Page 2 of A Lady Igniting Wicked Passions
“He certainly is,” Harlton said.
“How far away are your father’s lands?” Lady Elizabeth asked, examining her finely stitched, silver-worked gloves.
“Oh, about five miles or so,” Arabella said.
“You must join us for luncheon before making the return journey,” Harlton said with enthusiasm. “Mama and Papa would not forgive me if they knew you had been here and not come into the house.”
“I thought you were showing me the Park, Lord Harlton?” Lady Elizabeth said. “My father was keen for me to learn all about Wimpole Hall.”
Arabella raised an eyebrow at Harlton who coloured slightly and grimaced, though not where Lady Elizabeth could see. Then he turned to her with a smile that had charmed many who had been given the gift of its bright rays.
“Of course, Lady Elizabeth. But my old friend Arabella is looking decidedly pale. Mama and Papa do look upon her as a surrogate daughter and would take it amiss if I abandoned her. The Park isn’t going anywhere. Come. Arabella will you ride?”
“I will. I think Achilles has given himself enough of a fright,” Arabella said. “He should be quite biddable for a while.”
Arabella felt quite sorry for Lady Elizabeth as the three of them rode through the open grassland that formed Wimpole Park. She had clearly been matched to Charlie Cavendish, probably by her parents and his.
But Arabella had known Charles since they were small children, had even once believed that she was in love with him. But she had learned that he would never be able to say the same. Not to her or any other woman. Still, he was her oldest friend and one of the few people who accepted her eccentricities without question.
As they rode, she and Harlton chatted, though she avoided the one piece of news that had prompted her wild dash through the country with Achilles. The one piece of news that burned darkly within her though she fought hard to smile through the flames. She could ride Achilles to the very edges of the world but would not be able to escape it for long.
After reaching Wimpole Hall, a stable hand took charge of Achilles and she followed Harlton and Lady Elizabeth into the house where they were greeted by a tall man with fiery hair turning grey and an imperial nose. The Earl of Wimpole’s blue eyes were darker and more vivid than his son’s, and his manner more imperious.
“Lady Arabella, welcome back. I believe it has been thirteen months since you last visited Wimpole.”
Harlton had led the two women through a set of open French doors and into a drawing room. Lord Wimpole had risen from a table at which he had been reading. A bookcase that reached almost to the ceiling dominated the far wall and books lay on the table and mantle.
A fire cackled merrily in an ornate stone mantlepiece, above which hung a painting, dark with antiquity. The portrait of a man. bearing a striking resemblance to the current Master of Wimpole, who brooded down upon the room.
“I defer to your excellent memory, Lord Wimpole,” Arabella replied, lowering herself into a modest curtsy.
“And may I congratulate you on your excellent good news. I am sure I am not the first,” He replied, his voice deep and sonorous.
Harlton turned to look at Arabella with a raised eyebrow.
“Congratulations?” He asked.
Arabella forced a smile but she wanted to scowl. Lord Wimpole looked confused for a moment, eyes darting from his son to the daughter of his old friend, Lord Eversden.
“Lady Arabella is to be married. I received an invitation by messenger this morning. There is one addressed to you, Charles, in your room.”
Harlton opened his arms as though to embrace Arabella. His father harrumphed, eyes narrowing and steel-grey brows drawing down. Harlton stopped in mid-movement, caught Arabella’s eye, and winked where only they could see.
“I can’t believe you have prattled on about a horse with this news in your pocket,” he said.
“Neither can I, Lord Harlton. It quite slipped my mind. I cannot imagine how.”
“Charles, why are our guests standing when we have such well-appointed chairs?” Lord Wimpole interrupted. “Ladies, please.”
He indicated a plumply upholstered chaise before the fire, and shot a glare to his son.
“Have tea sent for, Charles. It is an hour yet before luncheon.”
Arabella smiled her thanks and took a seat, Lady Elizabeth gracefully seating herself at the far end of the chaise.
“Of course, Papa. But first, Ara…I mean, of course, Lady Arabella. Who is your fiancé? Do I know him?”
Arabella maintained a fixed smile that she hoped the eagle-eyed Lord Wimpole would not see through. Little escaped the man. Her own father was easily distracted when needed. Simply turning the conversation to horses worked most of the time. Wimpole was another matter and his oceanic blue eyes were fixed on her now.
