And didn't an old crony of his say to look up a friend from the army down in Hampshire? Was there not a Major-General Prescott who lived down that way? He found the note from his friend and stored it in the one bag he was taking with him to Hampshire. He felt so cut off from society now; everywhere he went people treated him differently because of his new tide. But Greyling had said that this Prescott fellow was down-to-earth. He hoped his friend was right about that. He missed rational male conversation.
And he missed Arabella. He had tried to contact her, had sent letters that were returned unopened, had gone to Leathorne House only to be turned away, every day until the knocker was down, signifying they had left London. He had tried. But she would be married by now. It had likely not been put in the paper because of the scandal associated with her name that still resounded throughout London, the scandal about that weasel. Lord Conroy. Within seconds of meeting the fellow, after Arabella had left town as the betrothed of Lord Pelimore, Marcus had written the fellow off as a hopeless mama's boy and weakling. He had heard the whole story repeated endlessly, and the more he thought on it, the less he believed Arabella had any part in it. It was all a mistake, or more likely Lady Swinley had managed the whole affair without her daughter's assistance. A woman like Arabella did not need to trick a man to have him marry her.
Arabella. He missed her so badly, and that puzzled him. Why could he not put Miss Arabella Swinley out of his mind? Even though he knew very well that she must be married by now, she was always there; it was not that she constantly came back to haunt him, she just never left his thoughts. He kept seeing her as she last looked, the very last time he had ever, or was ever likely, to set eyes on her. When she turned and walked away in that tiny park across from her London residence, sorrow had draped her like a dark veil. He had called after her, but she had fled like a swarm of demons pursued her. He couldn't have her and he couldn't forget her, and it was driving him wild.
And so on this fine August morning, with a mist rising from the hedgerow and birds flying up from the copse nearby, he rode—rode away from sorrow and responsibility and formality, and toward . . . well, toward something different. Anything! He had the letter in his pocket from his friend Captain Greyling, with an introduction to Major-General Prescott, and the admonition to treat Westhaven well, so he would not think so ill of his homeland as he had been wont to do in the colonies.
He arrived late in the evening and the hunting box, a smallish manse set in a clearing, was everything he had hoped; it was cared for by a slatternly couple named Brown, who ran a very casual household. They were obviously terrified when the new earl showed up on the doorstep unannounced and unexpected—after all, the old earl had not been there in almost twenty years, and it had only been loaned out to friends occasionally in all that time—but Marcus was cheerfully pleased to find himself forced to make do with eggs and ham for dinner, instead of a six-course meal with a footman standing behind his chair. Mrs. Brown soon understood him. She left him alone, tidying his chamber as best she could for the evening, and leaving him to stoke his own fire and pour his own washing-up water.
If privately the Browns were derogatory in their remarks about the new earl—they would have respected him more if he had been frosty and had threatened to sack them for their lack of industry—they were smart enough to be quietly respectful in his presence, without bowing and scraping overmuch.
The next morning dawned glorious and golden, and it was a happier Marcus who set off for Thorne House in response to the written invitation from Major-General Prescott to join him for some hunting. It was a little early in the year even for partridge, but he promised some hare hunting and perhaps a little grouse hunting, as the season was just getting started.
Major General Prescott, he discovered, was Viscount Drake, heir to the Earl of Leathorne, but for all that as unpretentious a fellow as he could ever hope to meet. Strange to think that he was the man at his side's social superior, he thought, glancing at him as they tramped through the meadows and fields toward a beech forest. Prescott, or rather Drake, as he must remember to call him, was a golden man, effortlessly regal, while he himself was rather lupine than leonine, he thought, more wolf than lion. Between them there seemed no barriers of rank though, and Marcus appreciated that so very much.
They didn't talk much throughout the day—Drake seemed to understand Marcus immediately, and other than conversation about the hunt, the area, and some generalizations about each man's part in the wars just over, they spoke little—but Marcus felt a kinship to the man he walked with. For almost the first time since landing on English soil, he felt at home.
Toward the end of the day, as they headed back to Marcus's temporary abode, he noticed his new friend limping slightly. "Blast, but I forgot! Greyling said you were injured at Waterloo, and here I've kept you out all day!"
"Think nothing of it," Drake said, cheerfully. "I welcome the exercise. M'wife will be the one you will have to face. She is a little termagant about my health. She is the reason I am even alive, so I suppose she has the right."
"Alive? What do you mean?" Marcus gazed over at him curiously as they entered the dark, ancient hall of Andover, as the hunting box was known.
"I had a bad spell with the fever—this was before I married her; she had come to visit with a cousin—and she nursed me through it." Drake sagged wearily onto a bench in the hall, handing his gun to his groom. "I was already half in love with her. I had wanted to ask her to marry me, but I thought her already betrothed. But even if I hadn't been in love, that experience would have made me so. She was so very tender, my little angel of mercy."
The depth of emotion in the viscount's voice choked Marcus. Lucky fellow, to love so deeply and have that love returned! "She must be a very special woman," he said, quietly.
"She is," Drake said, casting a side glance at Marcus. He rubbed his thigh, stretching his leg out in front of him, and said, "You can meet her if you will come for dinner."
Frowning, Marcus said, "Will that not put you out? You have a new baby, you said, and—"
"It is not as if m'wife has to cook the dinner herself while holding the baby on her hip," Drake said, laughing. He stood and flexed his wounded leg, then nodded as he put his weight on it, as if to say "That'll do." "Mind you, she could! She is a trooper, is my girl. Trust me, Marcus, we have adequate servants and our dinner will stretch to serve one more. Anyway, I told her I might bring you along if I liked the look of you."
Marcus chuckled. "So glad to have passed muster.
Well, if you are sure it will not put you out, I will gladly come."
"We dine at six. Country hours, you know." It was only later after Drake had left that Marcus realized the fellow had never told him his wife's name. Oh, well, he thought, he would learn that soon enough.
"I hope we are doing the right thing, my love," Drake said, later, in his dressing room as he changed for dinner. He looked down at the old scar in his thigh from his near-death experience at Waterloo. The phantom pains shot through it when exercised for too long, as it had been that day, but he was lucky to be alive, and never mentioned when it hurt.
"It was too great a coincidence to ignore, Wy. Much too great! I could not believe when you got the note of introduction from the gentleman last night; it would seem that heaven smiles down on our endeavors." True, gazing at herself in the mirror on the dressing table, poked at a recalcitrant curl that would not behave and sighed, giving up on it. Her hair was as soft as spun glass, but for all that it would not be bullied into any particular style. Since she did not like to have a maid hissing around her, preferring the little rituals attending getting dressed with her husband's help, she let it go where it wanted. She stood and turned, and Wy did up the back of her dress, after laying a kiss on her neck.
"But what good will it do?" he said, continuing their conversation. "Arabella is engaged."
"But not yet wed," True said, with that stubborn cast to her bow lips. She had already sent away Drake's
new valet—his former one had been his batman in the war, but was now managing the school Drake had set up to train retired soldiers for employment in peacetime England because the poor fellow drove Drake to distraction. He was appalled at his new master's casual attitude toward clothing and harried him constantly in an effort to make him more elegant. Drake, tired from his long day, had been near the end of his patience and True, recognizing the signs after nearly a year of marriage, had sent the fellow down to assist the butler in the drawing room.
"But about to be wed in a week! Do not forget that, my dear." Wy pulled on his breeches and then struggled into a fine lawn shirt. "Will this not just cause more heartache if your surmises are correct?"
"I do not see how there can be any more heartache in Arabella's face, Wy. I know she cries herself to sleep, though she always stifles her tears when I come in. She needs to see him once more, the cad!"
"He seems like a thoroughly nice fellow. True," Drake objected, knotting his cravat around his neck and reaching for his coat.
"He cannot be such a nice fellow if he broke Arabella's heart."
"You do not know that," Drake said. "You do not know anything beyond her reaction when she heard the news that he had become the fifth Earl of Oakmont. It is just as likely that it is her frustrated money-grubbing that has upset her." He tugged on his coat while his wife worked her magic with his stiffly starched cravat. "Oakmont is a much bigger fish than Pelimore, and he is a very attractive sort of fellow in a wild way, the sort I imagine the ladies would like. Arabella is just piqued because she let a prime plum get away."
True sighed and poked his cravat into the final respectable fold. "You are ever ready to disparage Arabella, Wy, but you are not being fair! You did not see her that night she left Lea Park, when I was nursing you. She seemed almost desperate! Her mother has been putting such pressure on her to marry well, and the poor girl had gotten to think it was all she could do, and that it was her duty to her mother. But she has a heart, I know she does, and I very much fear she has learned it too late."
It was the closest they came to arguing, and Drake put his arms around his small wife and held her to his heart Lord, how he longed to be with her again, as man and wife. But she was still so frail and delicate. He would rather forgo that very private delight forever than see her ill again, as she was after the baby was born. "Very well, my love," he said, laying a kiss on the top of her head. "Arabella is a princess in disguise and Oakmont is her secret prince. Miracles do happen, and they will discover that the ugly troll, also known as Lord Pelimore, will be magically transformed into his true guise, whereupon Oakmont will defeat him and release the princess from her spell, after which they will marry and live happily ever after." He dragged in a deep breath after that long speech.
True pulled away. "Wy, do not mock me. I don't like it"
Seeing that he had hurt her, Drake pulled her back to him. "My love, I am sorry. I thought I was being a tease; I never meant to be cruel."
She pushed him away again, but there was a tremulous smile on her lips. "You could never be cruel. Finish dressing, and come down to dinner. We shall see what happens tonight"
"Have you told her there is to be a guest at dinner?"
"Yes, but not who it is," True said, grinning impishly as she exited Drake's dressing room. "I want this to be a surprise to both of them. I have a feeling about this!"
Drake groaned and shook his head in exasperation.
* * *
Arabella descended, realizing as she did so that she was a little late. She could hear voices coming into the hall from the drawing room, as though her cousin and cousin-in-law were just gathering to go in to dinner. True had said some hunting friend of Drake's was to be there for dinner and asked her to join them to keep the numbers even, or Arabella would have just had some toast in her room. As the wedding day drew closer and closer, she found herself descending into a pit of despair that threatened to close over her head like the quicksand she had once read about.
And yet she did not know what she could have done any differently. This was the life of her own making, and she would not whine or quibble about its downfalls now. If she had learned anything in the past months, it was to make the best of her life as it unfolded. She would concentrate on her good fortune, and let go of the rest. Her husband-to-be was a good man, if not appealing to her in any way. All she could do with her life now was try to be a good wife, and eventually, a good mother.
For True's sake, she wore her newest gown, the emerald green, and had her hair dressed up in a flattering Grecian style. She had taken to more casual country styles at Thome House, especially since she seemed to spend all of her time out in the garden or up in the nursery, but tonight True had asked her to dress for company. She descended the stairs just as the company was coming out of the withdrawing room, just as she had expected. Smiling at True, she turned to meet Drake's new friend, and froze.
"M—Marcus . . . I . . . what—"
If she had suspected that this was all his doing, somehow, that thought was eradicated by the look of absolute shock and dismay on his face.
"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 crony Captain Greyling, should be an acquaintance of yours, Arabella. One would almost think we had planned this, but one would be wrong." 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 at first, only answering direct questions from True or Drake. At first she had thought Drake to blame; they did not get along well, but she did not think him cruel. How was he to know though, what a shock seeing Marcus Westhaven would be? 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—^she thought anyway. 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 her 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 cal
led *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 are 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 did not mean to imply that you did," she said, stiffly, in answer to Oakmont's acerbic comment.
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