Such self-sacrifice was not for her, though. She was far too practical to fall for mere manly good looks, though to be fair True had fallen in love with her husband’s character, she claimed, not his title nor his looks. That was Truelove, though, not her. She needed a more pragmatic reason to give up the single state. She needed a title and land. Love would not pay off her mother’s debts, nor keep her in the style in which she preferred to live.
She frowned at her friend. “Of course I know that true love does exist. I suppose I’m only surprised that you would believe in it, Eve. You seemed so cynical the other night about affairs between men and women.”
“Not cynical, my dear, but I do think that society has warped relations between men and women. I acknowledge the need for a degree of financial comfort, but society has made that into the way we separate the worthy from the unworthy.”
“How can that be wrong? Have we not created society? It’s a reflection of the strengths and weaknesses of both sexes, is it not? We need men’s protection. We need their income to support us, and they need . . . they need children.”
“Why do we need their protection?”
“Well, other men—”
“Exactly! Society has dictated that an unwed woman is in need of protection from other men! Is that not deplorable?” Eveleen’s eyes were dark with anger. “Why is it that a woman alone is seen as suitable prey for men’s depredations? That we are somehow lacking in morality if we choose to be alone?”
“Well, setting aside that, women need a husband to take care of them financially.”
“And why is that? I will tell you; it is because society has dictated that a woman of quality cannot look after her own money, nor make her own way in the world except among the lowest paid and most looked-down-upon professions, like governessing or teaching, or as companion to other women. They think we are not capable of handling money, or government, or of succeeding in any of the paying arts beyond a little genteel piano playing or sketching. It is abominable, I tell you! We should be free to pursue our interests and make our living just as any man is.” Her azure eyes blazed with fire.
If Eveleen’s vision of the perfect world—a world where women were on an equal footing with men—were only the reality, Arabella thought, allowing herself a glorious dream for just a moment. Then she could travel, like Westhaven, to the far-flung reaches of the empire. She would go west, to the Canadas, and explore those lofty peaks and cavernous gorges, she would traverse mountain passes, making her own way free and unfettered by societal disapproval.
It sounded thrilling, but—ah, there was the rub. It was not and never would be the way of the world. She shook her head. “I don’t understand half of what you say, Eve,” she said, too practical to regret what could never be. “To return to our original topic, though, I know that love is possible, but for someone like me, not probable. I do not have the luxury of time, you see, and I have never found anyone I could love. So why should I not benefit myself in marriage like everyone else does? It is the way of our world.”
“Perhaps you are right,” Eveleen said, musing. “But, have you really never found anyone you could love? Honestly?” A gentleman in scarlet regimentals, a Captain Harris, came to claim Eveleen for a dance, and she drifted away with one long, lingering look at her friend.
The evening progressed, and Arabella forgot—or at least, attempted to forget—her conversation with Eveleen. She danced most dances, trying to master the art of not looking too desperate when she felt like time was dwindling and she must make every second count. Her social education should have stood her in good stead, but she felt awkward and did not know why, as if she didn’t belong, as if her desperation was a leprous disease that made her unfit for good company. Bessemere, now that his mother was present, was tongue-tied and inarticulate in her company, and nothing Arabella could do would set him at ease. Had he heard of the Lord Conroy embarrassment? Just thinking of it made her feverish all over.
Lord Pelimore was courted by many, now that it was known he definitely would be choosing a new bride this Season. All of the mothers were throwing their plain daughters at the baron in the hopes that his standards would not be too nice, so Arabella did not push too hard, relying on her looks—which she knew to be good, in all modesty—to attract his attention. He might be old, but he was still a man.
And it was working. The modest looks she threw his way, the way she was always just on the periphery of the crowd around him, it was drawing his eye more and more to her, and she knew with a certainty borne of experience that he would soon single her out. Did she want that? She supposed she must. What other option did she have?
Always in the past she had done such things, the flirtatious glances, the demure coquetry, to test her skills, to ensure that the allure was still there and working for her. Men had been drawn and then released; it was like fishing when she was a child. She didn’t even like fish—at least, not to eat—but catching them had been fun. Faith, her cousin, the same age as her almost, had never understood why she wanted to let the fish go after catching them.
And she had released many a gentleman fish, only to see them swim almost directly into the nets of another fisherwoman. Lord Sweetan, her would-be fiancé from the previous year, was already engaged. He was said to be in London, but they had not yet chanced to be at the same event. She could only be glad; their last interview had not been pleasant. She drifted over to the chaperones’ area and joined her mother. Lady Swinley was magnificent in dark plum satin—last year’s dress, just as Arabella’s was—and wore an ostrich plume in her turban.
Just as she was about to speak to her mother, someone touched her elbow and she whirled, her heart thudding. It was Lord Pelimore, and she felt foolish for the hope that had leaped into her heart. She knew he was not coming that night; had not Eveleen already told her that?
“Miss Swinley,” the aging peer said with a bow. “I do not often dance, as you know, but if there is a space on your card free, I would be most pleased if you would sit one out with me.”
Lady Swinley’s eyes shone with triumph, and she said, “My daughter would be delighted, sir. Your gracious condescension has undone her, thus her silence. In fact, her next dance is free.” She nudged Arabella with her elbow.
“Uh, yes, my lord. As a matter of fact, I do have this dance free, the only free one on my card, I fear.” It would not do to look too available. No man desired what no other man wanted. They were competitive beasts, like dogs eyeing a bone. Each wanted the choice bits, and the choice bits must be what everyone else wanted. My, but she was utilizing animal metaphors of late! She smiled and curtseyed, and Lord Pelimore took her arm and escorted her to a seating area in an alcove behind a marble pillar, out of sight of most of the crowd. Arabella felt faintly uneasy, but the gentleman released her arm and sat wearily down. It appeared all he wanted was some peace and quiet.
“Hot in here,” he said, mopping his brow with a handkerchief. He blew his nose in it, then retrieved his snuff case, offered her some, and when she refused, took a great snort himself. He sneezed repeatedly and blew his nose once more before putting away the handkerchief. His nose was a little bulbous, and threaded with red veins.
Snapping open her fan and waving it languidly to hide her repulsion, Arabella murmured, “Yes, it is a trifle warm.”
“How those young gels do giggle,” he said critically, gazing at a gaggle of seventeen-year-old girls, all in white as befitted them so early in their first Season.
And I suppose I am ancient, Arabella thought crossly, suddenly feeling old. She was three and twenty, and being courted by a man old enough to be her grandfather.
There was silence for a moment, and when Arabella stole a glance sideways it was to find Pelimore staring at her. She smiled.
“Won’t beat about the bush, m’girl. Not getting any younger. Not that I’m as old as that Lord Oakmont. Friend of m’father’s, b’lieve it or not. Have you heard the news?”
Bewildered, Arabella sho
ok her head.
Pelimore pulled at his breeches and shifted uneasily on the marble bench. “Oakmont,” he continued. “He’s ninety-four, I b’lieve. Going to stick his spoon in the wall any day, it’s said. Frantic search for the heir. Some great-nephew has come forth. Don’t want that to happen to me. Been thinking about that ever since m’son Jamie up and died last year. Thirty-eight, and he dies b’fore his pa. Ain’t right. Not at all.” He gazed at her with squinted eyes, as he would size up a prize bit of horseflesh. He nodded once. “I’m in the market for a wife, y’see.”
Arabella fidgeted in her chair. It almost sounded like he was going to make her an offer right then and there! She should be grateful for this blunt approach, since she wanted no sweet words from the elderly man, but she was not ready for the proposal yet. Desperately wanting to put off the moment, she picked up the subject, settling her skirts around her and fiddling with her fan. “That is the Earl of Oakmont, I believe, of whom you speak. I had not heard that he was on his deathbed. Poor man.”
“Oldest peer living, it’s said. Too damned old, if you ask me. Outlived everyone else. My da, now he died at a sensible age. Sixty-eight, he was. That were thirty years ago.”
“Really,” Arabella said faintly. Thirty years ago. And Lord Pelimore would not have been a young man even then.
“Oakmont’s great-nevvie’s come forward, like I said. Been in India all this time, I hear. Nabob, now; rich in his own right and brown as a nut, so they say.”
“Someone has seen the Oakmont heir?” Arabella said.
“Lady Jacobs had it from some fella who knew some other fella what was in the solicitor’s office what handles old Lord Oakmont’s estate. Guess they’re doin’ all the checks ta make sure the fella is who he says he is. Disappeared for some years, dontcha know. Can’t be lax about that kind of thing. Primogeniture, an’ all that. Rights of inheritance—mighty important. Which brings me back around to my own dilemma, you see—”
“Is the nephew an older man, have you heard?” Arabella asked, gripping her fan tightly, not wanting to hear, yet, about his dilemma. Perhaps this nut-brown Croesus, Oakmont’s heir, would be not past middle age and on the lookout for a wife. Perhaps there was still time to find a more acceptable husband—more acceptable to her stomach if not to her purse. She felt quite queasy at having to entertain a proposal from the gentleman beside her. Her cousin, True, had explained a little about the intimacy of the marriage bed, and the thought of laying with this old man and allowing such familiarities was repulsive to her. She would have to submit to it, she supposed, and yet . . . and yet—
“Can’t be too old,” Lord Pelimore said. “Not like me.”
Arabella, caught off guard by his unusual self-deprecation, relied on her social instincts at that moment and burst out, “Oh, but Lord Pelimore, you are not old! Why, you cannot be a day over . . . over forty, surely!”
She heard a snort of disbelief, and from behind the pillar strolled Mr. Marcus Westhaven, looking very much at his ease and as handsome as ever in unrelieved black.
Chapter Six
“What do you want, young man? Private conversation, dontcha know?” Pelimore’s voice was querulous as he glared at Westhaven, who lounged against the pillar as if he had nothing better to do.
He had heard that ridiculous piece of flattery; Arabella could see it in the merriment in his gray eyes. The reluctant joy she felt at his presence was tempered by the knowledge that he must think her a mercenary flirt. After all, it must be obvious to anyone who happened to observe what was going on between her and the baron; everyone knew he was on the lookout for a wife. But what did she care what Mr. Westhaven thought? He was nothing to her. She tossed her head haughtily.
“Lord Pelimore, may I present Mr. Marcus Westhaven?”
“Westhaven, Westhaven . . . I know I have heard that name lately, but where?” Pelimore, his thick eyebrows beetling over his dark eyes, stared up at Westhaven.
“I am sure I do not know, sir,” he replied politely. He turned his smoky gaze toward Arabella and bowed low. “This dance is just ending, Miss Swinley.”
His voice was rich and low, and she felt a thrill shiver through her down to the toes of her elegant silver slippers.
“May I see your dance card?” he asked, holding her gaze with his.
Arabella flushed and hid it in the folds of her dress. She had implied to Lord Pelimore that it was quite full, when in fact it was almost empty. She felt the humiliation of that sharply, especially now, with Marcus Westhaven. “I must have lost it somewhere.”
“Why, no, I think it is still on your wrist, along with your fan. I see it peeping out of the skirt of your elegant gown.” Westhaven leaned over and plucked it out of the folds of her lavender dress, pulling her wrist as an unwilling hostage, encircled as it was by the ribbon attaching the card. “Ah, what luck.” He took her little pencil and wrote in his name with a flourish. “There. Walk with me, Miss Swinley.”
With a look of apology to Lord Pelimore, Arabella stood and put her arm through Westhaven’s. In truth, she could think of nothing she would like more than to walk with him and talk with him—infuriating man though he was—but at what cost? She had been close to a proposal, she thought, even though she had been trying to avoid it. She must have been mad; she should have encouraged Pelimore, should have allowed him his say. Then she would now be engaged and could relax for the rest of the Season with the security of betrothal. What had she been about, discouraging the man she felt that inevitably she must marry? Lud, but she was so confused! It was almost as if her mind and her heart worked independently, battling over what she should do and what she wanted to do.
Her mother would be furious if she heard that Lord Pelimore had been interrupted in the middle of an “interesting conversation,” and by a nobody like Mr. Marcus Westhaven. Well, Arabella rationalized, if Pelimore was close to a proposal, he would not give up merely because of this. It never hurt the gentlemen to have to chase a lady; it was all part of the sport, as much as her own flirtatious ways were. And her mother need never know, after all. All would be well. And in the meantime, she might as well enjoy this half hour with Mr. Westhaven.
She walked away, gazing up at his stern profile, the hard line of his jaw jutting aggressively forward. From her angle she could see the silky sheen of his long hair and wondered if it felt like silk to the touch. Absurd thought, but still, her fingers twitched with longing. She tightened her hold on his arm.
If only he were rich, she thought, with a deep sigh of regret. If only.
• • •
Marcus stayed silent at first as he strolled the ballroom with Arabella Swinley on his arm, conquering the unreasoning anger he felt. It infuriated him to hear a bright, vivacious, intelligent girl like Arabella Swinley making up to that old relic. He knew the truth, had heard the gossip. Pelimore was looking for a wife to bear him an heir because he couldn’t stand his nephew, who stood to inherit the title and estate after the death of the baron’s only son.
But did he have to choose the best and the brightest of London belles for such a mundane chore as filling his nursery? Let him choose some other girl, a dullard, a mouse, anyone but this blooming, lovely English rose! And speaking of flowers— He guided her to a private nook and released her arm. He gazed down at her. “Did you receive my flowers?”
Stiffly she said, “That little basket? Yes.”
Snob, he thought fiercely. He was wasting his time on her, and she did not deserve his consideration. “That ‘little basket,’ as you so slightingly call it, was handmade of birch bark by a native girl of seven, and given to me before I left as a precious gift! She is the daughter of my friend George Two Feathers, and I cherish it.” He heard the grating anger in his own voice, but didn’t give a damn about how he sounded. What had possessed him to give Mary’s sweet gift to someone who could not appreciate its value?
She had the grace to look abashed and her cheeks flamed red. She glanced around their private alcove, avoidin
g his eyes. Her lips trembled, and she stuttered, “I d-do like it, Mr. Westhaven, I . . . I p-p-put it on my b-bedside table.”
He swallowed hard. What was it about her that made him want to shake her and then kiss her? Why did he bother with her at all? And yet he could not seem to stay away. “I picked the buttercups myself, you know. Their color reminded me of your hair, how it would look in the sunlight.” He reached up and touched one ringlet, winding the glossy curl around his finger. Touching it to his lips, he inhaled the fragrance that drifted from her.
Nervously she shied away from his touch, avoiding his gaze, and with a shake of her head pulled her curl from his grasp. If only they were not in so very public a place, he thought, if only! He would show her she need not shy away from him, need not fear his lips and his hands. A little shocked at the direction his mind would take when he saw her innocent blush, he folded his hands together and glanced around. The temptation was strong to find out if the rose blush on her cheeks was warm to the touch, but though in a nook, they were still in the ballroom, with people parading past every few seconds. He reined in his wandering thoughts.
“They are the very flowers I used to gather with my cousins,” Miss Swinley said, her voice faint and breathless. She calmed, took a deep breath and spoke again. “I lived at the vicarage, their home, for much of my childhood, and we would go fishing and swimming and gather flowers. My cousin is a great herbalist and knows the names of everything. In fact, she saved her husband’s life—he was not her husband then, but they married soon after—with an herbal infusion of white willow when he fell ill with the—” She stopped, her green eyes wide, and looked up in confusion. “Oh, I am babbling. I do apologize, Mr. Westhaven.”
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