A Miss Apprehension (AFL, Round 1)

He seized her, spirited her away. Might her abductor become an ally, and her ally her one true love?

Her brother is dead, and those responsible move freely amongst the ton. Disguised as a countess, Arabella aims to expose them; but Lord Coulter, too, seeks to unmask a killer. She might deny his accusations, but can she deny the truth of her heart?

It was the single eventuality for which she had not planned.

Lady Arabella Avery had scarcely crossed the threshold of the Duchess of Alderman's ballroom when she found herself unceremoniously snatched by the hand and swung onto the dance floor.

Within seconds she had been swept onto the balcony and sequestered, with great efficiency of movement, behind a monumental boxwood.

Pinned against the cold Bath stone, she felt her captor's mouth move against her temple.

"You will do exactly as I say. If you resist me, I will not hesitate to use force. The garden is dark and the walls are high. Will you comply?"

In her shock, she had hardly glimpsed the gentleman's face, yet recognized his voice at once, though it had been years since she had last heard its throaty tones.

George Damien Muir, Earl of Coulter, nephew and heir to the Earl of Fraser. Her brother's closest friend; god of her girlhood. But he was meant to be in India, not London, and certainly not here, amongst the society he so famously abhorred.

Arabella strove to regain her composure. Whether she was more undone by the shock of her capture or the fire of the body that pressed her to the wall, she could not be certain. She swallowed, searching for her voice. In its absence she dipped her chin twice in assent.

He eased himself from her, slowly, then paused, primed to catch her should she attempt to flee. His breathing was heavy, ragged, and though she strained to distinguish his features, was impeded by the darkness of the corner into which he had spirited her.

Claiming her hand, he led her roughly down the stairs and onto the lawn. As they traversed its considerable expanse, she could not help but marvel how, by sheer brute force, Coulter had in an instant rendered all her careful planning for naught.

It had begun a fortnight previous. She'd been in Ireland, in the library of Castle Ardmore, before the crackling fire of her oldest and dearest friend, the Countess of Fraser.

"But of course you must use my name," she had declared, "our London home, jewels, anything at all that will help you. Cecil and I have been married but three months, so nary a soul you encounter will question your authenticity. I have yet to even meet much of his family! And you simply must attend the Duchess of Alderman's ball. The invitation has arrived just this morning, in fact."

To be sure, Arabella hadn't imagined being feted to the extent she had since her arrival in the capital, but found the attention to be unquestionably to her advantage. Indeed, it was the gentlemen of the ton to whom she required access, and their generalized ardor - particularly in the absence of the earl - had allowed her campaign to progress more rapidly than she had dared hope.

That night her intended mark had been Lord Marlborough, and she had contrived to arrive after midnight in the hope that by that time he would be sufficiently in his cups as to be willing to reveal the final resting place of Cromwell's head, never mind which of his acquaintances might have been responsible for the death of her brother Charles.

"Get in."

The menace in the earl's voice was unmistakable, the threat of violence thinly veiled.

"Get in," he repeated, teeth clenched.

Before her the door of a landau stood open. He had certainly planned well. The driver had drawn the vehicle flush with the wall so that the only means out of the garden was into the confines of the carriage.

She had but one choice. She mounted the steps.

Arabella took the banquette facing forward, he the one opposite. It occurred to her at once that she had made an unwise choice. For while she faced the direction of travel, she also found herself in the full glare of the street lamps. She was to be interrogated, and without the benefit of observing the mien of her accuser.

The carriage jerked forward as the driver set the horses to a brisk trot. For a moment they rode in silence. She could feel Coulter's eyes range over her, from the diamonds in her hair, along the contours of the low cut bodice, down the length of her silk-swaddled thigh.

"Lady Fraser," he drawled at last. "Lady Fraser. Fiona Carrington, Duchess of Fraser. I say, that is a lovely name. Yours, is it?" The last he all but spat.

Against all reason, she rose to his bait.

"Why, Lord Coulter? Are you in the habit of abducting ladies whose names you do not know?"

"Fascinating you should know my name," he mused. "We have yet to be introduced."

"And yet you have identified me more than readily, sir."

"Ah, but my lady, you cannot be unaware of the stir you have created. Le tout Londres falls at your feet. Every man desires you, every woman desires you to meet an unhappy end. Did you not perceive the dramatic hush that came over the room as you entered, the ensuing din of whispers exchanged behind marabou-feathered fans? Besides, is it not only fitting that I should take an interest in the newest member of my extended family?"

His tone was cutting, merciless.

"If my entrance caused the stir that you suggest my lord, surely those same awe-struck individuals will remark upon my absence."

"Remark, they will. Indeed, they will remark upon the alacrity with which you absconded to the balcony with one of the most notorious rakes in all the empire."

Coulter leaned his head back against the quilted leather of the seats. A sliver of light lit his face, jogging from eyes to mouth as the vehicle clattered across the cobblestones.

At last she was able to discern the fullness of his lips and dark hooded brow. When he was a youth they had looked incongruous, but were now in perfect balance with the jut of his cheek and strength of his jaw.

He smiled, a predator's smile.

"Thrust and parry. Thrust and parry," he seemed to enjoy the words, rolling them around his mouth.

In a single movement, he swung himself onto the seat beside her.

"Let me be frank. Shall I?"

He leaned in close to her ear, his breath scorching the delicate skin of her cheek.

"I know you are not the Countess of Fraser," he purred as he raked the back of her hand down her throat.

She willed herself not to succumb to his taunts, to the agony of his touch.

"Would you like to know how I know? Hm?"

She swallowed, considering whether to end the charade now, to avow her deception, if only to dispel the pure menace that had crept into his tone. For this was not mere anger. This was rage.

"I know," he breathed, his lips closing gently, briefly around the lobe of her ear, "Because I am the Earl of Fraser. Which means the only avenue by which you might become Countess is by becoming my bride."

She thrust him from her in horror, reeling in disbelief.

His glare was pitiless.

"You fiend," he ground out. "No doubt you expected to have a few more days, weeks even, before their deaths became known in town. No doubt by then you imagined yourself to have emptied the family coffers and absconded to the continent. I see you have already laid claim to the Fraser tiara."

She could not think, could not speak.

"Damien," she gasped.

"Arson, the letter said. My uncle. His young bride...You monster. You heartless harridan."

His eyes brimmed, but he set his jaw.

Then he swallowed.

His brow furrowed and he stared at her.

"You called me Damien," he whispered.

She met his gaze, her tear-streaked face open, all pretense abandoned.

For the first time he looked into her eyes.

"Who are you?"

"Arabella," she murmured. "Arabella Avery."

She watched as his expression moved from confusion to disbelief.

"Arabella," he breathed.

"I didn't know," she sobbed. "Fiona - she was only trying to help me. Charles returned to Ireland from London a month ago, and within days was dead, killed...in a fire."

"What?"

"He had come to me immediately upon his return, telling me he feared for his life. At Lady March's ball he had overheard a gentleman speaking in French, detailing Wellington's strategic weaknesses. He told his companion he must relay the information at once so the emperor might plan accordingly. In his shock, Charles dropped his glass, and they turned and saw him. He left for home that very night."

"And the fire?"

"It started in the stables, and at first we thought no one had been hurt, that Charles was off riding and had not seen the smoke. And then we found him, his head bloodied..."

"And you are suggesting --"

"I told Fiona. If it was indeed arson..."

Coulter's expression softened. He reached for her; with his thumb he brushed a tear from her cheek.

"But that would mean..."

She looked into his eyes and nodded.

"I am sure to be next."