Belle of the ball

by Donna Lea Simpson

  "Then speak not of me, if you have not the courage to speak to me!"

  The sound of a collective gasp, a throng gathering in its breath all at once, made Arabella look around. In those few seconds the music had stopped and a crowd had gathered, mostly, no doubt, to greet the Farmingtons, who were very rich and very powerful. She had insulted and defamed a woman well known for her resentful personality and was now irrevocably sunk. Not a single person there would dare speak to her again.

  "Harlot!" Lady Farmington hissed.

  "Harridan!"

  "Fortune hunter!"

  "Battle-ax!"

  Lady Farmington glared at Arabella, but had no more words to respond with. Arabella glanced around at the gathered crowd, and then fixed her stare on Lord Conroy. "Mama's boy," she said, with disgust, and whirled on her heel, marching away up the stairs. She imperiously told the butler to have her maid follow her immediately.

  Reaction did not set in until she was home and Annie had undressed her and left her with a candle to go to bed when she wanted. She sat in front of the fire in her room, and felt a shiver of dread race through her. London society was everything to her. She was well and truly in the soup now, for no man would marry a social outcast. And the story of her supposed "trap" for Lord Conroy would even now be making the rounds of the Due de la Coursiere's ballroom. She would be a pariah, and had nowhere to go. Not even home. What would she do? She circled her drawn-up knees with her arms, laid her head down, and wept.

  Sixteen

  And that is how her mother found her. It was possible that Annie had spoken to her, but somehow Lady Swinley seemed to know immediately what had happened, for before Arabella was even aware she was in the room, she said, "It has happened, has it not? Lady Farmington and her son are in London."

  "Yes," Arabella said, wearily. "I am finished. Lady Farmington has made sure of that by now; if there is anyone who does not know the story by the end of this evening, it will not be due to a lack of diligence on her part."

  Lady Swinley sat down heavily in a chair across from Arabella, in front of her small hearth where the rare fire Arabella had felt the need of had burnt down to embers. "If you had only accepted poor William, none of this would have happened."

  "William?" Arabella frowned and glanced up.

  "Pelimore! William Pelimore!"

  'You should marry him, mother. At least you know his given name!"

  "Sarcasm will not serve, my girl," Lady Swinley said, harshly. "We have one opportunity left. Lord Pelimore still needs a bride, and he is lazy. I can assure him that you will agree to marriage without further queer starts, then I believe I can wring another proposal out of him."

  "Wring another proposal out of him." What a humbling thought that such a thing should be necessary, Arabella thought, and yet it was the best that she would ever get now. All she could do with her life at this point was help her mother regain some comfort for her old age and save the family home from the moneylenders. If she could keep them out of the poorhouse it was not an ignoble end, perhaps. A dull hopelessness set over her, and Arabella nodded. "Very well. I do not think you will be successful, but I promise, if Lord Pelimore should propose again, I will marry him. I see no alternative."

  It was a meek and quiet Arabella who met the baron in the parlor the very next morning. Lady Swinley must have apprised him of her agreement, for he did not ask for her hand at all.

  "So," he said, wringing his hands together and smacking his lips, "we are to marry after all, eh, my girl? I won't ask what your refusal meant; it is a subject best left aside between us. What say you to a June wedding?"

  Arabella, her heart sinking, looked up. "I ... I had rather hoped to go to my cousin for the summer, and be married in September."

  "September? What's the matter with June? Doesn't every gel want a big June wedding at St. George's at Hanover Square?"

  How to say it? Arabella realized suddenly that Lord Pelimore had come straight to Leathorne House from his place in the country, probably in response to a note from Lady Swinley. He had not heard of her humiliation at the hands of the ton, and did not understand that she wanted to go away, wanted to be out of the harsh glare of public disapproval for a while. No doubt her mother had arranged it this way for a reason; she did not want Lord Pelimore learning about it and rejecting Arabella as tainted goods. They would be betrothed this morning and the lawyers would likely have the marriage settlements signed by the afternoon. He could not escape after that, no matter what, and she would be damned forever as a fortune hunter by her own actions, this time.

  And yet she could not tell him. Her mouth would not form the words. And did it matter, really? She was still willing to abide by the agreement they were making. She would still bear him an heir, if it was within her physical powers.

  "M—my cousin is with child, and I had hoped to be with her at her lying-in. Her sister is newly wed herself and in the same state, and so cannot be there. Would you—" It was her first bitter taste of having to ask her husband's forbearance rather than planning her life as she saw fit, and it choked her. "Would you grant me this one favor? If we marry in autumn, then we will have the whole winter to ... to get to know each other."

  He looked thoughtful for a minute, and suddenly agreed. "All right, Bella. I might as well start calling you by your name now, you know. And you must call me Pelimore. I shall be an indulgent husband this once. We will be married in September."

  That day the bells rang out in the city of London, but it was not for the betrothal of Lord William Pelimore to the Honorable Miss Arabella Swinley. It was May 2, 1816, and the Prince Regent's daughter. Princess Charlotte, was married to Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg, a love match, to all of London's satisfaction. Lord Pelimore was heard to congratulate himself at White's that evening on gaining the hand of the beautiful Miss Swinley on that very propitious day, only to learn from a friend of Lord Conroy's of the scene at the de la Coursiere ball the night before.

  To his credit, he defended his fiancée’s honor as well as a man of little intelligence and less wit could. If he was privately furious, he was at least crafty enough not to appear so in public. Better to look like her noble savior than her dupe.

  And indeed he was well and truly caught, for just as Arabella had expected, knowing her mother's shrewd and grasping nature, the marriage settlements were signed and sealed. That they were very favorable did not surprise Arabella either. What satisfaction she would derive from the marriage must come from knowing that she was doing her duty; her mother's future and that of Swinley Manor were secure.

  May fifth. It was that very day several years before, Marcus Westhaven thought, as he strode out to the hotel stables, that his parents had perished. It was a mournful anniversary, but many years had passed and it was only chance—random chance that he had heard someone mention the date—that he had happened to remember it. Newly arrived back in London, he rode out early, just as the sun sent its first beaming rays over the treetops, to exercise his restive Arabian in the freshest part of the day. He had gotten back to his rooms at the Fontaine late the previous night, but from old habits he did not need much sleep and was an early riser.

  He would not be long in London, he thought. Just long enough to see Arabella and talk to her—explain his sudden disappearance, if he could—and then he would head back to Reading. His uncle was sinking fast, he feared, which was why he had stayed so long in the country this time, after an urgent message had come before the Moorehouse ball that he was needed at Reading. The old man had had a bad turn, and had asked for Marcus. He was often sleeping now, a laudanum-induced sleep designed to ease his pain, but when awake he liked sitting with Marcus and playing at piquet or whist.

  It was little enough to do for the man, and the doctor seemed to think it was the sole reason he was still living. Marcus had only come back to London on a flying visit because he had a presentiment—he who did not believe in such nonsense—that Arabella was in trouble. How he would find out whether he was right
or not when he clearly was not welcome at Leathorne House he did not know, but perhaps some of his acquaintances could tell him what entertainments the lady was rumored to be attending and he could see for himself that she was well. The need to talk to her was so strong it felt like a physical ache in his belly.

  He rode his glossy, prancing mount through Hyde Park toward the Serpentine, pondering his day's business. He had to see a London solicitor at his uncle's insistence, to deliver a mess^^e from the old man, but then the day was his own. He was startled out of his reverie by the pounding of hooves behind him. He turned in the saddle to see a horse thundering toward him, apparently out of control.

  He bolted into action, riding alongside the snorting, heaving beast and catching the reins, to find that it was Lady Cynthia Walkerton, her eyes wide and frightened and her handsome bosom heaving just as much as her steed's.

  "Oh, thank you, Mr. Westhaven, thank you! I ... I don't know what happened. One minute she was walking steadily, and then she must have been frightened by a rabbit or something. How will I ever repay you?"

  Marcus leaped to the ground and helped her down from her mount, noting that in such a frightening moment Lady Cynthia's dashing little shako had not come dislodged from her perfectly coiffed hair. She held on to his arm for just a fraction of a moment too long and looked up at him from under the tiny veil that draped cunningly over her hat brim, and he knew as sure as he lived that the horse had been made to run, and that Lady Cynthia, rumored to be a superb horsewoman, had not lost control for a single second.

  He released her and stepped back, saying, "Think nothing of it, my lady." He was puzzled as to what her game was—she was the acknowledged diamond of the London Season—but he had been aware for some time that she was pursuing him. He was known to be poor, and he was certainly not the picture of one of her tonnish beaux, the gentlemen who crowded around her like bees around the sweetest and prettiest flower in the garden.

  "My, but it is so fortunate that you happened to be here, sir. I might have come to serious harm," she said, her voice breaking. "How ever can I repay you?"

  That was the second time she had mentioned repayment in as many minutes. He bowed. "Lady Cynthia, you must know that no gentleman would ever demand repayment where no debt exists. I would be a cur to insist upon one."

  She dimpled and peeked up from under her veil again. "Still, you have but to command me," she replied, with a breathless quaver in her voice.

  "There is one favor you can do me," he said, turning her horse and walking with her and her snuffling mount back to the safety of the public thoroughfare near the Serpentine. Her footman awaited in the distance, clearly not having been worried at all about his mistress's whereabouts or safety.

  "Just name it." Her voice was breathless still, and little-girlish; she laid her gloved hand on his upper arm. "I will do anything."

  "Can you tell me what entertainment Miss Arabella Swinley attends this evening? I just ask, because I remember you being near often when I was talking to her, and I thought you might be one of her special friends." He turned just in time to see her lip curl a little.

  "I am not a friend of hers, sir, and I doubt that you will be when you learn all there is to know about the ... the lady"

  It was deliberately said, and deliberately insulting to Arabella's character.

  "What do you mean?" Marcus said harshly.

  "I mean that things have come out—tell me, sir, have you ever heard mention of a Lord Nathan Conroy?"

  Marcus's blood ran cold. What was it that the Snowdales had said when he had first seen them? He could not remember, but they had whispered something back and forth about Arabella and it concerned a Lord Conroy, he was almost sure.

  "I can see by your expression that you know something of what I am about to say. Well, Miss Swinley had the misfortune of being at the de la Coursiere masquerade ball four nights ago, when who should arrive but Lord Conroy and his mother. Lady Farmington. One could see the stricken look on Miss Swinley's face. I almost pitied her, but it would have been misplaced sympathy." Her breathy voice held the vinegar of malice, and her mouth twisted into a spiteful smile. "It all came out then, how she tricked Lord Conroy into a room, pretended the door was locked, and then had her mother find them thus. The mother—Miss Swinley's mother, I mean—of course screamed compromise, and demanded the poor man marry her daughter. Nothing but fortune hunters, the pair of them."

  Marcus felt a jolt of revulsion, but swiftly put away his first thought, that Arabella was even more scheming than he had thought, and staunchly defended his friend. "I do not believe it. It was all Lady Swinley's doing, I do not doubt"

  Lady Cynthia gave him a pitying look. "Sir, Miss Swinley would hardly go into a room alone with a man and then pretend to find the door locked, if she did not intend to trap him into marriage."

  "There must be some other explanation," Marcus said, stubbornly.

  Ignoring his obstinate defense of Arabella, she continued. "And when accosted by Lady Farmington about it she was incredibly rude to the countess, one of the most respected peeresses in the realm!"

  "Arabella must have had good reason," Marcus said, teeth gritted. He would not let such unworthy doubt creep into him. Arabella had her faults, but he would not believe her capable of such ugly intrigue.

  Maliciousness in her expression, Lady Cynthia said, "Well, if you do not believe that, then how about this" - she leaned toward Marcus and toyed with his loosely tied cravat, straightening the knot with her delicate hands, then laying them flat on his chest. "The very day after that confrontation, it is announced that Miss Swinley is to marry Lord Pelimore!" She watched his eyes avidly. "She was, no doubt, holding out for something better, but the moment she and her scheming mother realized they were ruined, they sealed the deal with that old relic."

  Marcus was stunned. She was to marry that grotty, grubby old peer after all? How could she? What was she thinking? No, he would not believe it; not until he heard it from her own lips.

  Lost in his own thoughts, he strode away from Lady Cynthia without a backward glance.

  The early afternoon sun was obscured by the leafy fronds of beech and alder tree, and even more so by a deep-rimmed chip straw bonnet Arabella wore as she strolled around the small garden that was opposite the Leathornes' magnificent town house. She uneasily glanced up every time she heard footsteps. She was not looking forward to the interview she was there to conduct. The tone of Marcus's note, delivered through Annie, who had obtained it from a footman, was abrupt and commanding. It was clear he had heard something, but whether it was about her betrothal or that awful scene at the de la Coursiere ball, she could not say. She wasn't even sure which she wished it was.

  She heard a quick step behind her on the crushed limestone walk, and turned. It was him, and he was clearly furious, holding on to his anger tightly as though if he let go he might be capable of anything. She composed herself with an effort and smiled.

  "Marcus, how good to see you. I feared I would never—"

  "Cut line, Arabella." He stood in front of her and looked down at her, his hands working at his sides. "Are you quite mad? Of all the addle-brained, feather-headed, imbecilic—what are you thinking? You will be tied to that grubby old dullard for life; you will have to let him paw you and slobber all over you until he gets you with child, if he even can! He is marrying you for nothing more than—"

  "Enough! Be silent. I know why he is marrying me," Arabella said, her voice icy. She was in no mood to be abused, and by Marcus Westhaven! She held her head high and leveled a challenging look at him. "He is marrying me for the same reason all men marry; so they can secure their inheritance and be sure any child they conceive is their own. I am not so shatter-brained as to believe that any man marries for love, or if they do they are usually mooncalves sighing after their first infatuation."

  "Ah, but you choose to marry for money. Much nobler!"

  "I have no choice!"

  "You do have a choice! If there wa
s any chance you had a scrap of affection or even respect for the old pustule I would not be saying this, but you cannot even like him!"

  "M—my affections are none of your business, sir!" Arabella fiercely blinked away the tears that rose into her eyes. She would not let him see her cry, not if he was going to be so cruel about her fate. Did he not understand that she had no choice?

  "Arabella! Do anything rather than marry without that affection. You must see that it will not do." He grasped her shoulders and stared down into her eyes.

  She gazed at him for a moment, but the expression in his storm gray eyes confused her and she stared down at the gravel instead. His eyes seemed to search her soul, and she was not sure she would hold up well under the examination. "You have no idea what you are talking about!" she said, wearily.

  "I do know what I am talking about—your future!" He shook her lightly. "You need not marry at all. What is wrong with living life as a spinster?"

  "On what? Pins? Buttons? How am I supposed to live?" She wrenched her shoulders out of his powerful grip and stared up at him, misery clutching at her heart. "It is all very well for you to talk. Men can take a profession, make their own way in the world, but without money I—we, my mother and I, will be out on the street. I had no choice!"

  He seemed to take that in for a moment. "You . . . you are lacking in funds?" His mouth tightened. "You could take employment," he said.

  "As what? A governess? If you look around you, Marcus, you will see," she said, her voice trembling, "how few governesses there are who are tall, slim, moderately attractive daughters of barons. Such as I do not get hired as governesses; we are too tempting a target for the licentiousness of our employers' husbands and sons and even their servants. Even if I could—even if, by some miracle, someone was willing to hire me, what do you propose I do with my mother? We have no relation to whom she can go. And she would not live as a poor relation anyway; it would kill her. She is my mother, my responsibility!"