by Louise Allen
Something tugged at her skirt and she looked down to find a small boy holding out a fistful of wild flowers. He was solemn, chubby and with a front tooth missing. ‘Just one moment,’ she said to him and tossed her own bouquet up in the air.
There was a laughing scramble as girls ran for it and she stooped again to the child. ‘Those are very pretty. Thank you so much.’ He thrust them into her hand, solemn with nerves. Bella looked at them, an unkempt tangle plucked from the hedgerow instead of the elegant and sophisticated bouquet. Just like me, she thought. ‘And what is your name?’
‘Charlie Mullin, mum.’
‘Where do you live, Charlie? May I come and visit you one day?’
‘Pa’s the baker, mum.’
‘Then I expect he makes excellent bread, I must buy some.’ She straightened up laughing, and he ran off to grab the skirts of a plump woman who was pink with embarrassment at her son’s bravado.
‘That was well done,’ Elliott said as they began to walk again.
‘I must get to know the villagers as well as your tenants,’ Bella said, waving to a group of little girls. ‘I have a responsibility to them now and I am used to this kind of work from my parish duties. I expect Mrs Fanshawe will be able to advise me who is in need.’
‘It will come as a shock to them if someone from the Hall calls,’ Elliott said, his voice dry. ‘I doubt they have had any attention from Rafe.’
Rafe would not have understood the need to be sure if frail elderly villagers had warm bedding and someone to cook for them or whether the village children learned their letters and he had probably not cared in any case. Elliott would care, but these things were not something the lord of an estate was expected to deal with. This was something she, the viscountess, could do, she realised. ‘Well, I will call,’ she said. ‘And I will tell you what needs doing and we can discuss it.’
The look he gave her held amusement and a degree of surprise at her decisive tone. ‘And I expect you will be asking me for money for your good works?’
‘Naturally,’ Bella said, delighted to find something she was equipped for.
Whereas for this, now, she was not. Elliott was turning to speak to the stocky man who had stood by him on the altar steps. ‘Arabella, may I introduce John Baynton, my groomsman and a very old friend, and Mrs Baynton. And this is Miss Baynton.’
‘Prunella,’ the little girl said, producing a curtsy. ‘I am five.’
The first of Elliott’s friends. Daniel did not count, he was family. ‘Good afternoon, Prunella,’ Bella said. It gave her time to compose herself, to manage the sort of amiable yet dignified smile that she supposed a viscountess should favour. ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Baynton, Mr Baynton. Thank you for coming. I am glad Lord Hadleigh had friends at his side today.’
Mrs Baynton did not seem too concerned about composure and dignity as she shook hands. ‘And I am delighted to meet you, Lady Hadleigh, and to discover that Elliott has such a romantic streak in him! I will call in a week or so, once your honeymoon is over: I am sure we will be firm friends.’
Honeymoon? Of course, with a runaway bride and a precipitous marriage, the presumption must be that this was a passionate love match and that she and Elliott would be spending their days and nights in intimate seclusion. It was the last thing she wanted, whereas becoming close to this friendly young woman with her warm brown eyes was exactly what she needed.
It seemed Elliott thought so too. ‘Honeymoon? I only wish we could, but under the circumstances, with so much business following Rafe’s death, I am afraid I will be sadly neglecting Arabella.’
‘Yes, do call soon,’ she urged as the Bayntons gave way for the vicar to introduce his wife.
‘Are they coming to dinner?’ she asked as Elliott turned finally to the waiting carriage.
‘Yes. The Bayntons, the Fanshawes, Daniel, my great-aunt, Dorothy.’ He waited until they set off and the noise of the wheels masked their voices from the footmen up behind, then bent and murmured, ‘And I believe Anne Baynton is increasing again, which is convenient, should you two become friends.’
‘Oh, yes.’ It would be a huge relief to have a female friend who had already carried a child to talk to. But she would have to deduce what to tell Mrs Baynton, who would surely work out that her new friend had not conceived on her wedding night but was already three months gone. If she confided that a baby was on its way, then Anne Baynton would conclude that Elliott was the father, and that they had had a liaison. Could she let the wife of one of his friends think he had behaved in such a way?
‘May I tell her?’ she whispered. ‘She will guess, I am sure. Bu—’
‘But not the full truth?’ he murmured back. ‘Yes, let her think I am impulsively passionate. It will amuse John.’
‘I do not want anyone amused at your expense!’ she retorted in an agitated whisper, surprising herself at how defensive she felt on his behalf.
‘What man would object to being thought capable of seducing such a virtuous beauty?’
That was hardly reassuring. Bella slanted a wary look at his face and then faced forwards hastily. He was smiling, but there was a gleam in his eyes that sent a warning shiver down her spine. She had seen that expression on Rafe’s face. Elliott was thinking about seduction in rather more than the abstract.
And she was not a beauty, or virtuous, so he was being sarcastic, she supposed, which was disappointing—she had thought him kinder than that. She tried to ignore the hurtful sting of his words and focus on the good news—she would have a female friend who could support her through this pregnancy.
They drove the short distance to Hadleigh Old Hall in silence. By the time they arrived Bella had a composed smile on her face and two firm resolutions—not to expect anything from Elliott and to think only of the here and now.
Elliott helped her down. ‘Well, Lady Hadleigh?’
‘Very well, my lord.’ Her dignified composure was shattered as Elliott swung her up in his arms. ‘Elliott!’ The other carriages were drawing up around them. There was a burst of applause and a cheer as she buried her face in his shoulder and was carried through the front door.
Chapter Nine
The hall was full of staff, laughing and smiling. For one appalled moment Bella thought Elliott was not going to stop and she would be swept up the stairs and into his bedchamber. Her heart thudded with fear and excitement, then he set her on her feet, his long fingers laced into hers.
‘Three cheers for our new ladyship.’ Henlow stepped forwards. ‘Hip, hip, hoorah!’ The staff needed no urging from the butler and the hall rang with their enthusiasm.
Bella felt her eyes beginning to swim with emotion—they genuinely sounded happy that she was there. Everyone was being so kind to her. She untied the wide satin ribbons on her bonnet and one of the maids came forwards to take it and her gloves.
‘Bella! I insist on being the first to kiss the bride in her new home.’ Daniel took her by the shoulders and dropped a smacking kiss on her lips. ‘You’re a lucky fellow, Elliott.’
‘I am indeed.’ Elliott turned, bringing Bella with him, and walked towards the dining room. ‘Bella?’ he enquired, low-voiced.
‘I thought…as he is your cousin, family, that it was unexceptional. He asked me to call him Daniel. Was I wrong?’ Had she erred already, committed some breach of etiquette?
‘Why does he not call you Arabella?’ The guests were behind them, but not crowding too close. There were a few steps still to the table.
‘Bella is my pet name. Rafe…I mean, everyone uses it. My family…’ she started to explain.
‘I see. One you do not expect me to use.’ Elliott brought her to the foot of the table where a footman was holding her chair. ‘Your place, Arabella, my dear.’
‘Thank you.’ Somehow she kept the smile on her lips as Elliott went to the head of the board and their guests found their places. She must never have told him that to everyone who mattered to her she was simply Bella. And now he was hurt that she had gi
ven his brother and his cousin the right to use her pet name, but not him, her husband.
Part of her, the part that was still smarting from his sarcasm in the carriage, was glad. But that was petty; she must make this marriage work as well as possible.
John Baynton took the seat on her right hand, the rector on her left. Elliott was flanked by Lady Abbotsbury and Anne Baynton. In the middle of the table Daniel was already teasing Dorothy about something while Mrs Fanshawe shook her head indulgently at him.
Bella swallowed. She had never been to a formal dinner party before. She knew that as a guest she should make conversation to her right for the first course, then to her left. But now she was the hostess with a duty to promote conversation generally.
‘Are you both from this part of the world?’ she asked. ‘It is very beautiful. So many fruit trees,’ she added a little wildly, recalling yesterday’s drive.
‘Yes, I was born not six miles away,’ John Baynton began when the sound of a knife blade against crystal had them all looking towards Elliott.
He was on his feet, a champagne flute in his hand as the footmen finished filling the glasses down the length of the table. ‘Great-Aunt, Cousins, friends. I give you Arabella, Viscountess Hadleigh.’
The men rose and everyone lifted their glasses. ‘Arabella!’
She sat, blushing and charmed, while the diners settled themselves again. Elliott was watching her, his eyes steady on her face. And then he lifted his glass again. She saw his lips move. Arabella. And then they curved into a smile that reached his eyes and made her feel hot, flustered, special, and she felt, all at once, that she could manage a dinner party for the king himself.
It was half past nine. Elliott shook hands with the departing guests and decided that timing such a departure was a delicate matter—if guests rushed off too early then it pointed up the fact that this was the wedding night. If they lingered too long the unfortunate bridegroom would be champing at the bit.
He glanced across at Arabella, who was smiling at Anne Baynton. She had done well, he decided. With experience would come confidence, but she had natural grace and a real interest in her guests that could not be counterfeited.
But now she was tired. Her skin was pale under the slight flush that heat and excitement had brought to her cheeks and she was resting one hand on a chair back for extra support. For a while he had forgotten her condition, forgotten that this was a match neither of them had wanted.
‘Goodnight, John.’ He gripped Baynton’s hand. ‘Thank you for standing with me today.’
‘My pleasure. She is charming, your Arabella.’
‘Yes, I believe so,’ he agreed thoughtfully. His friend shot him a look of surprise at his measured tone. ‘I had no idea how easily she would take to company,’ he added to excuse his unlover-like lack of ardour.
Then, at last they were alone. ‘That went very well, I thought.’ Strange to have to make conversation on one’s wedding night, if he had thought of such a thing before then he had imagined his bride falling into his arms the moment the guests had gone and…He was being as romantic as a girl, Elliott thought, smiling at himself.
Arabella sat down on the nearest couch, but she kept her back straight, her head up. ‘I am glad you think so. I like the Bayntons very much. Mrs Baynton is increasing, you were correct. That is such a relief.’
Elliott wondered if he should sleep alone tonight and let her rest. But there was a point to be made, and one night apart might well slip into two and then three and there would always be an excuse not to take that step and make her his in body as well as in law.
‘Elliott,’ Arabella said, her hesitant tone pulling him out of his thoughts. ‘I am sorry I did not think to ask you to call me Bella.’
‘I prefer Arabella.’ It was a pretty, gracious name that reflected her inner dignity.
‘Yes,’ she agreed, getting to her feet. ‘I can quite see it is more suitable for a viscountess.’
It was not what he had meant, but he did not labour the point; she did not appear to be in the mood. ‘Would you like to go up? I will linger over my brandy for half an hour before I join you.’
She looked at him, her hazel eyes widening. ‘Yes, of course, but I do not know where my room is yet.’
Next to mine. Anticipation ran through him and he saw her recognition of it reflected in those big eyes. The tip of her tongue emerged, touched the curve of her upper lip. It was nerves, but it was also an innocent provocation that had his groin tightening in almost painful response.
‘No, of course, you have not seen around upstairs yet.’ He opened the door. ‘Henlow, please show her ladyship to the viscountess’s suite and ring for her maid.’
Arabella’s lips parted in surprise. She was going to be even more surprised when she saw the suite in question, Elliott thought as he closed the door behind her and went to the sideboard to pour a glass of cognac. He had scoured the rooms himself, removing such souvenirs of Rafe’s female guests as stockings, garters, a collection of illustrated books that he had pitched on to the fire after a quick glance, several lengths of silken cord and a set of black satin bedclothes. Even so, there was no hiding the fact that the rooms had been decorated with a very different woman in mind than a decorous wife and viscountess.
There had not been time to do anything about the mirror set into the underside of his own bed canopy. It would definitely be better to go to her bedchamber, although the thought of that sweetly curved body reflected in the glass as she lay on the dark green silk coverlet was powerfully arousing. But that was for the future.
Elliott knew it would be no hardship to make love to his new wife once he had her confidence. In the garden she had responded with an innocent ardour that had seemed to surprise her as much as it had him.
The clock struck the hour. The brandy glass in his hand was still full. Elliott set it down, stood up and looked at his own reflection in the mirror. The face that stared back was harder than Rafe’s, less charming. But he was not going to put on a false face for Arabella—this was not a one-night affaire, this was for life. From today they had to learn to live with each other.
He went out to the hall. ‘Thank you, Henlow, that will be all for tonight.’
Should she get into the bed? Arabella regarded it warily, wondering what Elliott would expect. It was large and tented in pale pink silk from a corona fixed to the ceiling. Not a colour she would have chosen herself. Nor would she have lavished all these frills around the room, nor had quite so many mirrors. The paintings and ornaments appeared to be very…sensuous and made her uncomfortable without quite knowing why. The sitting room next door was soft. That was the only word for a room with so much fabric and so many cushions. No bookshelves, no writing table, no sewing basket in sight. And as for the dressing room, it was positively sybaritic.
There was the marble tub big enough for two with a cistern that could be filled with hot water that showered down at the pull of a chain. There were gilded swannecked taps. There were heaps of soft pink towels and a chaise longue and more mirrors and endless wardrobes and drawers where her new clothes looked lonely in all the space.
Instinct told her that the entire suite had been created with pleasure in mind. Rafe had used this for his lovers, not a wife, and it made her uncomfortable to think of what had happened in these rooms, where every step was muffled in sensual luxury.
She came back to the bed, distracting herself by observing how its shell-pink drapes contrasted unpleasantly with the green of her négligé. Elliott had said she might change what she pleased; well, she would start with this suite.
On the other hand he might like it as much as Rafe had done. What had he said about the lingerie she had thanked him for—that it was as much for his pleasure as hers? Just how much like his brother was he? Probably all men were alike when it came to the sexual act. And if that was the case then he would feel all those things that Rafe had told her he felt. Only Elliott would not be so cruel as to berate her with her clumsiness an
d ignorance, her plainness and lack of sophistication. He would be too well mannered to refer to the fact that she was pregnant. He would just think all those things.
She sighed, leaning her forehead against one of the elegant bedposts that reached almost to the ceiling. There was so much to worry about, so much to learn.
‘Arabella?’ She turned and found Elliott standing just inside a jib door that she had not noticed before, its fabric covering matching the wall it was set into. It must open on to his own rooms. He was wearing a long blue robe, the shirt under it open at the neck to give a glimpse of dark hair. A jolt of desire lanced through her and she grabbed the bedpost behind her with both hands, shocked by the intensity and unexpectedness of the reaction.
‘Are the rooms to your liking?’ He came right in, closing the door behind him with a click that made her jump.
‘Yes, delightful.’ His eyebrows rose and a hint of that wicked smile touched the corner of his mouth. ‘They are very luxurious. Very…pink,’ she said, not adding that she imagined this was what a bordello looked like.
‘Certainly pink,’ he agreed. ‘It is not your colour. Change what you wish.’
It seemed so wasteful to change a suite of rooms simply because pale pink made her look washed-out—as of course he had just noticed. But, Bella reminded herself, this is the setting for his lordship’s pleasure, intended to display the woman who lived in this padded casket of luxury. She must look her best here. Perhaps she could make the sitting room more comfortable, more of a retreat of her own.
‘Thank you.’ Her hands tightened on the bedpost as he came closer, his soft morocco slippers soundless on the deep pile of the carpet. It was all silent, like a dream, except for her heart thudding so hard that she thought he must hear it and the rush of blood that buzzed in her ears.
Elliott stopped, close enough for her to see that he had shaved, close enough to pick up a subtle woody tang of cologne. ‘You look like a maiden tied to a stake waiting to be rescued from the dragon,’ he remarked. ‘An amusing game, perhaps, but not, I think, for tonight.’ His eyes were heavy-lidded, dark with anticipation, and she shivered, caught between fear and something else she did not quite understand. Elliott raised an eyebrow. ‘And perhaps I am the dragon?’
