He was laughing at her for having no partner! Arabella felt a swift burst of anger. She could not give him the set-down he deserved in front of Lady Parkhurst, but she longed to; oh, how she longed to!
"I would be delighted," she said, through gritted teeth. To refuse would be uncouth, and above all she could not risk her reputation this Season. She must be seen as the epitome of culture and manners, a lady through and through, if she was to catch a husband, even so elderly and decrepit a one as Lord Pelimore.
"If you ladies would excuse us? Lady Parkhurst, Miss O'Clannahan, your servant." He bowed gracefully and took Arabella's arm, leading her out to the refreshment room. He obtained a glass of champagne for her and a stronger drink for himself. "Shall we stroll in the conservatory? I believe it is open for that purpose."
Silently, Arabella nodded. Why had he approached her, she wondered.
They walked in silence through the large glass doors and into the moist warmth of the conservatory. Lord Parkhurst had traveled extensively, spending some time in India, and was known for his collection of exotic plants. All were labelled and named, with a card relating the plant's history and culture. They strolled the walkways, toward a tall palm that dominated the end of the room.
"What a fascinating plant," Arabella said, desperate at last for innocuous conversation. She was finding that her pulse would not return to its normal sedate pace, with him so close and her arm claimed and firmly held close to his body. She felt a shivering awareness of muscle under his coat, muscle and sinew that he kept firmly restrained in the stultifying atmosphere of London. He hinted that he had not been in England for a very long time, which perhaps explained the aura of wildness that clung to him.
"So, Mr. Westhaven, have you been to India?" Perhaps he was some rich nabob, and if not tided, had deep pockets nevertheless. That would explain his uncouth manner, yet apparent acceptability in the ballrooms of London.
"No, I have never been there. Not much of a one for tropical climes."
"But you said that you have not been in England for a long time. The West Indies, perhaps? But no, you do not like tropical climes." Arabella nodded to another couple who strolled by, sipping champagne.
Westhaven directed her to a bench and they sat. But he did not let go of her arm. She was starting to feel suffocated, but whether it was from the cloying humidity of the conservatory, or the overpowering nearness of Mr. Westhaven, she could not have said.
Finally he released her arm, but laid his own along the back of the bench. His naked fingers—no evening gloves, shocking breach of manners!—caressed her bare shoulder, and the touch of his callused hand felt as intimate as a kiss. She shivered.
"No, I do not like tropical climates, or I do not think I would, anyway. I have been in the Canadas these last years."
"Canada!" Arabella felt a true stirring of interest beyond the polite social chitchat one engaged in. She gazed up at him avidly. "Have you ever met an Indian?"
"If you mean a native of that Continent, yes. You know, it is merely a silly mistake that has us calling them Indians. There is no reason in fact or fancy for that appellation. Yes, I have met them. I lived among them for a time."
Arabella stared at him in disbelief. "And they did not kill you?"
Westhaven put back his head and his uninhibited roar of laughter vibrated through the glass conservatory; Arabella felt that the very windows were rattling, and she was confused. Had she said something so dreadfully funny?
"Did you know that they fought on our side in the recent war—not the continental war, but the war with America? One of their great chiefs, Tecumseh, was a hero of that effort. Died a hero, as a matter of fact. He was called, among our army, the Indian Wellington,' though I think the compliment was really to Wellington. Brilliant strategist was Tecumseh, and a truly great man."
He gazed at her kindly, the smile still on his lips, and caressed her shoulder briefly. "They are not butchers, my dear girl. They are just people; they might have different habits and culture than we do, but they have families that they care about, and they work hard to provide for them, and they have disagreements that cause them to go to war, and they sometimes settle their differences without war, with treaties and agreements. They are just people. '*
Arabella bit her lip. She felt foolish, and she hated feeling foolish. She stiffened and moved away from the heat that radiated from the large man at her side.
Westhaven looked down at her, and his expression became more serious. As if he were reading her mind, he said, "Do not feel stupid. Nine out of ten people I meet think that the natives of North America are 'savages,' inhuman, somehow. It is just ignorance, but you cannot know what you have not been taught and so there is no shame, my dear." He shifted to move closer to her again. "In fact some explorers added to that belief with their reports of native culture. What they did not understand, they labelled 'savage.' I have studied history; it does not seem to me that the worst crimes ever laid at the feet of native North Americans rival some of our own barbarisms, even up to the present day and the hangman's noose. In fact, one of the most civilized men I have ever met is a native gentleman by the name of George Two Feathers."
She assimilated what he was saying, relaxing a little now that she knew he did not censure her for her ignorance. The information he was giving her was new, and required some thought. "Why were you in the Canadas? What did you do?"
"First," Westhaven said, setting her champagne glass aside with his own glass, and taking her hands in his, "I want to apologize for putting you in a sticky spot in the Emporium the other day. My excuse must be that I have been away so long, I have become rusty with my manners."
Arabella gazed into his gray eyes and felt all her anger melt away. "I—there is much there that you do not understand, and that I do not wish to discuss, but thank you. I accept your apology."
He smiled. "And—?"
"And what?"
"Do you not have something to say back?"
She thought. She had accepted his apology and thanked him very prettily, she believed. What more was there? Oh, she could not think while he caressed her hands in that intimate manner! "No. What more would I have to say?"
"I thought you might want to apologize to me for biting my head off when I was only trying to do you a service."
"Apologize?" she cried. "Apologize? I do not think I have anything to apologize for! If you had not stuck your big nose in where it was not wanted—" At that moment Arabella saw his grin. Infuriating man! "Oh! You are roasting me. Very well, I will do this handsomely." She sat up straight, looked him in the eye, and said, "I apologize for biting your head off when you only thought—great, hulking simpleton that you are— that you were doing me a service." She felt a light-hearted desire to laugh, something she had not felt yet this Season.
"Well, how can I argue with that! What a handsome apology, indeed!" He rolled his eyes.
"Now tell me what you were doing in Canada." She was very conscious that he retained her hands in his firm grip. His hands were large and strong and very, very warm. A strange, foreign trill of something like happiness trickled down her spine and fluttered in her stomach.
"Your wish is my command. Let's see, where to start. The beginning I guess. That is always safe." He relaxed back and crossed one leg over the other, keeping her hand in one of his and laying his other arm over the back of the bench again. "I am a civilian, but I have always been fascinated by maps and mapping and have some experience as a cartographer, so about eleven years ago I went over independently to see some more of the world and ended up attached to an army regiment as a hydrographer—that is a mapper of waterways. I don't know how familiar you are with the geography of North America, but there is a collection of lakes in about the center of the continent that is enormous! Breathtakingly large, like inland oceans, and beautiful, silvery in the morning, and like glass when calm. We started mapping them, their shorelines and tributaries, and then a few years ago the war started, and they found a use for my knowledge of the area and my unique, uh, skills."
"Did you like it?"
"Like it? I loved it." His eyes became misty, like an early morning fog rolling in off a lake. "Canada is like no other place you have ever seen. Everything is so big there! The trees, the forests, the lakes, the rivers—everything is on a grand scale, and fresh and clean, as God must have meant the earth to be. You know, we believe that Ck>d gave us the earth to look after, to superintend, as if we are masters of all we survey, but the native inhabitants of North America believe that the Great Spirit created the earth and all on it to coexist. They feel that the relationship is more like kinship than mastery. That difference of opinion has led to some of the major disagreements between European and native." He paused and looked down at their joined hands. His rough fingers caught the delicate silk of her glove.
"Kinship—that is fascinating. Tell me more," Arabella said, breathless and eager. His voice was deep, and he conveyed all the grandeur of the New World in his words. It intrigued her more than she would have believed possible. She felt she could listen to him all night.
He smiled down at her, searching her eyes. "If. . . if you really wish."
"I do," she said. "I want to learn more about Canada. I have heard so little, but what I have heard made me wish to know more, to see it through someone's eyes."
"Very well. I have explored for years, but there is still so much to see, so much to do! West of the lakes, many miles west, there is a series of great mountains to rival the Alps. I have heard that they are huge and soar to great snowy peaks and plunge to deep valley gorges where wild, white water tumbles. My dream is to see them, to find a way to the Pacific through them."
"Why have you come back to England?" Arabella asked. She was feeling winded, as if she had been scaling one of those enormous mountains, breathing that wild, free, fresh air. How marvelous it must be, how absolutely invigorating. If she were only a man, she would—But he had not answered her question. "Why have you come back, Mr. Westhaven, if you love it so?"
He reached out with one large hand and caressed a ringlet that scraped her bare shoulder. His hand was so warm she could feel the heat radiating from it, and yet the very heat made her shiver.
His eyes met hers and held them. "I have come into an inheritance, or am about to, anyway."
Arabella felt her pulse quicken. He was inheriting money? If he should be rich, and perhaps coming into a title—the possibilities frightened her a little. She had never felt this immediate interest in a man, a man at the same time fascinating and infuriating. If he were rich and tided and looking to wed? A vision of marriage to a man of such frightening charisma and overwhelming power entranced and yet alarmed her. "How . . . fortunate for you. Are you . . . will you ... is it a large inheritance?"
He chuckled. 'T am not sure how much it is yet. I am a very poor man, you know, so any money will seem like a lot." He gazed at her steadily. "Does it matter?" he said, softly.
Treacherous shoals, she thought. No man, and especially not this one, wanted to be valued for his purse alone. "Of course not! It was just a casual question."
His gray eyes hooded in the dimness of the conservatory, he said, "I think it will be a couple hundred. Not more than that."
A couple of hundred pounds. It may seem like a lot to him, but it was nothing, the merest pittance. And she was sitting in the conservatory with him speaking of nonsense when she should be out circulating and finding her future mate. Disappointment fueled anger, anger at herself for being caught up in his marvelous dream of traveling to far-off places, and anger at him for not being eligible. She did not have time to lose her sense of purpose this Season!
Marcus saw her nose go up, and almost felt her chill. For a few minutes he had seen her warmth, a vivacity he found entrancing. She was genuinely interested in Canada, he thought; on some level the wildness of it appealed to her.
And by God, she was beautiful, especially when her green eyes sparkled and she shook back her blond curls impatiently as she listened, enraptured. Smooth skin, slim, supple figure, exquisite of face and form; he felt the pulse of attraction even as he watched her pert nose turn up and felt her withdraw from him. Apparently he was not rich enough for her, mercenary little baggage. What a disappointment.
He was not surprised when she stood. "We—I think this number is over, and we should be getting back to the ballroom."
He stood and stretched, flexing his muscles, feeling them begin to atrophy from the unaccustomed lack of exercise. Her eyes widened as she almost unwillingly gazed at his body, eyeing his shoulders. She licked her lips and swallowed, and he felt an inevitable stirring in his loins at her interest. Damn, but he wished she were another type of woman, one available for seduction. The blush on her pretty cheeks told him much about her own awareness of the physical attraction that existed between them. She might be innocent—in fact he was sure she must be—but there were passionate depths to her that were unexplored. But he would not be the one to plumb them; that honor would be reserved for the rich husband she was no doubt laying her snares for. Too bad.
He escorted her back into the ballroom just as the set was changing. Her next partner claimed her and she was led into the line, just as her friend, Eveleen O'Clannahan, drifted toward him. Little Miss Swinley had an almost comical look of dismay on her face, and he wondered what she was worried about.
"Mr. Westhaven, you and my friend disappeared for quite some time."
He grinned at her. "Do men and women not lose track of time in England, when they are finding each other's company fascinating?"
"Is that what happened?"
"Certainly. She was asking questions about my experiences in the Canadas. Tell me, Miss O'Clannahan, is Miss Swinley wealthy?"