Page 7 of The Black Lion
It had taken three years of persistence on Will’s part, but he had been so patient with her, so understanding.
“I love you, Bella. I have for a long time, but … well, I suppose you will think me terrible for being jealous of Drew. The three of us grew up together, and as we grew older, I noticed just as he did how beautiful you had become. I couldn’t blame you for choosing him; the two of you were well suited. But I could be good to you. I would treat you well and take care of you. It might feel too soon now, but when you are ready to consider your future I hope you’ll think about what I’ve said.”
He cupped her cheek to lean in for a kiss, and she allowed it. Arabella had been so lonely, and life without Drew was a dim and dismal hell. She missed passion and laughter. She missed feeling treasured and having someone to call her own. She missed Drew, but the sea had taken him and he was never coming back. Would she die alone mourning a dead man, or would she be brave enough to consider what William was offering?
The kiss began sweetly, with soft touches of Will’s lips and the gentle caress of his fingers along her cheeks. However, it swiftly become too much for her to bear, Will snatching her against him with a desperate groan and dipping his tongue into her mouth, consuming her. There wasn’t anything wrong with the kiss, and she certainly wasn’t some shrinking violet. But it only reminded her how much she missed Drew’s touch and the way he had kissed her, like some marauding conqueror taking what he wanted. She had always reveled in how those kisses made her feel—weak and utterly possessed.
Arabella pulled away from Will with a gasp. “I’m sorry. It isn’t you, I just …”
Will’s chest heaved, his mouth reddened and his cheeks flushed with ardor. “It’s all right, Bella. I understand. I only … Christ, I’ve wanted you for so long. I have been just as lonely as you without Drew, and I … please forgive me.”
“It’s all right. I think if you are willing to be patient with me, I could come to return your feelings. You are so dear to me.”
He kissed her once more, but slowly this time, and with such gentleness that Arabella nearly wept. “I will give you all the time you need.”
And so he had. For years Will had waited, even making it clear he did not care about the intimacies she had allowed Drew. She was coming into her marriage a virgin, but by no means chaste. She and Drew had crept off to be together more times than she could count, and he had taught her a woman’s pleasure.
None of it mattered to Will. He loved her, he wanted her, and Arabella had no reason to refuse him.
Taking a deep breath and retrieving the handkerchief from up her sleeve, she dabbed beneath her eyes, careful not to smudge her kohl or rouge. Today was not a day for tears; it was a day for joy. She was marrying her dearest friend in the world. There would be no need to worry over her future, or what might become of her when her father died. Archibald seemed as hale as ever, but nothing was guaranteed. Her mother had seemed perfectly healthy, but that had changed in what felt like a blink of an eye.
Arabella would take no chances. A new future lay before her, and she would step gracefully into it and be grateful to have any such options at all.
Taking one last look in the mirror, she then made her way from the room. One gloved hand gripping the balustrade, she descended as gracefully as she could manage, her body suddenly overtaken by shudders. Through the large doors thrown open to the front steps and circular drive, she could see the waiting carriages—one for herself and her father, another for her half-siblings.
“Ah, there you are, poppet,” said her father, turning to her with a bright smile. “We are ready and waiting, at your leisure.”
Arabella took his hand and allowed him to help her off the bottom step. Glancing up at Archibald Abbot, she experienced the usual tumult of confused feelings he inspired in her. The man had sired her, provided for her and her mother, and had doted on her from birth. But one glimpse at the fields stretching beyond the house grounds reminded her of the duality of his nature. He was a wealthy planter, one who traded in sugar cane harvested by the sweat of black brows and the bloodied fingers of people who looked like Arabella and her mother. People who had been torn from their homeland and forced to labor on pain of torment or death. They weren’t people to him, but commodities, just like the precious crop that had made him so exceedingly rich. What, then, did he see when he looked at her?
As he nestled her hand in the crook of his elbow, he seemed to see his daughter, his own blood. But she often wondered that if she were someone else—some nameless mulatto sired by another man—would he see her with such eyes? Would he treat her as he did the countless people who worked as his house slaves?
Shaking off those thoughts, she allowed him to lead her down the front steps to their waiting equipage. There was no use mulling over these questions on such a day. These were the realities of the world she had been born into, and Arabella had no power to change it in any substantial way. She could only play the cards that had been dealt her.
A pale face appeared from behind the parted curtains of the second carriage—white powder adding a ghostly quality to her half-sister’s visage, a black beauty patch a startling stain near her chin.
“Is her highness finally ready?” Eugenia whined. “Thank God, I thought I would justdiefrom the heat.”
“Oh, do cease your squalling, Eugenia,” came a muffled male voice from inside the carriage. “We’ve barely been in here five minutes.”
Eugenia retreated, and Milton appeared, looking somber and older than his years in a powdered white wig tied back in a queue. He wore just as much face powder and rouge as their sister. “But, we should hurry, else the poor man will think Bella has changed her mind.”
“God forbid,” Eugenia said with a little sniff. “Because, who else would have her?”
Arabella raised her chin and allowed her father to help her into the carriage, pretending not to have heard as Eugenia received a sharp scolding. She wished her father would not go to so much trouble to defend her, when it only made Eugenia despise her more. While Milton couldn’t care less that his father had taken a black mistress—as so many planters were wont to do—Eugenia knew how it had enraged Mrs. Abbot, and had taken up the mantle of the dead woman’s hatred.
“Pay her no mind, poppet,” her father urged as the carriage door was closed. “Eugenia can rarely tolerate another girl being the center of attention, especially when that girl is you.”
“Then I am sure she’ll be glad to be rid of me,” she murmured, turning to gaze out the window. “With me out of the way, she’ll be the one true lady of the house.”
Archibald snorted a laugh, slouching on the squabs of the rocking conveyance. “I must confess that the thought of seeing you leave Greenhill saddens me, poppet. I knew this day would come, though I must say I am pleased in your choice of groom. Throckmorton is a fine catch, and he will take good care of you. Your mother would be pleased.”
Would she? Arabella wanted to ask. But she remained silent, leaning forward to better see through the window. Dark skin stretched over the muscular backs of bare-chested male slaves, their sinewy arms working with the strength and skill needed to harvest the cane. Clusters of women worked to tie the stalks into bundles for transport, while the elderly and children pulled weeds and chased rats away from the valuable crop. Dark eyes peered at the carriage, some heavy with curiosity and others with outright disdain. She frowned, shaking her head as she realized her father had been speaking to her and she hadn’t heard a word of it.
“I’m sorry, Papa. You were saying?”
Instead of taking up where he’d left off, Archibald looked to the window, taking in the passing scenery with a furrowed brow.
“I am certain you’ve heard the talk of dissent among the slaves.”
