“Arabella,” he said, moving forward but then stopping himself just before reaching out to touch her. “I thought you were m . . . I thought—”
“Do you two know each other?” Drake said smoothly.
Too smoothly. Arabella cast him a venomous look. He knew she had met Marcus Westhaven, the new Earl of Oakmont. He had been at the breakfast table when True read that particular piece in the paper. In fact, True—Arabella turned to glare at her cousin, whose own face was a smooth oval radiating innocence. Had they contrived this meeting? Had they sought Marcus out and invited him here? Why?
“Yes, darling, these two met briefly in London. It was briefly, was it not, Arabella? You said you hardly knew the new earl.”
Recovering from his shock, Oakmont, as Arabella must learn to think of him, she realized, said, “Yes, it was the merest acquaintance, was it not, Miss Swinley? It is still Miss Swinley, then?” As she nodded, his expression lightened a little, and he turned to his hosts and said, “Just enough that we need not be introduced again, but no more than that, I assure you.”
“How about that,” Drake said. “London, for all that it is the largest city on our island, is a very small place. And what a coincidence this is, that the friend of my old military crony should be an acquaintance of yours, Arabella. One would almost think we had planned this.” He shot Arabella an ironic glance. “Shall we go in to dinner?”
• • •
Arabella later had no memory of what they ate that night, whether the first dish was whiting or herring, whether they ate game or mutton, what the dessert was. She stared fixedly at her plate, only answering direct questions from True or Drake. At first she had thought Drake to blame; they did not get along well, but she didn’t think him cruel. How was he to know, though, what a shock seeing Marcus Westhaven was? And his last words had been a deliberate challenge; sometimes it was as if he understood her thought processes too well. And so she must believe that their meeting this way was mere chance, coincidence.
After all, when the news report of Marcus’s fortune was read to her, she had been careful to let no hint of her feelings for the man show on her face or in her voice. But she began to see that True, usually the most open of ladies, had acquired a degree of cunning in the way she directed the conversation. Often shy around new acquaintances, True seemed immediately to take to Marcus.
“Lord Oakmont, how do you like your new home?” she asked brightly, stabbing blithely at a piece of potato that was hiding under a leaf of the salad burnet.
“If you speak of the one at Reading, not well,” he replied shortly.
“Oh? Why is that?”
“It is too big, and people keep ‘my lording’ me.”
“Mmm. I understand what you mean,” Drake said. “Even though I grew up with it, it was rather a relief when I could order my troops to call me Major Prescott.”
“Then imagine never having been called ‘my lord’ in your life, and suddenly being expected to answer to it.” A bemused expression on his lean face, Marcus cut into a piece of meat, but paused with his fork raised halfway to his mouth. “I keep looking behind me to see who they’re talking to.”
Arabella found herself stifling a chuckle. She could see the scene so well in her mind’s eye, the quick glance over the shoulder, then the dawning realization and belated response. But her merriment soon died. “You did have time to get used to the idea, though, my lord,” she said coolly. “You were visiting your uncle for some time, the papers say, and had been accepted as the heir long before he passed on.”
He understood her. It was in the hooded glance and downturn of his lips. “Getting used to the idea, then dealing with the reality, Miss Swinley, are two different things. And while my poor uncle lay dying in his bed, I did not while away the hours counting up my inheritance nor practicing being an earl in front of the mirror.”
She flushed and bit her lip, while True sent a curious look her way. She could not meet her cousin’s eyes. When first the piece in the paper had betrayed Arabella’s inescapable interest in Marcus Westhaven, she had passed it off as the inevitable interest in someone’s good fortune, and had downplayed it ever since, never voluntarily mentioning his name, though True had often raised the subject of the new earl. But it appeared that her cousin knew her too well and had suspected more. Arabella had not been able to hide her growing depression and anxiety as her wedding date drew near, but that was not solely to do with her newly discovered feelings for Marcus Westhaven, but also her despairing realization of what marriage would mean for her, and what marriage could mean, judging by her cousin’s happiness. “I didn’t intend to imply that you did,” she said stiffly, in answer to Oakmont’s acerbic comment.
Dinner finally over, the four moved to the drawing room, the gentlemen agreeing that there was no point in sitting away from the ladies when they had already spent the whole day together. Arabella played for them, losing herself for a while in a piece by Beethoven. His Sonata quasi una fantasia, op. 27, no. 2, was moody and quiet, working up to great lashings of emotion, a stormy finale that echoed her turbulent soul. She looked up once in the middle to find Oakmont’s gloomy glance on her, and lost her way for a moment, but then found the thread again, and worked through to the finale.
There was silence when she finished, until Drake dryly commented, “I don’t think I have ever heard you play like that, cousin. You suddenly have a riveting style.”
Arabella searched for the sarcasm on his face, but was surprised by an expression that looked suspiciously like sympathy. She wanted to cry.
After, the nurse brought the new baby down to be fawned over. Arabella was genuinely fond of little Sarah, but soon she found the stifling atmosphere and cloying cooing too much, and she slipped away for a moment’s fresh air out the French doors onto the newly created terrace. The soft breeze of late summer drifted, carrying the scent of night-blooming stocks and late roses up from the garden. True had not been up to much this summer, before or since the birth of her baby, but it had been clear that the sad state of the neglected gardens around her new home was bothering her a great deal, so Arabella took it upon herself to weed and plant and sort according to True’s detailed plans. The resulting glory gave her a satisfaction Arabella had never experienced. It felt good to work toward a goal and achieve it.
But this night she was not thinking of the lovely gardens, but of the man in the room behind her. It had been a shock to find out Marcus Westhaven was the fifth Earl of Oakmont, but more of a shock when she realized the truth of the “pitiful inheritance” he had spoken of so disparagingly. Drake’s stinging comment that morning True had read the piece in the paper, that the poor fellow had kept it a secret so as not to be overrun by fortune hunters, likely had some merit. But she thought they had become friends. Would he not have confessed the truth to a friend?
Ah, but she had early revealed her plan to marry a rich man. Was that what kept him from confessing the true state of things? Regardless, it hurt that all the time he was kissing her and caressing her and making her love him, he had the ability to marry her and solve all her problems if he had so desired. Or if that was not quite fair, then it hurt even more that he did all that with no serious intention toward her. While she thought him poor, she had believed that he could possibly love her; he had not spoken, she believed, because he knew there was no future for them, both poor as they were. But all the while if he had truly loved her, truly wanted her, he could have just said the word.
So he did not love her; she hugged that pain to herself. She had accepted it, had dealt with it. But he had kissed her and tempted her to indiscretion, all the while with his secret knowledge wielded like a shield. He could hurt her, but she could not hurt him.
She heard the terrace door behind her; it would be him. She took a deep breath and turned to face him in the spilled light from the drawing room. Still so very handsome, she thought, gazing at him. He had not trimmed his hair upon ascending to his new lofty title, nor had he donned more fas
hionable clothing. His coat still fit too loose for a real gentleman, and still revealed the power and almost arrogant healthiness of the man more than a tight-fitting, fashionable jacket would. There was ever a suggestion of wildness about Marcus.
She spoke first. “So how do you like your new life, Marcus?”
His brows pulled down and he stared at her, circling her like a hunter would circle game. “I’m not overfond of it. It’s like a snare, I find. The more I struggle the tighter the bonds become.”
Arabella turned, keeping him in her sight. “How so? Does not wealth give freedom?”
“No. I have people depending on me now for their livelihood. Men with children, families, servants, dairymen, milkmaids, groundskeepers, farriers, schoolteachers—even a vicar or two! I was a thousand times freer when I was poor.”
She smiled at the despair in his voice. “You will become accustomed to it after a while.”
“As do all in bondage? That’s what I am most afraid of.”
“What do you know of that? For a poor woman, all of life is bondage.”
A servant inside drew the curtains, shutting out the light from the drawing room, but the moon was rising and it cast a milky glow over the terrace, gilding the new-laid flagstones. The heavy floral perfume drifted around them, and Arabella stood staring up at the moon, finding that gazing at Marcus was too dangerous to her heart.
He cleared his throat. “You know, I told no one about my inheritance for a reason. I have always despised toadeaters and fortune hunters. If I loved someone, I wanted to know they loved me back, not just craved my wealth. How can I ever trust any woman who says she loves me now? How will I know it is not just for my money?”
Arabella turned back toward him with an incredulous look. “What you really mean,” she said, “is that you do not believe any woman could love you for you.”
“Not true,” he said. “I was engaged once, I will remind you, even though I was poor. And she was a better woman than you, Arabella Swinley!”
“Why a better woman than me?”
“Because she agreed to marry me even though I was poor,” he said, his voice clearly indicating that he thought she must understand him.
She did. Chin up, she said, “You never gave me the chance, did you? You never asked me, never even let me know that you cared for me other than as a flirt. You kissed me and cuddled me but never asked me to marry you, poor or otherwise.”
“Because you made it quite clear you would only marry a rich man. What would you have said if I had asked you to marry me?”
“Yes,” she said immediately. It was the truth. If he had told her he loved her and asked her to marry him and go away, she would have. It would have cost her greatly to leave behind her obligation to her mother, but the temptation to be with Marcus Westhaven, to love him as his wife, would have been too great and the happiness offered too vast. But he would never believe that now. Never.
“Oh, really,” he said, his voice dry. “Why do I have trouble believing that? Oh, yes, it may be because I have heard that you jilted that poor devil Sweetan, who wanted to marry you, just because he did not have enough money.”
“I did not love Daniel!” Her voice trembled and was so low, she hoped that perhaps Marcus did not hear her. It was true; she had never loved Sweetan. She had only now discovered what love felt like, and it consisted mostly of pain, it seemed.
There was silence in the summer night air for a moment. Marcus approached, but did not touch her. “Do . . . did you love me? Tell me the truth and I will believe you.”
“I d-d—” Arabella fell silent and turned away. No matter what, it was too late now. She owed Pelimore her allegiance as his future wife. Her heart breaking, she said softly, “I am engaged. I will be married this day next week. Go away, Marcus. No matter what you think of me, I am not a jilt. I have made an agreement with Lord Pelimore, and I will uphold my end of the bargain. I will be a married woman the next time we meet.”
Chapter Nineteen
Marcus stayed out in the soft evening air for a few minutes more, unable to master his expression enough to return to his host’s company. Had any of what she said been true? Would she have married him? Had she fallen in love with him?
He didn’t trust her, and yet . . . and yet she had been honest with him always, had she not? Much more so than he had been with her. He had lied to her from the very first day of meeting, and perhaps that was what was behind his own mistrust of her. Could it be his own lies he was seeing? After all, did he really think that her marriage with Lord Pelimore had ever been touted as a love match by either of them? No, the baron was not being misled.
Maybe what she said was true; it was his own feelings about wealth that tainted his view and made him mistrustful. Never had she said she would pretend affection in order to entice a man to marriage. And the way she had kissed him at times surely showed a preference, even an affection—
But it was too late. He had vacillated, torn between the desire to tell her the truth and his caution and mistrust. He had let her slip away. He reentered to find that Arabella had made some excuse and fled upstairs. He sat for a while with Lord and Lady Drake, but soon left Thorne House to make his solitary way back to Andover.
• • •
Arabella was pale and quiet, but composed the next morning at the breakfast table. True longed to ask her questions—so many questions—but as it was clearly none of her business, she could not find a way to justify prying. When they were young Arabella had told her everything, but inevitably time had changed their relationship. And this last Season had seen the most change in Arabella ever. Once she had been a thoughtless flirt, but True had seen none of that in her this summer.
In fact, though she was clearly unhappy, she was indulging in none of the tantrums, none of the childish behavior she had been prone to in the past. Arabella Swinley had grown up, and though True knew she must be happy for that—after all, her new maturity could only be of aid to her in the coming years—she admitted to herself that a little more of Arabella’s old openness would have been welcome, even if it came at the cost of a tantrum or two. There was a chilliness to her cousin’s demeanor now, as if she was freezing her heart to avoid feeling the pain of a futile love.
Drake had ridden out early on some estate business, so it was just Arabella and True at the table. True signaled to the footman for coffee for them both. He was pouring True’s when Lady Swinley, haggard and dirty from travel, burst into the breakfast room with a footman trailing behind her bleating about announcing her.
“Never mind that, man, stay out of my way.”
“Mother, what is it?” Arabella cried, leaping up from her chair and helping her mother to sit, before she collapsed. She knelt beside the woman.
Lady Swinley waved a newspaper around in the air. “It’s—it’s—oh! It is horrible!”
War, famine, pestilence: all of those calamities stormed through Arabella’s mind. She grabbed the newspaper and glanced over the first couple of pages. But the main stories were about the corn laws, the Luddites, and another demonstration by the poor, a rehashing of the political news that always took precedence in that particular paper.
Arabella smoothed back her mother’s hair, normally so neat, but now escaping its tidy bun. “What is it? What’s wrong, Mother?”
True busied herself with ordering a restorative for her elder cousin and shooing away the curious staff. Annie followed in and was questioned by Arabella.
“What has upset my mother so, Annie? What has happened? Was it—was it the moneylenders again?”
“Oh, no, Miss Swinley,” Annie said, collapsing in a chair unbidden, an unusual thing for the girl to do. “The moneylenders are satisfied now, and all of Lady Swinley’s gambling debts bin paid off, too. ’Tis something else entirely; it is—”
“Shut your mouth, girl,” Lady Swinley ordered, sitting up straighter in the breakfast room chair, her face red with anger.
“Gambling debts? What—?”
But Arabella was not fated to have that query answered at that moment. Lady Swinley raised her hand and pointed at the newspaper. “Page eight,” she said wearily.
Together, True and Arabella spread the paper out on the breakfast table and read page eight over until they came to the gossip column. There was the usual tittle-tattle about who was seen where and with whom, but near the bottom they finally came to the piece Lady Swinley was in such a taking over.
It is said, the column read, that the elderly Lord P., who was so recently betrothed to the scandal-plagued Miss S., is being sued for breach of promise by Lady J., his “particular friend” of some years’ standing. She has a witness, it is rumored, who will positively state that the gentleman in question promised that if and when Lord P. ever married, it would be to her, Lady J. As a result of this suit, shall Lord P.’s name soon be amended to Lord Pay-her-more?
Arabella shook her head in dismay. It was the work of seconds to identify herself, her betrothed and his paramour in the story. “This is not pretty, Mama, and I certainly do not like my name being bandied about so. ‘The scandal-plagued Miss S.,’ indeed! But other than that, I do not see how this is to hurt us. Lord Pelimore certainly has enough money to pay Lady Jacobs to drop the suit.”
Lady Swinley was on her feet, pacing and wringing her hands, though, and would not be cheered. “Oh, you do not understand! This is terrible. Terrible! What a scandal!”
Arabella shrugged. In light of what she had endured after the whole story of the episode at the Farmington estate came out, she was not acutely distressed over a little breach-of-promise suit. She had stayed in London long enough after her betrothal was announced to feel the full affect of the shunning she was subjected to. Suddenly doors that had always been open to the Honorable Miss Swinley were slammed shut. She was persona non grata in London society, and would be for some time to come.
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