Almost - Almost A Bride Part 9

Arabella stepped into the copper tub with a sigh of enjoyment. She slid beneath the water, drawing her knees up and dropping her head back as Becky poured fresh water from a jug over her head then ma.s.saged soap into her scalp.

"How would you like to live in London, Becky?"

Becky's hands stilled. "Oh, my goodness, m'lady. Town . . . I couldn't live there."

"If I go, do you think you could come with me?" Arabella asked the question lightly. Becky was only sixteen and she hadn't so far given any indications of a swain in her life.

"Oh, I don't know, m'lady." Becky poured rinsing water over the wet curls. "Will you be going, Lady Arabella?"

"I'm considering it," Arabella said. "And if I do go, I would like you to come with me. If, of course, there's no one here to keep you. Indeed, Becky, I don't think I could manage without you."

"Oh, m'lady . . . there's my mam," Becky said, pouring lemon juice.

"We would come back here at Christmas and every summer," Arabella explained. "And in London there would be footmen, grooms, any number of possibilities . . . I don't think Mrs. Fith would want to deny you those opportunities." She was beginning to sound like she was persuading herself, she thought.

"Well, I don't know, m'lady," Becky repeated, but sounded rather less doubtful.

"Think about it, Becky." Arabella rose from the water in a shower of drops and reached for the towel. "We'll talk again in a few days."

She was ready a few minutes before the clock struck five. Becky had dressed her hair in a chignon at the nape of her neck, pomading the side curls to a glossy deep chocolate artfully threaded with ribbon loops of dark red silk. The stays lifted the swell of her bosom above the low neck of the pink damask gown and nipped her waist to accentuate the rich fullness of the skirts.

"Oh, you do look lovely, Lady Arabella," Becky said admiringly. "Shall you wear the pearls?" She presented the jewel box.

Arabella opened it and took out the single strand of flawlessly matched pearls. Whatever she might say about her father's general neglect, he bought only the best when he decided to buy anything. She held it up to her neck and the pearls took on the pinkish hue of the damask, glowing softly against her skin. She seemed to be going to an awful lot of trouble for a simple dinner at home, she reflected somewhat aridly, fastening the strand at her nape. She didn't have to compete with her dinner companion. Although failing to do so she suspected increased the inherent disadvantages in her situation. She took the Chinese painted silk fan that Becky handed her, tucked an embroidered lace handkerchief into the lace ruffles that fell over her forearm, gave herself a mental nod of approval, and sailed downstairs.

Jack, waiting in the drawing room doorway, heard the click of her heels on the stair and crossed the hall to meet her at the foot of the staircase. He bowed with a flourish as she stepped down beside him. The gray eyes glimmered as he took in her appearance, lingered for an instant on the creamy billow of her breast above her decolletage. "Good evening, madam. My compliments."

Arabella regarded him suspiciously, but could detect nothing untoward in his expression. No hint of mockery in the elaborately formal greeting. She decided to follow his lead. "Good evening, your grace,"she responded, with a sweeping curtsy.

He was looking particularly elegant in a cutaway silk coat of light and dark green stripes, with large silver b.u.t.tons, a high collar, and a stiffly starched cravat. His hair was as usual unpowdered and tied back at the nape. She couldn't help noticing as she rose from her curtsy how the open style of the coat revealed the powerful swell of his thighs in plain dark green britches b.u.t.toned below the knee. For once he carried no sword.

"Shall we go in to dinner?" He offered his arm.

Franklin had arranged the long table with the same degree of formality he had always used when the family dined together. Two places had been set at either end of the gleaming surface. The view from end to end was obscured by branched silver candelabra, their tapers struggling to compete with the evening light. The steward, in his best livery, stood at the foot of the table, waiting to draw out Arabella's chair. A manservant stood behind the duke's chair at the head of the table.

Arabella took her seat with a murmur of thanks and shook out her napkin. She looked up the expanse of table, a glimmer of mischief in her eyes. She had the feeling that this arrangement was not what his grace had had in mind when he'd insisted upon a diner a deux. To all intents and purposes, with this arrangement they could be dining separately. He hadn't taken his seat but stood with one hand on the back of the chair, ignoring the servant standing behind it.

"No," he stated, "this really won't do." He strolled around the table and came down to Arabella's end. "Set my place down here, Franklin," he instructed, taking the seat on Arabella's right. "I'm not going to shout down the length of this table."

Franklin looked at Arabella, who said, "Just as his grace wishes, Franklin."

"But, my lady, Lord Dunston, your father, would always insist-"

"That is hardly relevant, Franklin," Jack reminded him, somewhat unnecessarily, Arabella thought with a flash of annoyance.

"No, indeed, your grace," the steward said stiffly. He signaled to the servant to rearrange the place settings.

"And you may leave us to serve ourselves," Jack said in pleasanter tones.

Franklin looked even more put out but he merely bowed and set a covered silver soup tureen on the table between them. He removed the cover, bowed again, and made his stately way from the room, closing the doors behind him.

"Oh, dear," Arabella said. "Poor Franklin. He does have a very strong sense of what's right and proper. My father always insisted upon absolute formality at the dinner table."

"And your brother?" he inquired with a raised eyebrow.

"That was a different matter," she said shortly. "Franklin judges these matters by the old standards."

"Well, they will all become accustomed to the new order," Jack said carelessly. He raised the ladle in the soup tureen and filled Arabella's bowl. "This smells good."

Arabella made no comment, although her temper stirred again at this callous dismissal of the servants'opinions. She suspected that Franklin was trying with his insistence on ritual to convince himself that there was nothing wrong with Lady Arabella's dining alone with an unrelated stranger. If she had succeeded in keeping herself to herself in her own apartments, the household would have felt that some degree of propriety was being maintained. As it was . . . well, after Lavinia's visit this morning, the gossip would be all over the county by now.

Arabella frowned into her wine.

"Is something wrong with your wine?" Jack asked as she continued to look raptly into her goblet.

"No." She shook her head. "Nothing at all." She took up her spoon. "Now explain to me, if you please, sir, the essential difference between the Whigs and the Tories."

Jack accepted the task, although there were other topics he would have preferred to pursue. "In essence, the Tories are the king's party, they support the absolute power of monarchy and Parliament. The Whigs believe rather more in the power of the people." He broke a roll with a snap, as if punctuating his exposition.

Arabella frowned. "So a Whig would sympathize with the revolution in France . . . a revolution against the tyranny of the monarchy, the clergy, and the n.o.bles. I believe you said you were a Whig. Do you have an opinion on the revolution?" She looked over at him, her gaze bright with interest.

Jack took a long time before he answered. It was an intelligent, reasonable question. She was not to know how he had been scarred by that blood-soaked mayhem, but it still took him long minutes before he had the riot of emotion and memory under control. "There are few Whigs now who would support the murderous mob rule that the revolution has become. No one supported regicide."

Arabella nodded again, somberly. The executions of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette had let loose the Reign of Terror upon France. Anarchy reigned across the country and from what she'd seen in the few newspapers that reached her, French emigres, poverty-stricken refugees, crowded the streets of London.

"Do you know anyone who's been to Paris since it started?" It was a natural-enough question. There had been so much intermingling of French and English aristocratic families, few members of the English elite didn't have relatives and friends across the Channel. "I believe Frederick was there some time ago,"she said thoughtfully. "When I last saw him he mentioned that he had some business there." She shook her head with a frown. "I can't imagine what business Frederick had, apart from gaming."

Unless of course he was escaping his creditors.

Jack raised his gla.s.s to his lips. "I can't imagine why anyone would be fool enough to touch the sh.o.r.es of France." He sipped. "But your brother, my dear, was ever a fool." His voice was a harsh rasp and for a moment the gray gaze was as cold and bleak as Arctic ice. His drained the contents of the goblet in one swallow, then immediately refilled it from the decanter at his elbow.

The chill in the room was palpable despite the great orange ball of the sinking sun in the window embrasure.

Just what had Frederick done to earn Jack Fortescu's undying enmity? Arabella half opened her mouth to ask the question and then closed it again. She couldn't begin to form the words, not in this frigid atmosphere. Quietly she continued with her soup, trying to ignore the silence as if it was somehow perfectly normal. When she finished she rang the handbell at her side.

Franklin's return-accompanied by the manservant laboring under the burden of a tray bearing a haunch of venison, a dish of potatoes, and a carp in parsley sauce-provided welcome cover from the awkwardness. The dishes were set upon the table, and more were brought. b.u.t.tered beans, artichokes, a gla.s.s bowl of red currant jelly.

"Mrs. Elliot hopes this will suffice, Lady Arabella," Franklin said. "If his grace should wish for poultry, there is a boiled fowl with capers."

Jack held up his hand. "No . . . no, indeed, Franklin. Pray thank Mrs. Elliot, but this will be more than sufficient. It's a positive feast." He tried for a warm smile but it fell on stony ground.

"Probably not what you're used to in London, your grace," Franklin declared, depositing the soup tureen on the servant's tray with something of a thump. "Should I carve the venison, my lady?""Yes, please," Arabella said, taking matters into her own hands. Maybe the duke would prefer to continue dinner without the attention of the steward, but someone else in the room would at least force them to engage in some neutral topic of conversation. "I wonder when the weather will break," she said brightly. "Usually a heat wave doesn't last this long. Do you think there'll be a storm, your grace?"Jack regarded her over the rim of his goblet. The desolation had left his eyes and his mouth now had a slight curve. "I trust not, madam," he said. "But perhaps your garden could do with the rain."

"Certainly it could," Arabella said, leaning back as Franklin slipped a plate of roast venison onto the table in front of her. "The lawns are looking very sad.""Then we must hope for a shower soon," Jack said gravely, receiving his own plate. "Thank you, Franklin. You may leave us to serve ourselves from here."The steward bowed and left the room. "Red currant jelly, your grace?" Arabella reached for the cut-gla.s.s bowl. "All right, Arabella, time to call truce," he said, taking the bowl from her. "As I'm sure you've realized by now, there was no love lost between your brother and myself." He spooned red currant jelly onto his venison. "I don't suffer fools gladly and I won't dress that up." He gave her a shrewd glance. "I don't believe you have much time for them either, Arabella."

"No," she agreed.

"And was there much love lost between you and your brother?" His tone was level, but his hand holding the spoon was motionless as he waited for an answer. "No," she said quietly. "Then may we put this matter to rest?"She gave him the semblance of a nod and he decided it was the best he was going to get this evening.

Chapter 8.

The banging of the front-door knocker stopped the next words out of Arabella's mouth. It was a loud, agitated crashing of the bra.s.s knocker that bespoke an emergency. She looked askance at her companion, who said calmly, "It's a strange time for visitors."

"Visitors don't normally announce themselves with such vehemence," she said, pushing back her chair, ready to get to her feet.

"No, stay where you are," Jack said, waving her down again. "We've had one impertinent visitation today, if this is another such, you'd be better letting Franklin deal with it. You don't want to appear guilty and fl.u.s.tered."

Arabella resumed her seat and calmly picked up her fork. He had a good point. Having accepted the present situation, however irregular, she needed to brazen it out. Nevertheless her ears strained towards the hall as she heard Franklin lift the heavy latch. "Oh," she said, as the voices drifted clearly into the dining room. "It's David."

The door opened and Franklin said, "The vicar, my lady. Lord David Kyle," he added unnecessarily but with emphasis, as if this new arrival heralded the restoration of normality in this household gone mad.

Arabella rose to her feet and turned to greet her friend as David hurried past Franklin into the room. "Arabella, my dear girl, what is going on? Is Frederick truly dead?" David asked even as his gaze fixed upon the duke, who had also risen to greet the visitor.

"Yes, I'm afraid so," Arabella said. "It's rather a complicated story, David. Will you join us for dinner? Franklin, set a place for the vicar."

"No . . . no, thank you, Arabella, I didn't come for dinner," David said, his eyes still fixed upon the duke. "This gossiping twaddle of Lavinia Alsop's is on every tongue. I've just endured the most offensive half hour with that woman and I'm in no mood to eat." He stepped closer to the table. "Introduce me, will you?" There was a most unusual edge of hostility in his voice.

Jack spoke up for himself. "Jack Fortescu, sir." He bowed across the table.

"St. Jules?" David didn't immediately return the bow.

"The same. I believe our fathers were acquainted." Jack was relaxed, his calm expression hiding his conviction that of Arabella's friends, the most important to recruit were Meg Barratt and David Kyle. He needed this man's support.

"David, do sit down and at least take a gla.s.s of wine," Arabella cajoled, gesturing to Franklin to fill a wine goblet. "Why didn't Mary come with you?"

"It seemed better if I came alone," the vicar said, his expression still very dark, his gaze still hostile. "How did Frederick die?"

"Would you like me to explain?" Jack asked Arabella.

"No, I will," she said. "Won't you eat with us, David? You know you have a weakness for venison."

David had a weakness for most of the pleasures of the table, as his rather ample paunch signified. However, for the moment he remained steadfastly on his feet, his gaze steady on the duke, and repeated, "I'm in no mood to eat, Arabella. Now, just what is going on?"

For answer, Arabella gestured towards a chair and reluctantly he sat down and took up the gla.s.s that Franklin set at his elbow. Jack and Arabella resumed their seats.

Arabella explained the situation in as few words as she could, thinking that with any luck it was the last time she'd have to go through this. Everyone truly important to her would then have heard the story from her own lips.

David listened without interruption, his gaze moving between the duke and Arabella as she spoke. When she had finished, he sat silently for a minute or two, sipping his wine.

Finally he spoke. "I am sorry for Frederick's death. You have my condolences, Bella."

She offered a rather wan smile in answer. David had had no illusions about the earl of Dunston's character and had remonstrated with him on many occasions over his dissolute behavior and neglect of his tenants. She knew he was offering his condolences as much for the situation to which Frederick had condemned his sister as to the actual fact of the man's death.

David returned his frowning gaze to the duke, who was spooning parsley sauce over carp as if this conversation had nothing at all to do with him. Suddenly the vicar put his hands on the table and pushed back his chair. "Bella, I would be private with you for a few minutes."

Promptly Arabella got to her feet. "Let's go into the library, then. You'll excuse us, Jack."

"By all means." Courteously, he rose from the table and remained on his feet until they had left. Then he resumed his seat and his interrupted dinner with no overt sign of his niggle of unease. He had no desire to make an enemy of David Kyle.

David followed Arabella into the library and closed the door. He began without preamble, "Do you know that man's reputation?"

"A rake and a rogue, I believe," she said. "Certainly a gamester." She alighted on a chaise longue, her damask skirts spreading in a graceful pink cloud around her. "But I need your advice, David. The duke has asked me to marry him."

David exhaled on a noisy breath. "I didn't realize you even knew the man."

She shook her head. "I didn't, before yesterday."

"Then what on earth . . . ?" He stared at her in bewilderment. "Why would he propose such a thing?"

"I don't know," she said simply. "Meg suggested it may be in reparation. It's the decent thing to do, perhaps."

"I would like to believe that of him," the vicar said, but he sounded incredulous. "You declined, of course."

She turned her fan between her hands as she chose her words carefully. "Initially, yes . . . no-" She held up a hand as he began to expostulate. "David, let me finish. I've spent all afternoon thinking about this. Looking at the alternative. What real alternative do I have?"

"You have friends," he said. "Friends who would happily give you a home and welcome you into their families."

She smiled with rueful affection. "I know that, my dear, but I can't and won't accept the charity of my friends. I know you would gladly share what little you have, but I could not live with myself."

"My dear girl, you cannot sacrifice yourself to that man," he exclaimed, scratching his head beneath his wig in agitation.

"It doesn't have to be a sacrifice," she pointed out carefully. "And most particularly when you think of the alternative. My only other choice is to beg charity from my mother's family. I can't do that, David. I would rather cut my throat . . . oh, dear," she said remorsefully, seeing the shock jump in his eyes. "I didn't mean that exactly. But I can't live without my independence."

"And what possible independence would you have married to St. Jules?" he demanded.

"I could insist on some degree of independence," she said slowly. "Marriage settlements that give me that. I know Jack's reputation but I don't really believe he's the devil incarnate, although he does sometimes encourage that description."

She fixed her gaze steadily on David. He said nothing for a moment, merely stood in the window embrasure, his hands clasped at his back behind the tails of his black coat. It was one of David's great strengths, this ability and willingness to step back from his own position and reexamine it.

David, aware that his agitated scratching earlier had turned his curled and powdered wig askew, adjusted it carefully, before saying, "How can you trust a man you don't even know?"

She gave a tiny shrug. "David, how many women marry men they don't even know because someone has decided it would be an advantageous match? At least I am deciding for myself that it would be an advantageous match."

David Kyle, man of the cloth though he was, was also a man of the world. He knew she spoke the truth, and indeed many of these arranged marriages were very successful. And Arabella was no naive ingenue.

"Maybe," he conceded.

"And this way I keep my home, my orchids . . . everything, David."