London, 1802

When heiress Arabella Wilbanks flees a forced betrothal in the middle of the night, the last person she expects to find at the reins of her getaway hackney is Matthew Worcester. It’s been seven long years since they gave in to their mutual desires and shared the most incredible night of their lives, but Matthew is still racked with guilt for leaving her without a word. He should escort her to safety, but the chance to reclaim and ravish her once more is proving impossible to resist!

To Rescue or Ravish?

Barbara Monajem

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dedication

To the members of The Beau Monde Chapter of Romance Writers of America, from whom I learn much that I want to know, and sometimes what I’d rather not.

Author Note

I’m a writer, not a historian, but I do try for historical accuracy. I also like to respect the conventions of the Regency genre, particularly if they contribute to making good stories.

Announcing an engagement in the London newspapers is one of the conventions of Regency romance, but I learned from people who have reason to know that such announcements were not found until the Victorian era. Alas, the plot of Arabella and Matthew’s story hinges on such an announcement. What was I to do?

I spent a wakeful night mulling it over, and decided I had to address the issue somehow, either within the story itself (fortunately, I was in revisions) or in this note. But when I contemplated adding a few sentences explaining why this particular announcement was unusual but possible… I just couldn’t make myself do it, because I felt it would detract from the flow of the story. Not only that, I like this particular convention of Regency romance.

I’m addressing the issue here. For those who prefer historical accuracy, look at it this way—the announcement was a tool in the hands of Arabella’s unscrupulous uncle. No, such an announcement wasn’t usual, that doesn’t mean a greedy man couldn’t have come up with it as a strategy to force his exasperating niece to marry the man of his choice.

Either way, I hope it works.

Contents

To Rescue or Ravish?

About the Author

Copyright

London: January, 1802

A lady should never run, but Arabella Wilbanks lifted her skirts and positively sprinted up Cavendish Street toward home. “There must be some mistake,” she panted at Ralph, her footman, who was doing his best to keep up. “My uncle wouldn’t dare do such a thing!”

Ralph nodded and responded, “Mistake,” but his worried eyes told another story. So did the butler, when he opened the door to Arabella’s frantic peal of the bell.

She swept into the entrance hall, out of breath and furious. “Have you heard about this—this preposterous announcement of my engagement, Chalmers?”

The butler, her oldest and dearest ally in avoiding marriage, nodded in sad-eyed sympathy. “Your uncle informed me of the impending nuptials only ten minutes ago, Miss Arabella.”

“He didn’t see fit to inform me!” she cried. “He simply put a notice in the papers without as much as a by-your-leave!” She paused to catch her breath. “I already told him, several times, that I don’t wish to marry Sir Reginald Rotherton.”

“I’m very sorry, miss, but—”

“I had to hear the news from a mere acquaintance,” she interrupted. “‘Congratulations, Miss Wilbanks! Sir Reginald is such a good catch. So elegant and distinguished-looking. When is the wedding to be?’ Pah! There will be no wedding, and so I told her.”

Chalmers drooped. “I’m sorry, miss, but what shall I do? Mr. Wilbanks gave orders that—”

“You will obey me, unless you wish to find yourself in the street.” Her uncle’s stocky form appeared at the top of the stairs. “That goes for you, too, Ralph, and for Miss Arabella’s maid. I’m wise to your tricks, and if any of you attempt to help her avoid this marriage, I’ll see to it that none of you work in London again.”

After a stunned silence, he added with a triumphant sniff, “Be off with you and set the wedding preparations in motion. Arabella, come up here this instant. We have much to discuss.”

“We have nothing to discuss,” Arabella said, but nevertheless she tossed her gloves and hat onto the table by the door and obeyed. She marched up the stairs and into Uncle Wilbur’s study. He man had retreated behind his desk, back straight, hands clasped, pompous, authoritarian and utterly stupid.

Well, perhaps not utterly so, but close enough. It had taken him ages to realise how the servants had helped her avoid proposals from her various suitors.

“How dare you arrange a marriage and announce it without even consulting me?” she said.

He made his horrid little twitch of the nose and sniffed. “If it were left up to you, Arabella, you would never marry.”

That wasn’t true. If the right man asked her, she would marry him gladly and with all her heart. But he would never ask, so to all intents and purposes her uncle was right. She evaded the question. “I certainly shan’t marry Sir Reginald.”

“Don’t be foolish. I have given you plenty of opportunity to choose a husband, but I have run out of patience,” her uncle said, sniffing again. “You will marry him.”

“He’s old enough to be my father,” Arabella said, fuming. “I don’t even like him much.”

“What does that have to do with it? He’s an excellent catch, you are a healthy young woman, and he needs an heir.” Twitch. Sniff.

“And my money and estate as well, I suppose.”

“Certainly,” her uncle said. “Your fortune wedded to his will make a tidy inheritance for his children.”

“I suppose he has agreed to compensate you once he has control of my income,” Arabella said.

Her uncle didn’t answer; he didn’t need to. His smug expression said it all. Uncle Wilbur resented the way things had been left in Father’s will. Everything was in trust: the Surrey estate and his entire fortune, which would eventually be hers, and the London house, which her uncle would inherit upon her marriage or when she turned thirty. By giving—no, selling—her to Sir Reginald, Uncle Wilbur would get his soft, pasty, greedy hands on some of her money as well.

Fortunately, her uncle didn’t have to approve her choice of husband. Nor did she have to approve his. “In case you didn’t know, Uncle Wilbur, a woman can no longer be forced into marriage.”

He smiled thinly. “No one will drag you to the altar. Once you get over your

tantrum and think about it, you will realise that no one will need to. The engagement has been announced. All your friends and acquaintances know, and the rest of the ton as well. You cannot possibly back out now.”

Arabella folded her arms. “Since I did not agree, I will not be backing out. You must send another notice to the papers, saying the engagement was announced in error.”

“Don’t be foolish. No one will believe that. If the engagement is broken, everyone will assume Sir Reginald learned something unsavoury about you and asked to be released in exchange for keeping his mouth shut as to the cause.”

“I have never, ever given anyone reason to believe I wished to marry Sir Reginald,” she protested.

“You have danced with him,” her uncle said. “Several times.”

“Out of politeness,” she shot back. “He kept asking and asking. I couldn’t refuse forever.”

“You can’t refuse to marry forever, either. No one will believe a spinster of twenty-four—particularly one known for her sharp tongue and capricious ways—would willingly jilt such an eligible suitor. If you do not marry him, your reputation will be as good as ruined.”

Unfortunately, this was true.

And completely unfair. With the help of her servants, she’d been somewhat unscrupulous in fending off persistent suitors, but the occasional fit of temper didn’t ruin a lady’s reputation.

Blatant, heartless lies did. She’d given Sir Reginald no encouragement at all…so he’d decided to buy her instead.

“In other words,” Uncle Wilbur said with a self-satisfied twitch and a sniff, “you have no choice.”

“What about the settlements? I must speak to Mr. Brownley.” He was her trustee, an honourable man who would never agree to such coercion. She glanced past her uncle to the window. The wintry dusk was already setting in and Mr. Brownley’s house was almost a mile away, but she couldn’t risk Ralph’s position by requiring his escort.

Her uncle smirked. “I have already done so. The settlements have been drawn up according to the terms of your father’s will. You shall read and sign them immediately preceding the ceremony. Mr. Brownley was delighted to hear of the engagement and heartily approves.”

“What does that have to say to anything? I don’t approve.”

“Then you must think it over and change your mind.” He twitched and began tidying piles of paper on his desk, a clear sign of dismissal.

She crossed her arms and glared at him. “Hear me—regardless of the risk to my reputation, I will not wed that man!”

He chuckled unpleasantly and waved her away. “Don’t be absurd. Sir Reginald purchased the special license today. You had best go prepare yourself, for you will be married tomorrow morning at ten.”

* * *

Matthew Worcester was going to get drunk. Roaring drunk on blue ruin, meaning he would quite possibly kill himself in the process. He’d made the decision after seeing that notice in the papers.

Arabella Wilbanks was getting married.

He would have sloped straight off to a boozing ken and started his binge in midafternoon, except that he’d promised a friend suffering with a cold to drive his hackney for a night. Playing jarvey in January wasn’t exactly fun, and it meant making no money instead of winning some at cards, but Matt didn’t need the blunt anymore. He was well-heeled now, a man of substance. That didn’t mean he would desert a less fortunate friend.

Now, at a little past eleven in the evening, at a time of year when many of the nobs were still at their country estates, custom had grown scarce, and both Matt and the horses were cold and tired. “All right, fellas,” he told the nags as they plodded slowly round a corner onto Henrietta Street, “let’s call it a night. You to your cozy stable, and me to my bottle of gin.”

That was when he heard the screams.

* * *

After picking at her supper in infuriated silence and retreating to her bedchamber, Arabella waited in growing impatience until eleven o’clock, when everyone was in bed. She donned her warmest wool gown and a heavy cloak with a hood, and crept down the back stairs.

Mr. Brownley would not appreciate a visitor so late in the evening, but if he arrived in the morning with the settlements, the scene would be far, far worse. She intended to tear up the settlements tonight, write to inform Sir Reginald of the change in plans and draft her own notice for the papers, repudiating the engagement.

Something that would embarrass Uncle Wilbur. Something so mortifying that he wouldn’t show his face in public for weeks. She hadn’t quite decided what, but it would show him for the blackguard he was. She wished she could do the same for Sir Reginald, but he might retaliate by besmirching her reputation, whilst it wouldn’t serve Uncle Wilbur to do so.

She let herself out the kitchen door, crept through the tiny garden and slipped through the gate into the alley. Mr. Brownley’s house wasn’t so very far, but the dank, smoky air of London seemed denser in the dark. She didn’t like being out here alone one bit, but she hadn’t dared ask a servant to accompany her.

She emerged from the alley onto Henrietta Street, a chilly wind plucking at her cloak. Not a single hackney was in sight; what with the cold, blustery weather and the late hour, few people were out and about.

She wrapped her cloak tightly about her and hurried in the direction of Mr. Brownley’s house. From behind came the sound of an approaching carriage, but a glance told her that, alas, it wasn’t a hackney, so she set a brisk pace and—

“Oh, no, you don’t,” said a male voice. Strong arms grabbed her and pulled her against a burly chest. “Your uncle warned me you might try to escape.”

Sir Reginald! She struggled and tried to shove away, but he laughed and squeezed her tighter. “Don’t be a fool, girl. You’re marrying me, and that’s that.” His breath was hot and smelled of spirits.

“Let me go!” She kicked him hard in the shin, and when his grip loosened a fraction, she stomped on his booted foot.

“You little bitch,” he panted, tightening his arms again and dragging her back toward the carriage. She fought and kicked, shrieking for help. He put a gloved hand over her mouth. She twisted away and bit it. He swore.

But she couldn’t get away, and all at once, she knew. He wasn’t taking her home—he was abducting her.

“Are you mad?” she cried.

“Aye, mad for you, Arabella. Such a pretty filly you are, and spirited, too. Just what I want in my bed.”

She shuddered. “How much does it take to convince you? I will not marry you!”

“After tonight, you will have no choice,” he said.

* * *

Matt urged the nags forward. The woman was putting up a good fight, but she would never break free on her own. He swept the hack to a halt in front of the other coach to block it, leapt off the box and jumped the bastard from behind. Even if the woman was a whore, she didn’t want this particular fellow. The damned nobs thought they could get away with anything. The man yelped, released the woman and landed on his bum. The woman stumbled, pitching forward, and Matt caught her in one arm.

He set her on her feet, his arm still about her—and froze at a memory so subtle and yet so powerful that his cock stirred in response. That scent… She faced away from him, utterly still in his embrace. He moved to turn her—he had to know—when the assailant let out a stream of curses and lunged. Matt let go of the woman to block the man’s rush with a punch to the gut and a follow-up to the chin. The fellow plunged to the paving stones again with a satisfying thud.

Chest heaving, the woman gathered her cloak about herself and pulled the hood over her pale curls before Matt could catch a glimpse of her face.

It couldn’t be. His memory was playing tricks on him. No surprise, considering, but wealthy, privileged Arabella Wilbanks wouldn’t be out alone at night.

The coach driver watched Matt warily but didn’t move. Wise fellow, but in case he got ideas, Matt pulled the pistol from his belt.

“Tell your master there’s plenty of doxies about who’ll pretend to enjoy his nasty little games.” He’d half expected the woman to run. Judging by Matt’s appearance and his accent—the one that suited this particular job—he wasn’t worth even a sixpence to her, and no one in a cloak like that was a sixpenny whore. Did she think she’d have to pay for her rescue in bed?

He opened the door of the hackney and let down the steps. “Hop in, love. I’ll take you home, shall I? No charge.”

“Number Seventeen, Bunbury Place,” the woman said. “Thank you kindly for saving me from that horrid man, but of course I shall pay 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 was his coach, headed for Bunbury Place.”

He heard her sharp intake of breath, felt her fear. “I was afraid of that,” she muttered. “That’s why I had you stop. I daren’t go home. Oh, God, what am I to do?”

It was madness to spend another minute with her, but what choice did he have? “Obvious, isn’t it? You’ll have to come with me.”

* * *

Go with him? How she wished she could go with him, away from here forever. She shut that impossible dream into the coffin in her mind where she kept her memories of Matthew Worcester. There were so many; they’d been friends throughout childhood in their village in Surrey. Such good friends, but then they’d grown up, and the last memory overwhelmed all the rest, turned pleasure into pain, so she’d shut them all away. She’d never learned how to nail the coffin tight, but it stayed closed most of the time.

It wouldn’t after tonight. She envisioned months of repeating soliloquies from Shakespeare’s tragedies and passages from the Bible—but not the Song of Solomon—over and over every time she thought of him. Replacing those thoughts with words and more words; banishing those memories, the old and now the new.

“You needn’t look so appalled,” he said. “I’ll take you to stay with my mother.”

“You can’t possibly see the expression on my face in this pitchy darkness,” she retorted. “Does your mother live nearby?” Arabella hadn’t seen Mrs. Worcester for a number of years—not since her husband had died and she’d left Surrey to live with a relative.

“Not too terribly far. It’s not a tonnish address, but entirely respectable. Your reputation will be safe.”

She should be relieved, but on the contrary, she had to bite her lip hard to avoid bursting into tears. She’d assumed that someday she would have to meet Matt and speak to him again. A few years earlier, she’d seen him on a London street, but she’d been so unprepared that she’d cravenly ignored him. After that, she’d pictured how they might eventually encounter one another, thought out what she would say, planned how calm and composed she would be. After all, he was a thing of the past.

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