They took their places, facing each other, approximately five feet apart. “You see? It’s much like fencing,” she said. Charles was often ill at ease on the dance floor. That comment alone made him suddenly more confident than he had ever felt before. The music began.
Arabella stepped forward, toward Charles as the dance began. She then stepped away, as the steps ordered. This was, somehow, different. She faced him, once more, raising her hand to his.
Where usually there was nothing, she felt drawn to him. When their hands touched, it was like there was some sort of fire. She raised her eyes to his and saw her own desire mirrored in his.
It was almost unbearable—the feeling of being overjoyed, yet unable to do anything about it. As they went through the dance steps, she became more aware of all of his charms—the way his dark hair fell over his forehead; the way that his blue eyes sparkled when he laughed; the way that his lips were pouty, but still masculine.
She knew that she was in grave danger of falling in love with him, even after knowing him for less than a day. Her father, who had always told her that she should fall in love, would support it. Of course, he would.
The touch of Mr. Conolly’s hand against hers felt like more than a touch. There was a bit of a shock, of his skin against the flat of her palm. When she turned away from him, it was like turning away from the sun.
When the dance ended, she curtsied to Mr. Conolly. As her knees un-bended, she raised her eyes to meet his. In that moment, looking into the impossible blue of them, it seemed like there was no one else in the world.
She opened her mouth to tell him—something, anything, when someone else cleared his throat, behind her. “My Lady?” Lord Drysdale asked.
She tore her gaze away from Mr. Conolly. “Yes, My Lord?” she asked. The Viscount looked deeply unhappy. She felt badly for him. With any other lady, he would have been more successful. He wasn’t a bad sort of gentleman—he was just infinitely unsuitable for Arabella.
“I was wondering if you’d care for a raspberry cordial after your…exertions on the dance floor?” His eyebrows were raised.
“No, thank you, My Lord.” She turned back toward Mr. Conolly, but found that he’d disappeared, into the crowd. She wondered at that. She hadn’t had the chance to thank him for the dance.
As much as I felt, he must have felt, too.
Hope soared within her. To think—no, to know that she had met someone who felt about her as much as she felt about him must be some sort of blessed miracle.
“My Lady?” Lord Drysdale asked.
“Yes, My Lord?” she answered as she turned toward him.
“Come. We can walk the room,” he said, offering her his arm. She accepted it, slipping her hand into the crook. “It’s quite the crowd that’s turned up.”
“Indeed, My Lord.”
“I would love to throw parties such as this, at Drysdale House,” he said. “But I find that without the assistance of a Lady to oversee it, I am wholly unable.”
“I’m sure that the Dowager Viscountess of Drysdale could do it just as well,” she replied.
“Mother! Oh, no. She no longer has any inclination for it,” he said. “She much prefers simple family dinners and sitting of an evening in the parlor.”
“I’m sure if you asked, she would be very happy.” Arabella knew that Lord Drysdale was attempting to push his suit further. When she glanced over at him, he was smiling, yet his eyes were not. There was a desperation there, which made her feel guilty.
“My Lady,” he began.
“My Lord, I’m feeling a bit overwarm.” She smiled at him. “Kindly excuse me, My Lord.” She curtseyed, and then walked out to the terrace, pretending that she was very warm. She stepped out, walking right up to the rail. She exhaled, letting the cool evening breeze wash over her.
Chapter Five
Charles had stepped out onto the terrace after dancing with Lady Arabella to collect his thoughts. He knew that she hadn’t seen him. She had almost run from the ball, then was leaning over the terrace balcony.
“Are you—are you feeling well, My Lady?” he asked.
She spun around, her face lighting up when she saw him, standing beside the door. “Yes—very well. Just…warm.”
“Good,” he commented, getting ready to make his polite excuses before heading back inside.
“This is very inappropriate, Mr. Conolly,” she said, smiling.
“I’m well aware,” he said, clearing his throat. She seemed…pleased. “Since I now am assured that you are well, I will return to the party, while you stay here. I don’t want to offend my employer,” he explained, gently. “I…cannot afford to, My Lady.”
“I understand,” she said, her eyes going down to her hands. He turned to go, but she called him back. “Wait.”
He turned back toward her, drawn by the pleading in her voice. His heart was thundering in his chest. She was frowning.
“Is something the matter, My Lady?”
She seemed to be struggling with something. “You’ll duel with me again, won’t you?”
“Of course, My Lady.”
“Good.”
He bowed, then left. Charles didn’t know what to make of it. There could be nothing. Perhaps a bit of idle fancy.
It will fade, with time. Of course, it will. Of course.
As he entered the ball again, the Earl of Diggar, Josias Montagu, spotted him. “Mr. Conolly!” he said, gesturing him over. “Come here, come here!” he urged. The Earl of Diggar was a portly gentleman, his dark hair combed back from his florid face.
“My Lord, what’s the matter?” he asked. It was clear that the Earl was well into his cups. He was slurring his words, just a little.
“I require your services urgently,” he said, in a low voice. In his hand, he held a glass, filled with punch.
“Of course,” Charles replied.
“I lost my gold pocket-watch the other night,” he confided.
“Have you looked for it?” It seemed like something that Lord Diggar could have done using one of his servants, not his barrister.
“No, no—I lost it at a game of cards and I need it returned to me,” he explained. “My wife is already on to me. If she finds that I’ve lost it…at cards…” He sighed, then downed the contents of his cup. “It was her father’s. She had it engraved with my initials.”
“I see,” Charles said.
“If you can get it back tonight, I will pay you five times your usual hourly sum,” he urged.
“Who has it?” Charles asked.
“Lord Winterbourne.” Lord Diggar glanced across the room. Charles followed his gaze toward Lord Winterbourne, with whom Charles was acquainted. “If my wife sees it in his hands, she will be most upset.”
“Not to worry, My Lord,” Charles assured him. “I will have your property returned forthwith. How much are you willing to send him in exchange?”
Lord Diggar whispered to Charles, who nodded and then began to walk across the room, toward Lord Winterborne. Gentlemen did not settle their affairs between themselves. They hired men like Charles to do it for them.
As Mr. Conolly left, Arabella turned away, back toward the garden, which was lit up with torches. Her pulse was racing. She closed her eyes, imagining what could have just happened. Mr. Conolly, stepping in closer to her. Raising his hand to her cheek, pulling her in, closer. Lowering his lips to hers.
“My Lady?” a male voice said from behind her. “What are you doing out here?”
She turned to face the Earl of Diggar. One of her father’s good friends. “Just getting some air, My Lord.”
“Are you well?” The Earl of Diggar was a frightening gentleman, although solicitous. She wondered, often, if that was a front.
“Yes. Well enough to go back inside, My Lord,” she assured him cheerfully. She didn’t want to be alone out here. Not with him.
“Very good, My Lady.” He pulled out his pipe, and took her place along the balcony of the terrace.
; Arabella walked back inside, regretting that she had to give up her place out on the terrace. She couldn’t stand the scent of tobacco smoke, however. The Earl of Diggar made her uncomfortable, to say the least.
She stood near the French doors to the terrace, her eyes traveling the room. It was filled with members of the ton, as well as some lesser personages of wealth, but not title.
She looked for Mr. Conolly, but didn’t see him. She finally spied him, deep in discussion with the Marquess of Winterbourne. He was smiling, she noted. As she watched, Lord Winterbourne pulled a golden pocket watch out of his jacket pocket.
Mr. Conolly took it, slipping it into his own. Lord Winterbourne said something, his face stern. Mr. Conolly nodded. Then, they both shook hands. Mr. Conolly walked back across the room. She moved so as to be in his path.
When he saw her, he smiled.
“My Lady,” he said.
“What, pray tell, just happened with Lord Winterbourne?” she asked.
“Unfortunately, that’s between me and my client,” Mr. Conolly replied. The smile fell from his face.
“Who is your client?” she asked.
He studied her for a moment. She kept her eyes on his, drawing herself to her full height.
“My Lady, if I told you my clients’ business, then I would be out of work,” he explained, gently.
She nodded. “Very well, keep your clients’ secrets.”
He sighed. “I wish I could, though. I’m sure that you would find it all very amusing.” He was softening it for her. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have to go and find my client.”
She nodded. Glancing around the room, her eyes met her father’s gaze. He had clearly just watched her exchange with Mr. Conolly. His head was tilted to the side, curiously.
He frowned thunderously. Then he turned away, to say something to Lord Greyfield. Arabella felt a chill rise across her skin. He had seen and realized much, she knew.
Charles returned the pocket watch to the Earl of Diggar, whom he found standing out on the terrace, smoking his pipe.
“Here you are,” he said, handing it to the delighted Earl.
“You’re a miracle worker, Mr. Conolly,” he said. “How much do I owe Lord Winterbourne?”
“Fifty pounds,” he replied.
“Good, good.”
“He expects it delivered to Winterbourne Manor tomorrow morning,” Charles said.
“I’ll send one of the servants,” Lord Diggar said, nodding. “I’ll have your fee sent, as well.”
“Thank you, My Lord.”
“No, thank you, Mr. Conolly,” Lord Diggar said, patting him on the arm, and then leaving the terrace.
Charles stood there, in the torch-light of the gardens. He could see gentlemen and ladies, walking through the hedges. In the darkness, he couldn’t tell who was who.
“Mr. Conolly,” the Duke of Tiverwell said.
Charles turned to him. “Your Grace,” he replied, bowing respectfully.
“I imagine that you know I mean to have Lady Arabella marry the Viscount of Drysdale.”
“I had surmised as much,” Charles agreed. Clearly, the Duke had seen something that he wasn’t happy about. It gave Charles an uneasy feeling.
“Whispers are making their way around the room, that you and my daughter are getting along very well…almost too well. I myself have noticed.”
“Your Grace, I apologize if I have overstepped,” he said. “There was gossip of Lady Arabella, which I could not stand silently by. I admit, I defended her.”
“Gossip?” The Duke raised an eyebrow.
“I’m sure you’ve heard some of it—about her donning breeches and such.”
The Duke nodded, the anger going out of him. “I apologize, Mr. Conolly. I might have presumed too much. On top of that, I saw the two of you speaking in the hall.”
“Nothing more than a discussion between two acquaintances,” Charles assured him, pretending like the Duke’s angry confrontation had not been a clear message—to keep from getting too close to Lady Arabella.
Charles kept smiling, even though he was seething inside. Charles would even admit—he was a proud man. He had risen far from his poor roots. He was the only child of a seamstress. While he may mix with the ton and do their bidding—it was never more clear that he was not one of them.
Arabella sat back against the blue velvet of the seat cushions in her father’s barouche-landau. The lanterns at the front were lit, throwing light on those inside—Arabella, her mother, her father, Lord Drysdale, and Mr. Conolly.
“What a success!” the Duchess proclaimed, breaking the heavy silence which had filled the interior of the carriage.
“Indeed, Mamma,” Arabella agreed.
“I saw you dance with nearly every gentleman there,” the Duchess said. “Lady Catsmore was saying how lovely you looked. Like an angel, she was saying. In all of that white!”
Arabella smiled. Her eyes went to Mr. Conolly, who was seated directly across from her. His eyebrows were drawn, the corners of his mouth downturned. He looked upset, then glanced away.
What could be the meaning of this?
“Lord Drysdale, does she not look like an angel?” the Duchess asked.
“She does, indeed, Your Grace,” the Viscount agreed.
“Thank you, My Lord,” Arabella said, noting how Mr. Conolly was not asked his opinion. She turned her gaze out of the window to her right. All she could see were darkened fields.
It was late—nearly three of the clock. She was exhausted. She supposed that Mr. Conolly was, as well. The change in his demeanor was so complete.
When the carriage arrived at Tiverwell Manor, her mother linked her arm in Arabella’s, ferrying her up the stairs. When she turned to look at him, his eyes met hers, sadly, it seemed.
Chapter Six
After eating a late breakfast the next morning, Charles went out for a short walk in Tiverwell’s gardens. He would be cooped up inside, working for the rest of the day, and wanted to take advantage of the fresh air while the sun was just making its way into the sky.
He walked through the flowers, wondering which was which. He had never lived anywhere with a flower-garden before. It was lovely. The smell was heavenly. He wondered if the back-yard of his own London home would support it. He figured not—it was more of a place of necessity. Mrs. Osbourne, his housekeeper, was the one who needed the space.
He saw Lady Arabella before she noticed him. Thankfully, she was accompanied by her lady’s maid. The girl regarded him coolly, with eyes so dark they were almost black. She wore a neat gray frock, and a starched white pinafore. Beside the bright auburn color of Lady Arabella’s dress, she seemed austere.
“Do you often walk out here?” he asked. Lady Arabella turned to face him.
“Of course,” she replied. “There’s nothing more calming than a good walk out in nature.”
“What don’t you do, My Lady?” he wondered.
“Well, I’m not much interested in embroidery,” she replied.
He laughed. “I daresay not.”
“Come. Walk with me,” she said, reaching out to take his arm. “As you can see, we are chaperoned by Annette.”
“I’d be happy to, My Lady,” he replied.
They walked in silence for a few moments. He was happy to have run into her like this. Her lady’s maid followed them, silent as a shadow. At the same time, he recalled the Duke’s comments the night before.
He tried to think of a proper subject to bring up. He had never had any lady pay much attention to him, like this. Usually, they studiously ignored him, only paying him polite attention, when necessitated. Lady Arabella gravitated toward him. He didn’t know what to think of it.
“So, Mr. Conolly,” Lady Arabella said. “What made you want to be a barrister?”
“I don’t talk about it much,” he told her. It was true—he didn’t. None of his clients knew. Only his good friend and fellow barrister, Arthur Hinkley, whom he had known since they were at univ
ersity. “Can you keep a secret?”
“I most certainly can,” she replied.
“When I was ten, my father was arrested for a crime that he did not commit.”
“Oh?”
“Murder,” he said.
Forbidden Desires of a Seductive Duchess: A Steamy Historical Regency Romance Novel Page 4