Margaret Moore (2 page)

The earl made the prospect of being a poet
sound infinitely worse than being an imbecile.

“What kind of talk is that? Too delighted to speak! Transported!” The earl sniffed dismissively. “I suppose that is how the fools of the court talk to one another.” He pointed at an upholstered chair. “Arabella, sit, if you can find anyplace
clean.
”

His father always ordered everybody about as if they were dogs, Neville thought angrily as he watched Arabella glide across the worn and crumb-covered carpet.

Her expression placid, she looked around the room, then perched herself on the edge of the chair. Her cloak fell open slightly to reveal a plain gown of some stiff-looking dark-gray material, high-necked and horrible, that nevertheless could not disguise a shapely figure.

Neville recalled her father, who had converted to Puritanism after the death of his wife some years before, when Arabella had been a little child. He had been very strict in his religious observance. Perhaps he had managed to subdue Arabella completely.

If so, that would be a great pity.

“This is what comes of spending your time with playwrights,” Lord Barrsettshire observed, using the same tone for playwrights as he might have used for cutthroats and pirates.

His lordship then proceeded to walk to another chair as daintily as if the floor were covered with hot coals instead of crumbs.

“I have only one friend who writes for a living,” Neville amended genially. “Sir Richard Blythe.”

“Another member of a fine old family gone to ruin!”

“He has had little choice but to earn his living somehow since Cromwell took his family’s estate and sold it.”

“But that is not an honorable living!”

Neville shrugged his shoulders. This was an argument he could not win. Indeed, his father never listened to a dissenting opinion, especially from Neville. Therefore, Neville had concluded, the best thing for all concerned was to keep as much distance as possible between himself and his father. In this, at least, and whether his father realized it or not, he had had great success.

Besides, he would rather look at Arabella.

At that moment, Jarvis entered the room with a tray bearing a bottle of wine and three somewhat clean, if streaky, goblets. He had what had once been a linen napkin over his arm. Its current dingy condition made Neville think Jarvis had lately been using it to clean his boots.

Ignoring everybody—although his grave yet blushing face showed that he was well aware of the earl’s censorious presence—the Irishman carefully balanced the tray on one hand and with the other took the rag and thrice slapped
the top of the table nearest Arabella’s chair, sending motes of dust upward like so much chaff. He coughed slightly, then set down the tray, bowed to the earl and slowly backed out of the room.

“That bogtrotter is the only servant you have managed to keep?” the earl asked indignantly.

“I find his hair color amusing.”

Neville glanced at Arabella, wondering what she thought of Jarvis—and him. Their gazes met and held briefly, and he saw condemnation in her blue eyes.

Because the room was untidy? Because he was not in any fit state to receive visitors? He could scarcely demand that they wait outside for him to dress.

Typical of a Puritan to condemn without comprehension or sympathy. What did she know of his life since he had left his unhappy home seven years ago?

“I apologize for the state of the house, my dear,” the earl said, interrupting Neville’s thoughts.

“I am sure she will find it in her charitable heart to excuse it. This is what becomes of men left to their own devices.”

Still she said nothing, merely staring at the floor as if she’d never seen a floor before.

He went closer to her. “Tell me, Father, what tragedy has rendered Lady Arabella mute?”

That made her raise her eyes—eyes flashing
with a fiery spark of temper. “I am not mute, my lord,” she said in a firm yet delightfully musical voice.

“Ah!” he cried, pleased that he had compelled her to speak. “Then you must forgive me for that mistake.”

“You seem to have many faults requiring forgiveness,” she replied solemnly.

Surprisingly, her words disturbed him far more than anything his irate father had said.

But then, he quickly reasoned, he was always more susceptible to criticism when it came from such lovely lips.

His father gestured at the wine.

“Neville, what kind of cheap drink is this? Where is the good wine? Or have you and your cronies downed it all during your bacchanalian revels?”

“Your stores are safe below. Mindful of your frugality and regardless of the demands of hospitality, I provide my friends with the cheapest wine I can find.”

With a dismissive grunt, the earl again surveyed the dusty, messy room before staring at the ashy grate. “Are those empty bottles I see?” He turned to glare at his son. “You
are
a drunkard!”

Waving his hand dismissively, Lord Farrington strolled toward the dirty window. “Alas, I cannot seem to apply myself to excessive drinking, either.”

Arabella watched the young man turn and lean against the windowsill, every movement of his body graceful and elegant yet somehow stifled, as if he were saving his vitality for some other, not quite honorable, purpose.

Lord Farrington was not what Arabella had expected and most certainly not what she remembered. When she had met him seven years ago, the young and handsome Neville had been so kind and sympathetic that she had told him all her woes.

Now the person who had inspired her dreams ever since stood before her disheveled, impertinent and unrepentant, seemingly not at all nonplussed by either his disorderly condition or that of the room. She could easily believe he had slept in his long, fitted black breeches and wrinkled, partially open white shirt, which revealed an astonishing, immodest amount of his muscular chest—perhaps in this very chair. His jacket lay upon another chair, his boots were in the corner behind the door, and she could only hope he was ignorant of the hole in his stocking.

He was still undeniably handsome, his maturity making him even more so, perhaps. The boyish softness of his face was quite gone, replaced by hard angles and planes. The strong line of his jaw was dark with stubble. His thick, curling hair, now to his shoulders, reminded
her of the beast she had once seen in a woodcut of Daniel in the lions’ den.

As for his eyes … Long ago, they had been filled with compassion; now they seemed as hard as coal and just as unfeeling.

And when he spoke, it was with a flippant drawl that was most disconcerting.

Perhaps she had been wrong to discount so much of what Lord Barrsettshire had said regarding his son since she had come to live with him, instead relying on her own fond memory of a single afternoon.

“Pray tell, Lady Arabella, how is your good father?” Neville inquired.

The earl answered for her. “He’s dead. Three months past.”

Arabella winced to hear the event spoken of so bluntly. Looking at Neville, she thought she saw some flicker of emotion pass in his eyes, but if it was commiseration, it was quickly gone.

“My sympathies,” he drawled with a languid bow of his handsome head and absolutely no sincerity.

“I am Arabella’s guardian now,” the earl announced.

Neville raised an aristocratic eyebrow. “I am certain you will take your responsibility to heart, Father. I know how you enjoy having someone to command, and she seems so amenable to obeying.” He sighed. “Alas, I fear no
one would have the goodness to pass away and leave such a beauty in my tender care.” His rich, deep voice lowered to an intimate whisper. “For I assure you, Lady Arabella, while I could never be a good commander, I can be very tender.”

Arabella swallowed hard, unable to think of anything to say. Even if he was right about his father seeming to enjoy commanding people like so many animals, it was very wrong and disrespectful of him to say so.

And as for his other comment …

“Neville,” the earl snapped, “your disgusting innuendo tells me that what I have long suspected is true. You have been completely corrupted by living in this cesspool.”

“The Thames could certainly be considered a cesspool, given what can be found floating in it,” Neville responded, apparently not a whit upset by his father’s condemnation. “Tell me, Lady Arabella, what do
you
think of London?”

“We have only just arrived, yet already there is much here that is not what I expected,” she replied, wondering if he would understand her or care if he did.

He waved his hand in another gesture of dismissal. “No doubt it is vastly different from dull little Grantham.”

“London is a hellhole,” the earl said, voicing an opinion Arabella had been forced to endure for the whole of their journey. “Cromwell did
not improve it, nor has the king, so far as I can tell. I am certain it is still nothing more than a place of vice and waste, which no doubt explains its appeal to
you!
”

Neville Farrington’s expression did not alter. “Then I am shocked that you would venture near it, especially with such a companion.” He turned his coolly measuring gaze onto her again. “Or perhaps she has a desire to be amused that cannot be satisfied in Grantham? If so, I am at her service.”

Arabella gulped as she looked away, her whole body seeming to blush under his scrutiny.

The earl made another sour face. “This sort of talk is what comes of hanging about the court, no doubt. Arabella thought it was necessary for us to come here, and I agreed.”

“Indeed?” Neville replied with a raising of his patrician brows. “Arabella thought it necessary? And you agreed?”

With a mocking smile, he made a slight inclination of his head. “I am most impressed. It is no small accomplishment to compel my father to do anything.”

Arabella did not reply.

“We come here for a
purpose,
” the earl said, “not idle amusement.”

A mildly surprised look appeared on Neville’s face. “A purpose? Whatever might that be? I thought you believed there was no reason
at all for anybody to ever visit this den of iniquity—unless this is a cautionary excursion, to teach this unspoiled young lady what she is to avoid.”

“Fortunately, thanks to her father, Arabella is already a young lady of proper morals and good sense,” the earl replied.

“Then for what possible purpose would you journey here?”

“To get her a husband.”

Chapter 2

N
eville Farrington smiled slowly. “Then, Father, I must applaud your wisdom in coming to the best marriage market in England.”

“Do you think I am something to be sold, like a pig or a cow?” Arabella asked, trying very hard to remain calm.

With that infuriating smile, the earl’s son raised one eyebrow as he continued to regard her. “Why should you be any different from other women of quality?”

“So are you then a rooster, or a stallion to be brought to stud?”

“Of course.” Neville turned to regard his father. “With such beauty, I am sure it will not be too onerous a task to find someone willing to take her, especially since she is the daughter of a duke who, for all his eccentricities, was rather wealthy. I’faith, my lord, you will be so
besieged with suitors, you will surely have a devil of a time making a choice. Am I to assume, then, that your stay will be of some duration?” Then the expression in his eyes altered ever so slightly. “Unless there is a need for haste. Is she with child?”

Arabella stared at him in outraged shock. “No, I am not!”

“Pardon me, I’m sure,” Neville murmured without one particle of contrition. “Since you are capable of prying my father from his estate and there seems to be some haste in the matter, I naturally assumed a child was in the offing.”

Arabella raised her chin defiantly and her Up curled with scorn. She was no longer intimidated by this handsome man’s presence and worldly airs. Whatever he had been, he was something vastly different—and inferior—now. “It is not an unnatural thing for a young woman to want to be married. What else would you have me do?”

“I can think of many things a young woman can do that do not require marriage,” he drawled meaningfully, another look in his eyes.

A look that made her blush yet again.

The earl shot to his feet. “Neville, that’s enough! You and your insinuations disgust me! I am ashamed to call you my son! What you have said only confirms my low opinion of you, though you are my son.”

“Because I am your son, I knew it would not take much.”

“You are a corrupt, sinful lecher who has no comprehension of responsibility and duty!”

Neville shrugged as if to say he was guilty and did not care that he was.

“I, however, fully understand such things.”

“Which?” his son inquired. “Corruption? Or sinful lechery?”

Arabella stepped between the two men, her gaze darting from the calm young one to his red-faced parent, who looked as if he might explode with rage or fall into a fit.

“My lord,” she said to the earl, “we have had a long and tiring journey. Perhaps we should rest.”

Lord Barrsettshire blinked like a startled owl, or as if he had just remembered her presence. “Rest? If I rest, I am likely to wake to discover that I have lost possession of this house and everything in it because of his debts!”