Free Mad About the Major by Elizabeth Boyle Page B

together and nodded.
    Kingsley, make that Major Kingsley, turned around. “Rollins? You devil, whatever are you doing here?”
    â€œRare luck,” Rollins declared, extending a hand and taking Kingsley’s in a furious and exuberant shake. “Not often I come up to London, but had a need to see my man of business and a certain lady—­” the fellow said with a laugh, until his glance lit on Arabella. Then, if it was possible, the newcomer’s smile widened, his eyes glowing with mischief. “What have we here, Kingsley?”
    Kingsley glanced over his shoulder at Arabella. “An acquaintance of mine.”
    â€œAcquaintance, indeed. She’s a Diamond, you devil. Madame, I am Rollins,” he said pushing Kingsley aside and taking up Arabella’s hand, bringing her fingers to his eager lips. “Whoever might you be?”
    She was about to open her mouth, but Kingsley stopped that.
    â€œDon’t bother, my good man. Doesn’t speak a bit of English.”
    Rollins drew back at this news. “Doesn’t—­”
    â€œNot a word,” Kingsley lied convincingly, adding a woeful shake of his head that would have served him well on the stage.
    â€œYou are a rare one,” Rollins laughed. “Most fellows who were at Waterloo brought back French sabers or some gaudy piece of art they claim is a Rubens, but not you.” Again Rollins whistled. “You bring back a French masterpiece.” He turned to her. “Excuse my confusion before. Oh, mademoiselle—­” he began, launching into a long-­winded speech in schoolboy French which he obviously hadn’t used since his university days, given the way he mangled his pronunciation.
    Again Arabella went to open her mouth, for she did speak fluent French, but Kingsley was too quick for her.
    â€œStop torturing that poor tongue of yours,” he told Rollins. “She doesn’t speak French either.”
    Now both Rollins and Arabella shot him puzzled glances.
    â€œThis is Klara, and she’s Flemish. You don’t speak Flemish, do you?” Kingsley asked his friend, taking Arabella’s fingers out of the man’s grasp and winding her hand around his forearm.
    â€œNot a demmed word,” the man admitted. “Still, she must have learned a few—­”
    Kingsley shook his head, but his eyes were all merriment, as if he was letting his friend in on the latest on dit . “Happily, she hasn’t a bit of wit to her. Finds English utterly baffling.”
    Oh, the wretched devil! Arabella’s eyes flew open and her mouth was about to as well, but Kingsley’s brows arched ever so slightly at her.
    Do as I say , he silently reminded her.
    Arabella had a thousand retorts just blistering her tongue, but the lure of the boxing match held her from unleashing them. That, and her estimation of this man continued to shift.
    Major Kingsley .
    He’d fought at Waterloo.
    This rogue wouldn’t be able to put off a discussion on heroics now that she had the truth of it. Well, a piece. A hint.
    She slanted another glance at him, holding back a peppering of questions, for he had caught hold of her hand and folded it into the crook of his arm.
    â€œSurprised to see you here,” Rollins began as the three of them started across the downs. He spoke over Arabella’s head as if she was the witless and English-­challenged piece Kingsley claimed her to be. “Had heard you were to be married.”
    If being called witless wasn’t enough, this was news of another sort. It was all she could do not to swivel her gaze up to his and then demand answers.
    Kingsley was to be married? Was that where he had been going when she’d bumped into him earlier?
    To his wedding?
    She and Rollins both looked to him for answers.
    â€œCountry gossip,” Kingsley told Rollins in a lofty, offhanded manner.
    â€œGood news that,” his friend declared.