The Heir

by Catherine Coulter

  “He was forever doing the same with Father,” Arabella said without thinking. “Always telling him he should do this and not that. Father ground his teeth. But he never lost his temper with Hamsworth.”

  “And what was the outcome?” the earl asked, his eyes meeting hers down the long expanse of table.

  “Father never listened to him, so Hamsworth was forever trying to bribe me.”

  Justin thought of the leering old man and his vulgar observations on one of the milkmaids, and felt his hand tighten about his fork. “Oh? What were his bribes?” His tone was so very harsh that Elsbeth’s almond eyes flew from her sautéed mushrooms to his face in confusion. Even the comte laid down his fork and stared at the earl.

  Arabella felt an uncontrollable demon burgeon inside her. Why not? She allowed a knowing smiling to flit over her face and raised her brows. “How very odd that you should ask, my lord. When I was five years old, his bribes took the form of apples from his orchard. Of course, as I grew older, old Hamsworth became more creative. Goodness, some of the things he offered to show me still make me blush. Of course, then he wasn’t all that old.”

  Her reward for so outlandish a tale was a dull flush of anger that spread over her husband’s tanned face. She returned to her dinner, finding that if her pork was not actually leather, it tasted so in her mouth. She was only dimly aware throughout the remainder of the meal that her mother and Dr. Branyon conversed almost solely with Elsbeth and the comte.

  “Arabella.”

  She raised her head at the sound of her name. Lady Ann continued softly, “Whenever you would like the ladies to withdraw, you have but to rise.”

  What an awesome power, to be sure, and she had not even thought of it. Swiftly she pushed back her chair, leaving poor Giles in the lurch, and rose. “If you gentlemen will excuse us, we will leave you to your port.” How very simple it was. She was free. She looked the earl straight in the face, then turned on her heel and strode so quickly from the dining room that Lady Ann and Elsbeth were taking double steps to keep pace with her.

  “Whatever is wrong with Arabella?” Elsbeth whispered to Lady Ann as they trailed after her into the Velvet Room. “And his lordship? He spoke to her so very coldly. Indeed, I thought he looked angry, but surely that cannot be right. They are newly married. It can’t be right.”

  “Sometimes, my dear,” Lady Ann said finally, “married people, when they are first wed, do not always agree. It is a lovers’ quarrel, nothing more. Don’t worry about it. These things pass quickly.” If only she could believe that. Dear Elsbeth, she thought, how very innocent she was. It seemed that Elsbeth had accepted her simple explanation, her attention already elsewhere, perhaps to her future Season in London. Yet, Lady Ann was puzzled, for it had been days since Elsbeth had made any reference either to her ten thousand pounds or to their trip. Nothing was quite right.

  Lady Ann eyed Arabella, who was restlessly pacing in front of the long French windows. She turned to her stepdaughter. “Do play for us, Elsbeth. Perhaps some of your French ballads, the happier ones, not the ones that make me cry.”

  Elsbeth complied willingly, sat gracefully at the pianoforte, and soon heartbreaking chords filled the room. These were the crying ballads.

  Lady Ann walked to her daughter and laid her hand on her sleeve. “Why did you tell such a lie about poor old Hamsworth? You know perfectly well that your father never allowed you within a mile of his cottage. I even remember that he threatened to keep you off a horse for an entire week if you disobeyed him. You never did.”

  Arabella felt incredibly weary. She wanted to cry. She also wanted to shriek. She tried for some spirit but couldn’t find any. She could only shrug and say, “It was only a jest, Mother, nothing more.”

  “A jest that made Justin very very angry. You did it on purpose. You wanted to anger him. Why did you do such a thing, my dear?”

  “It was what the earl expected, no, it was what he wished to hear. I but fulfilled his expectation.”

  “Arabella, whatever are you talking about? How can you say that such a story as you concocted is what he wished to hear? Surely you can’t be right. He is your husband, not some jealous lover for you to taunt.”

  Arabella raised fine gray eyes to her mother’s face. Her dinner began to churn uncomfortably in her stomach. She had very nearly given herself away. If only she were gazing into her father’s world-wise eyes rather than her mother’s so very innocent blue ones. She took a tight hold on her disillusionment, shrugged her shoulders, and said, “Please, Mother, don’t take what I say seriously. I’m sure you have guessed that the earl and I have had a slight misunderstanding.”

  Before Lady Ann could even open her mouth, there was a swirl of black satin and Arabella called over her shoulder, “I shall set up the table for lottery tickets.”

  To Arabella’s relief, the earl and Dr. Branyon did not join in the game of lottery tickets. She found, though, that the excitement of winning and losing her fish did nothing to enliven her spirits. Because the earl believed the comte to be her lover, her most innocently spoken phrases took on a guilty meaning to her. She tried vainly to ignore the comte and found to her horror that a dull flush crept over her cheeks when his beautiful dark eyes rested upon her. If she were not certain herself of her own innocence, she would have pronounced herself to be guilty. She would have announced that she was a slut.

  The friendly word and glance of yesterday seemed today fraught with betraying dual meaning. She fell as quiet as the burning logs in the great fireplace.

  When Crupper entered with the tea tray, she was near to the breaking point. She dispensed the tea without her mother having to tell her to and luckily she didn’t spill any. As soon as she had filled the last cup, she rose quickly from her chair. She yawned rudely. “It has been a long day. I wish all of you a good night.”

  She nodded to the group in general, avoiding the earl’s eyes, and made for the door.

  “Do wait a moment, my dear,” the earl said, stopping her. “I myself am also ready to retire.”

  Arabella wanted to run, but knew she could not. He had adroitly cornered her, and to protest would announce her fear to everyone. She stood in tense silence until the earl, with his customary grace, had made his round of good nights. She knew he was taking his time on purpose.

  Dr. Branyon didn’t like any of it. He watched the earl slip his arm about Arabella’s waist and lead her from the room. He hoped Ann would not ask him to speak to the earl. He had no idea what he would ask, or, for that matter, what the earl would say to him. He imagined that Justin could be just as ruthless as the former earl had been. Could he also be as carelessly cruel? There was indeed trouble between Justin and Arabella, but why? What the devil could have happened?

  Dr. Branyon had remarked to the earl that the comte seemed to have a fair way with the ladies. The earl had replied, “It perhaps serves his best interest to be all things to all people.” He had then said more to himself than to Dr. Branyon, and in the most oblique manner, “I shall shortly know if our young French relative has the spirit of a dove, the fangs of a viper, or simply the unprincipled instincts inherent in his French blood. I believe you saw him very clearly when he first arrived, Paul.”

  Dr. Branyon hadn’t really seen a thing. He’d had just instinctively disliked the young man. He’d said, “It you do not like him, why not tell him to leave?”

  The earl had been quiet for a long time. Finally, he’d said, “I can’t, not just yet. Besides, I do believe I would rather kill him than allow him to leave Evesham Abbey. I would very much enjoying killing him.”

  Good God, Dr. Branyon had thought. What was going on here?

  Arabella maintained a wary silence until they reached the top of the stairs. She tried to pull away from him but could not. She said between her teeth, “Let me go. I want to go to my bedchamber now.”

  He tightened his arm around her waist. “Of course, you mean to say our bedchamber. That, my dear, was exactly where I was taki
ng you.”

  “No, damn you, no.” She managed to wrench away from him. She sped down the corridor to her room and flung the door wide. She stopped dead in her tracks. A sense of unreality seized her. All the furniture was swathed in ghostly holland covers. Her favorite pictures were gone, her personal belongings nowhere to be seen. The room was stripped of her presence. It was as if she had never spent a moment in this bedchamber, never existed. With a gulp of panic she raced to the armoire and pulled at the ivory knobs. All her gowns, cloaks, and bonnets were gone; even her slippers, lined in a colorful row, had vanished. She turned slowly and saw the earl standing in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest.

  “What have you done? Where are all my clothes, my pictures, my brushes? Damn you, answer me!”

  The earl straightened and said matter-of-factly, “I decided your room was not big enough for both of us. Thus, during dinner I had your belongings removed to the earl’s bedchamber. If Evesham Abbey’s ghostly visitors return, we will simply have to accustom ourselves to them. Now, come, wife, your husband awaits his pleasure.”

  Arabella slipped her hand into the pocket of her gown, closing her fingers over the smooth ivory handle of her small pistol. When she had seen it next to her jewel box before dinner, she had wondered at herself for not remembering it earlier. Ironically, her father’s gift would protect her now from the man he had so carefully chosen for her. There had to be irony in that somewhere. She drew up now to her full height. “Were you intending another rape tonight?”

  He shrugged indifferently. “It was not rape. I used cream to ease you. It is not my fault you fought me. However, it will be as you wish it. I will use no cream on you tonight. If your lover is to enjoy you by day, I see no reason why I should not be equally indulged at night.

  “Besides, I am not yet bored with you. Did you forget that I told you that your breasts were lovely? I didn’t examine you all that closely last night. Tonight, I intend to explore every inch of you. Surely you would enjoy a man’s attention focused entirely on you.”

  She flinched at his words, seeing him staring down at her last night. He believed he could do anything to her, order her to obey him in all things. He thought she was a slut. He thought she had betrayed him. Well, she wasn’t and she hadn’t. She also had a pistol. Never again would he force her.

  She smiled at him and watched the surprise leap into his gray eyes. “I won’t allow you to do anything more to me. Isn’t it amazing that my father did not gain your measure before he gave you the greatest inheritance a man could ever wrangle?” Her smile fell away, but her voice was cold and confident. “To think that I must protest my innocence to one such as you. I will tell you once again, my lord, but I fear you are deaf to all truth: I have no lover.”

  “It is true that your father made a mistake, but not, I assure you, in my character. It is fortunate that he is not here to witness the corruptness of his own daughter. Come, Arabella, I grow tried of this nonsense. I have told you what to do. You will obey me. You really have no choice in the matter.” That she continued to lie to him made him want to throttle her. He hadn’t intended to take her tonight, in spite of her taunting remarks at dinner about the lecherous old Hamsworth, but rather to force her to experience pleasure at his hands. He wanted to force her to passion, to make her surrender to him.

  Just to him.

  Though he would not admit it to himself, he wanted to win her, to make her forget the comte. He wanted her to beg his forgiveness, to plead with him to take her back.

  What had he done to make her betray him? A question he had asked himself more times than he could count. There was no answer, not as long as she kept denying her betrayal.

  He crooked his finger at her impatiently. Without another word, Arabella preceded him from the room. Though he did not again take her arm, she knew he was ready. If she attempted to break free of him, he would capture her in an instant.

  When they reached the earl’s bedchamber, he stepped back and waited until she entered the room. Even before she turned to face him, she heard the key grate in the lock.

  “I will play your lady’s maid, Arabella. I want you naked. I want to look my fill at you. I want to hold your breasts in my hands. I want to explore your woman’s attributes. Come here and let me unfasten all those buttons.”

  “No,” she said calmly, standing tall and straight. “You will not touch me, Justin.”

  His nostrils flared, just as she’d known they would. He was not used to being denied. But an instant later a smile of lazy confidence played about his mouth and his eyes glittered with the challenge she had flung at him. He said with slow emphasis, “As I said before, it will be as you wish it. Do you want your gown shredded, Arabella? For that is what your refusal will mean. But realize, my dear, after a week or two, you will have no more gowns. Not, of course, that I mind having you naked during the day as well.” He strolled confidently toward her.

  Arabella flew to the other side of the great bed, knowing that there was nothing she could say to dissuade him. Her eyes measured her distance from him, and her fingers curled about the butt of her pistol.

  “Since you like games, it is just as well that we excused ourselves early.” Still confident, he stalked her with maddening slowness, walking slowly around the side of the bed. She could retreat no further, her back finally touching the long velvet curtains.

  “You will come no closer to me.” As she spoke, she withdrew the pistol from her pocket, held it straight out in front of her, and leveled it at his chest.

  He smiled at her grimly and took another step. “By God, where did you get that? Put the gun down, Arabella, I would not wish you to hurt yourself.”

  “You want that pleasure reserved only for yourself. Now you will listen to me. I am really quite well trained. Could you possibly not believe that my father wouldn’t have had me shooting from the earliest age? And I do not actually wish to kill you, you know. But, Justin, come one step nearer and I shall put a bullet straight through your arm. I will let you select—your right arm or your left?”

  He stared at her with a curious mixture of anger, frustration, and admiration. Damn it, he believed her. As a matter of course, he quickly calculated his chances of disarming her. He made no movement toward her. He could well imagine that the late earl had trained her well. Probably from the age of five. At this distance, she could and readily would, he believed, put a bullet through whatever part of his anatomy she chose. He saw that she was regarding him with a kind of cold detachment, her head and hand as calm and steady as his own would be before a battle.

  He tasted defeat and hated it. “This is just one small foray, Arabella. You have no chance, you know. Enjoy your brief victory for it will be your last.” He turned on his heel and without a backward glance strode into the adjoining dressing room and slammed the door.

  Arabella shifted the pistol to her other hand and wiped her sweaty palm on her skirt. She felt her bravado begin to crumble as she foresaw a succession of endless nights in similar conflict. She felt awash with bitter disillusionment. God, was she to hold her husband off at gunpoint for the remainder of her days? She shook her head, too drained to think rationally about what she should do.

  She looked at the bed, but passed it by. She sank down into a large stuffed chair beside the fireplace, curled her legs beneath her gown, and wearily laid her face against her arm. Somehow, she wished she could cry, but she knew she would not. Crying solved nothing. How many times had her father told her that? She remembered him saying that in a contemptuous voice once when her mother was crying. She had agreed with him. She kept her fingers curled about the butt of her pistol.

  Arabella awoke shivering early the next morning, her legs cramped from long hours in one position. A blanket was covering her. She jumped, realizing she didn’t have her pistol. She saw it lying on a tabletop near her chair. Her heart pounded. Justin had come into the bedchamber while she had slept. He could have done as he wished with her. Yet he had merely covered
her and removed the pistol from her fingers. She rose slowly and stretched.

  She did not understand him.

  At least, finally, she had a plan.

  16

  “The lilies grow in great profusion.”

  “The laws of nature make it so. There must be a lily pad for each frog.”

  Lady Ann stopped then and grinned up at him. “I believe that now I am through trying to distract you.” She drew a deep breath. There was so much to say to him, so much to pour out to him from her very soul.

  Dr. Branyon cupped her face in his palm. “Just looking at you distracts me. Truly, you don’t wish to tell me now how thick the water reeds are?”

  She kissed his palm. His flesh was warm. She felt him tremble. She could make him tremble? It was an awesome thought. Her late husband, well, she wouldn’t think about him. But she did, she couldn’t help it. She’d known that he had very likely felt only disgust with her, never had he trembled when she had kissed his hand. Actually, she couldn’t remember ever willingly kissing any part of him. She kissed Paul’s palm again, then raised her head. “The water reeds are rather thick, but not so thick that they are displeasing,” she said.

  “I am in complete agreement. Now, I shall volunteer my coat so you can settle yourself amongst the so very thick green reeds.”

  But she didn’t move. She just wanted to stand here for the rest of her years and look up at him. She loved his face, smooth and lean, and the lines on either side of his mouth—his doctor’s creases—she’d once teased him. His eyes were a pale green, as light a green as the oak leaves glistening beneath the strong afternoon sun. She realized that she wanted more than just a kiss, more than just a hug, perhaps. She wasn’t certain, but she decided that she would like him to kiss her throat, perhaps even lower, her breasts. She blinked. Her breasts? It was apparent to her that she wasn’t the same woman that she had been but ten minutes ago. No, it now appeared that she was a woman who wanted. For the first time in her life she wanted a man to touch her.