Page 20 of Lady Arabella’s Reluctant Hero

She went with him, and the fact that she asked no questions was mildly alarming.

He handed her up into his carriage and gave the driver the address. Climbing in after her, he pulled the door shut.

He found Arabella looking smaller than ever, her shoulders curved in as she peered down into her lap. She appeared to be studying her own gloved hands.

As the carriage set off, and with her so distracted, he took the time to really look at her. If one had asked him to describe Lady Arabella before he'd have said she was striking. Everyone knew this to be true. With her raven-black hair and her bright green eyes—she was perfectly, intimidatingly beautiful.

But here and now, in the afternoon light, with her head tipped down and her expression unguarded, she was something else.

She was…pretty. A smile tugged at his lips at the odd thought. But it was true. She was classically beautiful, yes. But normally she had an untouchable air that made her beauty something only to be admired at a distance. Like a goddess from a Greek myth or perhaps a marble sculpture.

But right now she seemed far more human than either of those comparisons. Now she looked…touchable. And sweet. The cold mask was gone and in its place was a look so vulnerable it made him want to wrap an arm around her and hold her close.

He didn't, of course. But he had the urge. And that urge only grew as he remembered the duchess's words with renewed clarity.

The duchess believed Arabella was being controlled somehow. That someone was using her. Perhaps hurting her.

His brows drew together as he leaned forward in his seat. Who is it? Who's caused you so much distress?

The words were there, on the tip of his tongue. But he held them back. Not only was it not his place, but this was not the time.

Arabella tugged at her gloves, her breathing slowing gradually, until she seemed very nearly calm.

But when she reached up to untie her bonnet, her fingers fumbled with the ribbon. The bow had pulled into a knot, and when she tried again, she only made it worse. When her movements started to grow frantic, he couldn't continue to sit there and watch a moment longer.

He leaned forward. "Allow me."

She let him gently push her hands aside.

The knot gave after a moment, and he lifted the bonnet and set it on the seat beside her. Some of her hair tumbled down, but she didn't appear to notice.

"Thank you." She went back to tugging at her gloves and he fought the urge to take her hands in his and hold them.

He knew better than to do that. But he could distract her from whatever it was that had her fighting panic. There was little he could do to help her until they reached the duchess's home, but this he was capable of.

His gaze caught on the bonnet, and all at once he heard himself say, "My daughter once made her mother a bonnet."

Arabella looked up.

"Lucy had wanted to make her something for her birthday. She must have been five—no, perhaps six. Either way, she had decided a bonnet was the proper undertaking. She used a great deal of fruit⁠—"

"Fruit?" A small spark of amusement lit Arabella's eyes.

"Indeed. Fresh fruit," he added.

"Oh no," she murmured.

"Oh yes. Eleanor, of course, was delighted by the enormous tower of fruit, and she wore it on a picnic…"

He was pleased to note that Arabella's eyes were fixed on him, expectant and focused.

His lips curved up at the memory. "By the end of the afternoon the bonnet was covered in ants, and there were flies circling my wife's head."

Arabella's huff of laughter caught him by surprise. It seemed to catch her by surprise too because she looked down quickly, but she still wore a little smile.

The smile and that genuine little laugh combined…

Well. For a moment, John was rather absurdly pleased with himself.