"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.
"It ... it is just an acquaintance from last Season.** Arabella turned her gaze away. It was Lord Sweetan, her most eager beau from the previous Season. She had liked him and had given him every reason to think that a proposal from him would be most welcome, but he was not rich enough to suit her mother and she had turned him down. It had been an unhappy moment; he had not taken it well at all. But 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. From his expression—^bitter and angry, it looked, even at this distance—she would imagine 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 so bitter, when the evening had started out on such an even keel? Her chin went up. "You are 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, "That is right. 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 that 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 did not marry her."
"No. 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. It was just that he had seen her scanning the edge of the ballroom, and had known instantly that she was looking for wealthier game than he. It 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, and 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 fiancée 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 dozer. It ended with the most shocking scene imaginable."
Marcus had edged forward, despising himself for listening to gossip, but unable to restrain himself. Everything about Arabella Swinley interested him, unfortunately, and that was clearly who the object of this conversation was.
"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 covered her cheeks. She shook back her blond 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 cool look with a bold stare. Let her make of that what she would.
Nine
"I am 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. No! 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, really, 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 Cap
tains 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... I do not think I have 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, even if they do not know why it makes their hearts palpitate and a glow rise to their cheeks."
"Eveleen!"
"Oh, pish-tush, my girl. 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 ... I said something unforgivable to him. Eve," Arabella admitted, shame-faced. 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 so mortified! But he walked away before I could apologize and now he will likely never speak to me again. Not that I want 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 and the captains rushed forward to take each lady's hand as they jumped down to the stableyard.
"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 . . . Marcus Westhaven."
Arabella wanted to stay in 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 to him and Harris 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.
Finally, as the table was cleared and it was time to move on if they intended to go the rest of the way to Richmond, Eveleen said, "Mr. Westhaven, are you spoken for today? Do you have important business that cannot possibly be put off for one afternoon?"
"Not at all, Miss O'Clannahan. As I said the other night when we spoke, I have taken to stopping at this inn overnight when I am traveling. I am not overfond of London, and there are sights around here I remember from my childhood. What is your fondest wish?"
Arabella sucked in her breath. So, Eveleen had likely known he would be at this inn! It was all a setup; her friend’s romantic streak was at work in this scheme.
Never had Eveleen's liveliness and managing ways been more poorly timed.
"I wish you to accompany us to Richmond," Eveleen said. "I see you have that magnificent Arabian outside, and like all the Irish I am a fine judge of horseflesh. I would see you put her through her paces opposite Captain Harris's bay hack. I have been trying to tell him this age that he—the horse, not Harris, you understand—is a poor animal, but he denies me. A race on Richmond's open parkland will decide the matter."
Marcus looked undecided. Then he gazed directly at Arabella and said, "Miss Swinley, may I have a moment of your time in private conversation?"
Stunned, she stuttered, "Y—yes, certainly."
He drew her away from the table to an inglenook by the fire, not lit on this warm April day. He knelt beside her and forced her to look into his eyes. His were dark and concerned, and his face was marked by an expression of doubt. "Miss Swinley, I cannot help but notice that you have been avoiding me today. I know why. I made myself abhorrent to you the other evening with my unwanted accusations. I had no business treating you in that manner, and I most humbly apologize. I could not answer your friend until I found out whether my presence would be repugnant to you. I never want to cause you discomfort, and if comfort can only be purchased by my absence, I will leave your party this minute."
It was a handsome apology, almost as handsome as the petitioner, Arabella thought, gazing down at West-haven where he knelt before her. She had a sudden, absurd vision of herself and him in just such a position, only he had just asked for her hand in marriage. She could feel it, the sweet blossom of joy that would bloom in her heart and the giddy sense of the world shifting finally into place. She would scarcely know how to contain her exultation, so she would let it burst forth and throw her arms around his neck and cry: Yes; yes Marcus I mill marry —
"Miss Swinley? Must I take your silence as proof that I have offended you beyond all reconciling?"
"No," she said, quietly. Her voice strengthening, she repeated, "No, Mr. Westhaven." She could almost hear her cousin, True's, voice in her head, guiding her. Always Tru
e was there when her conscience plagued her and she knew she had done wrong. She thought of her cousin as her good angel, but she suddenly realized that what True would advise her to do was not only what was right, but what she wanted to do. It was not going to be a chore; it was the opportunity to redeem her character just a little in his eyes, and more important, to make peace with the part of her heart that whispered she had been cruel and thoughtless.
"In fact, since you have so handsomely apologized," she continued, "I will confess that what kept me from meeting your eyes was the knowledge that I have been the one to offend unforgivably." She met his eyes steadily now, and was caught off guard by the gentle light in his smoky eyes. "I did not mean ... I did not want to—" She stopped, unaccustomed to begging forgiveness, but determined to do the deed properly, she started again. "I spoke slightingly of your . . . your fiancée and I have not forgiven myself for such an inexcusable offense against your feelings. I am so very sorry for your pain, and I most humbly apologize."
There was silence for a minute as his eyes gazed deep into hers, searching, probing down to her very soul. Arabella, a calm sureness that she had finally done the right thing filling her heart, felt her lips curve up in a smile. No matter how deep he looked, he would only find sincerity.
"Then we shall both admit that we have been hasty and impolite and can be in charity with each other once more," he said, grinning and standing. He held out his hand and said, "May we cry friends, then? Please?"
She gave him her hand, and felt his curl around the soft kid of her gloved fingers as he pulled her to her feet They stood together in the dim light of the small dining room, gazing at each other with foolish smiles on their faces. "Friends, Mr. Westhaven. Good friends."
The party advanced to Richmond, a drive of another hour and a half, to a spot Eveleen appeared to know well, parkland beside a pond. They settled on blankets on a sloping green, and the gentlemen eyed each other's horses while servants set out their repast. The day had the freshness of April without the bite of a spring wind that occasionally marks such a day.
Belle of the ball Page 10
