Courting Scandal Page 18

  The early afternoon sun was obscured by the leafy fronds of beech and alder tree, and even more so by a deep-rimmed chip bonnet Arabella wore as she strolled around the small garden opposite the Leathornes’ magnificent town house. She uneasily glanced up every time she heard footsteps. She was not looking forward to the interview she was there to conduct. The tone of Marcus’s note, delivered through Annie, who had obtained it from a footman, was abrupt and commanding. It was clear he had heard something, but whether it was about her marriage or that awful scene at the de la Coursiere ball, she could not say. She wasn’t even sure which she wished it was.

  She heard a quick step behind her on the crushed limestone walk, and turned. It was him, and he was clearly furious, holding on to his anger tightly, as though if he let go he might be capable of anything. She composed herself with an effort and smiled.

  “Marcus, how good to see you. I feared I would never—”

  “Cut line, Arabella.” He stood in front of her and looked down at her, his hands working at his sides. “Are you quite mad? Of all the addle-brained, feather-headed, imbecilic—what are you thinking? You will be tied to that grubby old dullard for life; you will have to let him paw you and slobber all over you until he gets you with child, if he even can! He is marrying you for nothing more than—”

  “Enough! Be silent. I know why he is marrying me,” Arabella said, her voice icy. She was in no mood to be abused, and by Marcus Westhaven! She held her head high and leveled a challenging look at him. “He is marrying me for the same reason all men marry: so they can secure their inheritance and be sure any child they conceive is their own. I am not so shatter-brained as to believe that any man marries for love, or if they do they are usually mooncalves sighing after their first infatuation.”

  “Ah, but you choose to marry for money. Much nobler!”

  “I have no choice!”

  “You do have a choice! If there was any chance you had a scrap of affection or even respect for the old pustule I would not be saying this, but you cannot even like him!”

  “M-my affections are none of your business, sir!” Arabella fiercely blinked away tears that rose into her eyes. She would not let him see her cry, not if he was going to be so cruel about her fate. Did he not understand that she had no choice?

  “Arabella! Do anything rather than marry without that affection. You must see that it will not do.” He grasped her shoulders and stared down into her eyes.

  She gazed at him for a moment, but the expression in his storm-gray eyes confused her and she stared down at the gravel instead. His eyes seemed to search her soul, and she was not sure she would hold up well under the examination. “You have no idea what you are talking about!” she said wearily.

  “I do know what I am talking about—your future!” He shook her lightly. “You need not marry at all. What is wrong with living life as a spinster?”

  “On what? Pins? Buttons? How am I supposed to live?” She wrenched her shoulders out of his powerful grip and stared up at him, misery clutching at her heart. “It is all very well for you to talk. Men can take a profession, make their own way in the world, but without money I—we, my mother and I—will be out on the street. I had no choice!”

  He seemed to take that in for a moment. “You are so desperately lacking in funds?” His mouth tightened. “You could take employment,” he said.

  “As what? A governess? If you look around you, Marcus, you will see,” she said, her voice trembling, “how few governesses there are who are tall, slim, moderately attractive daughters of barons. Such as I do not get hired as governesses; we are too tempting a target for the licentiousness of our employers’ husbands and sons and even their servants. Even if I could, even if, by some miracle, someone was willing to hire me, what do you propose I do with my mother? We have no relation to whom she can go. And she would not live as a poor relation anyway; it would kill her. She is my mother, my responsibility!”

  He was silent, and Arabella’s fury built at his obstinate obtuseness. “What do you know of a woman’s lot in life, you having been off in the wilds of Canada? What do you know?”

  He was silent, and his expression gave away nothing of what he thought. Arabella stared at him and it came upon her in a rush what it would cost her to marry Pelimore. She had done the unthinkable. She had fallen in love with a poor man. Damn him! Damn Marcus Westhaven for not being wealthy!

  And more than that, damn him for not even thinking to ask her to marry him himself, for she would be seriously tempted, despite everything, despite her obligation to her mother, despite Swinley Manor. She would be tempted to run away with him. She had never felt this all-consuming need to be near someone, the fire in the depths of her being that flared every time she looked at him, maddening as he was.

  And she was going to cry. She would not let him see her cry! She turned and started to walk away. She heard his exclamation of exasperation, then his quick steps, but still she was not prepared for the sudden jolt as he swiftly turned her around and pulled her into his arms.

  His lips claimed hers, and she surrendered to the overpowering urge to be held and kissed and made love to. After the first angry crushing of his mouth against hers, his kiss softened and swept her away on a tide of sweet sensation. While he kissed her like that, she could forget everything, could forget the iniquities of life, the sordid reality of it. She wound her arms around his neck and felt his sinewy arms surround her, holding her tight against his body.

  But then she conquered her desires and pushed him away, holding her gloved fingers against her lips for one second.

  “Good-bye, Marcus,” she said, hoping the sob that was in her heart did not sound in her trembling voice. “I wish you well on your journey back to Canada, whenever it shall be.”

  She turned and swiftly left the small park, through the gate and back across the street to Leathorne House.

  “Arabella, wait! Listen to me! I must tell you—”

  She broke into a run then, and did not stop until she was inside. And when Marcus tried to call at Leathorne House, she had the butler turn him away. There was nothing he could say to her now that would change a thing.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “The garden is so beautiful,” Arabella said. She looked up at her cousin’s home, Thorne House, and then over at Truelove, who strolled with her along a gravel walkway bordered by lush gardens, holding the tiny baby girl she had borne just one month before.

  “Thanks to you, my darling cousin! It is my first summer here; there are a thousand things I want to do, and yet I still feel so weak. I cannot find the energy for even one. If it were not for you and your boundless energy, it would all still be a mass of weeds.”

  Arabella impulsively put her arm around her smaller cousin’s shoulders, touched the baby’s downy head, and said, “Hardly that. Drake would have hired the best of gardeners, you know, if he knew what you wanted. My dear, we are lucky you’re—” She paused and swallowed, then continued in a determinedly calm voice. “That you’re well enough to even walk in the garden. You had a very rough time of it.” She carefully watched her tone, determinedly not letting her voice break, though it was wont to, even now, a month after True’s ordeal. She tried not to remind her cousin of the fact that she had come far too close to dying in childbirth and would likely be weak for a good while to come.

  Drake, her husband, in the depths of his fear, had sworn that this child would be their only one. He would not risk losing the woman he loved more than life itself just to secure an heir. Arabella had been deeply touched, and though she and her cousin-in-law Drake did not get along, she honored and was humbled by his love. For that reason she had done her best to be civil to him, and to remain on the good terms they had come to during True’s illness.

  In that spirit, she said, “I am fortunate that Drake allowed me to do this work instead of hiring someone. I would have felt at loose ends, else.”

  As she and True strolled in the July sunshine, she pondered fate, an
d how providence had stepped in to take a hand over the last year or so. Lord Drake was the very man both her and his mother, the Ladies Swinley and Leathorne, had schemed to match her with! It was laughable. They would have hated each other before long, she and Drake, but there was never any question, really, who he would marry. He had adored Truelove from the very first moment of setting eyes on her, Arabella thought, and mishearing her name, calling her “Miss Truelove Beckons.” It was a prophetic mistake.

  And oddly enough, she and Drake had despised each other, for some strange reason that she still did not fully understand, for she acknowledged that he was a good man, and a worthy one. She supposed that was providence, keeping both of them from drifting into an arranged marriage; that could have happened if there had been less antipathy between them. Love was apparently a powerful, unstoppable force.

  Even now, almost a year later, the only thing that they agreed on was that Truelove was perfect, the baby was adorable, and they were lucky both had survived. Their love for Truelove and Sarah bound them as nothing else in the world ever could. Other than that, they tended to avoid being together too much, for they fought over the most petty of things, their discord seeming to stem from a complete lack of understanding of each other’s character. Arabella had a feeling he thought her superficial; she knew that she thought him overbearing and tediously serious.

  Lady Truelove Drake, formerly Miss Truelove Becket, watched her cousin closely. Arabella had, two months before, expressed her desire to come to True for the lying-in period, and True had been glad to have her. Arabella was more sensible than anyone gave her credit for being—not to mention stronger—and her rational behavior was a relief after the way her mother-in-law worried and her husband fretted. She loved them both dearly, but it was Arabella to whom she turned, pouring out her fears and anxieties. Dear Bella never overreacted, never panicked, never told her she was being a goose. She always responded with calm and comforting sense.

  But after the baby was born and True had time to observe her younger cousin at close quarters, she saw that Arabella was not herself. It was not just that she was quieter than normal, or that she appeared beaten down by life. There was a new thoughtfulness to her that should be a welcome relief in one who was always a little feckless. And True would have welcomed it if Bella would have shared a little of what her thoughts were, but she did not. It worried her.

  Later that warm July evening, as the clock in the hallway chimed eleven, she and her husband stood in the dim nursery watching baby Sarah sleep. True said, “Wy, Arabella is still not happy. I don’t know what I expected—she is making a marriage of convenience after all, not one of love—but I did expect that she would look forward to having her own establishment, and to being Lady Pelimore. All she ever seemed to want out of marriage was wealth and position, and she is gaining both. But she won’t even talk about her wedding or her marriage or after her marriage, or anything. I am so worried.”

  Lord Drake, Wy to his wife, cuddled her close to his body. “You, my darling, are not to worry about anyone or anything. Arabella is quite capable of looking after herself. The girl has raised self-interest to an art form.”

  “Drake, you’re unkind,” she said. “But I admit, she is an adult, not a child. Oh, look, Wy, she’s smiling!” True cried, staring down at their baby girl. They both gazed down with awe at the little creature they had created together. The baby burped, and they cooed adoringly, bending over the cradle and gazing in mutual rapture.

  “She is the most beautiful creature in the world,” Drake whispered. “Next to her mother, of course,” he added, squeezing his wife’s waist. They stared in silence for a minute, and then straightened.

  “As I said, I suppose in your own way you’re right about Bella,” True went on, once the moment of parental delirium was over. “I know she’s strong and self-reliant. But it’s just that she hasn’t got her old fire, her old spirit. She seems . . . oh, listless, somehow. Resigned rather than happy.”

  “No one forced Arabella into this engagement; you know that, my dear. She told you so herself. She does not have your warm heart and sweet nature, my love, and you must not expect her to be as tender-hearted as you. She has accepted this marriage to poor old Pelimore as the most palatable way to go on.”

  Privately, Truelove thought that “poor old Pelimore” was getting the best end of the bargain, a young, beautiful, intelligent wife, but she did not say so to her husband. Their only arguments so far had been over Arabella, and it had taken some convincing—and pleading—to elicit anything more than grudging approval to have her come for the summer. Uneasy peace reigned at the moment, but there was always tension between Wy and Bella. They just did not see eye to eye on anything, though it seemed to have improved for a while after Sarah’s birth. “Still,” True said stubbornly, “there’s something she is not telling me, something she is unhappy about. I will get it out of her somehow.”

  Drake chuckled and caressed her shoulder. “Come to bed, my darling busybody. You must not get tired, and you have been up for too long today.”

  • • •

  The morning breeze drifted in from the rose garden outside of the breakfast room window, carrying in the intoxicating perfume of a hundred flowers. There was silence around the table as Drake read one paper and True read another. Arabella absently spread butter on a muffin as she stared out at the cloud-strewn sky.

  “Listen to this, Arabella,” True said. “It says here that Lady Cynthia Walkerton will marry Lord Bessemere, heir to the Haliburton title and fortune. Is that a good match?”

  “Brilliant,” Arabella said quietly, setting her muffin aside on the pretty floral breakfast plate, untasted. “Haliburton is a duke, and richer than the royal dukes. And a cannier businessman there has not been in Britain—at least not among the aristocracy. Bessemere will have millions when his father dies. He is a dear young fellow; I’m afraid Lady Cynthia will eat him alive.”

  True glanced over at her cousin with a worried frown. “You know Lord Bessemere?”

  “Oh, yes. Bookish fellow. Quiet, but quite charming when drawn out of himself.”

  “Did you . . . did you spend much time with him?”

  Arabella took a sip of her coffee, and indicated to the footman that she would like a refill. “A little . . . not much,” she said, stirring sugar into her cup. “I danced with him a few times. But his mother was on the lookout for a fortune—money seeks money, you know.”

  “Was he a favorite of yours?”

  Arabella’s gaze sharpened and she laughed, but there was little happiness in her expression. “Oh, True, stop fishing. I’m not in love with Bessemere, nor am I eating my heart out for him, or . . . or any man! I am perfectly content, so just stop your fussing and take care of your husband, whose coffee cup is empty, if I am not mistaken.”

  The footman leaped forward at that comment, and True, glancing over the table with a housewife’s practiced gaze, said, “Could you ask cook if there are any more popovers, Albert? Lord Drake is especially fond of popovers and we seem to have run out of them.” Laying aside her paper for a moment, she said, “Bella, would you like to go into the village with me later? I have a longing for some new books, and I thought we would look in the drapers for ribbons to go with that pink sarsenet for your trousseau.”

  “If you like,” Arabella said without enthusiasm. “As long as it will not overtire you, my dear. We can easily leave it to another day.”

  True glanced over at her husband, but he was still lost in the paper. He had become the complete farming gentleman since they had come to live at Thorne House after the wedding, and she could not be more contented with that. The relatively modest mansion had felt like home the instant she had seen it the previous spring, and she never wanted to leave.

  But he showed precious little interest in anything beyond his books, the estate, his wife and his new daughter, and she worried that his concerns were becoming too narrowly focused. Even the trade school he had set up for injured
and out-of-work former soldiers was going on with little of his direction now. Not that it needed him. His former batman, Horace Cooper, was very ably managing it.

  True did wish he would stir himself to help her with Arabella, though, at least, but he was of no assistance at all. He tolerated her because she was his wife’s cousin, but he showed less interest in her than he did in the dullest book on new farming techniques!

  Brightly, True tried to animate the conversation with Arabella. “Where will you and Lord Pelimore live once you are married; in London or at his house in the country?”

  “I don’t know,” Arabella said, pulling apart the muffin and leaving it in crumbs on her plate. She sipped her coffee again, but still did not eat any of the crumbs of muffin.

  “Will you travel?”

  “Perhaps. Whatever Pelimore wants.”

  Exasperated with her cousin’s lack of interest in anything to do with her marriage, or anything else for that matter, True went back to her paper, desperate to find any morsel of news that would make Arabella take some notice. She went through a few more pieces of society gossip without any luck, then read out loud, “The fourth Earl of Oakmont has died at the age of ninety-five, one day after his birthday, at his country home near Reading.”

  Arabella looked up. “Really? So the poor old fellow died at last.”

  True’s eyes widened and she quickly said, “Do you know him?”

  “Oh, no, I know of him. He’s a recluse . . . was, I should say. But it was the talk of London who his heir is. It’s a mystery and had all of London agog. Apparently the heir is some nabob recently come back from India.”

  It was the most she had said at one time about the Season just past, and True hurriedly looked down at the paper and read out loud, “The claimant for the title of fifth Earl of Oakmont came forward to the solicitors some time ago, and had been verified as the real and true heir even before Lord Oakmont passed. This step was necessary because the claimant was long thought to be dead, since his parents had died tragically many years before and all contact had ceased from the young man. It can now be told that he was visiting his uncle while his identity was being verified and was present at the earl’s passing.”