Courting Scandal

by Donna Lea Simpson

  In fact, Marcus found it surprisingly easy to play the “beau” for Arabella Swinley, even though he had precious little experience. She brought out some latent gallantry in him, some wish to make her eyes smile and her lips curve up into that delightful bow when he presented her with a posy or a poem. He had only had one London Season when he was a cub of just nineteen, before he disappointed his parents’ hopes and left for the Canadas. He had never been back since, not even when news finally reached him that his parents were dead, lost at sea in a shipwreck. What had been the point? By then they had been gone for seven months; that’s how long it took for the letter from the family solicitor to reach him in the far-flung wilds of Upper Canada.

  And the letter merely stated that there was no money. What little there had been was required to settle up the estate of his parents. His father had lost a lot in speculating on a canal venture that had gone badly; if he had lived, it would only to have been to go to debtors’ prison or worse. So there had never been anything to come home for. Even this last bit of news, that he was his uncle’s sole heir, would not have touched him if he had not felt a certain curiosity to see home again.

  But still, no matter how enjoyable this time was, it was just one brief episode in a life that must have more meaning than that of a mere London beau. He did not intend to stay. He would be heading back to Canada as soon as his business allowed, though he supposed that was a callous way to look at the impending death of his uncle. He had, through his recent visits, conceived a certain fondness for his uncle that was unexpected, given the old man’s irascibility.

  And a certain fortune-hunting beauty would not change his mind about leaving England. No matter how her eyes sparkled when they danced, or how she fit into his arms like she was meant to be there, and despite how her laughter made his stomach clench into a knot, or how her image stayed with him long into the night, in the darkness of his room at the Fontaine.

  He should not be enjoying her company so much, knowing who and what she was. What place did a scheming fortune hunter have in his life? But still, it was gratifying to dance with her and talk with her, and know she was the most beautiful girl in the room, even if all the other men were swooning over this year’s diamond, Lady Cynthia Walkerton, a girl to whom he had been introduced. She was well enough in her own way, he supposed. She was certainly beautiful, and she knew all the little tricks that were designed to make him feel manly and strong, the languishing glances, the trembling smile, but never did she talk freely, laugh like Arabella did, or touch his heart in ways he could not explain and didn’t want to examine too closely.

  He led Arabella into the first dance of the Hartford ball, a waltz, relishing the feel of her small waist under his hand. He gazed down into her eyes, brilliant in the chandelier-lit ballroom. What had turned her into a mercenary little schemer, when he would have said she was made for finer things? She was not wanting in sense, nor intelligence. She was as smart as any woman, or any man for that matter, whom he had ever met. It made him angry that she would waste her brilliance, her exquisite fire, on an old poseur like Pelimore.

  “I wish I was rich,” he said casually, gazing down at the gentle curve of her cheek and the swanlike extension of her lovely white neck. She was gazing over her shoulder, scanning the crowd at the edge of the ballroom floor, and he had a feeling he knew what, or rather whom, she was looking for.

  He got the response he wanted. Her head snapped around and she looked up at him with a shocked expression.

  “W-why?”

  Suspicion hardened into certainty. “Because I can tell that even now, dancing with me to this wonderful music, you so beautiful, and me handsome, as you claim, you are scanning the room to see what wealthy game there is for you to hunt tonight. I would wish your eyes were on me, instead. If I was instantly in possession of a hundred thousand pounds, you would be gazing with rapt attention into my eyes.”

  “I thought you had left off teasing me,” she said, disappointment coloring her voice.

  “I’m not teasing, Arabella. I am merely stating the truth. You are looking all around to see if you can find better game, someone richer than Lord Pelimore, perhaps?” His anger had grown as he spoke. He didn’t know why, but he wanted to hurt her, to get under that perfect, smooth social skin she wore like armor. He wanted to see the real Arabella, as he had seen her on the terrace the night he had kissed her. He clutched her waist tighter.

  “You’re imagining things, Mr. Westhaven.” Her voice was icy.

  “And why is that young man near the steps staring at you? He has not taken his eyes off you since we took to the dance floor.”

  She followed the direction of his nod, and he could see the widening of her eyes and feel the tightening of her hand on his shoulder. She made a slight misstep, and he pulled her closer, helping her regain her footing and relishing the feel of her lithe body skimming close to his.

  “Who is that?” he repeated. It was some man she was dangling on her string, he thought, another man as obsessed with her as he was. Was he rich? He certainly was well-dressed, and he wore an assortment of gold fobs and quizzing glasses at his waist. Perhaps while Marcus had been away visiting his uncle at Reading, she had been pursuing other fish.

  Breathlessly she said, “It’s just . . . an acquaintance from last Season.” Arabella turned her gaze away. It was Lord Sweetan. She had thought when she heard the news that he was engaged he would forget about her “betrayal,” as he had put it in that last, distressing interview. But from his expression this moment—bitter and angry, she could see, even at this distance—that was not so.

  “More than an acquaintance, I would hazard a guess.”

  Westhaven’s voice was hard, and she glanced up at him in puzzlement. Men were so very unaccountable. What was wrong with him that he now sounded bitter, when the evening had started out on such an even keel? Her chin went up. “You’re right. He offered for me, and I refused him.”

  “Not rich enough for you?”

  What was wrong with him, this incessant harping on money? With a savage delight, she said, “Too true. I need much more money than poor Daniel has before I will consider a man. A hundred thousand pounds is my price.” The joy was gone from the evening anyway, she thought. If he was going to act this way, then he could just sulk somewhere else. And stay away from her.

  His hand tightened around her waist even harder, his grip like iron, and she gasped. “Mercenary little witch, aren’t you?” he growled, pulling her closer, his gray eyes stormy.

  “Didn’t you know all women are, Marcus?” She fought the intense thrill of yearning his closeness created within her. She would not give him the satisfaction of enjoying this friction between them. “Money is the only thing we look for in a man.”

  “Not all women, Miss Swinley. You do not know this, but I was engaged once, in Canada. Moira had not an avaricious bone in her body.”

  The music ended, and he pulled her arm into his and marched her over to her mother.

  “I’ll bet she left you for a man with more money,” Arabella said bitterly, in a low tone that her mother could not hear. “That was why you didn’t marry her.”

  “She died before we could wed.” He turned on his heel and left her.

  • • •

  How had that gone so wrong so fast? Marcus wondered as he prowled the edge of the ballroom listening to the gay laughter and flirtation all around him. Her behavior, looking out for another man wealthier than he, had hurt his amour propre, he supposed, though he had not thought that he had any to be hurt. He still didn’t know if she was serious when she told him her requirements in a man, or whether she was deliberately baiting him. That was a distinct possibility.

  He became aware of a buzz of conversation behind him and realized it was because he had heard Miss Arabella Swinley’s name mentioned.

  A female voice, petulant and with a grating whine in the upper register, said, “—and I said I found it shocking that a young lady would lead a man on so, an
d then only to refuse his proposal—”

  The voice faded out again for a moment, and Marcus turned to see who was speaking. Two young ladies stood together, near the gentleman who had been staring at Arabella with such venom in his gaze.

  The girl glanced at the young gentleman and moved away from him and toward Marcus. She lowered her voice, and said to her companion, “I have heard that she is the most shocking fortune hunter. She only rejected my poor fiancé because she had richer game in sight. She dragged her poor mother to Lord Conroy’s home last autumn, and stayed and stayed until poor Lady Farmington—Lord Conroy’s mother, you know—thought she would go mad, poor old dear. It ended with the most shocking scene imaginable.”

  Marcus edged forward, despising himself for listening to gossip, but unable to restrain himself. Everything about Arabella Swinley interested him.

  “What happened?” the other girl asked, in a breathless whisper.

  Marcus edged even closer, and the first girl glanced up and saw his eyes upon them. She straightened, eyes wide, and moved away, saying, “That is that adventurer, Mr. Westhaven. He is the most frightful hanger-on at every event, and—” Her voice trailed off as she moved back toward Arabella’s former beau.

  The mystery deepened. Marcus gazed across the ballroom at Arabella, who was standing with her friend, Eveleen O’Clannahan, in the midst of a circle of young men.

  Who was she? The cold, calculating fortune hunter or the sweet, laughter-filled enchantress? Or both?

  She caught his gaze and even at a distance he could see the sweep of pink that mantled her cheeks. She shook back her blonde curls and determinedly turned away, taking the arm of a very young, very green gentleman. Grinding his teeth, he turned to leave, but found Lady Cynthia Walkerton at his elbow. “My lady,” he said, bowing to her. “Would you care to dance?”

  Smiling up at him, she said, “I would be delighted, Mr. Westhaven. It just so happens the gentleman I was supposed to dance with was called away, otherwise you would not be so fortunate as to find me without a partner.”

  The last was said with an arch look, and he realized that without intending to he had come close to insulting her with his casual assumption that she would be free. He hastened to repair the damage. “I knew that such an accident of fate was my only chance at such a rare opportunity.” He took her into his arms and was gratified to sweep past Arabella Swinley, returning her a cool look with a bold stare. Let her make of that what she would.

  Chapter Nine

  “I’m so glad you agreed to come on this picnic,” Eveleen said, glancing over at her younger friend with a sly grin.

  Arabella gazed at Eveleen with new suspicion. It was a brilliant April morning and they were already on the road out of London, going for an impromptu picnic to Richmond. Eveleen’s regimental friend, Captain Harris, and his friend, Captain James, were accompanying them, but on horseback. They could not abide the poky rate of travel afforded by the carriage, so they had ridden ahead to bespeak tea at an inn on the road. A carriage loaded with servants and baskets of comestibles followed.

  “I would almost think you had some devious scheme in mind,” Arabella said slowly.

  “Me?” Eveleen’s lightly freckled countenance was the very picture of innocence. She angled her parasol to keep the sun off her pale skin. “I have nothing in mind but a marvelous day of picnicking and a lovely carriage drive in the country.”

  “All right, I will not question you for now.” Arabella tried to relax and enjoy the day. This was what she needed to take her mind off the vexatious problem of Mr. Marcus Westhaven. She would not even think his name. She would forget she had ever known such an annoying creature, no matter if her conscience pricked her at the words she had last spoken to him. “Tell me how your visit to Dover was? Did you enjoy it? And how badly I missed you!”

  Giving her a swift hug, Eveleen satisfied her curiosity on all counts, then both fell silent as they enjoyed the sparkling sunshine and the burgeoning green of the countryside. The air held a tang of freshness that could be found in no quarter of the city at any season. Arabella thought that London was all very well, but perhaps it was not quite the center of the earth, as its inhabitants seemed to find it. This was a shocking train of thought, for she had always loved the city. Why, then, was she suddenly so weary of it? It did not bear thinking about. Another day.

  Soon, they could see ahead of them the roadside tavern the gentlemen had been headed toward, not grand enough to be called an inn, though it clearly had rooms above. Eve was acting strangely excited, Arabella thought, as her friend bounced up in the seat and cried, “Look, there are Captains Harris and James.”

  “And which one is your beau, Eve?” Arabella teased. “Captain Harris seems particularly attached to you.”

  “Ah, that is because he knows I have no intention of marrying him. He is . . . amusing. And physically he is such a handsome specimen, do you not think?”

  A little shocked, Arabella glanced at her friend. “I have not noticed.”

  “Oh, come, Arabella! What woman does not notice a spectacular set of shoulders, and muscular legs and . . . and other things? Only the unfortunate blind, my dear. Even the prudish see it, though they may not know why it makes their hearts palpitate and a glow rise to their cheeks.”

  “Eveleen!”

  “Do you mean to say that you have not noticed that Mr. Westhaven is most impressively well-endowed in all of the previously mentioned areas, plus a few that were not mentioned?” She giggled at her friend’s shocked expression. “Come, admit it!”

  “Well—” Arabella remembered the rainy night on the terrace and the feel of strong arms wrapped around her. Yes, his strength had been duly noted and catalogued along with his powerful arms, his height, and his broad shoulders. And she had not failed to notice long, muscular legs and an aura of coiled strength that radiated from him in dizzying waves. “I must say that he kisses divinely,” she admitted with a giggle. She put her hand over her mouth and stifled her laughter.

  Eveleen gave a mock look of scandalized shock. “You have kissed him? Oh, Arabella, that is as good as betrothed.”

  But there, Arabella became serious. “I only wish that were possible, though I must say he is the most infuriating, rudest man on occasion. Men say women are unaccountable, but at the Hartford ball the other evening we were dancing. I was looking around the room for you—I knew you were back, and I was hoping to see you, which I did, but by then I couldn’t tell you all that had happened, you know—when he accused me of being on the lookout for a richer man than even Lord Pelimore! What right, I ask you, does he have to be so rude to me? And especially after he has been so pleasant lately! Naturally, I told him that of course I was on the lookout for a man with a hundred thousand at the very least, and then—oh, I should not bore you with my petty disagreements with that maddening man.”

  Eveleen waved at the two gentlemen ahead, but then turned back to her friend. “No, say on! I am always interested in petty disagreements. What happened then?”

  Arabella told her the whole conversation, and about Lord Sweetan staring, and Westhaven being so nasty about it. Eveleen nodded and mm-hmmed through it all. “I saw him that evening. He seemed thoroughly put out, even though he was dancing with that little cat, Cynthia Walkerton. I wondered what had happened to make him look like a storm cloud and act like a rudesby. We spoke for a few minutes, but he seemed angry. He spoke of going out of town, which is why he has not been sighted in the last couple of days, I suppose. Are you sure you did not fight about anything else?”

  “I said something unforgivable to him, Eve,” Arabella admitted, shamefaced. She looked down at her hands, pulling at her gloves and patting at her pretty spencer. “I don’t know what got into me, but he spoke of . . . of a fiancée. He was engaged once! And I said she probably left him for a wealthier man, and then he told me that no, she died. I was mortified! But he walked away before I could apologize and now he will likely never speak to me again. Not that I wa
nt him to!”

  “Of course. Not that you want him to.” Eveleen’s voice was distracted.

  They had arrived at the tavern, and their groom let down the step. The captains rushed forward to take each lady’s hand as they jumped down to the stable yard.

  “Fancy this, Eve,” Captain Harris said familiarly. He put his arm around her shoulders. “I have met a fellow I know from the Canadas, from the war with America. Attached to our regiment as a hydrographer, don’t you know.”

  “Well, how about that,” Eveleen said, casting Arabella a guilty look.

  Arabella gaped at her, appalled. Could it be—but no. Surely it could not.

  “Strangest thing,” Harris continued. “Turns out he’s living in London right now, and has even been to the same balls as I, but I didn’t recognize him. He had a ragged-looking beard then, in Canada—a great long one! And he dressed like a native, you see, and was shockingly brown. Would have taken him for a brave without the beard, that’s how brown he was.”

  Fanning herself, Arabella knew what was coming.

  “What is this fellow’s name?” Eveleen asked.

  “Marcus Westhaven.”

  Arabella wanted to climb back into the carriage, but Eveleen tweaked her for her cowardice, and if there was one thing she prided herself on not being, it was a coward. So together they entered the inn. Since Captain Harris had already asked if the party could join Mr. Westhaven, they walked over and Harris properly introduced his friend, Captain James.

  They drank tea and ate biscuits. Arabella did not know how it was, but her vaunted courage deserted her, and she could not meet his eyes through the whole meal. Eveleen was in her usual fine form, and with three gentlemen to entertain was at her witty best. But occasionally she would throw looks Arabella’s way, trying to draw her in. Suspicion darted through her brain that Eveleen had somehow arranged this, and she wondered if Marcus had had a hand in it, too.