And so, Lord Pelimore would be it.
Over the next week Arabella tried her best to find Lord Pelimore alone, but she swiftly realized that he had been offended by her disappearing with West-haven, for he pointedly ignored her and paid court to another girl, one of the giggling seventeen-year-olds he had so disparaged. She was terrified that her one chance at marriage was slipping away; and to think she had deliberately put him off! Was she mad? Finally she managed a few moments alone with him, only to find that Westhaven was there, too, watching and listening. She had refused to walk with him—though in truth she longed to—and had fled each time he appeared ready to approach her. She felt a dull ache in her chest, for she had never enjoyed a half hour so well as when they had sat together talking.
He was outside of her experience, an adventurer, bold and wild like the land he spoke of. And yet he had listened to her prosaic stories of a childhood spent mostly at school and in Cornwall with every appearance of enjoyment. He had laughed and gazed into her eyes with . . . well, it almost looked like affection, the emotion that warmed his gray eyes to the color of smoke. And always his nearness made her tingle. The merest caress of a ringlet left her breathless! But she could not afford to whistle a fortune down the wind for mere tingling. Her mother needed her, and she would not desert her in this, her hour of need.
With renewed determination she set herself to the task at hand. She could not let Westhaven's nearness stop her from what she was there to do; did it matter what he thought of her, after all? So in the few seconds she had as they met in the crowded ballroom, stalled near the chaperone chairs by the thick crowd around them, she went to work. Smiling demurely at Lord Pelimore and fluttering her lashes, she said, "You will have me thinking that I offended you in some way, my lord, if you do not sit this next dance out with me. In truth, I am fatigued, and you would be doing me the greatest of favors."
Westhaven was watching her, an incredulous look in his stormy eyes.
Pelimore squinted at her and grimaced. *'Well, if you put it that way, I'll do you the favor, m'girl. Truth to tell, I kind of got the idea you and that young wanderer, Westhaven, had something goin'."
"Westhaven?" She arched her brows in surprise as she gracefully took a seat beside him. With the merest hint of malicious satisfaction, she said, knowing he was listening, "That young pup? Why he is not nearly . . . well, mature enough to interest a girl like me, if you know what I mean." She leaned close to Pelimore, and he goggled down her low bodice. "A girl likes to feel secure with a man, you know, and one would always think he would be taking off on some adventure or another; no stability, you know." Arabella tried her best, but a hint of wistfulness would creep into her voice. She could think of nothing more exciting than going off adventuring with such a man as Westhaven. Luckily, Lord Pelimore was not sensitive to things like that
"True. Glad you realize it. Older man is what a girl your age needs. Gettin' on yerself; need some stability in your life."
She glanced sideways at Westhaven, so tall and handsome, lounging nearby. He had overheard Lord Pelimore, she knew it by his smirk. Getting on, really! One would think she was in her dotage rather than just three-and-twenty. Were all men insensitive boors? She could not bear to say another word with Marcus—she had begun to think of him thus, as Marcus—close enough to hear, and so she fell silent and let Pelimore bore her with stories of his rakish youth back in the far reaches of the latter half of the last century. Unfortunately, though, the man did not come to the point with a proposal.
And it was the same the next night, at the Beloir literary evening—how did Westhaven get invitations to all of these things, she wondered?—and at the Sanderson musical afternoon the next day after that West-haven was always there, always watching and listening as she did her best to lure a marriage proposal from the elderly baron.
And now Westhaven had gathered his own court of fascinated women, who oohed and aahed over his stories of derring-do and dashing adventure, and Arabella gritted her teeth over it all, and lost her concentration every time she thought she was getting somewhere. Pelimore was proving to be surprisingly sensitive, and if her attention was not wholly on him he became huffy and left. Men! She longed to say good-bye to the whole sex and join a nunnery. Of course, the Church of England did not have nunneries, and so she would have to convert to Catholicism, but—oh, it sounded lovely! Nothing to do all day but contemplate and pray.
Eveleen was off visiting in Dover, so she did not even have her best friend's company as comfort, though it was probably best. Eveleen O'Clannahan, sensible spinster with decidedly odd notions, was yet proving to have a surprising romantic turn to her personality that was jarring from so rational a woman. How could a woman as intelligent as Arabella had always thought Eve, believe in such discordant and disjointed things as the freedom of women from the tyranny of men and romantic love?
But Arabella must do what she was there to do. There was no more money left; her mother had told her that when the butcher had sent a hefty fellow to collect. The staff had not been paid, nor the collier, nor the feed bill, nor the milliner. She needed to marry, and she needed the marriage settlements soon.
She dressed carefully for the night's entertainment, a recital at the O'Lachlans'. In addition to the amateur performers a soprano had been engaged to sing, and Arabella loved Italian opera. She was a gifted pianist herself, or so everyone told her, and she knew the O'Lachlans would ask her to perform. It was her chance to impress Lord Pelimore, and she would take it
She dressed in the ice blue silk, again, and went to the soiree alone, with just Annie for company. Her mother claimed a sick headache and said she must stay home in a darkened room. So Arabella went, mingled, and then, when asked, played a Haydn sonata of great emotion. There was applause at the end and the company arose to make their way to the refreshment room before the soprano was scheduled to perform. She looked around to see if Lord Pelimore was suitably impressed. Unfortunately, he was nowhere to be seen, his chair empty, though he had asked to escort her in to dinner. When she inquired she found that he had gone home before her solo, complaining of a stomachache. He had left her his apologies.
All that effort, for nothing.
Alone, she drifted out to the terrace. All this energy expended, and all to capture an old man whom she would have to live with as husband and wife for the rest of her life, or as long as his lasted, anyway. Judging from old Lord Oakmont, that could be another thirty years.
And that was if she was lucky. If she was not lucky she would find no one to marry her, and then she did not know what they were to do. Her mother would not even discuss it, and so she did not know exactly where they stood, if there was any possibility of retrenchment through leasing Swinley Manor, or of selling off some of the land. She just did not know, and her stomach was constantly tied up in knots from worry.
And then if Lord Conroy should come to London, and word of her mother's machinations should make the rounds of the ton —it was all too worrisome.
There was a light misty rain coming down, but it had been warm that day and she relished the feel of it on her bare hands, gloveless because she could not wear gloves when she played; she needed the intimate contact with the ivory to truly transmit her feelings through the instrument. The terrace had a deep overhang, so the vaporous rain just barely drifted onto her arms, cooling her heated skin. She used so much energy performing that she was always feverish after.
In the distance she could hear the clop-clop of horses' hooves on the pavement, and the swoosh of carriage wheels in the rain, all mixed with the faint drift of music from the pianist hired to perform during the refreshment break. He was a German fellow, and the piece was melancholy and dramatic.
She had always loved London and the Season. It suited her energetic nature to be always doing something. But the gaiety of previous Seasons was over; now it was time to get down to the serious business of marriage. It was time for her to shoulder her responsibilities to her mother and to her family home.
And there was no illusion now that she could please herself in her choice of a mate. It looked like Lord Pelimore was as good as she could expect. She should have settled her mind before this; she had known it all along hadn't she? But somehow this was the first time it really sank in, what her life had become. An overwhelming sadness burst like a ripened seedpod, scattering sorrow through her heart, and she laid her head down on her arms where they rested on the wrought-iron railing. How would she ever do it? How would she bear to be married to a main she could not even like? And then the hot tears came and the wrenching sobs, drowned out by the sound of the music.
She had slipped out to the terrace, Marcus thought, following Arabella as if she were leading him on a cord. He couldn't help it. He was furious with her for ignoring him, and unbearably angry that she was throwing herself at that old fraud, Lord Pelimore, but still, he would talk to her, attempt to talk some sense into her, perhaps. He had tried to visit her at her home, but there were always others, always visitors in the drawing room, and she would not heed his signals and meet him alone.
But he would tell her now, by God. He would tell her exactly what he thought of fortune hunting—he slipped out through the double French doors onto the terrace and was arrested by the sound of sobs.
She wept! He stared at her, her slender figure doubled over and her head down on her arms on the wrought-iron railing of the terrace. Pierced to the core by her unhappiness, he was frozen, unable to move. He never imagined that beneath that glittering façade, behind those laughing eyes, such wrenching sadness could exist. He moved forward.
"Arabella," he whispered, as he turned her around roughly. She straightened and tried to pull away, but he enfolded her fiercely in his arms and felt her melt against him, her sobs becoming deeper and wilder.
He let her cry, rocking her gently and talking in hushed tones, nonsense really, but the kind of things men think women need to hear He told her everything would be all right, that there was nothing in the world worth making her beautiful eyes red over, that he would fix everything.
At that, she tried to pull away again, but he would not let her go. He looked down into her drowned green eyes in the pale light from the music room. The crashing chords of the piano coincided with the heavier rain that poured down outside of the overhang, looking like a silvery curtain. The pain and fear in her eyes were too much, and he lowered his face and gently kissed her mouth, tentatively at first. Any hesitation and he would have released her instantly.
But there was no hesitation; her bare hands stole up around his neck and she pressed herself to him, her unexpectedly passionate response rocking him until he was unsteady on his feet. Her lips were velvety soft and sweet, and he had to fiercely tamp down the rush of desire that raced through his blood. He wanted to pick her up and carry her away, steal into the night with her in his arms. Instead, he would have to be satisfied with this moment, this unbearably perfect moment of bliss.
Arabella was shaken to the core by the abrupt rise from bitter sadness to glorious joy, the sweet fulfilment that his lips seemed to promise. It was like being swept into an inferno, all white-hot fire and brightness, consuming her with a passion she had never experienced before. If it never ended, then she never had to face the truth, never had to admit reality, never had to awaken from a dream of hunger sated and need satisfied .. .
But he broke the contact, just to take a huge, gasping breath, before he tried to capture her lips in another kiss. Too late! Too late. The magic moment had been shattered, and she came to the abrupt realization that if anyone saw, they would delight in retailing the shocking story of Miss Swinley alone on the terrace, kissing that unruly Mr. Westhaven. She would be ruined. And after all, lovemaking with a poor man would not pay their bills, nor save her home, nor rescue her mother from the trouble she was in.
She twisted away from Westhaven. Wiping the tears that remained on her cheeks, she said, "You are a cad, Westhaven, for taking advantage of my . . . my weak moment." Her voice sounded thick and strange in her own ears, but steady enough, she was glad to note.
He tried to take her in his arms again, saying, "Weak moment? Arabella if you are sad—"
"Who gave you permission to call me by my given name, sir?"
"Arabella," he said, grinning. He pulled her into his arms and laid a kiss on her cheek.
She wrenched herself away from him and slapped him, looking fearfully over his shoulder into the music room. People were starting to come back for the soprano's performance.
"What is wrong with you?" he asked, rubbing his cheek. A red mark was going to show. "Why do you respond one minute, then push me away the next?"
"Have you never heard of flirtation?" she asked, coldly. It hurt to do this, but she must, she must!, must leave her alone so she could go to her fate, and this was an opportunity' to sink herself irrevocably in his eyes. "You are far too sure of your attractions, sir. Can a girl not have a little fun? Gain a little experience? It is harmless enough; people do it all the time."
She was rewarded by a blaze of anger in his stormy gray eyes. "Heartless flirt, jade!" he said. He turned away and retreated to the door. He glanced back with a troubled, puzzled look in his eyes, but then strode away, through the music room and beyond.
Success, and yet all she was left feeling was a great, yawning chasm of emptiness in her heart.
Seven
There was no reason to stay after rejecting Marcus Westhaven, and so Arabella pled a headache that was very nearly real and fled the musicale while the soprano, not so very wonderful after all, screeched and dipped through an aria. She had come alone, accompanied only by Annie, whom she tore away from the party atmosphere of the O'Lachlans' kitchen to leave.