Verity gave her a sideways thoughtful look. ‘I am glad. The two of you seem to be getting on so well. I hoped...’
She never did get to say what it was she hoped for because at that moment there was a cry from one of the children playing upstairs in the nursery and she scuttled out.
Sighing deeply, Arabella watched her go. She knew Edward would prefer not to see her and that he was probably arranging to go and fight for the French like so many exiles were doing in order to relieve the boredom of Paris.
* * *
After an absence of several days he did come to the house to see Dickon. Pleading a headache, Arabella remained in her room, but the fact that he was in the house, even if she did not speak to him or see him was comforting—the one ray of light in her dark and dismal life.
* * *
Two weeks after the day she had last seen Edward, Arabella was looking beautiful in a gown of green-and-cream satin with a tight, pointed bodice with dropped shoulders and slashed sleeves—another of Verity’s gowns that had been altered to fit—and she was relieved her condition was not yet noticeable. She was accompanying Verity and Gregory to a banquet to celebrate the marriage of two of England’s noble exiles. The King was expected to be present to wish the couple well so invitations were much sought after.
But the possibility of seeing the King in the flesh for the first time was not the reason why Arabella had decided to attend. Gregory told her that Edward would be accompanying the King. After giving the matter of the child considerable thought, she had decided to do the right thing and tell him. She could not begin to guess how he would react—no doubt he would accuse her of further duplicity—but at least he would know.
No longer suffering from the discomforts of early pregnancy, which was not yet evident except for a slight thickening around her waist, in her finery she was the epitome of youthful beauty and grace. Her pallor had been replaced by a glowing radiance and her eyes shone beneath their long silken lashes, so bright they dimmed the pearls at her ears and throat which Verity had kindly loaned to her.
* * *
The wedding was being celebrated in a large house in a wealthy quarter of the city. The banqueting hall was brilliantly illuminated and the wedding feast was happy and lively. A good number of the guests were already inebriated. Footmen poured the sparkling wine and served the food scullions brought from the kitchens below. The meal seemed interminable to Arabella. The reception afterwards was attended by a large press of royalist exiles and French nobles from the ducal provinces all packed tight together.
‘See,’ Verity whispered, fluttering her fan and raising an eyebrow as she glanced across the room. ‘There is King Charles. He is certainly worthy of our attention, don’t you agree, Arabella?’
Arabella followed her gaze. It wasn’t difficult to identify the King. At twenty-one years of age King Charles was tall and slender, his features dark and brooding. Arabella’s heart went out to this young man who was unable to return to England to claim his throne. Perhaps one day in the future, when the people of England became tired of the austerity imposed on them by Parliament, he would be recalled to his own. Until then he would have to endure exile with other Royalists.
King Charles moved further into the room, submerged in a sea of silks and satins and a wave of perfume as ladies vied with each other for his attention. The voices in the room seemed to grow louder, but Arabella was conscious of none but Edward. King Charles smiled now and then as people accosted him, nodding genially from time to time to other guests, all the while followed by those who accompanied him, seeming reluctant to leave his side.
Verity was talking to her, but Arabella was not listening. Her attention was suddenly caught by a man who was part of the King’s entourage. Her heart leapt when she recognised Edward. She was beginning to think he had decided not to come. Seeing him now reminded her of all that had passed between them. Engaged in conversation with a gentleman in the King’s party, he seemed unaffected.
At last he looked her way. A world of feelings flashed across his face, then he was shoving his way in their direction.
* * *
Edward had done his utmost to avoid Arabella, but seeing her now, so close, a physical pain betrayed his feelings for her. When she had told him that her husband might not be dead after all, and knowing himself to be unwilling to conduct an adulterous affair, he had convinced himself that an estrangement from her was for the best. But seeing the unguarded longing on her face twisted his heart. For all his firm resolve not to see her, nothing could change the way he felt for her.
As he pushed his way through the throng, he took a deep breath. He had no idea how he had got through the days since their acrimonious parting when his mind and body was absorbed with thoughts of her. The ache inside him refused to subside. Why couldn’t he find another woman and slake his lust?
The truth was that he didn’t want any other woman. He wanted Arabella. Why should she be any different to any other woman? He only knew that she was different. Having taken a moment to observe her from across the room, seeing her laugh and wrinkle her nose at something amusing Gregory whispered in her ear, he found himself remembering how it felt to hold her pliant young body in his arms, the taste of her mouth, the sweet scent of her hair, her body, and her unashamed impatience for him to make love to her and her unforgettable response.
A part of his anatomy responded to that memory, making him realise that he didn’t want to let her go—husband or no husband—if and when the man condescended to show himself. She had told him she would rather die than go back to John Fairburn, and if what she said was true, then perhaps, some time in the future, they might have a chance of happiness together.
* * *
There was so much masculinity in the way Edward moved that Arabella’s heartbeat quickened in her breast as he came towards her. His broad shoulders and clear-cut profile were etched against a sea of colourful and glittering people all milling together. She held her breath, overwhelmed by a wondrous feeling of anticipation.
When he reached her he took her hand and drew her aside. ‘Arabella, how lovely you look. You outshine every woman here tonight.’
His compliment brought a sudden rush of colour to Arabella’s cheeks. Gazing wonderingly into his eyes, she searched for confirmation that she was forgiven. ‘Even the bride?’ she ventured to ask.
‘Even the bride,’ he confirmed. ‘I wish to apologise for my boorish behaviour. Since I left you I’ve been living in fear that you will not forgive me and my harsh words. You must have been suffering all the torments of damnation not knowing if your husband is alive or dead. I should have been more understanding, but I could think of nothing but how his return would affect me. You have no idea what I have been through these past days. For God’s sake, tell me I am forgiven?’
After days of numb despair and physical suffering, a rush of warmth and well-being pervaded Arabella’s whole being. She drew in her breath quickly. Something was happening which made the whole world seem golden, glorious and wonderful. She could understand why he had reacted so furiously and uttered such harsh words. Now, seeing him beside her once more, with that drawn look on his face and the anxiety in the depths of his deep-blue eyes, betrayed how deeply he felt. She felt a sudden longing for him and an even keener awareness of her love for him. She was feeling so intense that she wanted to confess it and to tell him how the suffering she had experienced when he had walked away from her had made her want to die.
‘What we have, Edward, means there should be no need to ask for forgiveness.’
For a long moment his gaze held hers with penetrating intensity. ‘Has your husband shown himself?’
‘No. In truth, Edward, I don’t know what to do. I do not want him back in my life.’
‘So you will not return to him?’
‘No.’
Edward’s teeth gleamed
from between his lips and his eyes held a devilish light. ‘Perhaps I need to be reassured.’
Arabella gave an answering laugh. ‘I regret that I cannot give you the kind of reassurance you ask for with all these people looking on. I fear they would be scandalised,’ she murmured as he raised her hand and pressed his warm lips to her fingers, each thinking of the time very soon when they could again find fulfilment and forgetfulness in each other’s arms.
‘Come,’ he said suddenly, without relinquishing her hand. ‘I will introduce you to King Charles. Would that please you?’
‘Yes—I would like that,’ she said glowingly, her heart beginning to beat a wild tattoo at the very thought. How Alice, who had always had a soft spot for the young Prince Charles before he had become King, would envy her.
Still holding her hand, Edward escorted her to Charles Stuart. In the surrounding haze she saw no one else. Had she wanted to look away she could not have done so. She was not even conscious that people had paused in their conversations to watch her approach. Even the King paused in talking to one of his entourage to look at her.
Proudly, Edward drew her forward. ‘Sire, may I present to you Lady Fairburn.’
Arabella sank into a curtsy of stately reverence. ‘It is indeed an honour to meet you, Sire.’
‘The pleasure is all mine, Mistress Fairburn,’ the King said suavely. Very courteously, he took her hand and raised her up, pressing her fingers to his lips before releasing them, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on hers. He was easily moved by the beauty of women and he was completely charmed by Mistress Fairburn. ‘I am delighted to make your acquaintance. Edward tells me it is you he has to thank for bringing his son safely to Paris. I am surprised I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting you—had I done so I would have remembered, for I never forget a face, especially when a face is as lovely as yours.’
‘You are too kind, Sire,’ Arabella murmured, with an air of pretty confusion, her eyes irresistibly drawn to the King’s face.
His gaze beneath his heavy-lidded eyes was appreciative, his interest unconcealed. She was transfixed by him for there was something so sensual in his dark eyes that she found herself flushing hotly. He was a fascinating man, and powerfully aware of his charm. He emanated a great physical power and the muscles of his hard shoulders rippled beneath his clothes. His movements for one so tall were graceful, in a lazy kind of way, and there was an air of mystique about him. He was younger than she was, for all that he appeared to have all the troubles of the world upon his broad shoulders.
The King turned to Edward. ‘Come, Edward. There are others I wish to be introduced to.’
Edward moved to follow His Majesty.
‘Edward.’
He paused and faced her.
‘I have to talk to you. I have something I wish to say—but not here.’
‘I will come to the house tomorrow.’
‘Yes.’ As she watched him go, a movement caught her attention. A man had just entered the room and she turned her head and looked at him. He had his back to her and she was about turn away when something about him drew her eyes and rendered her motionless.
Cold fear and an unpleasant feeling akin to revulsion slithered through her, creeping up her spine and into her heart when he turned and his face was revealed to her. The shock of it was like a punch in the chest.
For a moment she thought her eyes must be deceiving her, but she soon realised this was no evil dream. She felt she would suffocate. Sweat stood out on her brow and her heart seemed to roll over and cease to be her own. With difficulty she struggled to control her emotions. The ground seemed to move alarmingly beneath her feet.
There could be no mistake. The man was her husband, John Fairburn, and no figment of her fevered imagination. The distinguished features which had once given his face distinction were pinched and shrunken, his flesh waxen and gaunt. His light-brown hair was sparse and grey in places, curling almost to his shoulders. His clothes were fashionable, the subdued colours relieved by a broad white-lace collar.
Noting her stillness, Verity excused herself to Gregory and came to stand beside her.
‘That man, Arabella? Is he known to you?’
She nodded. ‘Yes,’ she managed to utter. ‘He is John Fairburn. My husband.’
Verity stared at Arabella as though she had taken leave of her senses. ‘Your husband? But—I thought he was...’
‘Dead. So did I.’ Considering the turmoil inside her, her voice was surprisingly calm. ‘It appears I was mistaken.’
Across the distance that separated them, Arabella met John’s cold grey eyes without flinching. In some strange way she was relieved he had finally shown himself, for though she could not see him he seemed to hang in her presence for ever, to lurk in her mind. The terrors that had haunted her ever since Colonel Lister had led her to believe he was alive had vanished, but she could not overcome the repugnance she felt at seeing him again. She was going to need all her self-control to prevent her anger and hatred of him bursting out.
With a mockery of a smile, he made her a flourish of a bow and, excusing himself to his companions, who were looking at her with a salacious interest she found nauseating, he slowly made his way towards her.
‘He is coming this way,’ Verity whispered. ‘Would you like me to stay?’
‘No, thank you, Verity. I would rather be on my own.’
As Verity returned to her husband, Arabella moved to a quiet corner of the room, knowing John would follow. She watched him approach, noting his confidence and swagger were undiminished. John Fairburn was an arrogant, selfish man, incapable of feeling any emotion that did not gratify his love of himself.
When he finally stood before her his thin face was so expressionless that it might have been carved from stone. He stared at her without greeting. He was breathing hard as if he’d been running and beads of perspiration shone on his brow.
Then, suddenly, a faint smile lightened his sombre countenance, a smile that hid his teeth and made her tremble inwardly. With a great effort of will she controlled herself and faced him—a slender, deciding confidence was the best approach in confronting her errant husband.
‘John! So you are alive,’ she exclaimed coldly, struggling to conceal the panic that gripped her, her expression a mixture of fear and revulsion.
‘As you see, my dear wife.’ He glanced around, clearly irritated by the proximity of other guests. ‘I would like to speak to you in private, if you please. We cannot converse in a crowd.’
‘I do not please. You may say what you have to say to me here.’
His pale eyes impaled her. ‘Why, Arabella, don’t you trust me?’ His voice was cold and disdainful.
‘I have every reason not to. I believe you were already in Paris when I arrived—which is strange since no one appears to have seen you, otherwise I am sure they would have informed me. I know you have been watching me. Why did you not make your presence known to me instead of hiding in crowds and behind curtains?’
He shrugged nonchalantly. ‘Why would I do that? I enjoy watching you. I always did, you know that.’ He glanced around the room at the colourful and elegantly dressed gathering, his gaze resting briefly on the King. ‘I like to keep myself to myself—although you and I did arrive in Paris at the same time. I did not expect to see you here in France.’
‘I can understand why,’ she retorted with more than a hint of sarcasm.
‘I keep to my rooms mostly. I do not normally associate with such illustrious company as this, but I thought it was time you and I met. You appear to be enjoying yourself, Arabella. You are hardly the grieving widow,’ he accused smoothly.
‘But I am not a widow, John, though for some perverse reason of your own you wanted me to think so.’
‘I know where you live, Arabella. I also know who you associate with.’ When she raised
a questioning brow, he laughed harshly. ‘You have become a popular figure. Your movements are commented on. You have also become reacquainted with Sir Edward Grey, I see. How fortunate for you that his wife is dead and you believed you were free to resume the relationship that was cut short prior to our marriage—when he threw you over for another woman. How disappointed you must be to find I was not slaughtered in glorious combat.’
His mocking tone reawakened all her anger against him. He was still the same. Nothing could shake him. He still had that sarcasm and exasperating air of superiority even in the most trying circumstances. Determined not to let his jibe upset her, she tossed her head defiantly. ‘Is that why you have suddenly decided to show yourself? I certainly do not for one moment imagine you have sought me out to make amends for lying to me over your death in battle.’
His smile didn’t waver, but the skin around his eyes tightened. She saw his gaze hover over her breasts and she knew that, for all his airs, he was no different to what he had always been—a cruel bully. The calm, almost carefree, detachment of his astounded her. Since his supposed death she had tried not to think how intolerable he had been as a husband. Now she was reminded with a force that was very hard to bear.
Calmly, and unemotionally, he moved a step closer to her. ‘You are still my wife. I could not allow your affair to continue, which is why I could not conceal myself any longer. Come now, is this not a poignant moment—a man and wife together again after so long an absence, especially after a parting you believed would be for ever?’
‘I am not going back to you, John,’ she told him, her voice low and hoarse with indignation. ‘I would rather die first.’
‘Oh, but you will, Arabella. In the end.’
Royalist on the Run Page 17
