Page 33 of A Virgin for His Grace
The mockery in his voice was unmistakable, and Arabella felt her temper flare despite her precarious position.
"Mr. Whitmore is a respectable gentleman who has been kind enough to remember me despite my altered circumstances," she said with as much dignity as she could muster. "I can hardly refuse to receive him."
"Can you not?" Devon asked with that same dangerous quietness. "How fascinating. And tell me, Miss Greystone, do you welcome his attentions? Do you find his pursuit... gratifying?"
The jealous undertone in his voice sent an unexpected thrill through Arabella's chest, though she forced herself to maintain her composure.
"I find his persistence somewhat overwhelming," she admitted. "But I can hardly be discourteous to a gentleman whooffers me the possibility of respectable marriage."
The words were barely out of her mouth before she realized their devastating impact. Devon's face went completely white, and his hands clenched into fists at his sides with barely controlled violence.
"Marriage," he repeated in a voice like winter frost. "How very practical of you."
"What else would you have me consider?" Arabella challenged, her own emotions finally breaking free of their careful restraints. "You have made it abundantly clear that you can offer me nothing but passion without permanence. At least Mr. Whitmore holds out the possibility of a respectable future."
"And if I were to forbid you to receive him?" Devon asked with silky menace. "If I were to use my influence to discourage his suit entirely?"
"Then you would prove yourself to be exactly the selfish, arrogant aristocrat that society believes you to be," Arabella replied with matching steel. "A man who would deny a woman the possibility of happiness simply because he cannot bring himself to offer her the same."
The accusation struck home with devastating accuracy, and Devon flinched as though she had struck him physically.
"You think me selfish?" he asked quietly.
"I think you are afraid," Arabella said with sudden gentleness, her anger evaporating in the face of the pain sheglimpsed in his dark eyes. "Afraid to risk your heart again after whatever devastation taught you that caring leads only to loss."
Devon stared at her for a long moment, his expression cycling through surprise, pain, and something that might have been longing before settling into familiar indifference.
"Perhaps I am," he said finally. "But that does not change the reality of our situation. You are free to receive Mr. Whitmore's suit, Miss Greystone. Indeed, you are free to accept it if you find his offer sufficiently... appealing."
The careful dismissal was clearly intended to end their conversation, yet Arabella found herself unable to simply accept his withdrawal.
"And if I do accept him?" she asked quietly. "What then becomes of... us?"
Devon's smile was sharp with self-mockery. "There is no 'us,' Miss Greystone. There is merely a regrettable lapse in judgment that we have both agreed will not be repeated. Your future happiness should not be constrained by such temporary madness."
The words were like physical blows, yet Arabella forced herself to nod with apparent composure.
"I see. Then I shall go and receive Mr. Whitmore's call with proper attention to his feelings."
As she moved toward the door, Devon's voice stopped her one final time.
"Arabella?"
She paused, hope flaring briefly in her chest at the raw need in his voice.
"Yes, Your Grace?"
"Be happy," he said quietly, though the words seemed to cost him considerable effort. "Whatever you choose, be happy."
The gentle benediction was almost more than she could bear, and Arabella fled his study before the tears she had been holding back could finally fall.
Chapter 10
"Miss Greystone, how radiant you appear this afternoon. The morning light becomes you exceedingly well."
Mr. James Whitmore rose from his chair in the morning room with the sort of practiced gallantry that marked him as a gentleman well-versed in the art of courtship, his pale blue eyes fixed upon Arabella's face with an intensity that made her distinctly uncomfortable.
He was, she had to admit, a perfectly presentable gentleman. Tall and reasonably well-formed, with the sort of conventional good looks and adequate fortune that should have made him an appealing prospect for any woman in her precarious circumstances. His brown hair was fashionably styled, his morning dress impeccable, and his manners irreproachably proper.
