His gray eyes widened and he cocked her a comical grin. “You do me honor, madam!” He swept her a deep bow, and she giggled. “But what is the most beautiful girl in the room doing standing alone and not dancing?”
“I—” Arabella frowned. Now that she thought of it, why was she alone? Surely at least one of her beaux should have approached her by now? Her court had been thinning of late—most had defected to throng around Lady Cynthia—but surely some of her more devoted admirers—
Then, through a clearing in the crowd she spotted Daniel, Lord Sweetan, his fiancée, and the Snowdales. The Snowdales! In a second all the humiliation of her snubbing at their hands returned to her, and she wanted to slink out of the ballroom. They had been silent until now, and she had believed the danger from that quarter was past, but what if they had decided to tell what they knew? What if even now they were telling Daniel? After her rejection of him the previous Season he had been extremely angry; he would feed upon that black mark on her character and would doubtless show no compunction in retailing it abroad. Marcus followed her gaze.
“That is that wretched couple who cut you in the store the first time I met you. And they are with—”
Arabella’s mouth trembled and she finished his phrase. “They are with the man I rejected. And they have likely told him all of the details of that dreadful day at Lord Conroy’s family home—” She felt Marcus’s curious gaze settle on her as her words trailed off.
“What exactly happened that they felt they should snub you?” he asked, stooping slightly to catch her eyes.
“It doesn’t matter,” Arabella said hastily. She glanced around the ballroom, looking for an escape route, wondering if she should send for Annie. “I must leave, before—”
“Before what, another snubbing? You survived the first one very well, I think. Surely you can brazen this one out, too.”
But it would be worse than snubbed this time; she would be ostracized and she would be laughed at! All of her hopes, all of her schemes would die in the face of society’s ridicule. She would never be able to hold her head up in London again, and would have to retire . . . somewhere! Where, she did not know, for Swinley Manor would be given up to the moneylenders if she did not manage to marry Lord Pelimore.
“You do not understand,” she said, turning on him. “You have no idea! This is not the backwoods and these are not painted savages! Their opinions matter; they could destroy me—my position in society, my future plans—with one well-placed bon mot—”
“No, they are not ‘painted savages,’ they are a good deal less civilized!” Westhaven retorted, his voice low and fierce. “Cruelty has no gender, nor any particular culture attached, Arabella. I don’t know what you have done to earn their ire.” He frowned and gazed down at her, then reached out one hand and touched her arm.
It was a small gesture, but it comforted her a tiny bit.
“I cannot imagine it was such a very big solecism,” he continued. “I know you, Arabella; you are thoughtless on occasion, sometimes you speak before you think, but you would never deliberately hurt someone, so I can only believe you have offended some arbitrary social rule, wore pink on a Sunday or something ridiculous like that.”
She turned tragic eyes on him. How little he really knew of her! And how kind of him to say such a sweet thing when she had been rude to him just moments before. “If only it was something so simple! If only. But I am afraid—I fear—”
He gazed steadily at her. “I don’t believe you. I think you have much more courage than you give yourself credit for—pluck to the backbone is the phrase, I believe. Buck up, my dear one; if all the world should crumble around you, I will still be your friend.”
They were magical words, magical and inspirational. How had she managed to inspire such friendship in a man like Marcus Westhaven? He was as steadfast as a rock, and she felt she could trust him. She gazed into his dark gray eyes and saw in them courage that had faced a thousand challenges. Was she such a wet goose as to turn tail and run from a bunch of cork-brained, thin-blooded aristocrats? No, she was better than that, and better than them!
If she was ruined, if no one in London would look at her and talk to her anymore, well, then, she would go to join Eveleen on the Isle of Wight, or she would run away to Canada with Marcus. A thrill of wild hope ran through her. She would be free. No one would blame her for leaving; they would expect her to! And she would no longer be responsible for helping her mother out of her predicament. She wouldn’t be able to, after all. No rich, well-positioned man would marry a girl who had done what she was accused of doing at the Farmington home. If she was ostracized, she could forget marriage to Pelimore, or anyone else, for that matter.
Marcus was watching her. He nodded with satisfaction, reading her resolution on her face. “That’s better. Now, take my arm. We are going to stroll over there, and you are going to say hello to the frightening Lord Sweetan and the terrifying Lord and Lady Snowdale and you are going to introduce me.”
Arabella giggled. That would be a challenge after the Snowdales’ last run-in with Mr. Marcus Westhaven! She felt a strange lightheartedness at a moment when she should be feeling a dark dread. If they all snubbed her, if the story of the debacle at the Farmington home had gotten out, then she was ruined in London society for a very long time. She would be damned as a schemer and an unprincipled trollop. She would not even have a chance to explain the unexplainable; perhaps even Marcus would turn away from her when he learned of what she stood accused. But no, she did not believe Marcus would turn from her then. She looked up at him as they crossed the broad ballroom floor; he seemed so big and sturdy at her side. She almost thought she caught a glimpse of his burnished steel armor!
She turned her eyes to the gathered lords and ladies, searching for signs of hostility, looking for the coldness that would inevitably descend like a curtain if they saw her as an encroaching schemer. It did not matter. If every other person in the world turned away from her, she was safe in the friendship of Marcus Westhaven.
Marcus glanced down at Arabella. He felt her tremble and wondered again what she had done that was so very horrible. It was some social faux pas, of that he was certain. He looked back up and examined the group they were approaching. Lord Sweetan; that was the fellow who asked her to marry him. She rejected him because he was not rich enough.
He shook his head in puzzlement, still not able to reconcile the two halves of Arabella. There was no doubt that she was mercenary and on the husband hunt for a rich man. But on the other hand, she was warm and lively and smart and beautiful—the list was far too long. They had talked over the weeks, often and at length, and she had spoken mostly about her family, about her cousins Truelove and Faithful, and their father, the vicar. The tone of her voice was loving and warm and tender. There was so much in her that contradicted the notion that she was money-hungry and grasping, and yet, and yet—
She was a puzzle, no doubt about that.
Her friend, Eveleen, damned the mother for the changes in Arabella, and he saw no reason to doubt that it was the maternal influence that was responsible for the scheming side of the girl on his arm. If only— But he would not let himself think of all the “if onlys.” His future was back in Canada. He longed for the open spaces, the howl of the wolf, the companionship of his friend George. The minute the dreadful business with his poor uncle was over he would shake the cloying, fetid muck of England from his boots and head west across the sea, to Canada, leaving behind this beautiful English rose to bloom in peace.
He looked down at the trembling curls that bobbed near her smooth cheek and felt a tug at his heart. It was not just her beauty that affected him so deeply. He watched her chin go up as they approached the crowd around the Snowdales and Lord Sweetan. She was mustering all her courage for what must seem a battle to her. There was something piquant and dear in her that beckoned to him; twining tendrils from the fair flower at his side threatened to wind round his heart and take root, but he must not let that
happen. Where he was going she could not follow. Twining tendrils had no more place in Canada than hothouse blossoms.
“Steady, my girl,” he said as he felt her quiver slightly. “Steady. Picture them without their clothing.”
She giggled, but there was an edge of hysteria in her laugh. He pressed her arm tightly to his side.
“Miss Swinley,” he said as they reached the crowd, “will you do me the honor of introducing me to your friends, so I might offer them an apology for my rudeness in the store that day a few weeks ago?”
Chapter Twelve
Arabella glanced up at Westhaven. What nerve! But then, he had nothing to lose, not like her. The Snowdales gazed at him with identical expressions of indecision on their faces. Either they were not used to such audacity or they were not sure how to treat this encroaching colonialist.
She felt Westhaven squeeze her arm again, and she said, “Lord and Lady Snowdale, may I introduce to you Mr. Marcus Westhaven?”
He bowed and took Lady Snowdale’s hand in his. “May I say, my lady, that I have craved this introduction for some time just to abase myself at your feet. I had no right to presume you in the wrong that day, when you so clearly are a leading arbiter of faultless social manners. I have indeed spent far too much time in the wilds, alone, fighting the forces of nature, and would have lost my way in this social climate if not for the kindness of such leaders of the ton as yourself.”
Lady Snowdale’s irritable expression melted to one of complacence, and then sharpened to interest. Arabella was fascinated by how easily he had won her approval, and how cynically he had manipulated her. She never would have suspected it of him; he always seemed to hold himself separate from hypocrisy, and yet in this instance he was emptying the butter boat over Lady Snowdale without a blink to suggest he was engaging in blatant sycophancy. He may have been out of the social milieu for some time but he was a quick learner, that was clear. He knew just how to appeal to a social snob like Lady Snowdale, flattering her with the suggestion that her and her husband were leaders of London society when they were in reality just small players in the grand spectacle; too, he clearly saw that winning Lord Snowdale was a matter of winning Lady Snowdale first. The viscount was guided in everything by his wife.
A ripple of whispered conversation fluttered through the crowd around them, and Arabella turned to Daniel, Lord Sweetan. They had not been cut, so perhaps the Snowdales had not been telling all they knew or had heard about the horrible episode at the Farmington manor house, but Daniel still had cause to be angry with her, or fancied he did, anyway. She had led him to believe she would look favorably on his suit, but that was because she had looked favorably upon his suit until her mother had shown her that it would not do. Sweetan was a younger son, and she had, at the time, Viscount Drake in the wings if she wanted him . . . she thought, anyway.
Looking at Daniel now, she could not imagine marrying him. His usual expression was one of self-satisfaction, but it had soured since last year. His little fiancée was at his side, jealously looking over Arabella’s dress, her jewels, her fan, in short, everything about her “rival,” as she must fancy her. She was glad she had worn her new green gown.
“Lord Sweetan, what a pleasure to see you and have the honor of wishing you happy. I understand congratulations are in order?”
He nodded, his lips compressed into a thin line.
“May I make known to you Mr. Westhaven?”
Marcus stuck out his hand, but Daniel only gave him the tips of his fingers. It was an insult. It quite clearly said “You are not worth the whole hand of someone so above you as I.” Arabella felt rage boil up in her. Of all the stiff-necked, boorish, stuffy maw-worms! Marcus was worth ten of him. And yet . . . had she not frozen out mushrooms and social climbers in much the same way? Daniel was behaving with what he felt was perfect right.
But still . . . fury burned through her at the deliberate nature of the insult.
• • •
Marcus felt her anger. What a puzzling mix of spitfire and snob she was! As if he gave a damn what this weak-chinned fribble thought of him. But the man was now drawing forth his little fiancée, the girl who had supposedly replaced Arabella in his affections, the girl who had gossiped about Arabella with such ferocity.
“Lydia, my dearest heart, this is Mr. Westhaven, and may I introduce you to the Honorable Miss Arabella Swinley?”
To her credit, Marcus thought, despite her anger at her would-be suitor, Arabella was very kind, taking the girl’s hand and looking down at her—she was a tiny squab of a thing with none of Arabella’s elegant height and even less of her address—and saying, “How fortunate Sweetan is! I hope you will be very happy.”
With the introductions over, conversation turned to general things, and eventually to the talk of the ton: who the mysterious heir to the Oakmont earldom was.
“I have heard,” Lady Snowdale said, glancing around her, “that he is—”
The music started again, just then, and Marcus drew Arabella away from the crowd.
“Marcus, I was interested in that conversation!” she said, looking back over her shoulder at the small group.
“Why? Do you care who this nabob is?”
Arabella gazed up at him in puzzlement. He had such an odd tone to his voice. What on earth was wrong with him? Slowly she said, “I am as interested as anyone. We all want to know who the mystery man is. He could have joined society as the next Earl of Oakmont but instead has chosen to shun the ton. I dearly love a puzzle.”
“And that is your only reason?”
Arabella looked away from his piercing gaze, remembering her own thoughts, her musing that if he happened to be young and attractive as well as rich, or even merely middle-aged and relatively agreeable, that she would perhaps consider him a good substitute for Lord Pelimore. Just the memory of the elderly baron was enough to cast a shadow on an evening that had turned out to be more pleasant than she had expected. She had not been shunned, and though she was grateful to escape that scene it also left things where they were; she must marry Lord Pelimore.
She said good-bye to her silly dreams of running away to Canada or the Isle of Wight, and re-assumed her responsibilities. There was only one answer and she still knew it. She must make every effort to attract an offer from Pelimore. This brief interlude had been a halcyon period of joy and nothing more. She gazed at Marcus, his handsome face, his square jaw, his stormy eyes.
“Of course it is my only reason.” He was angry, or close to it anyway, and once more she found herself not understanding him. What could turn him, in the space of seconds, from a congenial companion into a sulking, grim-faced bear? She opened her mouth to tell him that if he was going to grimace so unpleasantly, then he could do it elsewhere, but for the first time she thought twice. Did she really want this conversation to devolve into one of the petty squabbles they seemed to fall into so readily? No, she didn’t. She wanted him to hold her as close as propriety would allow, and waltz for the half hour allotted them in society.
If only she had the time to learn all his moods, to softly soothe the angry lines on his face that drew his mouth down and wrinkled his forehead. New thoughts for her, she mused. She considered Eveleen’s words in her letter. In love with Marcus? No, she would not allow that she was in love with him, but she could fall in love with him very easily, she thought, and yet could not allow herself that luxury. A strong mind would be required, but she was equal to the task.
After all, she had never even been this close to falling in love before; surely she could back away from the edge of the precipice now she that knew it was there.
Keeping her voice purposely light and smiling up at Marcus, she said, touching his arm, “Are you going to look like a thundercloud all evening and chase away every potential partner I might have, or are you going to ask me to dance yourself?”
• • •
It was later. Marcus, recovered from his mysterious bad mood and with a hint of mischief in his eyes, had to
ld her he was going to ask Sweetan’s fiancée to dance. He did and, a little dazzled, the girl said yes. Really, it was unfair of Marcus, Arabella thought. Daniel could not hold a candle to the older man for address, looks, manner or anything else, though he was the superior in birth and finances. Marcus Westhaven was quite the best-looking man in London this Season, Arabella brooded, despite his casually loose clothing and his longish hair. Or maybe because he stood out in a crowd. Again, she was faced with the knowledge that she had never met anyone quite like him.
She thought back to the scene earlier, and her fears that the Conroy debacle had gotten about. If it told her one thing, it said that she must not delay a second longer. When Pelimore came back to London she must elicit a proposal out of him. He had been close once and she was a little fool to have put him off. She would marry the baron, bear him an heir, and then, with his wealth and the security it offered, she would enjoy living in London. Pelimore could continue with his mistress, and she . . . well, she would think about that when the time came. It would be enough not to have to worry about her mother anymore, or where they were going to live, or how. Any day Conroy or his parents could come to London, and then it would be all over. She had been exceedingly lucky so far, but that would not hold forever.
“May I have this dance?”
It was Marcus again, and she smiled up at him. “Well, I do not know, sir. Two dances in one evening . . . I would not want to look fast.”
“Then just walk with me. The terrace is beautiful.”
Courting Scandal Page 13