The carriage pulled up in front of the Moorehouses’ London home, bringing her out of her reverie. It was a ridiculous dream, anyway. Marcus had not asked her to run away with him, nor had he shown any sign he was serious about her in any way. And she certainly would not be the one to ask him!
What would he say, she wondered, when she told him tonight that she had rejected her elderly suitor? She fully intended to apologize for the abrupt manner in which he was shown the door that morning. Then maybe they would go out on the terrace, and this time she would not slap his face. Something had changed; some part of her wanted to experience again the deeply passionate kiss that had so startled her the previous evening. She was still afraid, but oh, that fear had an edge of thrilling desire to it!
Lady Swinley, who had been silent since their argument in Arabella’s room, disappeared immediately once they entered the Moorehouses’ ballroom. Arabella spoke to a few acquaintances, then looked up as someone tapped her arm. She whirled, expecting to see Marcus, but it was Captain Harris.
“Miss Swinley, a delight to see you here tonight. Have you seen Eveleen? Is she here?”
“N-no,” Arabella stuttered. Had Eveleen left London without telling her beau? After their behavior at the picnic Arabella had half expected to hear an announcement of some sort from them, despite Eveleen’s vehement denial that she ever wanted to marry.
“Can’t seem to track her down,” Harris said, a frown on his handsome face. “Knocker is down off her door. Where is she, do you think? Has she gone to visit her aunt for a few days again?”
Arabella considered her answer, but saw no way to avoid what she must say. “Captain Harris, I thought you knew. She and Sheltie have left London for at least the rest of the Season. I understand that they are going to stay with some relations on the Isle of Wight. That’s the last I heard, anyway.”
It was a troubled and confused Captain Harris who left her a few minutes later and exited the ballroom.
• • •
The evening dragged on, and still Marcus did not appear. Arabella danced a few times, she ate, she talked to her acquaintance, and yet always she was watching for Marcus. Madeline Moorehouse, a young woman of not more than five and twenty, was the hostess, and she drifted over to Arabella after the midnight repast was over. Lady Cynthia Walkerton was with her.
“I cannot help but notice, my dear,” she said, her golden eyes alight with mischief, “that you are looking at the entrance constantly. Are you, mayhap, keeping an eye out for a rather rugged, handsome gentleman newly arrived from the colonies?”
Arabella flushed. “No, I—I—”
Mrs. Moorehouse and Lady Cynthia exchanged a look. “Well, he has disappointed us. Moorehouse had made a special effort to invite him since he has become the fashion—he tells such entertaining stories of the Canadas, you know, and of his savage friends—but he sent a note tonight that he was unexpectedly called out of town and cannot attend. Now, what do you suppose was so urgent that he could not wait until the morrow?”
The hint of malice in the young woman’s voice was unmistakable, but Arabella was at a loss to understand it, nor did she try. She was far too disappointed.
“I cannot imagine,” Arabella said faintly.
“Well, I can,” Lady Cynthia said, her lovely eyes wide and her expression concerned. “It is rumored—just rumored, you understand—that he is to wed a country squire’s daughter, a girl with ten thousand pounds. Perhaps even now he is pressing his suit. What say you to that?”
Chapter Fifteen
Home should have been a respite after a long and boring evening, but it wasn’t. What was she going to do? Arabella felt like the world was on her shoulders, and there was no one in whom she could confide, no one to whom she could turn. She started to write a letter to her cousin, Truelove. True embodied the essence of common sense. She would tell her what was right, what would solve her own dilemma without destroying her mother. She poured her feelings out on paper, all the confusion she felt over her duty to her mother, all the pain of Marcus’s desertion just when she needed to talk to him most, all of her fear of the future.
And then she tore it up.
True was in a delicate state, expecting the baby soon, and she would not burden her. She would not have the woman who stood in the stead of a big sister to her worrying and making herself sick when there was nothing really she could do. The last letter she had received from Truelove had left her troubled and vaguely worried. Her cousin did not quite sound like herself, had seemed depressed in spirits. Adding to her worries would be the height of selfishness. Somehow Arabella would figure things out herself.
Days passed. Marcus had indeed left London; everyone spoke of it and the rumors flew that he was as good as betrothed. Could it be true? Surely no man with an ounce of decency would have kissed her as he did if he was romancing another young lady. Arabella began to wonder if being thrown out by Lady Swinley had finished any caring that he might have for her. He was a man after all, and pride would not allow him to linger where he was clearly not wanted. He may have met a young lady in his travels, and have only returned to her to propose after being tossed from Leathorne House.
She continued going to balls and routs, musical evenings and even a lecture or two, but found that without the hope of seeing Marcus there, it all seemed dull. She danced occasionally, flirted very little, and spoke even less. Her mother had not spoken to her since the day she rejected Lord Pelimore’s proposal.
It was a strange interval. She had a lot of time to think with both Eveleen and Marcus gone and her mother not speaking to her. She saw with clear eyes that she had been a child her whole life, flitting from one romance to another with no thought to the future and what her responsibilities were, even though she had come to London that spring fully intending to marry for financial reasons. In the back of her mind there had always been the thought that someone would rescue her, some knight in shining armor would ride in and save her from wasting her precious life in a marriage of mere convenience. Surely she was made for better things! What those better things were she had never quite been sure.
But it was not going to happen. No duke was going to see her and instantly fall in love with her. No mysterious prince was going to arrive in London and sweep her off her feet, solving all of her financial problems and giving her a glorious new life. She wondered if that would have even made her happy. Would she have loved one of them, a duke or a prince, any more than she could love old Lord Pelimore? Even respect and affection were not to be purchased, but arose from a good and true heart.
She had mismanaged her life so far. She had spent her time in fruitless pursuit of admiration, enjoying the young men who languished after her and their pain when she rejected them. Even Lord Sweetan; she had thought it romantic that he was so distraught over losing her, but had never considered defying her mother’s wishes to marry him. In truth, she had never loved him, she had merely enjoyed being loved. She began to feel ashamed of some of her past thoughtless actions, hurtful gossip she had indulged in, insensitive behavior on occasion.
It seemed to her that ever since the first day her mother had brought her to London in preparation for her first Season, her character had been descending a downward spiral that was now ready to hit bottom. And she had no one to blame but herself. In her first Season, dazzled by the atmosphere of the haute ton and thrilled by the recognition she gained as a diamond of the first water, she supposed it had all gone to her head, making her vain beyond redemption, and she had never looked back. And now was her Season to reap what she had sown.
It had been a week since Marcus had left town. All agreed that his supposed engagement to a country squire’s daughter was quite as much as a penniless adventurer could expect. Arabella did not really believe it—or did she?—but it ate away at her a little. How well did she truly know him? He had made no attempt to let her know where he was going, and it was not the first time he had disappeared from London for days, even a week or two at a time.
Plenty of time to romance some country debutante in Lyme Regis or Bath, or one of the other watering holes that were the launching point of many a daughter of the country gentry. It was revealing that not a soul blamed him for his alleged behavior, just as everyone would have congratulated her if she had allowed herself to become betrothed to Lord Pelimore. Self-interest was raised to an art in London, and was respected more than true goodness or altruism ever would be.
But as Arabella began to look around her, she realized that this perception was because she had confined herself to certain circles of London society. There were other circles, ones where goodness was not unusual and kindness was valued. There were men and women who worked for change in society, who tried to help others, the poor and wretched that abounded in London. If her acquaintance seemed, to a man and woman, to be silly and vain and dull, it was because she had never looked deeper, never attempted to connect with those of more worth, if less glamour. If only she had made friends within those sets instead of being satisfied with the friends and acquaintances her mother pushed her toward. But it was far too late for fruitless repining. Things would soon be at a desperate pass, and she must decide what she should do.
It was the evening of the annual ball at the magnificent Duc de la Coursiere’s home, traditionally a masquerade of the most refined and acceptable sort. With Annie’s help Arabella had fashioned a costume from a hopelessly out-of-date gown of white and gold and went as Diana the Huntress. But something was different. In years gone by—months gone by, even—she would have looked forward to the evening, the looks of admiration from the gentlemen, the teasing and flirtation that would assure her that she had not lost her touch, the conquering of susceptible hearts.
Instead she found that she didn’t really care to go, and yet staying home was not the answer. This queer ambivalence was strange and troubling. She felt cut off from everyone and everything she cared about. It all seemed so empty and shallow, a vast wasteland of frivolity in which she had been the most vain and flighty young lady of all.
The ball began as it did every year, with the Duchesse de la Coursiere posed at the top of the stair, announcing in her lovely, liquid French that the ball was to begin. “Alors, mes enfants, commencez!” For the very first time Arabella, unattached, watched from the edge of the ballroom as lines of couples formed for a minuet, the traditional first dance of the de la Coursiere ball. The orchestra, concealed in an alcove up in the gallery, played and the music drifted down like mist over the company, glittering in their costumes and dominoes.
Latecomers still streamed in at the door, adding to the crowd and the heat. Shepherdesses, Kings Henry and Richard and Arthur, Queens Cleopatra and Elizabeth and Marie Antoinette, highwaymen and mermaids, all chattered and danced and promenaded while Arabella watched, musing on the grand spectacle that was London society at the height of the Season.
Her mother had decided not to come, sending a message to Arabella through Annie that she had a terrible headache and would not be attending. Arabella suspected that this was merely the second volley of the campaign to force her recalcitrant daughter into agreeing to marry Lord Pelimore after all. She would feign illness, playing upon her daughter’s sympathies and worry.
As if attaching the aging baron was any longer a possibility! Lord Pelimore had been told no, and had apparently retreated to the arms of his paramour, or to his country estates. In either case, out of reach of the Swinleys. Arabella was relieved and yet troubled, for she still had no idea how to get her mother and herself out of their financial mire; the situation was becoming increasingly desperate and the debt-holders increasingly importunate. She drifted around the edge of the ballroom while she pondered her situation.
But then, near the door, something, some movement or familiar figure, caught her eye. She glanced up and froze in horror. It was . . . it was the end of her Season. It was her doom. It was the one thing she had feared since the beginning of the Season, although recently she had become complacent.
It was Lady Farmington trailed by her faithful son, Lord Nathan Conroy, both wearing only simple dominoes over their normal evening attire, but with the hoods thrown back so there was not even any pretense of concealment. In that instant, incapable of moving as she was, the ghastly debacle came back to her, the entire episode and her utter humiliation at being thrown from the Farmington country manor on a stark January day.
The whole sordid episode had started innocuously enough the previous autumn. Lord Nathan Conroy, childhood school friend of Lord Drake, her cousin Truelove’s new husband, had invited Arabella and her mother to the family home of his parents, Lord and Lady Farmington. It seemed promising. He was clearly taken with Arabella, proving to be much more susceptible to her charms than his friend, Lord Drake.
While not welcomed with open arms at Farmington, they were tolerated by Lord Conroy’s parents—it just was not the done thing to toss out invited guests no matter how unwanted they were—and life at the palatial manse soon settled down into a long visit . . . a very long visit. Arabella and Lady Swinley stayed on through Christmas and into the new year, despite Lady Farmington’s hints that if they wished to go, no one was stopping them. There was a houseful of other guests, some of them lingering, like the Swinleys, because it was better than going home to meager dinners and cold fireplaces.
One evening during a scavenger hunt got up by Lady Swinley—all the company had been avid for entertainment in the dour household—Arabella and Lord Nathan Conroy, teamed up for the game, had followed a clue into a room that turned out to be a dressing room with a bed tucked away in the corner for the maid who slept there sometimes.
They had found the silk-embroidered slipper they were looking for, but when they tried to leave and rejoin the hunt, they found that both doors were locked, the one into the adjoining bedroom and the one leading to the hall. They tried pounding on the door and shouting, but they were in a remote wing of the mansion and no one heard them. They were sitting on the bed talking when Lady Swinley, accompanied by another of the houseguests, “happened” to try the door and walked right in to the dressing room to find the son and heir of Lord and Lady Farmington sitting together with the Honorable Miss Arabella Swinley on the bed in the dressing room.
Lady Swinley had “fainted,” after screaming the house down, bringing dozens of servants and houseguests to view the scene.
Arabella could not bear to think about the aftermath of that event, the recriminations, the suspicions, the accusations. It appeared that the silk-embroidered slipper and accompanying hints were not on anyone else’s list, and the woman with Lady Swinley readily agreed that the door was not locked when they arrived, and thus Lord Conroy and Arabella had had no reason to be closeted in the dressing room for something over an hour, alone, together.
Her innocent daughter had been compromised, Lady Swinley announced, and she demanded a proposal, or adequate compensation.
Until that moment and the words “adequate compensation,” Arabella had not realized her mother was behind the scheme. They had become accidentally locked in, she had thought. But the moment her mother made her bold demand, she knew it was all a plot to force Conroy into marriage. And when she looked into the eyes of Lady Farmington and saw the distaste and distrust there, she knew that her mother had vastly underestimated the woman’s determination to keep her son out of the hands of fortune hunters. It was just a matter of hours before that woman would find a way to eject them.
Which she did. The countess relied on the consequence of Lord and Lady Farmington winning among the ton over the word of two nobodies from Devon. She also shrewdly bet that Lady Swinley and the Honorable Miss Arabella Swinley would not willingly talk of the event when their plans failed. After all, what mother of an eligible young man in London would look kindly on a pair damned as fortune hunters and schemers?
The sad thing about the whole episode, Arabella thought, was that Lord Conroy’s waning interest in her had revived as they had sat alone in the dressing room and talked,
and their conversation had taken on very interesting overtones. He had seemed on the point of a proposal, even. And she had liked him enough to accept, if he had made the offer, and consider herself lucky, even if he was a little hen-led by his mother. She was strong enough to counter the effects of motherly interference, she thought.
But Lady Swinley had burst in on them just as Lord Conroy was earnestly beginning to speak of marriage, but before a proposal. And ultimately Conroy had not only allowed his mother to throw them out, he had stood in the doorway behind her watching Arabella leave. She had been weeping—from humiliation and not sorrow, she now admitted—but he did not so much as look into her eyes, nor did he try to comfort her. What kind of a man was that?
A well-born and powerful one, even if he was a weak weasel. And now he was here, in London, at the de la Coursiere ball, with his mother. Arabella turned and tried to hide behind her mask, her heart thudding and the blood pounding in her ears, overriding the music even in its insistent thrum. What was she going to do? Her worst fears had been realized; the Farmingtons were in London, and it was only a matter of time before those who knew about it—the Snowdales among them—realized where their loyalties lay, and sided with the powerful, rich Farmingtons against the poor and relatively obscure Swinleys. If they hadn’t quite believed the story of her supposed iniquity before now, they would once Lady Farmington spread her side of the story among the ton.
Where was Marcus when she really needed him? Eveleen, with her caustic wit and fierce friendship, would have been appreciated. Even her mother’s brazen attitude would have helped her through this, her moment of humiliation. Instead she was alone, and must slink away in obscurity if she was very lucky. But she was not to be so fortunate. She had started moving toward the ladies’ withdrawing room in order to retrieve Annie, who would get her cloak, when she was stopped by a high, fluting voice.
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