Page 43 of A Virgin for His Grace
"Name your seconds," Devon replied with deadly calm, his rage crystallizing into ice-cold determination. "I shall be delighted to accommodate you."
"No!" Arabella cried out in desperation, moving to place herself between the two men once more. "I will not allow either of you to risk your lives over my tarnished reputation. Mr. Whitmore, if you withdraw your challenge, I will... I will consider your proposal of marriage."
The stunning reversal sent shock rippling through the room, and Arabella saw Devon's face go white with the sort of devastation that suggested she had just delivered a mortal blow.
"Arabella," he whispered, her name carrying all the weight of a prayer and a plea. "You cannot mean what you are saying."
"I mean it entirely," she replied with desperate composure,though her heart was breaking with every word. "Mr. Whitmore, do we have an understanding?"
Whitmore's smile was sharp with vindictive satisfaction. "Indeed we do, I am glad you see that any other option for a woman of your stature would be worse than death, my dear. I shall call upon your father tomorrow to arrange the settlements. I trust you will find married life educational."
As he departed with obvious triumph, leaving chaos and heartbreak in his wake, Arabella found herself facing the wreckage of everything she had come to hold dear. In trying to protect Devon from the consequences of society's malicious speculation, she had instead trapped herself in a marriage that would be little better than a living death.
Yet as she looked into his stricken eyes and saw the devastation her decision had wrought, she knew that she would make the same choice again. Better to sacrifice her own happiness than to see the man she loved destroyed by scandal or violence.
The game was over, and society had won. All that remained was to face the consequences with whatever dignity she could muster, and to hope that someday, somehow, the memory of their brief happiness might prove sufficient compensation for a lifetime of regret.
Chapter 13
"Miss Greystone, if you would be so kind as to stand perfectly still whilst I adjust these sleeves. The silk is most delicate and requires precise handling."
Madame Celeste's French accent was more pronounced than usual as she fussed around Arabella's motionless form, her skilled fingers manipulating the ivory silk of what would become her wedding gown. The modiste's establishment on Bond Street was renowned throughout London for creating the most exquisite bridal attire, yet the gown taking shape around Arabella felt more like a shroud than a celebration of impending matrimony.
Livia sat in one of the elegant gilt chairs arranged for the comfort of accompanying friends and family, her face pale with barely suppressed distress as she watched the proceedings. The past week had been a nightmare of forced gaiety and hollow congratulations, with wedding preparations proceeding at high speed despite the obvious misery of the bride-to-be.
"Perhaps a touch more fullness in the sleeve?" Livia suggested weakly, clearly grasping for any excuse to delay the inexorable progress toward the altar.
"Non, non, Lady Livia," Madame Celeste replied with professional certainty. "The sleeves, they are perfect as they are. Simple, elegant, befitting a lady of Miss Greystone's refined taste." She stepped back to survey her handiwork with critical eyes. "Though I confess myself surprised by mademoiselle'schoice of such... modest styling. Most brides prefer more elaborate ornamentation for their special day."
Arabella caught her own reflection in the tall mirrors that surrounded the fitting area and felt her heart clench with pain. The woman staring back at her appeared composed and elegant, but her green eyes held a desperation that no amount of silk and lace could disguise.
"I have always favoured simplicity over ostentation," she managed, her voice steady despite the turmoil in her chest. "Excessive decoration seems inappropriate given the circumstances."
The circumstances were her forced engagement to a man she despised in order to prevent the man she loved from facing pistols at dawn. The irony was not lost on her that in trying to save Devon from one form of destruction, she had condemned herself to a different but equally devastating fate.
"Très bien," Madame Celeste murmured, making a final adjustment to the neckline. "I believe we have achieved perfection. The gown shall be ready for the final fitting tomorrow afternoon, and delivered to your father's house the morning of the ceremony."
The ceremony. In just four days, she would stand before God and society and pledge herself to James Whitmore for the remainder of her natural life. The thought made her stomach churn with revulsion, yet she had made her choice and had to live with the consequences.
"Thank you, Madame Celeste," she said with quiet dignity."Your work is, as always, exquisite."
As they prepared to take their leave, Livia remained unusually silent, her distress evident to anyone with eyes to see. It was only when they were settled in Devon's carriage for the return journey to Ravenshollow Manor that she finally gave voice to her anguish.
"I cannot bear this charade any longer," she burst out, tears streaming down her pale cheeks. "How can you marry that odious man when you love Devon so desperately? How can he allow it when his own heart is breaking?"
Arabella felt her carefully maintained composure waver at this direct assault on her defenses. She had been holding herself together through sheer force of will, refusing to acknowledge the devastation that threatened to consume her entirely.
"Sometimes love requires sacrifice," she said quietly, reaching out to take Livia's trembling hand in her own. "Your brother's honour, his very life, might have been forfeit if I had not accepted Mr. Whitmore's proposal. How could I live with myself knowing that my selfish desires had led to such tragedy?"
"But what of your own happiness?" Livia demanded with passionate intensity. "What of Devon's? He has been like a man possessed these past days, throwing himself into estate business with desperate energy whilst his eyes hold the sort of despair I have not seen since our parents died."
The revelation that Devon was suffering as acutely as herself sent fresh pain shooting through Arabella's heart, though she forced herself not to show it.
"He will recover," she said with forced steadiness. "Men of his station always do. In time, he will find a suitable bride who can give him the heirs he requires and the respectable marriage he deserves."
"You are the bride he deserves," Livia said with fierce conviction. "Anyone with eyes can see that you are perfectly matched in intellect, temperament, and character. The fact that society refuses to recognise such compatibility does not make it any less real."
Before Arabella could respond to this passionate declaration, the carriage drew to a halt before the imposing facade of Ravenshollow Manor. As they alighted, she caught sight of a familiar figure dismounting from a bay gelding near the stable entrance. Devon, returned from whatever business had occupied him that morning.
