Part 4 (2/2)
She stared at him. ”You drove my brother to his death. You took everything he owned. You dispossess me-”
He held up an arresting hand. ”No, not that. You cannot accuse me of dispossessing you, Arabella. I offered you my hand in marriage. Not only would you keep your home but you'd have access to all my worldly goods in addition. I'm offering you whatever life you choose. You can stay quietly here in the country with your orchids, or you can take London by storm. I'll not stand in your way whatever choices you make. If you want to set up a political salon and support the Tories, then I'll not stop you. Although,” he added, ”as a staunch Whig myself, it might stick in my craw. But I have wealth enough, my dear, for you to live any life you choose. Now, just tell me how that could be considered dispossessing you.” Calmly he began to eat his newly filleted trout.
Arabella gazed sightlessly across the glowing mahogany table. She was no fool. He was offering her the world on a silver salver, but why? He didn't know her. Although that wasn't a necessary condition for a marriage proposal. Many marriages took place between people who didn't really know each other. But they, or their families, had something to gain from the arrangement. What could Jack Fortescu have to gain from this offer? He already had everything she possessed, apart from her tiny stipend from her mother.
”Why?” she said at last. ”Why make such an offer? What do I have that you could possibly want?”
”I need a wife,” he said simply, spooning mushrooms onto his plate. ”And legitimate heirs.”
”You could have any young woman you wanted,” she said. ”You have birth, wealth, no visible imperfections . . .” She looked at him closely as if she could see through the immaculately elegant clothes to a scarred and twisted frame beneath.
Jack laughed. ”I scare debutantes,” he explained, his eyes dancing. ”And their mamas think I'm the devil incarnate.”
”Well, that wouldn't stop any mother grabbing you as a husband for her daughter,” she retorted. ”You could be a positive bluebeard so long as you made her daughter a d.u.c.h.ess.”
”Now, that's what I like about you,” he stated. ”Straight to the point. A man would waste his breath on flattery with you, my lady Arabella.”
”How can you possibly like me, you don't know me,” she pointed out with a dismissive wave of her hand.
”And now we come full circle,” he said, setting down his knife and fork. ”I am suggesting that we spend time together so that we can get to know each other. Isn't that perfectly reasonable?” He took up his gla.s.s and gave a triumphant little nod that for some lunatic reason made her laugh.
She recollected herself quickly enough. ”I don't get the impression that you're suggesting we spend time together, sir. I have the firm understanding that you would compel my company as a condition of my continuing to stay at Lacey Court.”
He frowned. ”Nasty word, that, compel. I wouldn't say that at all.”
”And what would you say?”
”I am most earnestly suggesting it,” he responded instantly. ”And I'm sure if you would but consider for a minute instead of leaping to judgment, you would see the merit in the suggestion.”
The sun had dropped beneath the windowsill now and the candles had come into their own. The white swath of hair running from his forehead took on a silvery glimmer as he bent to his plate once more.
What did she have to lose? Arabella thought. She had to remain at Lacey Court until she had an answer from Cornwall, or at least it would be convenient to do so. And the duke of St. Jules just might prove to be an interesting and informative companion. He was urbane, sophisticated, and she guessed well versed in the political and social scene and she often felt starved of information about the world outside her oasis among the orchards of Kent. She gleaned what she could from those of her neighbors who made occasional forays to Town and brought back newspapers and periodicals, but they were always out-ofdate. Frederick had been no help either. He had had no interest in politics and even less in answering his sister's questions.
”Did you say you were a Whig?” she asked casually, reaching for a roll from the basket on the table.
He looked up with a slightly amused air at this apparent non sequitur. ”Yes.”
She nodded. ”Are you a friend of the Prince of Wales, then?”
”As it happens.” He pushed his plate aside and took up his winegla.s.s again.
”So, the king does not look upon you with a kindly eye,” Arabella observed, nibbling a crust of bread.
”No,” he agreed, regarding her over the lip of his gla.s.s with the same air of amus.e.m.e.nt.
”Nor Queen Charlotte,” she said. ”I heard that she now excludes ardent Whig supporters from her Drawing Rooms.”
He nodded. ”Shortsighted of her, but both she and her husband see little beyond their own royal prerogatives.” A slight frown between his brows replaced the hint of amus.e.m.e.nt in the gray gaze. ”Is there a point to this political discussion, Arabella?”
”Ring your bell,” she said. ”Mrs. Elliot will be anxious to bring in the next cover. No, there's no particular point, but it occurs to me that you could satisfy my curiosity about political issues. It seems a fair exchange for my satisfying yours about the estate.”
It seemed they'd reached a tacit understanding, Jack reflected. Politics wouldn't have been his subject of choice, but he wouldn't quibble. ”Fair exchange,” he agreed, ringing his bell obediently.
Franklin removed the dishes and brought a basket of cheese tartlets and a lemon syllabub. ”Mrs. Elliot apologizes for the lack of variety, your grace. Had she had more notice of your grace's arrival . . .” He bowed.
”This is more than ample,” Jack said. ”Pray thank Mrs. Elliot for her efforts. I do appreciate them.” He gestured towards Arabella. ”Another plate for Lady Arabella, perhaps?”
”No, thank you,” Arabella said, brus.h.i.+ng bread crumbs to one side as if she didn't know how they'd appeared in front of her.
Jack inclined his head in acknowledgment and took a cheese tartlet. ”So, my dear, in the interest of your political education I foresee many a pleasant dinner.”
”I'm sure we'll have much to discuss,” Arabella said. ”Now, if you'll excuse me, sir, I do have some business to attend to.” She laid a hand on the table to push back her chair, and this time he made no attempt to stop her.
”I was hoping we might play a game of backgammon, or even have a hand of piquet?” he suggested.
Arabella stared at him in astonishment, then she laughed, and there was no humor in it. ”My dear sir, you do not imagine I would pick up a card in a game or throw a die with the man who somehow persuaded my brother to gamble away his life and his fortune.”
Jack's countenance darkened. His voice was very quiet as he said, ”Make no mistake, Arabella, your brother did what he did with his eyes open. He knew what he was risking . . . and why.” The last was almost sotto voce and Arabella wasn't sure she had heard him properly. But she was sure that she didn't want to ask any more questions of Jack Fortescu. His eyes were blank, empty pools as he sat motionless, and she was suddenly horribly reminded of a specter, a mere shroud of menace that one could look right through.
She wanted to get up, walk away from the table, out of the room, and yet for as long as he sat there withdrawn from her but still a grim presence in the soft candlelight, she couldn't manage to move a muscle.
Jack gazed at the image of Charlotte as he'd last seen her, on the morning of that last day. He heard her singing. She had loved to sing in a light treble that had always reminded him of birdsong. Then his eyes focused abruptly, taking in the flicker of candles, the golden pools of light on the richly polished surface of the table, the ruby wine in the cut-gla.s.s goblet he held between finger and thumb. He looked at the woman beside him.
Her golden eyes held a startled question, but it was not one he either could or would answer.
Arabella, as if loosed from a spell, pushed back her chair. ”I bid you good night, sir.”
He didn't try to stop her this time. Instead he rose too and escorted her to the door. He put his hand on the door latch but made no attempt to lift it immediately. With his free hand he lifted hers to his lips, his eyes holding hers as his mouth brushed her knuckles. There was no trace of that menacing stranger now. Then he leaned in towards her and moved his mouth to the corner of hers in a light, fleeting kiss. When he straightened, still holding her hand, he smiled down into her startled still-upturned countenance. Indignation quickly replaced her initial surprise and confusion and the golden eyes burned.
He forestalled the angry words forming on her lips. ”I find it hard to believe that in your eight and twenty years you've never been kissed before, Arabella,” he said, the smile still in his eyes but mixed with a slight question.
”Never without my permission before,” she retorted. ”Who do you think you are? You may now be master of this house, your grace, but that does not give you droit de seigneur. Please move aside and let me pa.s.s.”
He laughed and raised the latch, throwing open the door with a flourish. She swept past him, ignoring his farewell bow. ”Good night, Arabella,” he called softly. ”I look forward to tomorrow.”
She turned, one foot on the bottom stair. ”Curiously, sir, I do not.” And on that rather unsatisfactory rejoinder she marched upstairs.
Much to Arabella's surprise she slept a dreamless, untroubled sleep and awoke at her usual hour in the fresh-washed light of early morning, when the dogs, deciding it was time to put on the day, nudged wet noses against her bare forearm.
”All right, all right,” she mumbled through a deep yawn, and sat up. The dogs padded expectantly to the bedroom door and she swung out of bed to open it for them. They would appear in the kitchen, someone would let them out, and Becky, knowing her mistress was awake, would bring up hot chocolate and hot water. Arabella's well-established morning routine.
She climbed back into bed, propping herself up against pillows, and thought of all the other familiar routines. Her mornings in the hothouse, her afternoon rides with the dogs, Thursday morning meetings with Peter Bailey, her friends-Meg . . . oh, she would miss Meg. They were as close as sisters, maybe even closer. Her life, her future, now seemed to her like a jigsaw puzzle that someone had picked up and dropped and there were pieces missing, so that it could never again be reconst.i.tuted to make the same picture.
Becky knocked and came in with a tray. ”Mornin', m'lady,” she said cheerfully, setting the tray on the nightstand. ”Looks like another hot one. Shall I pour?” She picked up the silver pot.
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