Belle of the ball (26 page)

It had felt good to laugh for that minute. Since last seeing Arabella, he had had precious little reason to laugh or smile. Why was it that one often knew what one needed most in the world only when all possibility of attaining it was gone? It was like with Moira. If she had not become pregnant, he would not have asked her to marry him, but after she had died he missed her fiercely. His guilt over her condition, the reason for her death, was brutal and torturous and had haunted him for years, even though Moira's own father had not blamed him, but his grief was inconsolable beyond the guilt. Together he and Moira would have had a good life in the wilderness. She was a tough woman on the outside, but it concealed a streak of sweetness and goodness that many did not see.

Arabella, while on the outside being far removed from Moira's cheerful, bawdy good humor, was surprisingly like her inside. He thought that she was a far better person than even she realized. And he had lost her forever. She would be married in mere days, if it was not already done.

On that sobering thought, Drake entered the room.

Marcus managed a smile, and said, "Welcome to my humble home."

Drake's eyes widened at the ceiling-high shelves of books. "Lord Oakmont must have been quite a collector to have this array of books at his hunting box."

"More books than I have ever seen in a lifetime,"

Marcus said, glancing ruefully around at the thousands of tomes. "And this is merely the overflow from his other libraries; there are ten times this many at the Reading home. I'm not much of a reader, I'm afraid. More of a doer."

"I would give a lot to have an afternoon in this room," Drake said, his eyes scanning the titles and widening from time to time. "My God, is that a first edition of Hume's The History of Great Britain ? I believe it is, and a complete collection of—oh, sorry Oakmont, I get carried away."

"Call me Marcus, remember? And you are welcome here any time to peruse the shelves, even if I am not here. I will tell Mrs. Brown to make you free of the place. I believe she stands in considerable awe of you, Drake. You transformed her into a proper servant in minutes. I can only hope she will go back to being the slattern I have become accustomed to after you are gone."

Drake tore his gaze away from the shelves of books and forced himself to remember the reason for his visit He gazed steadily at the man before him. "You know," he said abruptly, strolling into the center of the room, "I was supposed to marry Arabella Swinley."

"What?" Marcus stared at him.

"Her mother and my mother are bosom bows from their days at school. They wanted to make a match of it between us. That is why Lady Swinley, Arabella, and True, who is her cousin, came to Lea Park to visit last summer, while I was still convalescing from a wound I received at Waterloo."

"I didn't know that. And you, you sly dog, never mentioned your wife's name before inviting me to dinner. I might have made the connection if you had, for Arabella—er, Miss Swinley, talked often of her cousin True, and it is not a common name." He paused and indicated a chair, but the viscount shook his head, and Marcus remained standing with his guest "And so, to shorten your story, you didn't marry Arabella. You married Lady Drake and are now as merry as grigs."

Drake examined the man before him. Marcus Westhaven, now Lord Oakmont, was as tall as he was, but with a look of untamed wildness about him. His dark hair was straight and hung below his collar, and his eyes were a peculiar shade of gray, smoky, like the Atlantic after a nasty storm. And it appeared, if True was to be believed, that Arabella Swinley, who he had damned as heartless, had lost her heart to this fellow, the antithesis of every London beau Arabella had ever fancied in her previous Seasons. But how did he feel about her? True seemed to think there was something between them, but damn it, one did not interfere in a fellow's love affairs. He had never been the kind who could talk about that sort of thing, and still had trouble with anyone but True.

What could he say? How could he raise this subject^

"Get the newspapers here?" he queried abruptly.

"No. Who wants to look at the kind of rubbish the London papers carry? I cannot seem to care for the politics of this insufferably insular island, and the gossip pages are even worse. As if anyone cares who marries whom! London is a poisonous city, and I am venting my spleen for no better reason than that I am in a bilious and foul mood. My apologies, old man.

"The truth is, I came down here to Hampshire to get away from all of that Now look here, Drake, what did you come for? You started to tell me that you were supposed to marry Arabella, and then you said nothing more." Marcus's eyes turned even darker. "Look, are you here to tell me—to tell me that she is married? Has it happened?"

Drake frowned as he watched the man before him ball his fists, as though he were clenching his whole body against an expected blow. It seemed that True was right. Oakmont was in a fair taking as if—as if he cared! Damn if it didn't appear as if this fellow dreaded to hear that Arabella was wed, and if that was so, it could only mean one thing. He remembered when he heard—it was not true, but he did not know it at the time—that True was affianced; it was as if someone had driven a knife into his gut and twisted it. It was what had brought on the fever, indirectly, through his own lack of care of himself after he heard that terrible news.

And so he sympathized. And yet—

He glanced around him and sniffed the air. "This place is musty. Damp. Not good for books you know. Should have the place properly aired and a conservator look over the library."

There was silence, and Drake went back to the subject at hand, eyeing the other man curiously. "Why do you think I would come to tell you that news?"

"I thought—well, I thought that Arabella might have sent you, that she would want me to know—" He turned away.

"Actually, m'wife sent me."

Marcus's shoulders slumped and he sat abruptly, putting his face in his hands. "So it is true?" he said, his voice muffled. "I had lost track of the days. I did not want to know when she married that leprous old fiend, Pelimore. I should have ripped his heart out when I had the chance."

"So bitter!" Drake strolled around the room and stared up at the bookshelves. So many classics, shelved here where no one in the world could care for them, in this damp and dank hunting lodge. It was a crime! Perhaps in the future he and Marcus would be related and he would have free access—but he was getting ahead of himself. The way was not clear, not by a long shot "Tell me, Marcus—you know, I am not one to pry normally, but, well, you seem to be in some pain. Errr you . . . can you possibly—damn it, man," he said, swinging around and staring at his new friend. "Do you love Arabella Swinley?"

Marcus gazed down at his hands and twisted the ring he wore on his right hand, the ring left to him by his uncle as a symbol of his new position. He would give up everything, all his new wealth, his position, his houses, all of it, just to be with Arabella. He nodded slowly. "I do. I love her."

"Then go to her, man." He leaned over and grinned, staring at Marcus. "Lord Pelimore has called off the wedding and eloped with his mistress. Arabella Swinley is a free woman."

The first elation, the first delirious knowledge that she was free, was over. Arabella walked in the gardens she had helped to create, near the blooming roses that she had torn the weeds away from, past the thicket of sweet raspberries they had discovered when she pulled out a bramble bush that was choking it. In the same way when she tore all the debris away from her heart, all the conceit she had ever been victim to, all the care of position, and the love of money and clothes and jewels, she was left with the bittersweet knowledge that she could have had Marcus Westhaven.

If she had followed her heart and let him see how she felt, if she had not talked so constantly about how necessary it was to marry a wealthy man, he might have felt free to court her, marry her, love her. Eveleen O'Clannahan had seen it; she had even advised her to ask him herself. What would he have said to such an outré proposal?

But it was too late. Marcus Westhaven was now an immensely wealthy man and the Earl of Oakmont And he could never trust anything she might say to him now of love. Why should he? She had made it quite plain over the months that her prime requirement in a man was a fat purse. A hundred thousand pounds. She had even set her price. She had been for sale, just as surely as any Haymarket doxy.

She heard a rustle of fabric behind her and turned to find True approaching her. Poor True, she worried so about her. Once True had told her that she was a better person than she even knew; maybe there had been that potential there, but she had let things get in the way. Everything had seemed more important than who she was, and who the man she would marry was. And now when she finally understood herself, it was too late.

Hesitantly, True approached. "Bella, I need to talk to you."

Smiling, Arabella said, "Why don't we sit down? Drake will hang me up by my toes if I keep you standing in this hot sun too long."

They found a stone bench in a shaded alcove of the garden. True took Arabella's hand and they sat in silence for a few minutes, watching a small brown rabbit hop incautiously onto the pathway. It examined the greenery along the edge and then hopped away. "Bella, perhaps this is not the time to say it, but I want you to not worry about your future. You have a home here for as long as you need it, your whole life. I love having you here, you know that, and it is not as if we do not have the room."

Arabella squeezed her cousin's hand. "A poor relation; that is what I have become. I never wanted you to know about our financial problems, you know."

"You knew last fall, didn't you? You knew when you left Lea Park with Lord Conroy."

Arabella shuddered. "Yes. Mother told me; that is why I played that dirty trick on you about Drake, telling you I loved him and wanted to marry him. I knew your self-sacrificing nature would make you leave, even though you already loved him. It was a mean trick. A horrid deceit."

"But you told me the truth before you left," True said, squeezing her hand. "And it all turned out well in the end. Stay here, Bella. Be my friend, help me raise Sarah."

"Drake must still be head over ears in love with you to allow you to offer me a home. However did you talk him into it?"

True dimpled and shrugged. "He—we made a bargain."

Chuckling, Arabella said, "I hope the terms are not too onerous, cousin. Why do I have the feeling it was the kind of bargain you will both enjoy?" Unexpectedly tears came into her eyes, and she had to force down a wave of self-pity. What True had was because she was the sweetest, truest, most loving and giving person Arabella had ever met. One could not begrudge her her good fortune.

"I . . . True, I don't know. I have to think about Mother. I do not imagine Drake's offer extends to her."

Looking troubled. True said, "Well, Wy said that—"

At that moment a footman, resplendent in rust and gold livery, came along the path and bowed. "My lady, there is a visitor for Miss Swinley."

For some reason Arabella's first thought was of Eveleen O'Clannahan. She had not heard from her at all since her flight out of London to the Isle of Wight, and she was still worried about her, even though events in her own personal life had crowded everything out on occasion.

"Is it a lady? Is she—"

But in that second, around a bend in the garden path, came Marcus.

True's eyes widened and she curtsied to him. "Lord Oakmont, what a pleasure. I shall go up to the house and order tea." She glanced at Arabella, who still stood staring at the young man. "It will be served in the drawing room in half an hour." If privately she thought that champagne might be more in order, she did not say so.

Arabella was vaguely aware that True and the footman had left them alone. She could not think, her mind was so numbed.

"Walk with me?" Marcus asked, holding out his arm to her.

She nodded, mutely, and took his arm. They wandered for a while down the long pathway that led to a creek where willows dipped and swayed, drawing leafy fingers through the shallow brook. She remembered being there the previous summer with True and Drake and Lord Conroy. How things had changed since then. She glanced up at the man at her side. He frowned and stared off at the far, misty hills, his brow wrinkled into a series of horizontal lines. What on earth did he want? Had he heard of Lord Pelimore's defection, or did he still think her betrothed? Today would have been her wedding day.

There was now a bench down by the creek, placed exactly where Drake had slept by True while she smoothed his curls from his forehead, the second day after they had met Marcus bade her sit. Avoiding his eyes, she did so, gathering her soft, moss green skirts around her. He dropped down on one knee in front of her and took both of her hands in his. She looked up, startled. "Arabella Swinley," he said, in determined tones, "will you do me the inestimable honor of consenting to become my countess? I realize that this is sudden, but—"

Arabella pulled her hands from his grasp. "Marcus, what are you doing?"

"Proposing, widgeon," he replied, brusquely. "You see, I know all. You have been jilted and are no longer betrothed. You are broken-hearted and vulnerable, and I am going to take advantage of your momentary weakness to gain my point. Now, where was I? Ah, yes." He cleared his throat and took her hands back in his. "I know this is sudden, but it must have been evident to you for some time that my heart—"

Yanking her hands from his grasp again, Arabella said, her voice sounding panicky and strange, "Marcus, stop this foolishness. What are you doing?"

"Proposing!" He sighed and looked up at the sky, now a lovely shade of deep blue. "One would think the girl would remember what this is like. She has heard this a time or two, after all." He set his gaze back on her, took her hands up one more time, and said, "Arabella Swinley, will you do me the honor of becoming my coun—Arabella!"

She had jerked her hands away, clutched them behind her back, and was glaring at him. "Do not make fun of me, Marcus Westhaven—Oakmont, whatever! I will not be mocked, not even by you!"