Page 39 of Lady Arabella’s Reluctant Hero

"You needn't⁠—"

His hand was light on her back. "I shall take you home, Lady Arabella."

She was too tired to argue, and the alternative—remaining in this drawing room, smiling at people, pretending that the evening was pleasant while Clarissa's words circled in her head…

That was worse.

They made their excuses. Kit shook John's hand. Clarissa embraced her, which Arabella endured. She was likely too stiff, but then again, she was not accustomed to being embraced by people she had wronged.

The night air hit her the moment they stepped outside. It was cooler than she'd expected, and the street was quiet. John's carriage was waiting at the far end of the pavement, the driver already climbing down from the box.

She was three steps from the carriage when she heard it.

The sound came first—hooves on cobblestones, fast and getting faster. Then John's voice, sharp in a way she had never heard it. Then his arm, hard around her waist, hauling her sideways.

The vehicle passed so close, she felt the rush of air against her face. A wheel clipped the pavement where she had been standing. The horse's flanks were a dark blur, and then they were gone, clattering around the corner and into the dark.

She was against the wall of the townhome. Her back was pressed to the stone. John was in front of her—his body between hers and the street, his hands on her arms, his breathing ragged.

For a moment neither of them moved.

Her pulse was hammering so hard she could feel it in her fingertips. His face was very close. His hands were shaking—she could feel the tremor through the fabric of her sleeves—but his grip was steady.

"Are you hurt?" His voice was rough.

She shook her head, unable to find her voice.

He was looking at her the way he had looked at her in the duchess's drawing room when he'd seen the marks on her throat. The same intensity, the same barely contained emotion. Except that this time…

It was not fury.

It was something else entirely.

His eyes dropped to her mouth and she watched in quiet fascination as his dark eyes grew molten. Then, seconds later…

He kissed her.

It was not gentle. It was not tentative. His lips crushed against hers, fierce and certain, and she met it gladly.

In fact, she couldn't seem to get close enough. She found herself up on her toes, pressing her lips to his with the same frantic urgency.

She clutched his shoulders as she met his kisses with ones of her own, their lips colliding and catching, moving together like they'd done this countless times.

And as his arms slid around her waist and pulled her tight against his chest, her mind went utterly, blissfully blank.

13

For roughly four seconds, John's mind went blissfully, mercifully blank.

There was nothing in it but the taste of Arabella's lips and the pressure of her fingers on his shoulders as his heart hammered in its cage.

Then a door opened somewhere behind them. Laughter spilled out from the dinner party, and the voices were followed by footsteps. John pulled back with a jerk.

In a heartbeat he was startlingly aware of where they were. Arabella's lips were parted, her eyes wide.

And they were standing on a London street where anyone might see them.

The reality of what he had just done landed with force. He had kissed her. On a street. In public. After she was very nearly killed.