Courting Scandal

by Donna Lea Simpson

  So she was determined that the end of this night would see Lord Pelimore asking to visit the next morning with an interesting question. But on entering the drawing room where the party was gathered before going in to dine, who should she see but Marcus Westhaven, sitting and grinning up at her from a sofa, which he shared with the very pretty matron, Mrs. Olivia Howland.

  What was he doing there? She had not seen him since that awful scene on the terrace at the O’Lachlans’, and had been glad to hear he was out of town again. But now here he was, as large as life, a broad smile displaying square, white teeth.

  A streak of jealously raged through her at the way Mrs. Howland, sans husband, flirted outrageously with Westhaven. She laid her pretty, delicate hand on his arm and snuggled close to his sizable frame, gazing up at him with a simpering expression on her lovely face. And he, the devil, was flirting back, smiling down into her exquisite eyes.

  Arabella sniffed, put her nose up, and headed for Lord Pelimore, who was sitting with Lady Jacobs, a buxom fortyish widow who had reportedly cut a wide swath though the ranks of tonnish men of a certain age. It was well known that she and the aging baron were intimate, and Arabella thought that it might be good if he had that outlet even after marriage. Anything that would lessen his need for her as companion was to be considered a good thing.

  Lady Jacobs looked her over assessingly. “Miss Swinley, how comely you look. I believe I remember that gown from last year; quite one of the prettiest of your wardrobe.”

  Arabella fought the urge to snipe back after that snide remark, but it would not do to appear petty in front of her future bridegroom. A wave of revulsion shook her, but she determinedly suppressed it and sat down next to Lord Pelimore. “As always, Lady Jacobs, you are the picture of refinement.”

  The woman frowned and looked as though she was trying to discover the expected malicious retort in that, but finding none, remained silent.

  “I am so very grateful to see you better, my lord, after your recent indisposition!” Arabella laid her hand on the man’s arm in a daring show of familiarity, then glanced over at Westhaven. The elderly baron started. But Arabella could not afford to waste time. His lordship had been absent from the social scene for three days, unfortunately the same amount of time Marcus Westhaven was missing as well. Unfortunate because without Westhaven’s presence she could have made up for lost time. Arabella was determined, though, not to let Westhaven interfere in her plans anymore. She would ignore him and devote herself to Lord Pelimore.

  The company was small, just twelve gentlemen and twelve ladies. When the butler came to the door, bowed, and announced dinner was ready, Olivia Howland jumped to her feet in a swift movement and organized the procession to the dinner table according to her seating plan. Arabella found herself on Lord Pelimore’s arm, just as her mother had said. But when she sat down at the table, she found that on her left was Marcus Westhaven. And his gray eyes were alight with mischief.

  “What good fortune, Miss Swinley,” he said with a smirk on his face, “that I should have the opportunity to apologize for my shocking misbehavior a few nights ago.”

  “If you were so intent on apologizing,” Arabella said in frigid tones, “I have been home every day, and at balls and the opera every night. You did not see fit to make an effort to apologize, so I cannot believe that you were so very concerned.”

  He gazed at her steadily. “It sounds as if you are quizzing me as to my whereabouts, young lady. Bad ton. Very bad ton.”

  Oooh! Outrageous man! As if he would know bad ton from good ton. She ignored him.

  “I was visiting relatives, if you must have an explanation for my absence. I have been out of the country so long that most of them thought I was dead.”

  “What a disappointment to them when you appeared alive and so very healthy.” Lord Pelimore, on her right, was just being served and she waited while his soup plate was placed before him.

  “Mmmph, real turtle,” his lordship exclaimed as he took a mouthful.

  Arabella, who had been about to speak to him, decided it was better to let him eat first, she supposed, since he was so intent on his dinner.

  “Do you accept my apology?”

  Westhaven’s voice was a whisper in her ear, and the small hairs on the back of her neck stood up. Reluctantly she turned back to him. What a pity he was so handsome. That, she had decided, lay at the back of her undeniable attraction to him. Olivia Howland at the end of the table was trying to get his attention, probably wanting to make sheep’s eyes at him, Arabella thought acidly. It was well known that she was bored by her husband, a minor diplomat attached to the War Office, so it was no wonder she was drawn to Marcus Westhaven. He looked, in the elegant surroundings of the dining room, like a wolf in the midst of a flock of helpless sheep. The other men’s finished appearance looked effete and pallid next to his rugged, lupine vigor.

  “I accept your apology, sir, now leave me alone, please!” Where the plea had come from, Arabella did not know, but it was heartfelt. She could not concentrate with him next to her. He radiated some force that held her helpless and confused in the face of it, but she could not allow it to interfere any longer in her pursuit of Lord Pelimore. It was imperative that she sew up this betrothal with no more delay.

  There was silence, and she darted a look at Westhaven. He was gazing at her with indecision in his hooded gray eyes. He started to say something, then stopped. On her right, she could hear Lord Pelimore scraping the bottom of his soup plate with his spoon. She had not touched her own soup and could not bear to even think about it at that moment. There was something in the air between her and Westhaven, something hanging unsaid, something important.

  “What is it?” she whispered, looking into his eyes. The gray of them was dark, with coal flecks in their depths and a coal ring around the iris.

  “Arabella, I want to tell you—”

  “Miss Swinley, what is all the whisperin’ about?” Lord Pelimore chose that moment to be attentive to his dinner partner. They were between courses, so that explained it.

  But Arabella could not afford to miss the opportunity, nor could she let him get the wrong impression about her and Westhaven. “We were not whispering, sir; Mr. Westhaven was just informing me that—that I had a curl amiss.”

  “Mr. Westhaven should keep his ‘informing’ to himself,” Lord Pelimore said testily.

  “It was kindly meant, sir. A lady must always wish to know when her appearance is not . . . not up to scratch.” She was scrabbling for conversation and sounded hen-witted at best, she thought.

  The baron stared at her. “Can’t see anything wrong with your hair, young lady. You look perfect, as always.”

  “Why, thank you, sir.”

  “Lord Pelimore has found something upon which we concur,” Westhaven said dryly. “You always look perfect, Miss Swinley.”

  “I suppose your colonial ladies have no time for such nonsense as pretty dresses and bonnets,” Arabella said, responding swiftly to what she fancied was some kind of implied criticism. Somehow, even a compliment from him sounded like faultfinding.

  “On the contrary; maidens will always be maidens, wherever they reside. There are some remarkably pretty girls in the Canadas, Miss Swinley.”

  The answer did not please her as she supposed it ought. It promised to be a long, awkward evening. “I’m sure there are,” she retorted. “And I’m sure you have flirted with every one of them.”

  Chapter Eight

  After dinner, as the gentlemen sat smoking cigars and drinking port, Pelimore gazed steadily at Westhaven through a cloud of smoke. Under cover of a rather loud political discussion taking place at the other end of the table, concerning the Luddite threat and what to do about it, the baron said, “What’s your interest in Miss Swinley?”

  Marcus, startled, blew out a mouthful of smoke and said, “Interest? I have no interest in Miss Swinley.”

  “Good. Because just between you an’ me, man to man, as it were, I intend
to offer for the gel.”

  Staring at the much older man, his black dinner coat covered in a fine layer of gray ash, Marcus was surprised at the wave of anger that swept through him. It really wasn’t any of his business, since Miss Swinley appeared determined to have him, too. But he couldn’t help himself. “Is she not a little young for your tastes?”

  Complacently flicking ash off the end of his cigar, Pelimore said, “Need a young’un. Got to breed an heir. Can’t abide m’nephew, an’ he’s set to inherit since my Jamie died last year. So, I’ll just get another heir before I pop off.”

  Sprawled at his ease, no one but those who knew him intimately would have recognized the coiled tension in Marcus. He felt it in himself, felt the anger that roiled through his belly at the casual assumption of right to Arabella’s body, as though she would be this man’s chattel, to breed and then forget. Lord, but he had been living in a freer society for too long! He had forgotten the arrogant assumptions made by those with any sort of power. Not that it did not happen in the colonies, but then he had not spent much time in York, the largest center of society in Upper Canada. Most of his time was spent in a canoe charting waterways. His ideas had become positively radical, it seemed, while he had been away. Though he always did think differently from those around him. That was what had sent him away from home in the first place, his inability to conform his thoughts and beliefs to those of the people around him.

  But he must remember that just because they did not see eye to eye on much did not mean that Lord Pelimore was without any human feeling. And so he would give this man a chance to profess some caring for Arabella, some decent pretense of affection. “What about Miss Swinley? Why her?”

  Lord Pelimore, face red from too much port, waved his hand around and said, “Look at her, man! She’s a diamond! If I gotta bed a young one, it’s gonna be a diamond, not some wizen-faced little spinster girl, like all the old dragons have been throwing at me lately. My money’s gonna buy quality, not shabby cast-offs. Can’t believe some young buck hasn’t snatched her up.” He rubbed his hands together. “But she’ll take me. She’s bin making up to me for a while now, and pretty soon I’ll let her know it’s worked. She can have me an’ m’money s’long as she gets me an heir.” Pelimore winked at Marcus. “Man of the world to man of the world,” he said, jabbing at Marcus with the lit end of the cigar, “I don’t mind telling you, I will enjoy the gettin’.”

  A slash of hot anger coursed through Marcus. If the man hadn’t been old enough to be his father, Marcus would have challenged him for such disrespectful language toward a lady. Worse than disrespectful; filthy and degenerate! But who was he to talk? He who had grabbed at her like she was some doxy to be had for a shilling or a pint of gin!

  But it was not right that a blooming girl like Arabella should wed this man, this cretinous old aristocratic lout. He refused to believe she held him in any affection. No, she was going for the biggest money pot she could find. And he did not know why he cared. If she was as money-grubbing as all that, then he should just abandon her to her fate.

  But he couldn’t. And he wouldn’t. Whether she liked it or not, she had a champion. He would save her from herself, and from making a mess of her life, if he could.

  • • •

  The Season was progressing nicely, everyone solemnly declared. It was that most glorious time of year, spring in London, with not just one but two royal weddings to look forward to. Princess Charlotte, the Regent’s well-loved daughter, was set to marry a handsome young man, Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg, on the second of May, so 1816 would go down in history as a most propitious time for marriage. And it was a love match, everyone sighed.

  And then, two months later there would be another rare spectacle, for Princess Mary, one of the king and queen’s middle-aged daughters, was set to marry her cousin and longtime intended husband, the Duke of Gloucester. Perhaps not a love match, but appropriate and long overdue, nonetheless.

  There seemed to be an added sparkle of life to London society; every ball was pronounced a capital success, every girl was a diamond, every young gent a fine buck. And yet there was definitely something missing for Arabella. For her the Season seemed solemn and dark and desperately wanting in joy, one long, tedious worry session.

  Except when Marcus Westhaven was around. She should be cutting him, and yet she could not do it. No matter how maddening he was, he was also charming, handsome, good-humored, and since he had learned the new steps, a wonderful dancer. Desperately in need of merriment, Arabella could not help but respond. He always seemed to know just what to say, just what to do to make her laugh. She missed him terribly during his mysterious absences, but after a few days gone he would turn up in London again with some small gift for her, or a posy of country flowers to brighten her day.

  April, with its brilliant sunshine, drenching rain and glorious bursts of flowers came, and the first ball of the month was the Hartford ball. She was feeling sprightly because her mother had obtained some money from their steward, enough to put off the wolves at the door, though not nearly enough to pay all their outstanding bills.

  And she was wearing a new gown fashioned from a bolt of cloth her mother said she had obtained for nearly nothing. It was sea green, close in color to her eyes, and it had a shimmer of gold through it. With some rescued lace from a dress that was hopelessly out of fashion and could not be worn, she felt like a new woman. She and her mother drew up to the Hartford residence that night in the Leathornes’ elegant carriage, both in reasonably good spirits. As she often did anymore, her mother disappeared immediately as they entered.

  Arabella stood on the landing above the ballroom and glanced around looking for some acquaintance, hopefully Eveleen, who was supposed to be back in town any day now. But the first person she saw was Marcus Westhaven. He approached her and she saw the admiration in his eyes. It gave her a thrill down her spine to see the way his gaze lingered, and the fire that flared deep within the charcoal of his eyes. Ever since the dinner at the Howlands he had been attentive and courteous, still always there, but with a supportive smile and a compliment. He walked with her and talked with her, almost as if he was courting her. She could become accustomed to such treatment. His small gifts were never out of keeping with their friendship, his conversation was never distressing. For the moment the friction that had seemed a natural part of their relationship was absent.

  Her mind wandered for just a moment. What would it be like to have a husband like Marcus? Would he always be this attentive, or would their marriage devolve into the sullen frigidity she had observed between some couples? But no, she must not ponder on such topics. She would just enjoy the days and evenings of freedom, while Lord Pelimore, forced to return to his country manor to solve some problem or another that he had explained in protracted detail in a note he had sent to Arabella along with an enormous bouquet of flowers, was absent. Her mother would not plague her until her prospective husband was back.

  “You look like a spring morning,” Westhaven said, taking her hand and holding her away from him as he gazed admiringly at her. “That green is lovely, but not nearly as beautiful as you are.”

  How was it that a young lady as experienced in town flattery as she should be so flustered every time Westhaven said something kind? Arabella felt her cheeks flame. “Thank you, sir. May I say that you look very handsome yourself.” And he did. For so poverty-stricken a gentleman, he always appeared “bang up to the mark,” as cant would say it. Of course, a man only needed one good evening suit and he was set for the Season, but still . . . She eyed him curiously, noting his snowy white linens and perfect “mathematical,” the knot of his cravat. “Your valet is to be congratulated.”

  He chuckled. “I shall take the compliment on myself, as I have no valet. A poor man must fend for himself. And my hotel does my laundry.”

  Why was it that she always hoped some circumstance had changed, that he had found out his inheritance was going to be wealth beyond his wildest dreams
rather than a few hundred pounds? Wishful thinking, she supposed. Silly, really, because even if he had been wealthy and titled, he was not to be trusted, at least not for her needs. Marcus Westhaven did not play by the rules. She required a beau she could count on to marry her, not just flirt with her, and for her purposes Lord Pelimore was that man. She sighed and took Mr. Westhaven’s proffered arm, and they descended the steps into the ballroom.

  Just enjoy the moment, she repeated to herself. Just enjoy the moment.

  • • •

  Another “squeeze,” Marcus thought disparagingly. What was it about the upper crust that they relished being packed together like seamen at a mess table? The Hartford ball, to which he had been invited because of one of his invaluable “letters of introduction”—he could have played upon his family name and antecedents, which were very good indeed, but this way was quicker and less complicated—was one of the premier occasions of the Season, and he had known Arabella would attend. In that he was not disappointed.

  He had waited in a fever of anticipation near the door, lingering out of sight until the mother disappeared, and then approached her. This last week or so had been enlightening. Never had he wholly given himself up to pleasure and gaiety for so long a time, and never had he enjoyed dissipation more. He began to see how addictive it could be, devoting oneself to dancing, drinking, playing cards and escorting pretty women.