“You would call your own mother a baboon? Dear Lord, how am I to find a husband for an uncouth girl such as this?” Her mother addressed the ceiling of the carriage as if she were having a direct audience with the Lord Himself.
Bella would dearly have liked to offer some choice words of her own on the matter, but she wisely refrained. Instead, she counted to five in her head, took a supporting breath, and attempted to correct the dowager. “Maman, I said you’ve been a boon, not a baboon.”
“Just so,” her mother huffed, “but how like you to say so now I’ve heard your true feelings. You only seek to abfuscate me.”
Bella didn’t bother to correct her mother. It wouldn’t do a bit of good and she knew it. She simply remained silent and settled back into her seat as the verdant fields continued their endless undulations outside. They were on their way to the great Shakespearean-themed country house party held by Lady Cosgrove, and Bella knew better than anyone that it wouldn’t do to upset the dowager now. Indeed, house parties quite set her mother on edge. As did life in general, but that was beside the point.
At times like these, Bella was certain her brother Thornton owed her a great deal. It was just as well he’d finally been forced to do his part and attend this country house party as well as she. Bella didn’t wish to be put on display to the grasping remnants of England’s aristocrats. Many of them had been cast to penury and she was well aware the only positive quality they’d be likely to find in a bookish young miss was the dowry her brother had provided her.
She wasn’t content to be settled upon as if she were no better than a house with a leaky roof. She’d read a great many novels, and she wanted more than resignation. Bella longed for adventure, love and above all, passion. Of course, she could never tell her mother as much, or she’d be cast to Bedlam for being frail-minded.
Most importantly, there was a grander plan in her mind. Her brother had written that he planned to bring his friend and business associate Jesse Whitney for companionship. Because her mother despised him, she’d wisely kept that particular gem of knowledge to herself. Until now.
She slanted a glance at the dowager, who resembled nothing so much as a large bird. She had been wearing gray half-mourning for seven years, and her sole ornamentation was jet and feathers. A stuffed bird, Bella decided, was truly what her mother personified.
“Maman, did you know Mr. Whitney shall attend?” Bella asked, knowing it was sly indeed of her. Everyone thought her bookish and mild-mannered, but in truth, she had layers. She was a parsnip in reverse, she’d decided some time ago. Thick skin on the inside, sweet and soft on the outside. She preferred it that way, for then, everyone underestimated her.
“The awful American?” The dowager straightened her posture and raised her nose. “You shan’t know him, my dear. I can’t think why Lady Cosgrove should extend an invitation to such a blackleg, truly I cannot.”
“Certainly not,” Bella concurred, not meaning a bit of it. “I should never know someone so low.”
“Wise girl.” The dowager wore a satisfied smile. “I despair of your poor brother, with his dabbling in trade with that American vulture. But not my dear Arabella, thank the Lord. For you, I have expectations.”
Bella was not sure she liked this news. “Expectations, mother?”
“You’ll have a duchess’s coronet and nothing less.”
Her stomach cramped at the very thought, and it had little to do with the extra-tightlacing done by her lady’s maid that morning or the stiffness of her travel dress. “Yes, Maman.”
“I have it on good authority that the Duke of Devonshire will be in attendance,” the dowager announced in a pleased tone.
Truly, Devonshire had always seemed altogether too proper even if he was handsome. He’d probably never even so much as sneezed at the wrong time of day in his life. But Bella knew it was wiser to smile and concur. It was what the dowager expected. “Wonderful news, Maman. I shall ask after his estate.”
“Just so, my dear daughter.” The dowager marchioness beamed. “Just so.”
Because her mother had delayed their arrival over a briefly misplaced trunk, Bella missed the first day’s festivities, but she didn’t mind. After settling into her chamber, she ventured through the immense Tudor revival wing in search of the library. No matter where she traveled, the library was always her home. Hostesses no doubt thought her strange as it was ordinarily considered a masculine domain, but Bella didn’t care. The dowager had settled in for a nap, and while she’d told her mother she would do the same, she had no intention of sleeping when there was a new collection of books to be scoured.
With the help of a kind footman, she located her quarry. The library was immense, its mahogany walls lined with books. Bella stepped inside and took a deep inhalation of the familiar, comforting scent of leather and paper. She slid her spectacles out of the hidden pocket in her gown and settled them on the bridge of her nose.
“I wonder,” she mused aloud as she slowly examined the spines nearest her, “if Lady Cosgrove has any Trollope. Likely not. It wouldn’t be my luck. She’s probably like Mother and thinks him too fast.”
“Interesting,” drawled a deep, familiar, honey-slow drawl. “I wonder if you ordinarily hold conversations with yourself.”
The book she’d taken off the shelf fell from her fingers to the floor with a loud thump. He was here. She spun about, gaze searching the still seemingly empty room for him. “You have me at a disadvantage, Mr. Whitney. Where in blessed angels’ sakes are you?”
“Up here.” There was laughter in his tone.
He was in the second level, she realized, following his voice with her eyes. She hadn’t known she wasn’t alone. Goodness, he must think her an utter featherhead. Of course, of all audiences and much to her embarrassment, it had to be Mr. Whitney. She had not seen him in some time, but even from so far away, she found him as wickedly compelling as ever.
“I’m quite bemused that you’ve been eavesdropping on my private conversation,” she quipped, striving to maintain the pretense she was unaffected. She very much did not want him to think her a fool.
“Perhaps I’m the one who should be bemused.” He made his way down the narrow staircase. “I was having a heated debate with myself when you walked in and interrupted it.”
She snatched the spectacles from her face as he sauntered toward her, two books in his hands. “Indeed, sir? What debate was that? I confess I didn’t hear a single word.”
“Poetry or fiction?” He grinned as he reached her and stopped with a respectable distance between them.
Bella couldn’t help but notice the way his grin produced a charming divot in his right cheek. His smile transformed his ordinary handsome charm into melting masculine beauty. After all the time she’d spent with her brother’s friend over the past few years, she was still not immune to his magnetism. He possessed some indefinable quality she’d never seen in another man. It was as if beneath his polite exterior there was a wildness he barely kept contained. Maybe she was fanciful, but she’d always found him fascinating and even a trifle frightening.
“Who is the poet?” she asked, trying to keep her mind where it belonged. He had no interest in her and he never would. She would ever be his friend’s younger sister and she’d accustomed herself to the unwanted role.
“Matthew Arnold.” His grin deepened. “I do like your English bards.”
“Arnold is a wise choice,” she agreed, having harbored a secret love of poetry for years, against her mother’s strict edict. “One of my favorite lines is in Dover Beach. It’s the last stanza, I believe, where he writes, ‘Ah, love, let us be true to one another! For the world, which seems to lie before us like a land of dreams, so various, so beautiful, so new, hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light.’”
She was aware his stare was suddenly intense upon her and she flushed, wondering if perhaps she’d shared too much. “I beg your pardon,” she hurried to say, “I didn’t mean to wax on.”
&n
bsp; “No need to beg my pardon.” He winked at her, lightening the moment. “I like the sound of poetry on your lips.”
For some reason, his words sent a delightful heat simmering through her veins. She had an inkling it was caused by his mentioning of her lips. “Thank you. I know the sentiment is a dark one, but I find it terribly compelling just the same.”
“Life is dark.” There was an underlying emotion in his voice she couldn’t define.
Her life had not been, but she had a suspicion his past was indeed marred by darkness. Thornton had said his friend had fought for the Confederacy in the War Between the States. She couldn’t even imagine the horrors he’d witnessed in combat. He wore the look of a gentleman well, but she wondered if beneath the polish there hid a deeply tarnished soul.
“What is the fiction title?” she asked, attempting to return their conversation to its earlier levity once more. She didn’t want to pry, after all, and she feared her curiosity would get the better of her tongue soon.
“Our Mutual Friend.” He held up the volume for her inspection.
“Dickens.” She wrinkled her nose. “I must admit I’ve never been partial to his writing. Great Expectations was a vast lot of endless sentences if you ask me.”
He laughed, a rich, velvety sound. Her heart kicked into the mad gallop of a runaway mare. Goodness, he really was far too compelling for her composure’s sake. Perhaps she had read one too many romantic novels. It was making her maudlin and foolish. She caught herself staring at his mouth.
“I appreciate a lady who knows her mind,” he said, his tone low and intimate.
Oh blessed angels’ sakes. What to say to that? Stop staring at him like a duffer, she ordered her wayward mind. “You’re too kind, Mr. Whitney.”
“I wouldn’t call myself kind.” His tone was wry. “I count myself a number of things, but kind isn’t one of them.”
Her interest was piqued. She’d always known him to be proper and considerate. A perfect gentleman. “Then perhaps you do yourself an injustice.”
“If you knew the thoughts in my head, you wouldn’t think so.”
That intrigued her in a way she knew could be quite dangerous indeed. “What thoughts?”
His gaze dipped to her mouth. “That you’re one of the loveliest women I’ve ever seen.”
Her lungs nearly failed her. His pronouncement had a stupefying effect upon her. She wanted to say something flippant or clever but couldn’t find the proper words. Instead, she opted for candor. “That’s rather a kind thing to say, actually. You’ve bollixed it up.”
“Not truly.” His gaze met hers and for the first time in the years she had known him, she recognized the awareness she felt for him reflected back in his eyes. Or at least she hoped she did. “It’s the thoughts I haven’t said that are the problem.”
“I’m sure I shouldn’t ask what they are.” But it didn’t mean she didn’t want to know. Every part of her clamored with curiosity. Oh, how she wanted to know.
“No, you shouldn’t, Lady Bella.”
She found she rather liked the sound of her given name in his honeyed Virginia drawl.
“You’re not playing fair,” she accused quietly. “I do so hate suspense. It’s why I always flip to the last page of a novel before I start reading it.”
He laughed again and his dimple reappeared. “You ruin each book you read?”
She’d never confessed her peculiar habit to anyone before and she wasn’t certain why she’d chosen to bestow her secret upon Jesse Whitney just then. But there was no help for it. She’d already said too much.
Bella tried to keep the telltale blush from her cheeks. It wouldn’t do for him to know the effect his mere presence had on her. She wasn’t fifteen anymore, fresh from the schoolroom. “I prefer to think of it as preparing myself.”
Jesse took a step closer to her, still holding the books he’d been discussing. He was impossibly handsome. “Ah, I believe I understand you.”
Bella fought the urge to step back in retreat. He was now too near to her to be observing the proprieties any longer and that made her rather nervous. “Indeed?”
He closed the remaining distance between them, absconding with her ability to breathe as he did so. “You seek to avoid an unhappy ending.”
She faltered, as shaken by his nearness as she was by his perception. “Perhaps you’re right.”
“If it’s a happy ending you desire, I’m afraid you’re doomed to be disappointed in life, my dear.” He startled her by sinking abruptly to his knees and retrieving the forgotten book she’d dropped. “Here you are.”
As she accepted the volume from him, their fingers brushed. “Thank you.” She struggled to appear calm, trying with all her might to remain unaffected. “You sound remarkably cynical, Mr. Whitney.”
“Merely older.” He winked, breaking the intensity between them. “Think of me as another brother. I’d hate to see your idealism crushed without warning.”
Think of me as another brother.
Dear heavens. Another surge of embarrassment washed over her. Was she mistaken, then? Had she been reading more into his words and actions than was truly there? She’d harbored a tendre for him for the last four years. First, she had been too young. But now she was a lady grown, and while he was at least ten years her senior, she was far more mature than most ladies who were of an age with her. He was worldly, it was true, but he needn’t treat her as if he were a kindly uncle and she a recalcitrant niece running about in skirts above her ankles.
“Once again, you’re too kind,” she managed past the disappointment lodged in her throat. “But as I already have a brother, I shan’t need you to act as one.”
“I wouldn’t be so certain.” He raised a brow. “I’ve seen the young bucks who are here looking to make matches, and as lovely as you are, I’ve no doubt you’ll need more than one guardian to keep them in check.”
She was not amused by his insistence she view him as a protector. Drat him, why couldn’t he see her for the lady she’d become? She was not the same miss she’d been when he first met her, a shy girl who sat on her spectacles. “I’m more than capable of looking after myself, Mr. Whitney.”
He offered her a half-bow. “Of course you are, my dear.”
A strange thing happened to Bella then, to Bella who had to suffer the dowager on a daily basis, to Bella who had infinite amounts of tact and serenity. She lost her patience. “You need not placate me. I’m not a girl in the schoolroom even if you seem determined to treat me as such.”
His expression changed, becoming part startled, part admiring. “I do apologize if I’ve been offensive.”
She remained unmoved by his apology. “It is simply that I am one-and-twenty.”
Jesse’s smile returned, making him appear almost boyish. “I’m well aware of your age, but you’re still naïve to the ways of the world. When I was your age, I’d already been through a war.”
She longed to ask him about the black cloud that was always in the room with him, but she didn’t dare. “I can hardly be faulted for my country’s stability.”
“It seems I’m not going to end this particular battle as the victor.” He held up the books. “I think I’ll take the fiction and the poetry both after all.” He bowed again, and this time it was formal and stiff. “Enjoy your afternoon, Lady Bella.”
“Thank you, Mr. Whitney.” She watched him walk away, consternation mingling with regret. That had not gone as she’d hoped.
That sure as hell hadn’t gone as he’d hoped. Jesse was still cursing himself for his conduct as he entered Lady Cosgrove’s dining hall for dinner later that evening. Lady Arabella de Vere was, in a word, untouchable. That didn’t preclude him from wanting to touch her, however. In truth, he didn’t want to stop at a mere touch.
She was more than lovely as he’d said. She was exquisite, with her glossy black curls framing her face and startling blue eyes. And as she’d said, she was a woman grown, which was precisely the problem. When he
looked at her now, he saw the lush beauty she’d grown into and not the awkward girl she’d once been.
But he could not pursue her. It would be ruinous. He caught sight of her as he escorted his appointed dinner partner, the overeager widow Lady Boniface. Bella was striking in an elaborate pink evening gown that hinted at her décolletage. Lady Boniface, in stark contrast, was clothed in a gown cut so low he could almost see her nipples. Everything about her irked him, from her clinging touch to her rouged lips. Even her perfume was consternating. It smelled of a cloying combination of violets and powder. He seated her and narrowly avoided getting one of the feathers she wore in her hair up his nose.
By some turn of fortune’s fickle wheel, or perhaps merely Lady Cosgrove’s liberal sense of placement, Bella was seated opposite him at the table. He caught her eye. She looked away, unsmiling. He’d been rude to her earlier in an effort to hide his attraction. Now she likely thought him an arrogant ass.
“Lady Cosgrove is to be commended, wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Whitney?” Lady Boniface murmured, interrupting the tide of his thoughts. “If I didn’t know better, I should think we’re seated in the midst of a seascape.”
The effect their hostess had likely gone to great pains to create was lost on him. He briefly took note of seashells scattered about on the table. He’d never really given a damn for society the way the English did. In truth, all the trappings made him want to run as if a Union brigade were chasing him, bayonets drawn.
Jesse forced himself to tamp down a sigh and turn his attention back to Lady Boniface. “I certainly do agree, my lady.”
The smile she sent him in response was predatory. “I’m truly honored to be graced with your society, sir.” Her tone was low, bedchamber style.
Jesse wasn’t surprised. He’d already discovered she was husband hunting. Word traveled around at country house parties, Jesse well knew from experience. Men could be worse than a gaggle of females in such matters. Apparently, her widow’s portion, while admirable at several thousand a year, was not enough to withstand her proclivity for fine dresses, baubles, and gambling. Regardless of her beauty, any man seeking to avoid becoming her next benefactor should maintain his distance.
Heart's Temptation Series Box Set: Books 1-3: A Steamy Historical Romance Collection (Heart's Temptation Box Set) Page 30