Should it not be resolved, then she and her mother would receive a modest income upon her father’s death, and nothing more. The title of Duke, Tiverwell Manor, all of the money, properties, and even her mother’s considerable inheritance from her own father would go to Farley Minton, Viscount of Norton, who none of them liked.
“Which we’ll go through and detail in the document,” Mr. Conolly was saying. “As I work, it would be of great use if you could make a detailed and thorough list of the items of which you speak.”
Arabella let her mind wander, just a bit. They were discussing those objects which her father wanted to remain within the bloodline. This included several paintings, a few sculptures, a silver tea service…nothing that truly interested Arabella, aside from a Middle Ages broadsword, which her father kept over the fireplace in the library.
“You see, Mr. Conolly,” her father was saying. Arabella focused when her father turned a fond gaze in her direction. “My wife and I have raised our only child as both son and daughter to us both. We wish to make sure that upon my demise, she is treated as she has been raised.”
Arabella beamed at her father, then turned her gaze toward Mr. Conolly. Instead of looking shocked, he merely nodded, smiling.
“I will ensure that it is so,” he said.
“I must say,” Arabella said. “I’m very impressed at how you’re taking all of this.”
“It’s not my job to impose my opinions on the requests of my clients,” he replied. “However, I see no reason why a beloved daughter shouldn’t receive the things which her father wishes to give her.” He cleared his throat. “The only true problem that we may encounter is the entail itself. They are difficult to break; however, it has also been done.”
“They have, have they?” her father asked.
“Yes. The wife’s fortune has been successfully released from the estate,” Mr. Conolly explained. “The title and the county seat were not.”
Arabella smiled at him. Secretly, she was planning never to marry. She wanted to live like a gentleman—under her own power. She wanted never to have to submit to a husband.
“I think you’ve found a very sound advocate in Mr. Conolly, Papa,” she said, smiling at her father. She loved him, as any daughter who had been raised by a kind and generous father would. She just couldn’t tell him her plans. He would never understand the full weight of how her upbringing had formed her mind and her heart.
Chapter Two
As Charles made his way down for dinner, he found himself thinking of Lady Arabella. She was beautiful, yes. But she was also opinionated and intelligent. He was interested to make her acquaintance. It could never be more than that, but he was fine with that. He’d met so many daughters of gentlemen in his work. It was abundantly clear that none of them were anything like Lady Arabella.
As he walked, he glanced at the paintings in the hallway which stared out at him from their gilt frames. The carpet in the hall was soft and thick, muffling his footsteps.
When he arrived, the Duke, the Duchess, Lady Arabella, as well as another gentleman, were already down in the parlor, awaiting the announcement that dinner was ready. Charles glanced about the room. No matter how long he worked with the ton, their extravagant living situations still made his head spin.
His eyes went immediately to Lady Arabella, who was wearing a midnight blue silk gown which brought out the auburn of her hair. She looked positively bewitching.
“How do you find your rooms, Mr. Conolly?” the Duchess asked him.
“Very comfortable, Your Grace,” he replied. “Thank you.”
“This is the Viscount of Drysdale,” the Duke said, as a very austere, prim-looking gentleman walked over to them. “He’s here to enjoy the hunting. He will be staying here at Tiverwell Manor.”
“I’ve heard of your prowess in chambers,” Lord Drysdale said, smiling. “His Grace has been singing your praises.” He was a gentleman of no more than five-and-twenty. Charles had the hunch that he was actually there in pursuit of Lady Arabella. A hunt of the female kind.
“How kind of you, Your Grace,” Charles said. The Duke raised his glass of brandy in salute.
“It’s all well-deserved, sir.”
“I might have a case to discuss with you, myself,” Lord Drysdale replied, lowering his voice.
“I’d be very happy to assist you, My Lord,” Charles replied. This was how he made his client list—on the strength of recommendations from other clients.
“Mr. Conolly has agreed to fence me tomorrow,” Lady Arabella cut in.
“You’re going to duel a lady?” Lord Drysdale asked, clearly horrified.
“I shall,” Charles replied, feeling his hunch to be correct. Lord Drysdale seemed to be very confident, as he looked over at Lady Arabella. It was in a manner that was, already very proprietary.
“But—but—that’s obscene.”
“Not at all—for fencers, it’s practice,” Charles explained, calmly. “From what she’s told me, Lady Arabella is, at the very least, as trained as I am. It’s a fair fight.” He cleared his throat and then went on. “It would be an insult to the lady not to fence her, simply because she is a lady.”
Lord Drysdale frowned, but said nothing. He looked confused, as though he were wondering if he had been insulted, himself. Meanwhile, Lady Arabella was beaming at Charles. She mouthed the words, thank you. He nodded.
“Lord Drysdale,” Charles went on because he didn’t want the Viscount to believe himself slighted. He was a potential client, after all. “I’ve heard tell that you’re a master at whist. Would you be at all interested in a game, later?”
Lord Drysdale nodded, a small smile spreading across his face. “Of course, sir. Who told you?”
“The Earl of Diggar,” Charles replied. “He was just telling me last week that you gave him a solid thrashing at the Millgate Club.”
“And so I did,” Lord Drysdale said, proudly. The butler peered into the room at that moment.
“Dinner is served, Your Grace,” he said.
Arabella was thoroughly impressed by Mr. Conolly. He had gently put Lord Drysdale in his place, and then had softened it. He was clearly an expert in navigating the ton, without even being one of them.
Dinner was a long, drawn-out affair. Four slow courses, over which ton gossip was intimated by her parents and Lord Drysdale. She found herself sneaking glances over at Mr. Conolly.
Once, he caught her looking. He smiled, winking at her. She smiled, though she looked down at her plate. Her face heated as she blushed.
To be reduced to a blushing maid! Over a London barrister!
Dinner was over, at long last. The gentlemen and Mr. Conolly all left the room, retiring to her father’s billiards room, where they could enjoy their cards, cigars, and brandy in peace.
Arabella and her mother went into the drawing room, where they sat on her mother’s yellow brocade settee, sipping lemon cordial. The windows were thrown open, so that a cool, twilight breeze permeated the room.
“Mr. Conolly is an interesting sort,” her mother said, picking up her glass of cool lemon cordial.
“He is, indeed,” Arabella agreed, taking a sip of her own. It was sweet, with only the hint of sour.
“And what, pray tell, do you think of the Viscount?” her mother asked. Now that Arabella had debuted during the last Season, her mother had been suggesting eligible bachelors to her, as easily as though they were horses to be bought.
“No.” Arabella was firm. Lord Drysdale was kind enough, but he was about as interesting to her as pea soup, which was to say—not at all. Although he was a young gentleman, he acted as though he were older than her father.
“Of course.” The Duchess sighed as she smiled at her daughter fondly. “I knew you were going to be picky.”
“Mamma,” she said. “I cannot marry just anyone.” She couldn’t tell the Duchess that she meant not to marry at all. She had no plans on keeping any gentleman in suspense. She would quash anything before it happ
ened.
“Your father highly approves of him. We were discussing his suitability earlier.” Arabella didn’t approve of them speaking behind her back in this manner.
“That’s because they’re both members of the same club,” Arabella explained. “They’ve bonded over cards and drink, which makes them believe that they share a deeper bond.”
“You’ve seen Drysdale House,” her mother said, raising an eyebrow. “It’s not very far from Tiverwell Manor in terms of comfort and luxury. Not to mention, it is only a five-hour journey.”
“Mamma, no.”
“Very well.”
“Mr. Conolly says that he will be able to secure the London townhouse for us,” she said. “As well as your fortune for our use, and even perhaps some of Pappa’s money.”
Her mother regarded her with suspicion. Arabella realized that she had accidentally hinted at her true thoughts. Her mother set down her glass of cordial, and folded her hands in her lap. When she spoke, it was with great care.
“Daughter of mine, are you planning not to marry? Because that’s what it sounds like you are contemplating, in light of your father’s planned changes to his will.”
“Mamma—” Arabella sighed. “If I marry—”
“If!” Her mother’s eyebrows shot up.
“If, yes—then it will be for love, and with a gentleman who will not seek to dominate me using propriety as a means to do so.”
“I would expect nothing less,” her mother said, smiling.
“Good,” Arabella replied, taking a sip of her cordial. She felt relieved. It had felt like they were about to argue—and they rarely did. Her mother’s excitement over having Arabella married was…a surprise to Arabella herself.
“So, I will help you to find said gentleman,” her mother announced. Arabella cringed. She had been hoping that her mother would relax and let Arabella do all of the worrying.
“He would have to be your equal,” her mother remarked thoughtfully. She picked up her glass of cordial, holding it aloft as she spoke. “You could never be happy marrying a gentleman who thought himself above you. Nor, could he be lesser, for you would never respect him.” Her mother nodded to herself.
“Does such a gentleman exist?” Arabella asked, doubtfully. She had never met a gentleman who was like that. She had presumed that he didn’t exist, nor would he ever.
“In a country such as ours? Of course, he does. We just have to find him.”
Arabella turned her gaze toward the window, which was now a square of dark blue, the same shade as her dress. She thought, for a moment, of Mr. Conolly. She shook the thought away. He wasn’t a gentleman. Her father would never approve. Yet, Mr. Conolly treated her as an equal.
Perhaps he’ll show his true colors tomorrow.
Charles sat, staring down at his hand of cards. The two gentlemen were deep in a discussion of affairs upon which he could have absolutely no opinion. This was the usual habit of the ton. They were wrapped up in their own business.
“Your Grace,” Lord Drysdale said. “I was wondering at your education of your daughter.” Charles perked up.
“What of it?” the Duke asked.
“She seems to have been educated like a gentleman,” Drysdale said. Charles mused to himself that Lord Drysdale indeed fancied himself the natural match of Lady Arabella. He had the feeling, though, that she was more than the Viscount could handle.
“She has,” the Duke stated.
“How is she to be a wife to a gentleman if she claims to be his equal?”
“What did she do to you, Drysdale?” the Duke replied, winking at Charles. He had to hold in a laugh.
“Just this morning, she—she argued that I was mistaken,” Drysdale said.
“Not used to being bested by a lady?” Charles asked.
“Are you, Mr. Conolly?”
“I have not met many ladies,” he commented. “Usually, I work with gentlemen. Although, why shouldn’t ladies speak their minds? Why shouldn’t they be educated? In my opinion, education improves the life of the mind.”
“It has long been my opinion that ladies should be educated, but not argumentative,” Lord Drysdale muttered.
“What’s the point of educating them if they aren’t allowed to speak their minds?” Charles asked, setting his cards face down on the table.
The Viscount was about to answer, but the Duke threw his head back, roaring with laughter.
“Oh, Mr. Conolly! I love how easily you make your point. No wonder you’re so successful in the court room.”
“Indeed, Your Grace.” While he might have been low-born, he had no plans to sit silently, listening to them just talk.
The Viscount merely looked perturbed.
“Well Lord Drysdale,” the Duke said. “If you still mean to court my daughter, you should probably take a leaf out of Mr. Conolly’s book. She’ll never submit to the will of a gentleman who means to make her second to him.” The Duke shook his head. “She’s not going to change, merely because she’s married.”
The Viscount flashed Charles a look that was filled with jealousy. Charles, not wanting to present himself as a threat to the Viscount’s suit— particularly when he never could be—shrugged.
“Perhaps, My Lord,” he suggested. “Why don’t you try treating her as your equal? See how it goes.”
The Viscount squinted, as he considered it. “Perhaps. After all, what have I got to lose?”
Chapter Three
The next morning, Arabella dressed in her fencing gear—a pair of breeches, with padding in the legs, a padded jacket, over a protective breastplate, and then she tugged the gloves on.
Her pulse was racing as she walked downstairs, Annette, as always, trailing behind her. Arabella was excited to duel Mr. Conolly. As promised, he was waiting for her, down in the salle, with her fencing instructor.
“Good morning, Fabrizio,” she said, greeting her instructor—a small, wiry man, who had been brought to England from Italy, by her father. She then turned to Mr. Conolly. “I see you’ve met Mr. Conolly.”
“I have indeed, My Lady,” Fabrizio replied.
Mr. Conolly, too, wore fencing gear. She couldn’t help but notice—he looked smart in the form-fitting, white suit.
“Good morning, My Lady,” he said, bowing.
“Good morning, Mr. Conolly,” she replied, sketching a curtsey. She walked over to where her fencing foils were kept. “I believe you said that you preferred the epée?”
“I do, My Lady,” he said. “Although, I am able to perform with sabre, if it would please you.”
She smiled at him. He was quite the smooth-talker. “What would please you, Mr. Conolly?” she asked, her voice a low purr.
He didn’t even bat an eye. “To make you happy, My Lady.”
“Sabre, it is.” She grabbed her sabre, flipping it, then catching it by the hilt.
“Very well,” Mr. Conolly said, bowing.
They both faced off, pulling on their helmets. He was a skilled fencer—he was pushing her to use lightning-quick touches. She parried him easily. Fabrizio and Annette watched on.
“Are you going easy on me, Mr. Conolly?” she asked.
“Merely warming up, My Lady,” he replied, jumping back as she executed an offense.
She began to attack him down low, forcing him to step back. He attacked her high, causing her to take a pace backward. She moved, as fast as a striking snake, down beneath his defenses, scoring a hit on his hip.
“Hah!” she yelled in triumph.
“Good hit,” he said.
“Thank you,” she murmured, pleased. Mr. Conolly was actually fencing her. That hit had been well-earned and fought for.
Charles had to admit it—she was good. Brilliant. She was about to beat him, fair and square. He wasn’t even going to claim that he was out of practice. Even if he hadn’t been, she would still be beating him.
He had scored only one hit, while she was about to make her third. He’d given it his best go, not lettin
g her have it easily. She was absolutely ferocious with a sword.
Finally, she came in from above, something that she hadn’t done—hitting him just above the sternum.
He stepped back. “Third hit,” he said.
Fabrizio was clapping. “Bene. Bene, My Lady.”
Forbidden Desires of a Seductive Duchess: A Steamy Historical Regency Romance Novel Page 2