Belle of the ball

by Donna Lea Simpson

  "No, I have no right, but soon a man will. Pelimore. How will you feel when he does that, and then when he pulls at your clothes and climbs on top of you and pierces you with his own body; will you like it then, my little honey-pot?" His voice was savage in its intensity, throbbing with feeling.

  She slapped him hard, as hard as she could. He was insufferable and he deserved to be run through for saying such a crude and horrible thing. "Now you have insulted me past all endurance," she spat, her voice low and filled with loathing. "Leave me. Now."

  His eyes hooded but still blazing with dark passion, he seemed to swallow back some of the emotion that governed his actions, and he said, his voice choked, "I apologize. What I said was absolutely unforgivable, but, Arabella, listen to me—"

  Furious and shaking, Arabella hugged herself, wrapping her slender arms around her shoulders. She cried, "No, I will not listen to you. What I do with my life is none of your business. I will marry whom I please, and what I do with my husband is m—my business, too. I am sure Pelimore will treat me as the lady I am, unlike you."

  Westhaven snorted and drew himself up to his full, towering height He gazed down at her steadily, and said, "Then you do not know men, my dear, for all I described is merely fact." He stabbed the air for emphasis on each telling point, his finger jabbing at her. "I have known men like Pelimore, and he will use you as his brood mare and find his pleasure with someone else. And so he will not think one moment about your pleasure or needs. Prepare to be bred like any prized livestock."

  Thirteen

  Hateful beastly man! Arabella pounded her pillow and flopped onto her side. She had stormed away from Marcus after slapping him again, even harder, and had not seen him again for the entire evening. What more was there to say, after telling him she found him disgusting? She hopped his face was bruised! How dare he say such ugly, despicable, filthy . . . truthful things.

  Truthful? Reluctantly she faced her worst fears and admitted them. Every instinct told her that she could not expect tender wooing, or elegant lovemaking from Lord Pelimore after they were wed. Had she not been thinking that she hoped he kept his mistress? It would be embarrassing if the man professed tenderness toward her. This was a marriage of convenience, after all, that she was pursuing. She needed security and Pelimore needed an heir.

  But Marcus made it sound so ugly, so brutal, so animalistic, calling her a brood mare! Was that the way it was between men and women? Surely some men—^but then, even his kisses had been hard and savage. Not... not all of them, perhaps. Last night's had, but there had been that other time—She thought back to their first kiss. That time on the terrace, when he came upon her crying, his caresses had been full of sweet compassion and care then, his kiss gentle and healing, proving he was capable of tenderness. But this time he had claimed her mouth with a savagery that astonished her. What did it mean?

  He was a puzzle, that was certainly true. He had those terrible moods. She would say or do something innocuous, and he would look like a thundercloud! And he plagued her constantly about her need to marry a wealthy man. What was wrong with him? Did he not understand the most commonplace facts of life?

  The plain truth was, a woman could not marry without security. No amount of "romance" in the world made up for that one tedious fact of life.

  Arabella pulled the covers up under her chin, wishing they had enough coal to heat her room before bed. The spring air was still chilly at night, and her room felt like a tomb. When she was rich she would never be cold again, nor would she ever worry about the butcher and the chandler's bills, or about how to keep up appearances with no money.

  Money. Gold, filthy lucre, blunt, brass, sovereigns, guineas. The ugly truth was without it one could starve, or end up in the poorhouse, or just go on in tedious poverty forever, never knowing a moment's respite, never having the peace that came with sufficiency. She had known a girl who had married a poor man because she "loved" him. That love had not survived a year of having to live in a hovel in an unspeakable part of town. Her husband was a solicitor's assistant, and had wooed her, Arabella was sure, because she was from a moderately wealthy family. He had not counted on the family's quite proper refusal to see their daughter after the marriage, nor to help them in any way financially. They had cast her aside—she had openly defied them, after all— and would not see her even when she was with child.

  Arabella had gone to visit her once, but it was too painful and she was not tempted to repeat the visit. Poor Lizzie tried to put on a good front, but it was clear that she did not even have the wherewithal to keep a maid of all work. She was forced to make the tea herself, and then Arabella feared it was tea that she could ill spare. Arabella was tempted to try to help her—was even on the point of offering money—^but could see that her friend's pride would not allow her to accept help, for that would mean admitting that she was in desperate need. There was a look in her eye that plainly said any offer of money would have been an insult Being poor was a failure in some unexplainable way.

  Once the baby was born, Arabella heard that Lizzie could not stand it anymore and went home, disavowing her husband and living in retirement with their child, dependent on the charity of her family, their purse open once she left her husband, as they had wanted. She would never be able to divorce, and so would be tied to her solicitor husband forever. Not a pretty ending to a "romantic" story of love eternal and wedded bliss.

  Arabella shivered under the covers. Little did she know then that she would soon be poor, too. It was all very well to sneer at a calculated effort to marry a wealthy man, but Marcus Westhaven had no idea what he was talking about. His Moira was likely moving up the social ladder by marrying him, and she was used to hard work. But she, the Honorable Miss Arabella Swinley, could never marry someone like Marcus, without a groat to his name—

  What was she saying? Arabella pounded her pillow again and turned over. First, he had never asked her to marry him, nor had he ever implied any feeling for her other than . . . well, other than the sort that makes a man kiss a girl. And second, she could not believe she was even thinking of what marriage to him would be like! It had been a kind of madness for a few moments in the ballroom at the Vaile House, when she had contemplated social ruin and running away to Canada. It sounded very romantic, but it would be nothing but misery, she was sure. Nothing but unadulterated, horrid, miserable work and labor, and for what? Just for the way his lips felt on hers? Just for the feelings that trembled through her body when he held her close?

  For even when she was pushing him away and telling him that he was horrid and that she did not like his kisses, she had been lying. Necessary lies, but still lies. When he claimed her lips and kissed her with a kind of mad and desperate need, she had felt a thrill begin in her toes and work through her body until she felt as though she were aflame. Arabella stared into the dark. Is that what had made Lizzie run away with her solicitor's assistant? That physical hunger? That all-consuming desire?

  She shivered. It was a good thing she had been so rude and had hit him so hard. Marcus would likely never bother her again, and she should—she must be grateful. How long would she be proof against that kind of persuasion? Not that he had asked her to be his, but Eveleen's insidious words had worked into her brain like a worm. She would give her innocence to an old man who only wanted her for her childbearing capabilities, and it seemed such a dreadful waste when now she had a faint suspicion of the kind of sweetness that lay beyond reckless abandonment with a man like Marcus Westhaven.

  Yes, it was a very good thing that she had slapped him and sent him away from her. She turned over and tried to sleep. But there was one last thing she had to do. She slipped from the bed, took the little bark basket that Marcus had given her from her bedside table and shoved it in a drawer. She did not want to see it when she awoke. Or ever again.

  She nipped back under the covers, only to dream endlessly of the wilderness, a pine forest, the whistling wind, and a snug cabin by a silvery, rushing river, with Mar
cus Westhaven holding her close all through the long cold nights. She clutched her pillow to her and slumbered, a smile finally curving her bow lips as she drifted into the deepest of repose.

  A sleepless night was mild punishment for his crime, Marcus thought as he strolled the streets of London. It was early, yet, and all he saw were servants sweeping front steps and bustling about their other chores. Whatever had possessed him the evening before? What maggot had crawled into his brain and spawned such reprehensible cruelty? He had been unspeakably rude to Arabella, vicious even, and she had done nothing to deserve it. He was not normally a moody person. He did not understand himself lately. It seemed that he was always tottering on the edge of rage; he was jealous of every man Arabella looked at and furious with her for her cold-blooded acceptance that she would wed a man like Pelimore. He was even jealous of this so-called nabob who was Oakmont's heir! Now if that was not the height of absurdity, he did not know what was.

  He wanted her for himself. He could no longer ignore the feelings that stormed through his bloodstream, and yet he could not imagine how he had come to such a pass. He supposed he had loved Moira, but really, would he have asked her to marry him if she had not been carrying his child? Likely not. He was young then, and only thought of making his fortune. Moira had caused him to change his plans, but only because he cared for her deeply and would not see her bear their child without the protection of his name.

  But after she died, making his fortune had not seemed as important as just living for the moment. He had drifted for many years—apart from his work during the war, that is—until he got the letter from England, the letter that had sought him out in the wilds of Upper Canada, up near Hudson's Bay. He considered ignoring it and going on with his life, but there must have been a part of him that was ready to go home, curious, perhaps about what a decade or more had done to England.

  Marcus looked up and realized that he was in front of the Mayfair town home that was Arabella's abode this Season. Maddening minx! Was he blinded by lust? Did he just imagine that there was some fine core to her, some fiery, beautiful inner light that was tamped down by convention? He frowned and tapped his foot on the flagstone paving.

  It was a little early for morning calls, but he hoped to find her alone. Needed to find her alone. He had that to say which could not be said with other visitors. His apology must be detailed and complete, or he could not rest. He was admitted, and waited in a morning parlor, a sunny room on the south side overlooking a fenced garden across the street, dimly seen through lacy curtains. He stood staring with his hat in hand; he did not think he would be there long enough to give it up. She might even refuse to see him, or she might have him thrown from the premises. He wouldn't have blamed her if that was the case.

  He heard a rustle of skirts and turned. She stood framed by the door, her lovely blond hair down and back in a simple bun. Gowned in a simple muslin morning dress of a moss green color, she wore no adornments: no jewels, no lace, no ribbon. She looked enchanting, the prettiest he had ever seen her and that was saying a lot, for she was a beautiful woman. There was an expression of uncertainty on her pale face and she did not advance into the room. She looked like a fawn about to flee if he became intemperate.

  "Please, Arabella, come and sit" He waved his hat at a brocaded fainting couch that lined a wall.

  She entered and sat primly, eyes down on her folded hands. Needing to see her eyes, Marcus knelt at her side and she looked up, startled, her green eyes glowing in the sunny room.

  "I came to apologize," he said, hoping he sounded as humble as he felt. He did not have much experience with apologizing, though he was getting into the habit with this young woman..

  "That was not necessary, sir. I believe you apologized last night." Her voice was brittle but politely toned.

  "Not properly. Not for everything." Damn, she was staring down at her hands again, twining her slender fingers around each other. For a moment he was caught by those hands, and how different they were from Moira's. His fiancée’s had been work-roughened and brown. These delicate hands could no more milk a cow, haul water, plant vegetables, and saddle a horse, than he could net a purse.

  He cleared his throat, able to see in his mind's eye only too well what they could do, given the opportunity. Maybe this madness, this fire in his blood, was just lust, passion, yearning. He had never been one to avail himself of casual liaisons, but perhaps he would be more fit for a lady's company if he had.

  She looked up, a question in her eyes, and he was in that single moment sure of one thing. This longing was not just an indiscriminate desire for womanly flesh. It was Arabella. He wanted her in ways he had wanted no other woman; he wanted to claim her as his own and give himself to her in return. There was something about her, some indefinable sweetness, unbearably endearing, and yet fiercely denied by herself. It was that that he loved as much as anything. He knew how vulnerable she was, and how much she hated that yielding, tender part of her, perhaps to the point of disavowal.

  Keeping his voice gentle, he said, "I must apologize again, Arabella, for the awful things I said last night. I had no right to treat you that way, nor to use you so roughly. I am so very sorry, both for what I said—my hasty temper—and the uncivil manner in which I handled you. Forgive me.*'

  Her expression softened. She worried her lip with white teeth, but then said, "You were horrible, Marcus. I don't understand you when you are like that. I should punish you longer for your treatment of me, but I find I can't."

  He gazed into her green eyes with hope. He had expected resentment and anger; perhaps it was a good sign that he was to be treated with neither. "It's just that I wish you would give up this scheme to marry Pelimore."

  Her face froze. "Marcus, stay out of business that does not concern you," Arabella said.

  There was a warning, but there was also a kind of sadness in her voice. Maybe there was still time to dissuade her—he could not let it go, not while there was a chance. "Just consider, my dear, what marriage means. You will become his wife, 'flesh of his flesh.' Marriage means uniting in every way possible, not just legally! Do not do this without love, or ... or at least respect! Affection!"

  She turned her face away and gazed out the window. Her voice was tight when she said, "Do you think I do not know what marriage means? That I am not prepared? I am not a silly little green girl, Marcus. I know what I am doing."

  A spurt of irritation flared in Marcus. His fists clenched. "Do you really? Do you know what he will expect of you?"

  "Marcus, don't."

  Her voice was tired and her expression set. He swallowed his anger. What was it about her that tantalized and irritated him at the same time? He could ask himself questions forever and never learn the answers. He must accept that she knew what she was doing. Or did he have to accept it? Did he dare say the word, make the move, ask the question that would change everything? Did he dare tell her she need not throw her life away as she was prepared to do?

  He reached out to her. "Arabella, I want to tell you—"

  At that moment Lady Swinley erupted into the room, took one look at him knelt in front of Arabella in the act of taking her hands in his, and screeched, "Get out! Get out, you interloper. You have no business here. Albert! Albert, show this gentleman out!"

  Well, she had never liked him, but this was beyond the pale. He stood. "Lady Swinley, I do not think this is necess—"

  "I said get out, you swine!" Her pinched face was pale with fury.

  "Arabella," he said, turning.

  She had stood and was going to her mother. "Mother, calm yourself! Mr. Westhaven was just—"

  "I don't care what he was doing, he must leave! It is too early for callers! You are not dressed properly yet. He should not have come so early!"

  Arabella's green eyes were wide with alarm as a string of spittle flew from Lady Swinley's mouth. "Marcus," she said, turning. "Maybe you had better go. I will talk to you later. Mother is just a little ... is just not herself this
morning."

  "She is exactly herself," he said, grimly, picking his hat up off the floor where he had laid it while talking to Arabella. "But I will go." He touched her shoulder,rubbing his thumb against her fabric-covered arm. "Will I see you later at the Moorehouse ball?"

  She nodded, her eyes wide and full of some unreadable expression, and he moved toward the door He looked back, but she was administering to her mother, patting her back and speaking in a soothing whisper. He left. After all, he would see her later And in the meantime he could think about what had occurred to him as he knelt in front of her. Should he or shouldn't he?

  Fourteen

  Arabella knew that part—or even most—of her mother's anger was because she had misinterpreted that scene between her and Marcus, whom Lady Swinley had always disliked and damned as a mushroom. They had spoken on occasion, and always, Lady Swinley had found something to criticize about his manner, or his antecedents, or even his looks. It must have appeared, posed as he was, that he was asking for her hand in marriage, and that would be enough to send her mother into hysterics. Of course it was not that No, that was something that would never happen.

  But it took the better part of the morning and into the afternoon to calm Lady Swinley down. She told Arabella that she had had another visit that very morning from "that horrid man" as she called the moneylender, and it left her feeling faint and afraid. She would not rest, she said, could never be comfortable again until she knew her daughter had Lord Pelimore sewn up as her intended; then and only then could she relax in the knowledge that their future was secure.

  But Arabella could not put out of her mind what Marcus had said. Affection. Respect. He named those two qualities as important in a marriage, even if love was lacking. As she gazed ahead into the long years of bearing and raising children, living with one man, his lover, his nurse should he fall ill, did she care enough about Lord Pelimore to do all of that?