Page 9 of A Lady Igniting Wicked Passions
“Arabella! Do not say such things! Or even think them,” Charlotte chided. “Though I have wondered about the match between you too.”
Arabella nodded glumly. “We are not exactly similar people,” she said.
“Quite. You are practically a boy in your pursuits and he…” Charlotte stopped talking abruptly and Arabella patted her arm.
“You are exactly right. He enjoys reading and I enjoy riding. He practically shrivels up in the outside air. I do the same indoors.”
“But then look at my dearest Cecil and me. Who would have thought we would ever find common ground? But we did and now I could not be happier.” Charlotte sighed.
Arabella spied her husband-to-be, standing close to Harlton and whispering for his ear alone. When he caught sight of Arabella approaching, he stepped back from the other man. Harlton smiled, though to Arabella it seemed forced.
“Arabella, dearest one. What a stunning event your family has arranged. I detect the influence of your mother and sister in its grandeur. Did you have a hand in any of it?”
“I was present at every meeting my mother and Helena held to plan it. And even woke up for a minute or two,” Arabella replied with a mischievous grin.
Harlton beamed back though his eyes remained tight. Charlotte rolled her eyes and said something under her breath that Arabella doubted would be regarded as acceptable for polite society. The next half an hour passed with agonizing slowness for Arabella. Harlton continued making small talk that sounded increasingly forced, until his fiancée appeared and he excused himself.
The conversation then slowed to a crawl as Charlotte tried to foster something between Arabella and Simon. She was clearly trying to create a spark of interest between them, but Arabella feared that Simon would snap in two if she so much as breathed on him too strongly.
He was a closer friend to Harlton than to her. A gloom settled upon her that remained as the crowds exited the Long Hall and headed into the ballroom for the dancing.
Simon seemed distracted throughout and frequently missed steps. Becoming distraught by his own ineptitude, he missed more. Arabella smiled through smashed toes on and kicked shins. She was sure that those around them noticed Simon’s atrocious dancing and were secretly sniggering. Her despondency turned to anger each time they passed the Duke of Ashenwood and Helena.
They looked graceful, moving without any apparent effort, as though they hovered a few inches above the ground. Resentment and jealousy rose in her, which angered her further. She did not wish to be jealous of anything that Helena had.
But the match she had been given was doomed to failure and misery. And the Duke of Ashenwood was handsome, even exotic. Such an interesting, beautiful man seemed wasted on Helena.
Immediately, she berated herself for such a selfish attitude. After all, if he made Helena happy then nothing else mattered. Except, did she look happy? It seemed that Helena was concentrating too much on looking regal and dignified. No hint of joy was visible on her face. The duke was impassive, going through the motions of the dance equally devoid of joy.
Arabella could not help but wonder whether he would look joyful were she the one in his arms. That in turn led to an image of herself held tightly in his embrace, her soft feminine curves pressed hard against masculine brawn.
Her breath quickened and she felt the heat in her cheeks rise at the thought. At that moment, she stepped on Simon’s foot, producing a wince and bringing his previously distracted attention back to her.
Smiling apologetically, she then breathed a sigh of relief as the dance came to an end.
“Please excuse me, Simon. I feel the need for a breath of air. I think I will go out onto the veranda for a while.”
Simon bowed and looked relieved himself. As she made her way through the throng of dancers taking their places for the next dance, she found herself looking for the Duke of Ashenwood. Helena was standing next to their mother, at the edge of the ballroom, and did not look happy. Of the duke there was no sign.
Telling herself it was for the best, Arabella slipped out of the room through a discreet door in a corner of the room. It was artfully concealed behind a mirror and opened onto a passage of dark wood panels, unlit and without windows.
Despite the darkness, she hurried along, turned two corners, and descended a short staircase. A further door then let her out just below the veranda. When it was closed behind her, she leaned back against it, putting her head back and letting out a long sigh.
A set of stone steps faced her, which led up to the veranda itself. She stood in a small courtyard filled with hessian sacks of compost and an assortment of garden tools. Above her, the ornamental lamps cast their golden light outward into the night and she could hear the murmur of voices. She wondered how long she could stand there in the dark, unnoticed. How long before she was missed and forced to return to the company in the house.
To Simon Edgeworth, who wanted nothing more than to be in the company of Charlie Harlton. A boon that Arabella would be more than happy to grant him except that it would condemn her to a lifetime of misery. The voices of two men drifted down to her. Looking up she could see a cloud of blue smoke rising from the veranda directly above her.
“It is the most awful bore, Ashenwood,” said one man.
“Youare bored?” came the duke’s voice, sounding incredulous. “Such a cold fish I have not met in my life. And this is the woman I have agreed to marry.”
Arabella’s ears pricked up at this. She turned and stepped away from the door, craning her head to look up while trying to remain in the shadows and unobserved. The duke stood facing a man she did not recognize. Each held a cheroot and were surrounding themselves in a cloud of blue smoke.
“Then tell the old buzzard the deal is off. Find someone else. There are plenty to choose from for a man like you.”
“It is not that simple. I need a substantial dowry and someone with property of their own. The money is what draws me to Helena, nothing else. She is nothing but an empty vase. But, as the saying goes, beggars cannot be choosers.”
Arabella felt a fiery lance of rage surge through her. She opened her mouth to call up to them but stopped herself. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, as she continued to listen.
