Belle of the ball (18 page)

"That was not necessary, sir. I believe you apologized last night." Her voice was brittle but politely toned.

"Not properly. Not for everything." Damn, she was staring down at her hands again, twining her slender fingers around each other. For a moment he was caught by those hands, and how different they were from Moira's. His fiancée’s had been work-roughened and brown. These delicate hands could no more milk a cow, haul water, plant vegetables, and saddle a horse, than he could net a purse.

He cleared his throat, able to see in his mind's eye only too well what they could do, given the opportunity. Maybe this madness, this fire in his blood, was just lust, passion, yearning. He had never been one to avail himself of casual liaisons, but perhaps he would be more fit for a lady's company if he had.

She looked up, a question in her eyes, and he was in that single moment sure of one thing. This longing was not just an indiscriminate desire for womanly flesh. It was Arabella. He wanted her in ways he had wanted no other woman; he wanted to claim her as his own and give himself to her in return. There was something about her, some indefinable sweetness, unbearably endearing, and yet fiercely denied by herself. It was that that he loved as much as anything. He knew how vulnerable she was, and how much she hated that yielding, tender part of her, perhaps to the point of disavowal.

Keeping his voice gentle, he said, "I must apologize again, Arabella, for the awful things I said last night. I had no right to treat you that way, nor to use you so roughly. I am so very sorry, both for what I said—my hasty temper—and the uncivil manner in which I handled you. Forgive me.*'

Her expression softened. She worried her lip with white teeth, but then said, "You were horrible, Marcus. I don't understand you when you are like that. I should punish you longer for your treatment of me, but I find I can't."

He gazed into her green eyes with hope. He had expected resentment and anger; perhaps it was a good sign that he was to be treated with neither. "It's just that I wish you would give up this scheme to marry Pelimore."

Her face froze. "Marcus, stay out of business that does not concern you," Arabella said.

There was a warning, but there was also a kind of sadness in her voice. Maybe there was still time to dissuade her—he could not let it go, not while there was a chance. "Just consider, my dear, what marriage means. You will become his wife, 'flesh of his flesh.' Marriage means uniting in every way possible, not just legally! Do not do this without love, or ... or at least respect! Affection!"

She turned her face away and gazed out the window. Her voice was tight when she said, "Do you think I do not know what marriage means? That I am not prepared? I am not a silly little green girl, Marcus. I know what I am doing."

A spurt of irritation flared in Marcus. His fists clenched. "Do you really? Do you know what he will expect of you?"

"Marcus, don't."

Her voice was tired and her expression set. He swallowed his anger. What was it about her that tantalized and irritated him at the same time? He could ask himself questions forever and never learn the answers. He must accept that she knew what she was doing. Or did he have to accept it? Did he dare say the word, make the move, ask the question that would change everything? Did he dare tell her she need not throw her life away as she was prepared to do?

He reached out to her. "Arabella, I want to tell you—"

At that moment Lady Swinley erupted into the room, took one look at him knelt in front of Arabella in the act of taking her hands in his, and screeched, "Get out! Get out, you interloper. You have no business here. Albert! Albert, show this gentleman out!"

Well, she had never liked him, but this was beyond the pale. He stood. "Lady Swinley, I do not think this is necess—"

"I said get out, you swine!" Her pinched face was pale with fury.

"Arabella," he said, turning.

She had stood and was going to her mother. "Mother, calm yourself! Mr. Westhaven was just—"

"I don't care what he was doing, he must leave! It is too early for callers! You are not dressed properly yet. He should not have come so early!"

Arabella's green eyes were wide with alarm as a string of spittle flew from Lady Swinley's mouth. "Marcus," she said, turning. "Maybe you had better go. I will talk to you later. Mother is just a little ... is just not herself this morning."

"She is exactly herself," he said, grimly, picking his hat up off the floor where he had laid it while talking to Arabella. "But I will go." He touched her shoulder,rubbing his thumb against her fabric-covered arm. "Will I see you later at the Moorehouse ball?"

She nodded, her eyes wide and full of some unreadable expression, and he moved toward the door He looked back, but she was administering to her mother, patting her back and speaking in a soothing whisper. He left. After all, he would see her later And in the meantime he could think about what had occurred to him as he knelt in front of her. Should he or shouldn't he?

Fourteen

Arabella knew that part—or even most—of her mother's anger was because she had misinterpreted that scene between her and Marcus, whom Lady Swinley had always disliked and damned as a mushroom. They had spoken on occasion, and always, Lady Swinley had found something to criticize about his manner, or his antecedents, or even his looks. It must have appeared, posed as he was, that he was asking for her hand in marriage, and that would be enough to send her mother into hysterics. Of course it was not that No, that was something that would never happen.

But it took the better part of the morning and into the afternoon to calm Lady Swinley down. She told Arabella that she had had another visit that very morning from "that horrid man" as she called the moneylender, and it left her feeling faint and afraid. She would not rest, she said, could never be comfortable again until she knew her daughter had Lord Pelimore sewn up as her intended; then and only then could she relax in the knowledge that their future was secure.

But Arabella could not put out of her mind what Marcus had said. Affection. Respect. He named those two qualities as important in a marriage, even if love was lacking. As she gazed ahead into the long years of bearing and raising children, living with one man, his lover, his nurse should he fall ill, did she care enough about Lord Pelimore to do all of that?

Well, no. She wasn't sure she even liked him as a person. He was abrupt and rude and didn't seem to care about her at all other than as a sort of trophy. The thought of being his lover made her stomach queasy, and the unavoidably intimate nature of being his nurse could only be worse. Affection and respect were definitely not among the emotions she experienced when she thought of her prospective groom-to-be.

Knowing how she felt about the man, would she love the children they created together? She supposed she would. Was that not a mother's job? Did it not come naturally to women?

But Lord Pelimore himself—good Lord, she did not even know his given name. It was at that moment, just hours after the scene with Marcus and her mother, as Arabella contemplated her future life, that Lord Pelimore, the unnamed gentleman, was announced.

Lady Swinley sailed into the parlor behind him, completely recovered from her earlier indisposition. "My good sir," she said, curtsying deeply before him as if he were royalty. "How welcome you are in our home once more."

She was using the voice Arabella privately called her "baroness" voice. It was cultured and perfectly modulated, unlike her usual "mother" voice, which was by turns badgering and whiny. The "mother" voice had always grated on Arabella's nerves, but she dismissed the thought as unworthy.

Pelimore cleared his throat, handed his cane to Lady Swinley, and said, "Quite, quite. Mind if I have a few moments alone with your gel?"

Lady Swinley's dark eyes glistened like obsidian. "Oh, yes, my lord, yes. Take all the time you need. I shall be ... oh, around somewhere should you need to speak to me." With that she backed from the room, closing the door behind her.

So this was how her fate was to be sealed, Arabella thought, stiffening her spine. She would be betrothed before he left the room; she was sure that was what he came for. It was in the fusty frock coat from a previous decade and his formal manner. It was in the determined set to his heeding brow—oh, horrors! She had never truly noticed that particular part of his face before. Would her son have that same obstinate, overhanging brow? Best not to worry about that. After all, looks were only a small part of a man's person. And she would endeavor to ignore Pelimore's shortcomings, concentrating instead on her thankfulness to him for helping her mother and her out of their predicament. Surely gratitude was not a bad place to start a marriage?

She sat down calmly on the couch, the same one Marcus had knelt in front of hours before. This time she would not put the baron off. If it was to be done, it was best done quickly and gotten over with. Was that not a paraphrase from Macbeth? Not good luck to think it even, perhaps, but then—

"Ehem, Miss Swinley, it cannot have escaped your attention—"

A quick surge of panic rose within her like floodwater. "Lord Pelimore," she said, hastily, "would you care for refreshments? Wine? Tea?" Despite her resolution, it would be impolite to not offer him something.

"No. As I was saying, Miss Swinley, it cannot have escaped your attention that I have bin most assiduous in my attend—"

"Or a plate of cakes. Cook is a maister baker and produces the lightest, most delicate—"

"Now see here, Miss Swinley, let me have my say. All well and good to be modest, but I thought, you bein' older, I wouldn't have to put up with none of this girlish nonsense"

Silenced, Arabella nodded.

"Now, where was I?" He frowned, stared down at his shoes for a minute, and then looked up again, a relieved expression on his face. He scratched his nose and har-rumphed once, then said, "Miss Swinley, it cannot have escaped your attention that I have bin most assiduous in my attentions . . . attentions, yes. I am looking for a wife; you are looking for a husband. Seems to me we oughta hitch our teams together and make a go of it. What do you say?" He stuck out his hand. "Shall we call it a deal and shake on it?"

So that was it! That was to be the proposal she would accept after having rejected ones where the gentleman poured out his heart, swore undying love, offered to lay down his life for the fair Arabella. One of her devoted swains had even penned sonnets which he read aloud to her in a flowery arbor one May day three years before.

But they had all been rejected for reasons as frivolous as their hair color, or some trivial annoyance they caused her, good men, some of them. Worthy men. Men with whom she could have found, perhaps, some modicum of happiness if she had been less haughty, more accommodating, sweeter-natured. And now, as punishment, she would take the only proposal she was likely to elicit this Season. She would wed a man who spoke as if she were a horse to hitch up with. He wanted to shake on their proposal! If she should have a daughter, and that daughter said, "Mama, how did Papa ask you to marry him?" would she tell her the truth? Arabella shuddered. Better to lie, she supposed.

"What do you say. Miss Swinley?" Pelimore broke into her thoughts, his voice querulous. He dropped his hand and stared down at her.

Rebellion stirred in her heart. "No. No, I cannot m— marry you, sir. I am sorry, but I cannot!" She twisted her hands on her lap and swallowed hard.

Her voice and words startled even her, but Pelimore was apoplectic. "A/b?" he roared. "No?"

Arabella stiffened her backbone and raised her chin. Her voice more settled, she met his eyes and said, "I am sorry, sir, if I have caused you any pain, but I do not think we should suit."

"Now see here, m'girl, if you think to get a better settlement—"

Arabella rose. "I am sorry sir, but I must repeat, I just do not think we would suit."

Pelimore gazed at her suspiciously. "I understood you and yer ma were cleaned out. She gave me to understand you were at low tides and in need of a pretty purse."

Coloring, Arabella realized that her mother had been stage-managing the whole affair, from beginning to end. She was being sold to the highest bidder, as it were, no different than a piece of horseflesh at Tattersall's. It shouldn't have surprised her, but it did; it left her mortified and saddened. Marcus's words came back to her. "He will use you as a brood mare." How right he was. There had to be another way. She would find another way!

"You misunderstood, sir. I thank you most sincerely for your kindness but still say no. I will bid you good day." Chin up, Arabella sailed from the room as regally as her mother ever would and headed upstairs immediately to her own chamber.

Mere minutes later the door to her room burst open and her mother stormed in.

"Annie, leave us!" Lady Swinley, panting and red-faced, ordered away the maid, who was preparing Arabella's hair for the Moorehouse ball. The girl scurried away, closing the door behind her.

Arabella had known this was coming, had known Lady Swinley would not leave this matter alone to her own discretion. But she would just explain to her mother that she could not, after all, marry without at least some affection for her future husband. It was too much to ask. She was still young, attractive, and the Season was not done yet. Surely someone would want to marry her, someone who would make her feel something other than distaste, someone she could come to love?

But instead of the screaming and hysterics she expected from her mother, there was nothing. She turned in her chair and gazed up at the woman who had given her life. Lady Swinley stood staring down at the floor and tears were streaming down her seamed face.

This was unexpected and Arabella felt a jolt to the heart. "M—^mother? What—"

"I cannot believe," Lady Swinley said, slowly, her voice breaking, "that, knowing our situation, understanding it as you must, still you will not take a kind, generous offer when it is made—one that would have brought us around and made life worth living again. What have I done that you hate me so?" The last word was sobbed rather than spoken.