Almost a Bride

by Jane Feather

  Knowing Arabella, she would either be offering subtle insults to Frances Villiers, Lady Jersey, or offering sympathy and succor to some aristocratic French refugee, Jack reflected wryly. He said only, “I have no idea.”

  Lilly looked up at him again, her gaze now sharp. “And no interest, Jack?”

  His face was suddenly blank, his eyes without expression. “Do you care to listen to the concert, ma’am?”

  “Oh, Jack, don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean,” Lilly scolded unwisely. “You know perfectly well your wife’s support for the princess and her deliberate insults to Frances can do neither of you any good. Frances has simply to whisper in the prince’s ear and he’ll never come to Cavendish Square again. You’ll lose any hope of royal patronage . . . Frances holds every princely favor in her own hands. Your dear little wife stands not a chance against Lady Jersey’s goliath.”

  Jack paused under a flaring torch and said with deceptive amiability, “My dear Lilly, I do believe I told you once before that I will not discuss my wife . . . with you, or with anyone.”

  Lilly touched his silk-suited arm with her fan. “Don’t be ridiculous, Jack. Your wife and her support of the princess is the foremost topic of conversation in every house in Town.”

  “Not when I am present,” he stated in the same amiable tone. “Forgive me, Lilly, if I say that I have no wish to continue this conversation. Let’s get down to business. How can I be of assistance?”

  Lilly struggled with her annoyance. She had rarely been on the receiving end of one of Jack’s snubs and it was a most unpleasant sensation. But in the end there was nothing for it but to swallow her chagrin. She sighed, laying an elegantly gloved hand on his sleeve. “Such a nuisance, Jack. Last summer I had to pawn the Worth tiara. I had a copy made but Worth wants to send the set to be cleaned, and of course . . .”

  “Of course,” he agreed. “Why would you do something so foolish, Lilly?”

  She flushed. “I had no choice. You were not in Town for three months.”

  He shook his head. “That is certainly true. I’ll redeem the tiara if you give me the note.”

  She reached into the tiny silk purse that hung from her wrist and took out a scrunched piece of paper. “Here.” She handed it to him with lowered eyes. He glanced at the figure, raised his eyebrows, and tucked it inside his coat.

  “Ah, my lord duke, I didn’t realize you were coming to Ranelagh this evening.” Arabella’s voice chimed as she appeared at the junction of a side path on the arm of Lord Morpeth. “You should have said. We could have been in the same party.” Her gaze embraced her husband’s companion. “Lady Worth . . . such a pleasant evening.”

  “Yes, indeed, Lady Arabella,” the countess returned the greeting, with a sketched curtsy in the direction of Arabella’s companion. “Lord Morpeth.”

  “My lady Worth.” He bowed. “Fortescu.” He bowed again.

  Jack acknowledged the greeting and offered his snuffbox. His eyes rested upon his wife’s creamy countenance; the tawny eyes were almost pure gold under the sconces. “I trust you’re amusing yourself, my love.”

  “Certainly, sir. And you too, I see.” She flicked a smile in Lady Worth’s direction.

  “I haven’t seen Lady Jersey here this evening,” Lilly said. She laughed lightly. “Perhaps she knew you would be here, ma’am.”

  “I doubt that would affect the countess’s plans,” Arabella said coolly. “His highness has chosen not to grace Ranelagh with his presence this evening. I daresay that would explain her ladyship’s absence.”

  Lord Morpeth cast a sympathetic glance in the direction of the duke of St. Jules, who appeared unmoved.

  Lady Worth drew a little closer to the duchess and said confidentially, “My dear lady Arabella, your husband and I were saying that you should be a little more careful how you annoy Frances Villiers. She has so much influence with the prince, and a mere word from her would ensure that both you and your husband would be considered beyond the pale. You should consider Jack’s position if not your own. He and the prince have been friends for many years. We were saying that it would be such a pity for that to be destroyed by the ill-conceived vendetta of someone who perhaps doesn’t yet fully realize all the nuances of Society.”

  For a moment Arabella couldn’t see straight. The woman and Jack were discussing her conduct. For all the world as if she was some naïve chit who didn’t know her elbow from her ankle.

  She blinked once, then said coolly, “I am touched by your concern, ma’am.” She turned to her escort. “We are going to watch the fireworks, is that not so, Lord Morpeth?”

  “Yes, indeed, ma’am.” His lordship looked acutely uncomfortable. The duke of St. Jules had not moved a muscle. His countenance was calm and affable. But only a fool would mistake the cool surface for the reality.

  The duke bowed to his wife as she went off on the arm of Lord Morpeth.

  Lilly glanced up at him. “Oh dear, I didn’t mean to upset your wife,” she denied slyly, laying her hand once more upon his sleeve. “Believe me, that was not my intention, Jack. But really you must be careful. Frances has complete control of the prince’s patronage. She has him in her pocket. She can make or break a man with a mere word.”

  Jack gently removed her hand from his sleeve. “I find it disheartening, Lilly, that you know me so little you would think that would matter to me one iota.”

  “You wouldn’t care if your wife ruins you?” She was incredulous.

  He smiled and for once broke his rule. “My wife has no more care for the sanctions of Society than I do, my dear. She will follow her conscience without regard for the consequences. I admire that in her.” He gave her his arm again. “Allow me to return you to your party.”

  Arabella watched the fireworks display with her eyes but she absorbed little of its magnificence. For a moment she was unaware of the man and woman who had come up beside her. Only when the man said for the second time, “Your grace, may I present Vicomtesse DuLac?” did she come out of her angry reverie.

  She turned with an automatic smile. “Oh, forgive me, Monsigneur de Besenval, I was absorbed in the fireworks.” She held out a hand to the lady accompanying him. “Vicomtesse DuLac, enchantee.”

  The lady took the hand with a curtsy and said with a pretty accent, “I am delighted to make your acquaintance, your grace.”

  “The vicomtesse is but newly arrived in London,” de Besenval explained. “She was well acquainted with the comtesse de Villefranche.”

  Arabella’s heart jumped. “My husband’s sister,” she said, taking the other woman’s arm. “Let us walk a little, the noise of the fireworks is quite deafening.”

  “But of course, your grace.”

  Arabella nudged Lord Morpeth, who was so rapt in the pyrotechnic display he hadn’t noticed his companion’s distraction. “Morpeth, I am just going to talk with the vicomtesse. Will you wait here for me?”

  “But of course, dear lady, take your time,” he said in his customary agreeable fashion, his gaze instantly shifting back to the entertainment.

  Arabella, arm in arm with the Frenchwoman, directed their steps to a small pavilion that was for the moment deserted. “We should be able to hear ourselves think in here,” she said, sitting on the stone bench and patting the space beside her.

  The vicomtesse sat down, arranging her rather voluminous skirts. For a moment Arabella envied her the yards of damask and velvet. The stone of the bench struck cold against her own thinly protected rear. She wasted no time on preamble, asking swiftly, “Do you know anything of the comtesse, madame?”

  The woman sighed. “I know for sure only that she was arrested and taken to the prison of La Force. She was there during . . .” She shuddered, struggling for words. “During that dreadful night . . . the night of the massacres. The guards slew all their prisoners.”

  “All of them? None escaped?”

  The woman shook her head. “None that I know of, madame. I escaped into Austria two nights later.
We remained in Vienna until a week ago, when we sailed for England.”

  “Do you know my husband?” Arabella caught herself looking over her shoulder. She was doing nothing wrong by talking to this friend of Jack’s sister, but she couldn’t help hoping that Jack would not see her.

  “No, unfortunately I never had the pleasure,” the vicomtesse said. “My husband preferred the country to Court life and we were rarely at Versailles. Our visits never coincided with the duke’s. But I know that he worked tirelessly to help our friends escape the Terror.” She dabbed her eyes with a scrap of lace. “It is such a tragedy that he, who saved so many, should have been unable to save his sister.”

  “Yes,” Arabella murmured, more to herself than her companion. Could that explain the darkness in him? The dreadful knowledge that he had failed to rescue his sister?

  Monsigneur de Besenval, waiting discreetly at the entrance to the pavilion, coughed and cleared his throat. “Forgive the interruption, your grace, but madame la vicomtesse is bidden to take supper in the concert pavilion with the party of the comte de Vaudreuil.”

  Arabella arose from the cold stone with alacrity. “Yes, of course. Don’t let me keep you. Thank you so much, madame, for talking to me. I trust I may call upon you. Do you stay with the Vaudreuils?”

  “Yes, they are being most kind,” the vicomtesse said, taking Arabella’s extended hand. “Please, I should very much like to talk with you again.”

  “Allow me to return you to your escort, your grace,” the monsigneur said, proffering an arm to each lady. Arabella accepted his escort and within a few minutes was once more at Lord Morpeth’s side.

  The fireworks had lost their appeal. Too much had happened this evening and she wanted to be alone to mull it all over. She touched Morpeth’s arm. “I have the headache, sir. Will you escort me to my boat?”

  “Certainly, ma’am, if you wish it,” he responded. “But would you not prefer it if I took you to Jack? I saw him a few minutes ago in Lady Belmont’s box.”

  “No, thank you,” she said firmly. “I would not disturb my husband’s pleasure for the world. If you don’t mind . . .”

  His lordship could only express his willingness. “Allow me to escort you to Cavendish Square, ma’am.”

  “No, indeed not,” Arabella said with a strength that gave the lie to the headache. “Boatman John is waiting, and the carriage will be on the north bank. I shall be in good hands.”

  Morpeth demurred for the length of time it took them to reach the riverbank, and then reluctantly relinquished the adamant duchess into the charge of Jack’s boatman. “I’ll inform Jack of your indisposition, ma’am,” he said.

  “No, please don’t,” she said, settling onto the cushioned bench, accepting a lap rug from the boatman. “I don’t want him to cut short his evening.” She smiled and raised a hand in farewell as the oarsmen pulled the skiff strongly into mid-stream.

  Jack glanced up from his cards as Lord Morpeth wandered into the pavilion. His lordship, catching his eye, came over to the table. “What are the stakes, Jack?”

  “Twenty guineas,” Jack replied, discarding a card.

  “Too rich for my blood,” Morpeth said, but nevertheless took the seat next to Jack and gestured to the dealer to deal him in.

  “Where did you leave my wife?” Jack inquired casually, gathering his winnings from the last hand.

  Lord Morpeth decided that in the face of a direct question he was released from his obligation to the duchess. “She went home.” He grimaced at his hand. “She said she had the headache . . . I took her to her boat. Wouldn’t let me take her to Cavendish Square,” he added somewhat hastily. “Did try, but she wasn’t having any of it.”

  “It’s never easy to change my wife’s mind,” Jack observed casually. To his knowledge Arabella had never had a headache in her life. He played another couple of hands then rose from the table, shaking his head at the chorused demand that he give his opponents a chance to win back their losses.

  “Forgive me, gentlemen, but I’d be here all night,” he said, laughing at the protests. He strolled off, making his way to the river steps. He hailed a boatman plying for trade along the bank, then took a sedan chair to Cavendish Square, where the night porter told him that her grace had returned an hour since.

  Jack went upstairs to his bedchamber and softly opened the adjoining door to Arabella’s room. It was deserted, a lamp burning low. A line of light shone at the bottom of the door leading into her boudoir. He frowned and softly closed the door again.

  “You had a pleasant evening, I trust, your grace?” Louis inquired as he helped his employer out of his evening clothes.

  “Pleasant enough,” Jack returned absently. “Just pass me my dressing gown, and then you may go to bed.”

  After the valet’s departure, Jack stood tapping his mouth with his fingertips as he regarded the closed door to Arabella’s bedchamber,. It was almost two o’clock in the morning and she’d been home well over an hour, so why was she still up? He went through her bedchamber and opened the door to her boudoir.

  Arabella was sitting by the fire, the dogs at her feet, an open book lying in her lap. She had been too distracted to sleep when Becky had left her, and in the time since her distraction had crystallized into anger. A muddled anger certainly but it seemed to come down to two things. Jack had told her nothing of his work in France, nothing of his sister, had instead given her the impression he had no sympathy for the refugees from the Terror, and yet he had risked his own life to save theirs. Why wouldn’t he trust her with any of this? Did he consider her so unworthy of his confidences? And yet he considered Lilly Worth a worthy confidante. If he would discuss his wife’s conduct with her, why wouldn’t he talk with her about his sister, about his failure to save her? Lilly was not only his mistress but probably the recipient of his secrets.

  And not only that. Jack had implicitly given his mistress permission to take his wife to task. Why else would she have presumed in Jack’s hearing to advise his wife about her behavior with Frances Villiers.

  When Jack walked into her boudoir Arabella’s headache was very real. She was spoiling for a fight but unsure which ground to choose.

  “Morpeth tells me you have the headache,” he said, trying a smile. “I expected to find you in bed.”

  “My headache will not be cured by bed rest,” she stated, jumping to her feet. The ground found itself. “How dare you, Jack.” Her gaze was as hot as an erupting volcano.

  “How dare I what?” He leaned his shoulders against the mantelpiece and regarded her calmly.

  “You know perfectly well,” she snapped. “How dare you discuss my conduct with anyone . . . let alone Lady Worth. And how could you stand there while she presumes to criticize me?” She took a turn around the room, the dogs gazing at her in puzzled anxiety.

  She spun around on him, the skirts of her ivory peignoir swirling around her bare feet. “I tell you, Jack, I’m so angry, I could hit you.”

  “I don’t advise it,” he warned in a voice as soft as spring rain.

  “I said I could, not I would,” she said furiously. “I’m not a fool.”

  An eyebrow flicked upwards as Jack took a step towards her. “Look . . .” he began pacifically. The dogs growled at him, hackles raised, as they backed against Arabella’s legs.

  “Oh, finally,” she said sardonically, putting a calming hand on each head. “I get some loyalty from the pair of you.”

  “Quiet them down or I’ll put them out,” Jack demanded, exasperated.

  “They’ll have your hand off,” she said, but without conviction. “Hush now,” she said to the dogs. “Lie down.”

  They obeyed reluctantly, but didn’t take their eyes off the master of the house, who, ignoring them, walked up to his wife. He laid his hands on her shoulders. “Listen well, Arabella, I did not discuss you with Lady Worth. I do not make a habit of discussing you with anyone. Is that understood?”

  “The countess said you had been discuss
ing me this evening,” she pointed out, wriggling her shoulders, trying to shrug off his hands. He let his hands fall.

  “And you believed her?”

  She moved away from him towards the window, turning her back on him. “It was what she said. But if you tell me she made it up, then I must accept that.”

  “You must,” he stated. “Would you please turn around. I don’t like talking to your back.”

  She turned slowly. Her eyes were still volcanic and her face was very pale. “I don’t know how you’ve managed to put me in the wrong here. I have done nothing. I didn’t stand like a dummy while you were insulted.”

  “You were not insulted,” he stated. “Lady Worth merely expressed an opinion. One held by a good many, I might add.”

  She stood very still. “And by you too?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t consider it wise to alienate the prince. It’s his business when all’s said and done.”

  “Oh, certainly it’s his business to choose to flaunt his mistress in his wife’s face, to insult his wife at every public opportunity . . . and God alone knows what he does in private. It’s his business to encourage his mistress to insult and humiliate his wife.” She gave a short angry laugh and turned to the door leading to her bedchamber. “Oh, yes, I can quite see why you would take that view, sir.”

  “Now, what’s that supposed to mean?” His voice was soft and level, but the rapier flicker was in his eyes.

  Arabella had the door open and the dogs raced into her bedroom, almost tripping her up in their eagerness to get away from the atmosphere in the boudoir. She cursed silently. She had sworn to herself that she would never throw his liaison in his face, never show him that it hurt her, and she had just done both.

  “Men,” she said. “You’re all the same. You support each other. That’s all I meant.” She whisked herself into her bedchamber and turned the key in the lock.

  Jack stepped up to the door. “Arabella, open the door.”