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 what she was accused of—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 had 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 True-love 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 Mend, Eveleen, had 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, west 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?"
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 she 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? She had, indeed. Daniel was behaving with what he felt was his 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 lucky 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. It is a puzzle and 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 reassumed 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 thought of 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/
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 that she 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 told 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. No, her future was set. 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."
"Ah, and have you already escorted a lady out there, sir?" She arched her eyebrows and looked him over, haughtily.
"I have," he said, laughing. "Miss Lydia Chancery was horrified, and yet, if I am not mistaken, just a little thrilled to find herself out on the terrace being spoken to quite improperly by the 'Wolf of London,' as I have heard myself referred to."
Arabella gasped. "Marcus, you didn't! You didn't tempt that poor girl to misbehavior, did you? It could ruin her engagement, you know, if she was caught doing anything improper."
It was Marcus's turn to look shocked. "Do you really think I would harm that poor little dabchick? No, I just whispered in her ear—nonsense, you know—and stole a kiss on her downy cheek."
"I don't believe you! If Daniel saw that it would be enough for him to call off the engagement and call you out!"
"As if he could do me any damage!" The scorn in Marcus's voice was evident.
How little he knew, Arabella thought. Not every London book could be judged by its elegant cover. "Do not underestimate him, Marcus. He is certainly not as powerful as you physically, but like all gentlemen, he has spent much time learning to shoot and fence. He is accounted a fair marksman and an even better swordsman. How could you do it?"
"Kiss her?"
He gazed down at her, his dark eyes holding an intense look, and she felt a shiver race through her. Really, how could gray eyes look so warm? "Yes, how could you k—kiss her?"
"I pretended she was you," he said, his tone silky, caressing.
She stared into his eyes, speechless. What could she say to that?
They drifted outside. The night air was warm, the breeze like a caress on bare skin. The terrace was, of course, not like that of a country home, but was large by London standards and lit by the moon, hanging like a guinea in the sky, golden and lovely. Arabella thought about his words; they were a sweet balm to her soul. Pretended Miss Chancery was her? Empty flattery, likely, and it just proved how good he was at Spanish coin.
Or was it just flattery? He had long showed a preference for her company; Eveleen seemed to think he loved her. But then she thought that Arabella loved him, and that was not so. They were just two people attracted to each other, but with no future. He would go back to his colonies with his couple of hundred pounds clutched in his purse, and she . . . she would marry Pelimore and bear him an heir. Soon if she was lucky, so she could get on with the business of her life.
She leaned her bare arms on the wrought-iron railing and stared out at the small walled garden, some variety of early white flowers gleaming among the dark green of the foliage, touched by moonlight. For the first time she realized that his "heir" would be her baby, her son! A child of her own. Would she love it . . . him? And what if she had a girl? Would she then be expected to keep bearing children until a boy was born?
She shuddered. Women died in childbirth much too frequently. Granted, wealth bought you better care and a better diet; the death rate for wealthy women was not so high as for the poor, but still. And children! She still could not get over that they would be the children of her own body, not just separate little entities that she could bear and then forget. Could she?
Mothers did all the time; look at her own upbringing. She had been a disappointment to her father because she was not the male heir he needed to carry on the tide. Perhaps that explained his attitude toward her, one of bemused tolerance. But shouldn't her mother have cared more?
Marcus put his arm around her shoulders, and she started and gazed up at him. "I am afraid to ask for your th
oughts right now, my little shrew. I never know what you are thinking. I used to, when I was very young, believe that women had simple minds, that all they thought about was clothing and such fripperies, Moira taught me the error of my thinking, but it left me with a void." He chuckled, raised his eyebrows, and continued. "I shall be brave after all. What were you thinking?"
"Of children," she blurted out
"Any particular children?"
"Mine. My . . . my future children when I marry."
He removed his arm from around her shoulders. "Ah, yes, the heir and spare you will provide . . . who? That old fraud, Pelimore? What a waste of your beauty." His tone was cold and ironic.
"Is that all you can say?" she cried, disappointed. "Is that all it is wasting?" She was piqued that all he thought about was her looks, just like any man. She had thought him deeper, but clearly he was as shallow as any of the aristocrats he disdained.
"No, that is not all." He took her shoulders in his hands and turned her to face him, pressing her back against the railing. He glared down at her and across his face flitted a succession of emotions. Finally he said, "It is a waste of your life, your vivacity, the warmth you so desperately try to subdue so you can appear as chilly and frivolous as everyone else here in London."
He enclosed her in his arms and sought her mouth. She felt it moving over hers and she was stunned by die ferocity of his embrace. What had she done—what had she said?
For one brief moment he released her mouth. She gasped and tried to pull away as he said, "Why do you try so hard to hide who you really are, Bella, why?" Then he claimed her mouth again and savaged it, drawing on her lips and parting them with his probing tongue.
She pushed him away and wiped her mouth with a shaking hand, furious and confused and trembling. "Don't do that again. I don't like it! I hate it! It is disgusting— you are disgusting! You have no right—" She was shaking and could not continue.
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