Page 52 of A Virgin for His Grace
Yet even as she spoke these sensible words, Lady Greystone's gaze moved between her daughters with obvious concern. She was not so blind as to miss the hollow desperation in Arabella's eyes or the way her hands trembled despite her outward composure.
"But surely there must be some feeling beyond mere respect?" Cordelia pressed with the sort of persistence that had marked her character since childhood. "When Mr. Whitmore looks at you, does your heart not flutter with excitement? When he speaks your name, do you not feel as though you might swoon from happiness?"
The innocent questions were so far from Arabella's actual experience that she found herself struggling to maintain her facade of bridal contentment. When Whitmore looked at her, she felt nothing but revulsion and dread. When he spoke her name, it was usually with the sort of possessive satisfaction that made her skin crawl with horror.
"I feel..." she began, then stopped, unable to voice even the most diplomatic lies about her feelings for the man she was about to marry.
The silence stretched uncomfortably until Lord Richard cleared his throat with obvious discomfort, recognizing that the conversation had ventured into territory that threatened his daughter's carefully maintained composure.
"Perhaps we should focus our attention upon the practicalmatters at hand," he suggested with the sort of masculine determination to avoid emotional complications that had served him well in Parliament. "The carriages will arrive within the hour, and there are still certain... arrangements to be finalized."
"Of course, Papa," Arabella said gratefully, seizing upon this excuse to escape further interrogation about her supposedly blissful state. "Though I confess myself curious about one matter—will His Grace be attending the ceremony?"
The question slipped out before she could stop herself, revealing the desperate hope that still flickered in her heart despite everything that had passed between them. Perhaps Devon's cruel dismissal had been some elaborate scheme designed to protect them both until the final moment. Perhaps he would appear at the church with a plan for rescue that would make their escape possible.
Yet even as these treacherous thoughts formed, she recognized them as the desperate fantasies of a woman who could not accept the reality of her abandonment.
"The Duke of Ravenshollow?" Lord Richard's expression grew carefully neutral as he moved away from the window overlooking the garden where Devon had created such beauty. "I believe he has... pressing business elsewhere today. Estate matters that require his immediate attention."
The diplomatic evasion made it clear that Devon had indeed chosen to absent himself entirely from her wedding day, removing even the possibility of a final dramatic intervention. He had meant every cruel word he had spoken, every dismissive gesture that had hurt her so much.
"I see," she said quietly, feeling the last of her hope crumble into dust. "How very... practical of him."
Cordelia, with the keen perception that had always marked her as the more intuitive of the two sisters, noted the pain that flickered across Arabella's features at the mention of Devon's absence.
"The Duke?" she asked with obvious curiosity, her gaze moving around the elegant chamber with new understanding. "But surely he should attend, given that you served as companion to his sister in these very rooms? It seems rather ungentlemanly of him to absent himself from such an important occasion when you have been dwelling under his roof."
"His Grace has many responsibilities," Arabella replied with forced steadiness, her reflection showing the effort it cost her to maintain composure. "I am certain he wishes me well, even if his duties prevent him from attending the ceremony personally."
Yet even as she spoke these diplomatic words, her heart was breaking with the knowledge that the man she loved above all else could not even bear to witness her marriage to another. His absence was perhaps the cruelest cut of all, the final confirmation that whatever they had shared in this house meant less to him than his precious reputation and social standing.
"Well, I think it is most shabby of him," Cordelia declared with the sort of fierce loyalty that had always characterized her defense of those she loved. "After all the scandal and gossip that surrounded your association with his household, the very least he could do is show proper respect for your marriage."
"Cordelia," Lady Greystone said with sharp warning, her voice carrying clearly through the elegant sitting room, "you forget yourself. It is not our place to question the Duke's arrangements, particularly on such a day as this."
"But surely..." Cordelia began, only to be silenced by her mother's quelling look.
The tension that had been building throughout the morning finally reached its breaking point, and Arabella found herself rising from her chair once again with sudden desperation.
"If you will excuse me," she said with forced calm, "I find myself in need of a few moments of private reflection before we depart for the church."
Without waiting for a response, she moved toward the connecting door that led to her private bedchamber, seeking the sanctuary of the room where she had spent so many sleepless nights dreaming of the man who had ultimately broken her heart. Here, surrounded by the elegant furnishings that had been chosen with such care for her comfort, she finally allowed the carefully controlled facade to crumble.
The tears came in great, silent sobs that shook her entire frame as the full magnitude of her situation crashed over her like a tide. In less than two hours, she would stand before God and society and pledge herself to a man whose very presence filled her with loathing. She would promise to love, honor, and obey a creature whose character had been revealed to be thoroughly corrupted by greed and cruelty.
Worse still, she would do so in the knowledge that the onlyman she had ever truly loved had abandoned her to this fate without a backward glance. Devon's cruel dismissal, delivered in the very room where they had shared so many intimate conversations, had been more devastating than Whitmore's threats or society's censure, for it had destroyed her faith in the possibility of genuine feeling triumphing over artificial convention.
A soft knock at the connecting door interrupted her private anguish, and she hastily attempted to repair the damage to her appearance before admitting her visitor.
"Come," she called, expecting to see her mother or perhaps one of the Ravenshollow Manor servants with some final message about the wedding preparations.
Instead, the door opened to reveal Livia Ashworth, resplendent in a gown of pale blue silk that complemented her ethereal beauty. Her dark eyes held a mixture of determination and distress that immediately captured Arabella's attention.
"Livia!" she exclaimed, genuinely surprised by this unexpected visit to her private chamber. "I had not thought to see you today. That is, I assumed that your brother's business would prevent your attendance at the ceremony."
"Devon's business," Livia said with uncharacteristic steel in her voice as she closed the door behind her with deliberate care, "has nothing to do with my own choices. I would not miss your wedding day for all the estate matters in England."
The younger woman moved across the familiar bedchamber with quick, graceful steps, and Arabella was struck by thechange in her demeanor since their last meeting. Gone was the shy, retiring girl who had trembled at the thought of social interaction. In her place stood a young woman of obvious strength and determination, one who had clearly inherited her share of the Ashworth courage.
