demand, only stiffened. “As you will.” After pouring two measures of red, she took the chair across from him. “Next month I will have the rent delivered and save you the trouble of calling.”
“I prefer to collect from my tenants in person.”
Sipping her goblet, Arabella countered, “Then Payne or Mrs. Magdala will attend you.”
“You shall attend me.”
Not at all happy he thought to command her, Arabella warned, “Mr. Harrow, I seldom linger waiting for callers. Do not anticipate my presence.”
“Why is that, Imp? Do you prefer running wild, climbing stones and looming over strangers?” he teased, his mood so changeful it made her scowl at his sudden, broad grin.
Disinterested in speaking further, Arabella fidgeted with her sleeve, oblivious the white of her chemise grew stained with small, blooming marks of blood. “I prefer it to strangers looming over me.”
Glass set aside, Harrow stood, imposing and proud before her. An instant later he made a mockery of a genteel gesture, lowering to a knee in a bow.
He'd been so swift, Arabella had no room to stand or chance to move away. Her only defense was to press his shoulder so he might not lean nearer. “Step back and take your
seat!”
“Do you wish to strike me again?” Indulged obsidian eyes glimmered. “Shall I explain what will happen if you do?”
Determined to hold her ground, to not shrink further into the softness of her leather chair, she answered, “You will strike me in return.”
He said nothing, only stared, letting her discover he moved where he willed when he willed it. Again she pushed his shoulder, her elbow locked. He moved slowly, caught her wrist, and made her move her hand. His skin wasn't soft like a London man's, and though he was large, he didn't squeeze with his calloused paws as she imagined he could. Instead, a warm thumb circled her palm, leaving a track of tingling skin that stung so powerfully Arabella's fingers curled, her nails digging little moon shaped bites into his skin.
“There is no reason to claw me.” He was bored again, tugging up Arabella’s drooping sleeve to expose the cause of her bleeding. “You there, Mrs. Magdala,” Harrow turned his head toward the housekeeper spying from the hall. “Fetch a bowl of freshly boiled water and a bottle of vinegar.”