by Rose Pearson
“I thought to prove to her that I was not fit to dance, never mind be reintroduced to society,” Jacob said, plainly. “Unfortunately, Arabella was shown to be correct. I can dance, albeit with some pain, which means that I must begin to allow myself to believe that I am capable of being the Duke of Crestwick, when the time comes. I must begin to believe that I can be as much of a gentleman as the next man, even with this leg of mine.”
His mother stopped dead, just as they were about to enter the ballroom. Her eyes were wide, her expression one of astonishment.
“You cannot believe that your injury makes you any less of a gentleman, Jacob, surely?” she breathed, appearing even more stunned when he nodded. “My dear boy, you are nothing of the sort. It takes great courage to do as you have done, to fight when there is nothing but pain and even death awaiting you. No, you are to be respected and honoured, Jacob, for you have given more and endured more than almost everyone else here.” She smiled even though her eyes were sparkling with tears. “I have never been more proud of you, Jacob.”
Jacob kissed her cheek, feeling a lump forming in his throat. Arabella had been correct, for his own mother had also just stated as she had done – that Jacob would not be ridiculed or mocked because of his injury. A new confidence began to flow in his veins, helping him to take the final few steps that were needed to enter the ballroom.
The buzz of conversation seemed to die down almost at once, only to rise again as Jacob walked towards his father, who had been waiting for them both, it seemed. He held out one hand towards the crowd, silencing both them and the orchestra, and sending a spiral of worry into Jacob’s heart.
“It is my very great delight to present to you, my son,” the Duke called, as the guests turned, as one, to look at Jacob. “My younger son, Lord Jacob St. Leger, whom we believed to have been taken from us as he fought in the army.” A murmur of surprise ran through the crowd, as Jacob felt his stomach tighten with tension. “He is to be my heir,” the Duke continued, his eyes settling on Jacob. There was an assurance in them that Jacob clung onto, aware of just how many people were studying him. Soon, they would see his limp, would see his injury. What would they think of him then?
“This ball is a celebration of his return,” the Duke finished, slapping one hand on Jacob’s back. “And to re-establish my son within society.” He lifted his glass in a toast, as Jacob pressed his mother’s hand, seeing fresh tears in her eyes. “To my son.”
The crowd lifted their glasses in a toast, drinking to Jacob’s health, and then the music began again.
“Are you going to dance?” the Duke murmured, as Jacob took a step away from his mother. “They will be waiting for you to do so.”
Jacob drew in a long breath. “I shall try, father,” he said, truthfully. “But it cannot be for long.”
The Duke smiled. “Just to have you here is enough, my son. Now, enjoy your evening. Greet those you remember, acquaint yourself with those you do not.” He smiled at his wife, who was dabbing at her eyes with her lace handkerchief. “We are both truly glad of your return.”
Jacob walked as best he could into the crowd, seeing it part before him as though he were to be revered in some way. His limp was evident, he knew, but he could not help it. Lifting his chin, he kept his gaze fixed straight ahead of him, not looking at anyone in particular.
“Lord Jacob?”
A gruff voice caught his attention, making him come to a sudden halt. “Lord Halesworthy.”
A flood of relief swept through Jacob. “Yes, of course. Halesworthy.” He remembered the man from when he had first been in London, during the Season. He had made a few acquaintances at that time, for which he was very grateful for now. “How good to see you.”
“It is good to see you also, Lord Jacob,” Lord Halesworthy said, with a slight bow. “I had heard of your death and I cannot tell you how glad I am that such a thing was proven to be quite untrue.”
Jacob managed a chuckle. “Indeed. I am also quite glad, I confess it, for I was not quite ready to meet the grave just yet.”
Lord Halesworthy grinned, his eyes flickering to someone who was approaching behind Jacob. “May I take the opportunity to present my sister to you, Lord Jacob?”
Jacob turned, seeing a red haired, green-eyed young lady coming towards him, her cheeks dusted pink and a shy smile on her lips. She was quite lovely, he had to admit. “But of course.”
Lord Halesworthy quickly made the introductions, allowing Jacob the chance to study the young lady a little more. She was younger than Lord Halesworthy, he realised, wondering if this was her first or second Season. Lord Halesworthy was of an age with himself, although neither of them had shown any inclination to wed as yet – although that being said, Halesworthy did not know of Jacob’s proposal to Lady Arabella.
“May I ask whether your injury was due to the fighting?” Miss Halesworthy asked, surprising Jacob entirely with her directness. “My brother informed me that you chose to defend our country – which is a most admirable profession, I must say.”
Jacob cleared his throat, a little unsure of what to say. The compliment was well meant, of course, but it was her notice of his injured leg that had him struggling for explanation.
“Yes,” he managed, eventually. “From fighting, although do forgive me if I do not go into specifics, Miss Halesworthy. It was a rather difficult time and I would rather not re-live it.”
Miss Halesworthy blushed furiously but her eyes did not lose any of their steadiness. “But of course, my lord. Forgive me if I should not have asked.”
He immediately tried to reassure her, realising that being amongst society and traversing its depths was going to prove more difficult than he had anticipated. “Not at all, Miss Halesworthy. I quite understand.” A flash of colour caught his eye and, turning his gaze away from the young lady, he watched the dancers as the quadrille came to a close. It was not a dance he would have been able to enjoy, but the sight of Arabella dancing with the gentleman he presumed to be the Earl of Winchester made the room suddenly fill with many shadows, his heart yearning for what he could not have, for what he had told her not to pursue.
“You do not dance, I suppose,” Miss Halesworthy murmured, as Jacob kept his gaze fixed on Arabella as she walked towards him, arm in arm with the Earl although her eyes had found his.
“I confess I have struggled to do so thus far,” Jacob admitted, only throwing a glance in Miss Halesworthy’s direction. “Is that not so, Lady Arabella?”
Why he had spoken to her, he did not know, but the urge to remove her from the Earl of Winchester had grown ever stronger. To his relief, Arabella smiled at him, excused herself from her beau, who showed no interest in talking to Jacob, and then came towards him. Jacob felt his heart quicken, seeing the glad smile lighting up her expression and thinking to himself that Arabella truly was the most beautiful creature he had ever had the chance to lay eyes on.
“What is it you are asking me, Lord Jacob?” Arabella asked, with a smile of greeting in Miss Halesworthy’s direction. Apparently, they were already acquainted. “I do hope it is nothing too serious.”
Jacob grinned at her, feeling the room grow light again. “Miss Halesworthy was enquiring if I was able to dance and I told her that I had struggled thus far. Is that not so?”
Arabella sighed dramatically. “It is, I’m afraid,” she stated, spreading her hands. “Although Lord Jacob will have to continue to try if he wishes to continue to improve his dancing.” She arched an eyebrow, a mischievous smile catching her lips as though she were suggesting that it was his lack of prowess in the ballroom that prevented him from taking to the floor.
Jacob chuckled, just as the first few bars of a waltz began to wind its way towards them.
“You are quite right, Lady Arabella,” he stated, with a small bow. “And practice I must. What say you?” He held out his hand to her, seeing the mirthful smile fade from her expression almost immediately. “Will you step out onto the floor with me? I confess
I may not be able to get through the dance in its entirety, but I promise you I shall try.”
A slow smile began to spread across Arabella’s face, a warmth firing her gaze as she smiled at him. “But of course, Lord Jacob,” she murmured, accepting the offer of his hand. “I would be more than glad to do so.”
Excusing himself from both Lord Halesworthy and Miss Halesworthy, Jacob led Lady Arabella out onto the floor of the ballroom, aware that almost every eye was on him. But, for whatever reason, it did not seem to be as difficult, nor as mortifying as he had thought it would be. Everything seemed to be just as it should be, for what was wrong with a Lord leading a suitable and elegant young lady out onto the ballroom floor for the waltz?
“You are quite sure about this, Jacob?” Arabella whispered, as he took her in his arms. “If your leg still pains you –”
“I will manage quite well, just so long as I have you here to encourage me,” he stated, beginning to swing her around the floor, although with not as much ease as he might have wished. “You have shown me that I must accept and continue on with my new life and my new responsibilities, leaving my despondency and my darkness behind. Thank you, Arabella.” His leg was already in spasms of pain but Jacob ignored it completely, looking down into the face of his dear, dear friend and finding that the affection he had once held for her began to burn anew. “I will be the Duke of Crestwick one day and I must do all I can to ensure that I am prepared for that time, when it comes. No, you shall not find me hiding in the library any longer. I have pushed those fears aside. Society shall have to accept me as I am, and if they do not, then the fault lies with them, just as you have said.”
Arabella’s eyes were damp, her smile brilliant as she looked up at him. “I did not think I could ever be this proud of you, Jacob. You have achieved so much and overcome more than I can ever understand. I cannot express how much I feel to see you returned to me – to us all – again.”
He smiled at her, his heart quickening as he continued the dance. He could deal with the pain, could deal with the struggle and the ache that came with dancing with her, for the joy of having her in his arms seemed to overcome all of that.
But still, she was engaged to the Earl of Winchester. She could not be his, not unless he declared himself and begged her to do the unthinkable and break off her engagement to the Earl. What would she do then, should he ask her? Would she turn from him, telling him that she could not and breaking his heart all over again? Or would she willingly welcome the disgrace and shame that would come with breaking off such an engagement, since it would bring about their own happiness in matrimony?
Looking down into Lady Arabella’s face, Jacob felt his heart ring with the certainty he needed. There could never be another like Arabella. There could never be another lady to take her place. He was as deeply in love with her as he had been before, despite all that had happened between them.
What was he going to do?
Chapter Nine
“Do be seated, please.”
Arabella managed a small smile as the Earl of Winchester led her to her seat at the dinner table, even though she was quite able to find her way on her own.
“I thank you,” she murmured, accepting his help without question, simply to ensure that there came no reproach from either her mother, or her betrothed, thereafter. Sitting down, and somewhat relieved that she had her sisters beside her, with their respective husbands, and Arabella’s own betrothed sitting opposite, she folded her hands in her lap and waited for the gentlemen to take their seats.
In due course, the soup was served and Arabella concentrated on eating, finding the conversation to be both dull and lacklustre, not garnering her attention in any way.
In fact, she realised, as she lifted the spoon to her mouth, almost everything had appeared a little lacklustre these last two days. Ever since the Duke of Crestwick’s ball, she had been unable to find any particular joy in anything. Her mother had commented on this, of course, for Arabella had done the most ‘outrageous thing’, as her mother had cried, and cried off from one of the Earl’s many walks in the park, which she had been due to attend yesterday. She had claimed a headache – a common excuse, yes – but it had seemed to do the trick. The Earl had replied to her note immediately, reassuring her that she was not to distress herself over such matters and praying that she recovered very quickly.
Of course, she had not had a headache at all, but had spent the afternoon in her rooms, contemplating her future. There had been much to occupy her thoughts and even now, she could not stop thinking of Jacob. The way they had danced together, the way he had spoken to her and smiled at her, was not something she could easily forget. It was as if he had taken a battering ram to the thick, heavy wall between them and shattered it until it was nothing but dust and rubble. They had found their way back together again, despite the fact that she was still engaged to the Earl of Winchester.
But one word from him and I should bring my engagement to an end, Arabella thought to herself, as she glanced at the Earl of Winchester, who was engaging her mother in conversation. The more time she spent with the Earl, the more she was convinced that she could never feel anything for him. He was more interested in ensuring that her mother thought nothing but good about him, making sure to always engage her in conversation, to make her laugh and smile, as though to do so would reassure the man that he was the most suitable gentleman for Arabella.
Except he had not proven such a thing to Arabella herself. She found him to be quite boring in his conversation, aware that he seemed to talk rather affably about himself whilst ignoring anything she might say or express. He did not ask her how she did, did not ever ask her to talk about her likes or dislikes, her hobbies or how she liked to spend her days. No, the Earl did nothing but talk of himself and, on occasion, criticise the opposite sex in any way he could.
It was, Arabella reflected, quite demeaning at times. No, she could not truly consider marriage to this gentleman, not any longer. Not when she knew what sort of gentleman he appeared to be and certainly not when Jacob had returned to London. She could not tell whether or not there was to be any hope for herself or Jacob, could not allow herself to even hope, but the love in her heart for Jacob had never once diminished. No, it only seemed to grow, despite her own confusion, doubt, and hesitation. When Jacob had first turned her away, she was lost and deeply, deeply troubled, but now there was the very beginnings of that same warmth and friendship that they had shared for years. She could not turn her back on that now, not even if they were only ever to remain friends, and never become more than that. She could not let herself marry the Earl regardless of what happened with Jacob. That life was not even worth considering, given just how much she knew the Earl would begin to pull the life from her with his inane conversation and lack of consideration.
“Are you quite recovered from your headache, Lady Arabella?”
A little surprised, Arabella glanced at the Earl, before giving him a small, tight smile. “A little,” she stated, aware that any thoughts of her future, of the Earl and of Jacob, seemed to bring a deep ache between her brows, one that simply would not dissipate no matter what she did.
The Earl shook his head, sighing heavily. “That is the fragility of the female sex, I fear. Much too fragile.”
Arabella stiffened, her spoon clattering down onto her plate. “I beg your pardon?” she asked, as her sister, Martha, made a murmur towards Arabella to quieten herself. “You consider my headache to be nothing more than weakness?”
Baron Southend cleared his throat, shooting Arabella a quick glance before his brows furrowed. “No, I do not think that is what the Earl meant at all, Lady Arabella.”
“Oh, but it is!” the Earl exclaimed, almost jauntily. “They require a good deal more rest and recovery than we gentlemen, for their constitution lacks strength. A simple headache sends them to their bedchamber for days on end, whereas we gentlemen must simply endure it and continue on with our lives as best we can.”
&n
bsp; Arabella stared at the Earl, dumbstruck. She could not quite believe that those words had come out of his mouth, beginning to see just how much she shrank before him. He considered himself greater than she, in almost every sense, simply due to the fact that he was a gentleman and she a lady. She could not find anything to say, her anger burning like a hot coal that had settled in her stomach.
“I fear I must disagree with you there, Lord Winchester,” said Mr. Brackham, with a fond look towards his wife, Martha. “I have found my wife to be more than strong in almost every sense. She is my support, my guiding light. I fear that you are quite mistaken in your ideas.”
Arabella waited to see if the Earl would accept this, only to see the way his mouth tipped into a sneer. He did not think much of Mr. Brackham, it seemed, which most likely came from the fact that Mr. Brackham bore no title.
“I hardly think that one example of strength and firmness means you can speak for all ladies, now, does it?” he murmured, his lip curling. “And a lady who married beneath herself must have a certain strength within her regardless, given what she will be forced to endure.”
Beside her, Arabella saw Martha’s hands clench tightly around the napkin she held in her lap, her cheeks suddenly flushing with colour. She herself felt quite ashamed of her husband to be, finding his comments and his evident dislike of Mr. Brackham to be more than shameful.
“If you believe me to be feeble, my lord, then I should inform you now that you are quite mistaken,” she said, firmly, before anyone else could speak. “I certainly am not so.”
The Earl waved a hand, a jovial smile on his face as though he were merely trying to soothe her. “But of course, my dear lady. Forgive me.”
Her gut twisted with anger, aware that the Earl was only saying such things in an attempt to calm her frustrations, as though she would simply accept what he was saying and believe him to be genuine in it.
“I hardly think you mean it, Lord Winchester,” she stated, angrily, slamming one hand down on the table and making the crockery rattle. “You believe womenkind to be weak, feeble minded creatures with a tendency towards lying abed over all manner of small, inconsequential reasons, that is plain to see.”
