by Golden Angel
She hadn't expected the parade of matrons of all ages coming to speak with her, making veiled references to affirm that she was, indeed, planning on being an accommodating wife. She hadn't expected their barely concealed excitement as they realized her marriage wasn't going to be like her brothers' or her friends', and that Hartford would not be a reformed rake at all.
The worst was knowing they were all correct in their assumptions. Hartford had been honest, he'd told her he was attending a gathering of his secret society—which, as his wife, she'd be welcome to join. He might already be keeping company with another lady at this very moment. Doing things to her. Things Arabella was able to picture all too clearly.
When she'd harried her friends for descriptions of exactly what the marital act was, she hadn't foreseen that she'd one day be imagining her potential husband engaged in that act with other women.
"Ignore them," Gabrielle whispered, keeping close to her side and doing her best to deflect the worst of the importuning ladies who approached Arabella. "You know if you decide to marry Hartford we'll all support you. And there are plenty of gentlemen who will be eager to distract you."
But the cheerfulness in Gabrielle's voice was as forced as the brittle smile on Arabella's face.
It was true she'd been quite popular with the gentlemen this evening, most of them sounding her out about the nature of her relationship with Hartford just as the ladies were—but with her in their sights rather than him. They seemed to expect that once she was married and born Hartford an heir, she'd be looking to dally. Some of them appeared to be trying to impress her so she would remember them when the time came, the more repugnant assumed she'd be receptive to their attentions as if she'd be so desperate for a lover that any man would do.
She wanted to scream out her frustration in the middle of the ballroom. Instead...
"I need another glass of champagne," she said tightly, steering Gabrielle towards one of the footmen bearing a tray as he circulated among the guests.
The more she had, the fuzzier she felt and the less everything seemed to matter.
"Are you sure that's a good idea?" Gabrielle asked.
Even through the muzziness she was feeling, Arabella could hear her friend's genuine concern, but she didn't care.
"It's a bloody brilliant idea," she said, not bothering to lower her voice and making the stiff-necked Lady Darby jerk in surprise at the curse word as they passed her.
She thought she heard Gabrielle murmur "oh dear" but she ignored it. Gabrielle didn't know what it was like. Gabrielle had married a man who did love her, even if she hadn't known it at the time of their wedding. Gabrielle would never be looked at with pity because of her husband's unfaithfulness, she'd never have to wonder which ladies her husband had already dallied with—and which he would in the future.
Even though she didn't love Hartford, her heart was aching so hard in her chest it felt like it was breaking and she was either going to scream, cry, or drink champagne. While all of them would carry varying degrees of condemnation from Society, drinking champagne was actually the least objectionable.
Just as she'd gotten the glass in her hand, she saw the last man she wanted to see bearing down on them.
The Honorable Lord Thomas Hood, looking far too handsome in his perfectly pressed waistcoat, high collar, and impeccably tied cravat, the expression on his face woefully determined. Woeful for her, that was.
Groaning internally, she grabbed Gabrielle by her upper arm before her friend could see Thomas. As his sister-in-law, Gabrielle would feel obliged to wait and speak with him.
"Let's step outside," Arabella said, practically dragging Gabrielle along. "I need some air."
"You need something," Gabrielle muttered.
******
Hell and damnation.
Thomas held back the stream of curses he was dying to let loose as Arabella made her way through the crowd, dragging poor Gabrielle along behind her. Not only was he concerned because he could tell Arabella was drunk—all too understandable considering the gossip swirling around her appearance without Hartford this evening—but because Gabrielle already hadn't been feeling particularly well when they came out.
Fortunately, his mother was also present and doing her duties as Mary's chaperone, leaving the rest of them to their own devices. Gabrielle had wanted some time with Arabella, so Felix and Thomas had been amusing themselves in the card room but knowing Arabella was there and hearing the talk... it had created an itch Thomas couldn't help but scratch. Especially because her brothers were also present and had been in identically bad moods.
He needed to speak with her again.
Not just to show his social support, but to discuss her behavior that morning. So far he hadn't told Isaac his revelation that Arabella had been eavesdropping on their private discussions, but he wasn't ruling it out. Something needed to be done about her.
Grimly setting his jaw, he followed her and Gabrielle out to the terrace.
Despite the wild air about her and her obvious inebriation, Arabella still looked utterly stunning in a gown of deep rose that set off her creamy skin and pink cheeks and lips. The more she drank, she more her flush matched her gown. Gold jewelry glinted at her ears, neck, and in her hair, bringing out the golden highlights of her curls and emphasizing her wealth and position.
The terrace was well lit with lanterns along the balustrades, but they still gave the whole scene an ethereal glow. The pathway into the gardens was on the far side of the terrace and unlit, so fortunately the ladies hadn't disappeared into the flower walks and were easily located. They'd retreated to the far side of the pale flagstones, on the other side of the decorative fountain, although they were still easily visible. They appeared to be arguing, Gabrielle gesturing at the nearly full glass of champagne still in Arabella's hand.
Rolling her eyes, Arabella turned her head... and immediately caught sight of Thomas heading for them.
Staring directly at him, as if she could sense his disapproval and wanted to show it mattered not one whit to her, she lifted the glass and downed the contents in one gulp. The action left Gabrielle gaping, just as Thomas finally reached them, and she looked up at him with something akin to relief.
Frowning in concern, he took in his sister-in-law's expression, the way her lips pressed together and the small pinch around her eyes.
"Gabrielle, why don't you go inside?" he suggested, keeping his voice low. "I need a moment to speak with Arabella."
From the flash of relief in her eyes, he knew she wanted to but... she hesitated, glancing at her friend.
"You don't have to do what he says," Arabella said, sniffing derisively.
A muscle twitched in Thomas' jaw. He kept his voice gentle and his gaze focused on Gabrielle.
"I'll take care of Arabella, you look like you need to sit down."
Finally taking note of his words, Arabella swung her own gaze to Gabrielle and peered at her, squinting. If he hadn't felt so serious, her exaggerated expression—due to her inebriated state—would have been comical.
"You do look peaked," Arabella exclaimed in alarm. Immediately, she patted Gabrielle's arm. "Go inside, dear, I can handle Lord Stuffy."
The muscle in Thomas' jaw twitched again but he managed to hold back a retort with a supreme act of effort. He doubted Gabrielle would desert her friend, even now, if she thought Arabella needed protecting from him. With a sigh, his sister-in-law gave in, looking both relieved and a little anxious. She took Arabella's empty champagne glass with her, shaking her head as she did so.
Thomas managed the semblance of a reassuring smile as he sent her on her way, leaving him and Arabella alone on the terrace.
Well, somewhat alone. There were other couples out taking some air, of course, and a small cluster of gentlemen hugging the shadows and having some kind of low, intense conversation. None of them were paying the least bit of attention to him and Arabella however, making this as private a situation as they were likely to find at a crowded b
all like this.
"What do you want?" Arabella asked, tossing her chin in the air and crossing her arms under her breasts. The creamy mounds plumped upwards, distracting Thomas for just a moment—and as often as he clenched his jaw in her presence he'd likely be developing a headache very soon.
"How much have you had to drink tonight?"
******
The question made Arabella bristle. It wasn't any of his business, after all. Although, apparently whether or not anything was his business made no matter to him.
"Not nearly enough," she retorted, her temper rising even more.
However, while she wasn't going to throw a fit at the ball, she certainly had no qualms about sharpening her claws on him. He could take it.
Besides, she needed to vent. Talking to Gabrielle hadn't been nearly enough, as she hadn't wanted to see the pity in her eyes either or turn her against Hartford. Their marriage—if it happened, which she was becoming less and less sure of by the moment—would have challenges enough. She didn't need her best friend taking against her husband as well.
Thomas had already made his opinion of Hartford clear, and it didn't matter if he thought even worse of the man.
If he didn't like Hartford, hopefully he would steer clear of them if they married. As much as she liked to tell herself that Thomas no longer had a place in her heart, Arabella positively hated the idea of spending any quantity of time with him and his future wife. It didn't even matter which lady he chose, Arabella didn't want to see them together.
Especially not if they were happy together while she continued to feel... well, the way she felt right now. Which was an all-too-likely scenario if she married Hartford.
The frustration welling inside of her had as much to do with Thomas as it did with Hartford... and with herself. If she hadn't fallen in love with him, she would have never fallen out of love with him. She wouldn't have started to think that a marriage without love was preferable, and therefore she wouldn't have accepted Hartford's addresses, and she wouldn't be feeling the way she was right now.
When it came right down to it, it was all Thomas' fault she was so overwrought at the moment.
At least, it made sense in her head and it felt good to blame him, even though it made her feel as though she wanted to burst like a firework and spray her negativity all over him.
He scowled at her and she scowled right back.
"I think you've had more than enough," he said, his deep voice full of condemnation. Unlike her, however, he kept his voice low to ensure it didn't carry. Arabella was aware of that fact, her awareness felt distant and fuzzy, because it didn't really matter to her at the moment. She was riding high on the champagne, it made it bolder, sassier, and more defiant. "In fact, I think it could be said you've had far too much."
Judgmental prig. He thought he knew everything.
Their faces were mere inches apart as they glowered at each other. While she didn't attain the same height as her brothers, she was still tall for a woman. It meant Thomas couldn't quite manage to loom over her the way he obviously wanted to, and she didn't feel the least bit intimidated—especially with both champagne and fury bubbling inside of her.
"Of course you would say so," Arabella snapped back at him. "You're quite fond of finding every flaw you can about me, aren't you? Does the list of all the reasons I'd make a poor wife sit right next to the list of attributes your wife will possess? I can help you track my faults, so you don't have to feel so awkward about your refusal to try and reach as high as a duke's sister."
Even in the soft glow provided by the lanterns, she could see Thomas' face pale, and he immediately looked about as if to make sure no one had overheard her. Arabella felt a sneer curling her lips again.
So obsessed with what everyone else thought.
So insecure in his eventual title.
So wedded to receiving nothing but Society's approbation.
Thinking he was guaranteed happiness as long as he found the perfect little wife who fit perfectly into his life and never caused him any trouble. He was probably even right. But in his quest for perfection he’d sent Arabella straight into likely marital misery. No matter what man she married, he wouldn’t be the man she wanted.
The only way a man not in love would stay faithful would be if he was as stodgy and obsessed with being absolutely correct in all the ways of Society as Thomas was. But men like him didn’t want Arabella—and other than Thomas most of those men bored her anyway. She couldn’t explain why Thomas was different. Why he had been different to her, that was.
But the idea of his future happiness compared to her future with Hartford…
Well, there was one way to ensure Thomas was just as miserable with the rest of his life and his marriage as she was. It was dishonorable while simultaneously relying on his honor, but fueled on liquid courage she was having trouble caring. Besides, it had worked out well enough for Lydia.
Fully aware of all the others on the terrace, even if they weren’t currently paying attention to the little drama playing out between her and Thomas, Arabella swiftly reached up and grabbed his starched collar. She had just a moment to savor the expression of shock on his face before she pressed her lips to his.
Hands grasped her waist, obviously intending to push her away and she stepped into him… but her balance was off due to her inebriated state and ruthless determination, and her step was more of a shove.
Suddenly they were both moving, stumbling, and falling.
She shrieked against his lips as they fell through the air and hit what felt like ice cold water.
They’d fallen right into the fountain.
Even as her head went under, laughter bubbled up inside of her.
He was never going to be able to live this down.
******
The sensation of soft lips on his, a soft body pressing against his, completely threw Thomas off for just a moment. Of all the things for Arabella to do!
But he wasn’t fast enough to push her away. Panic surged when his calves hit the low stone basin of the fountain. Somehow he managed to hold her tightly enough to help break her fall as they toppled over.
Even in his shock, even as his protectiveness welled, he couldn’t help but be aware of how damned good she felt against him. How shockingly responsive he’d been to her kiss. It was as though she’d set him alight, and if they hadn’t fallen into the fountain he wasn’t entirely sure what he would have done.
But the sharp cold of the water brought back his senses, and even as he rose up, sputtering, he already knew what was going to happen.
Multiple people had already rushed over to help them, surprise and speculation clear in their gazes. Others were already coming out of the doors to the ballroom, drawn by the commotion.
One of them was easily recognizable by both his height and breadth as he pushed his way through the others.
“Arabella!”
Fantastic.
Isaac. Duke of Manchester. Arabella’s oldest brother.
Just what Thomas needed.
He already knew the inevitable outcome of this situation, but he would have truly appreciated a moment or two to reconcile himself to it before having to face Isaac.
Willing hands, eager faces alight with witnessing the incident themselves. Gossip would spread quickly and thoroughly.
Reaching them, Isaac was already shrugging off his coat to cover his sister and obscuring the view the clinging fabric of her dress afforded. Thomas had only the briefest impression of the firm curves beneath the fabric before she was clutching her brother's jacket around her. The expression on her face was blank, impossible to read before she turned her head away from him, biting her lip.
"What happened?" Isaac demanded to know, pulling Arabella into his arms, covering her shivering body with his own and wrapping his coat more tightly around her.
Even though his eyes pierced Thomas, a dozen other voices answered him.
"They fell into the fountain—"
"
It was an accident—"
"It looked like they tripped—"
"They were kissing!"
The expression on Isaac's face was like a thundercloud, his gaze hardening. Thomas just stared back at him, frozen in place and unable to find his tongue. Not that he had any idea what he would say if he did manage to speak.
Beneath the curve of Isaac's arm, Arabella had begun to shiver, and Isaac held up his hand to stop the tumult of words cascading around them.
"I need to get my sister home," he said, his eyes searching through the crowd. "Sally, would you mind giving our apologies and goodbyes to our hostess?" Lady Jersey—Thomas groaned internally upon recognizing her, since he hadn't even noticed her in the crowd—nodded, looking delighted. She was the Queen of Gossip and was practically quivering with her obvious need to begin spreading the word. Being given a task might slow her for about two minutes, at the most. "Lord Hood, I assume you'll be joining us."
Trying to not to let his heart sink into his feet at Isaac's formal address of him, Thomas nodded his head.
Yes, he'd be joining them.
There was no other option.
Thomas had no idea what Arabella had intended when she'd kissed him like that—possibly it had just been a drunken whim—but the ensuing scandal ensured there would be lifelong consequences for them both.
His hunt for a bride was over.
Chapter 4
During the cold, shivering ride home with Isaac sitting grim-faced across from her in the carriage while Lydia fussed over her, Arabella didn't know whether to cry or give in to the hysterical laughter still bubbling inside her stomach.
Everything felt surreal, even distant. Triumph was swirling inside of her, mixed with anxiety, and a strange, simmering excitement. She'd taken control of her future in the only way she could. Rather than accepting the options presented to her, she'd forged her own path, the way she'd so often done.
While the thought of being miserable wasn't exactly a happy one, knowing that she'd tied Thomas to her future wasn't unhappy either. Even if he were upset, even if he never loved her, she would never endure another night like tonight either. The man would be faithful to his wife, his own rigid morals wouldn't accept anything less.