Page 24 of A Lady Igniting Wicked Passions
“Forgive me, Helena. I do not know what it was that made me laugh,” Arabella lied.
“You are as much to blame as he is. If you pursued the interests of a Lady instead of a stable boy, there would have been no wager at all,” Helena said with venom.
“Perhaps. But the duke is clearly a sporting man. As is our dear father. Perhaps, you should be more tolerant as he is your future husband,” Arabella shot back.
“Girls, enough!” Eversden said. “I will not have bickering. The duke will recover and will remain a guest in our house until he does. This was an unfortunate accident and no blame will be apportioned to anyone.”
“It is all very well for you to say that, dear. But what will the rest of our peers think?” Amelia asked. “A duke stands above an earl. Will the blame fall to you, and by extension to Helena? Perhaps that will be enough to persuade the duke to call off the marriage.”
Arabella felt a surge of hope at this theory. It would solve all their problems if the duke decided that he did not wish to be gossiped about and that the name of Harrington was one he did not wish to be joined with. Assuming that did not extend to her. She looked at her father, who stared broodingly out of the window, without giving an answer.
“Helena, go up and see the duke. If he is asleep, you may sit with him. If he is awake, talk with him awhile. It will show your devotion,” Amelia suggested.
Eversden looked around at this, a speculative look on his face. “A capital idea, Amelia. Yes, go on, Helena.”
Helena looked stricken, her face falling. “I cannot abide sick rooms. I will not.”
“He is not diseased,” Eversden said with exasperation. “He is merely injured.”
“No, I will not. It would not be proper,” Helena replied stubbornly.
Their father threw up his hands in exasperation and stood, going to the cabinet that stood on the other side of the room, containing bottles of numerous types as well as decanters and glasses.
“I would be happy to check on the duke. I feel partly responsible,” Arabella said, trying to sound as though she did not care one way or the other.
“You will not!” Helena spat. “Very well, very well. I shall go.”
She stood with the expression of a martyr on her face and arranged her skirts, fussing with a piece of lint too small to be seen. Amelia stood also.
“And I shall accompany you,” she said. “The duke shall see how devoted we are to him. You needn’t accompany us, Arabella. Your presence may anger him.”
Amelia glided from the room and Helena followed. As their mother’s back was to them and their father occupied with selecting a suitable bottle for himself, Helena shot Arabella a triumphant smile. She listened to them withdraw, tapping her fingers upon her knees. When she could wait no longer, she got up and slipped from the room.
“Never mind them, Arabella. It was quite a race which you would have won had…” Eversden began to say.
Arabella did not hear the rest as she was heading for the small door that was situated beneath the grand staircase; the centrepiece of the house’s Great Hall. The door led to the ubiquitous feature of the homes of the aristocracy, a servant’s hallway. It led to a set of wooden stairs, lacking carpet or finish, which twisted and turned their way up to allow the household staff to access the different floors of the house without being seen by its residents.
While she was not as familiar with the servant’s way in this house, she could guess with some accuracy where it would bring her out. Trying a door, a few flights up, she peered out, only to pull her head back sharply as she saw her mother and Helena walking along the hallway ahead of her. She waited for a count of ten and then looked out again. The door of the last room on the right was just closing.
Trying not to make a sound, she padded along the hallway, glad of the thick carpeting, until she reached the door. Peering through the keyhole she saw a sitting room, beyond which was an inner door. Slowly opening the sitting room door, she crept in and tip-toed to the inner door, pressing her ear against it. Muffled voices reached her.
“Your Grace? It is I, Lady Eversden. I bring your fiancée with me.”
There was a pause, then what sounded like a sigh, followed by.
“Hello, Your Grace. It is I, Lady Helena Harrington.”
Arabella clapped a hand over her mouth to suppress a sudden snigger. Helena’s formality was somewhat absurd. There came a reply, which Arabella could not make out. Nor, it seemed, could her mother or sister.
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace?” Lady Eversden asked. “I did not quite hear that.”
“Arabella?” came Aaron’s voice, louder and clearer. “Arabella!”
Arabella almost opened the door and burst into the room, when she heard her name called out with such desperate need.
“Well, really!” Helena said, sounding outraged.
Then came the sound of footsteps towards the door. Knowing that she had scant moments, Arabella looked around the room for a place to hide. She chose to scramble for the cover of a large, wing-backed armchair, tucking her arms and legs in as she crouched behind its bulk. Helena stormed through the room, slamming the outer door behind her.
