Part 8 (2/2)
Arabella's lip quivered but she controlled herself, albeit with difficulty. She spoke in conciliatory tones. ”Lady Alsop, my brother made the duke his heir, and in so doing placed me under his grace's protection. His grace of St. Jules stands in the place of my brother.”
”I fail to see what difference that makes,” declared the lady roundly. ”Unless he has a wife hidden here somewhere. Do you, sir?” She shook a finger at Jack.
Arabella felt a pang of pity for the woman. She had no idea whom she was tangling with. She said swiftly, ”Ma'am . . . Lady Alsop . . . please . . . there's no need for this. His grace's personal affairs are indeed his own business . . . as are mine.”
”You have no idea, my lady, the damage this will do to your reputation,” Lavinia stated, her voice taking on a shrill note. ”I cannot possibly allow you to remain here. Alsop, summon our carriage. Lady Arabella will be returning with us.”
The viscount looked at Arabella, who merely shook her head. He adjusted his wig, coughed into his fist, and struggled for words. Jack turned away to pour himself a gla.s.s of madeira from the decanter on a console table. He raised the decanter, offering it wordlessly to his lords.h.i.+p, who with a mumbled affirmative thrust forth his gla.s.s for a refill.
”Alsop,” his lady exclaimed. ”You cannot drink with this man. I don't care if he is a duke. Now you tell Lady Arabella to fetch her cloak, she's coming with us.”
Jack raised his gla.s.s to his lips. The viscount muttered, ”My dear, can't do that. None of our business . . . Lady Arabella's no kin of ours. Really, can't do it.”
”Your husband is quite correct, Lady Alsop,” Jack said. ”And while I'm sure your concern for Lady Arabella's reputation and morals is commendable, I do believe she can take care of both herself. And I a.s.sure you that any such concern for mine is most definitely unwelcome and would be extremely unwise.”
Lavinia blinked rapidly. Slowly she became aware of the danger in the glinting gray gaze fixed upon her. She was not the first person to be rendered speechless by it. She swung towards Arabella, her panniers setting a delicate vase on a gilt pedestal table rocking precariously as she struggled for words. ”You will regret this, Lady Arabella,” was all she could manage.
”Come, Alsop. I came here in good faith and all I get in return are insults.” With another sweep of panniers and a toss of the powdered column that set the dove nodding frantically, she stalked from the drawing room. Her husband looked helplessly at Arabella and the duke, then drained his gla.s.s and with a jerky bow and an incoherent farewell lumbered after his wife.
Arabella collapsed on the sofa with a shout of laughter. ”Oh, Meg will be mad as fire that she missed that little encounter.”
He merely smiled and sipped his wine. ”Will it still the gossips?”
”Oh, no,” she said, dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief. ”I shall certainly regret it. Lavinia's malice knows no bounds. She doesn't make idle threats. She'll have it all over the county that I'm a loose woman living in sin with the devil himself. I daresay I'll be ostracized completely.”
”Barratt will put that straight,” he said.
”I doubt even Sir Mark's protestations will do much good,” she said. ”But my friends won't desert me. I don't give a fig for the others.”
”Who are your friends?” He looked at her closely.
”Apart from Meg and the Barratts . . . David Kyle and his wife. He's the vicar. Youngest son of the earl of Dunleavy. He's a dear, and he wouldn't believe ill of Lucifer. And Mary is a wonderful person. They're both so good,” she said with emphasis, ”that they make me feel like a worm half the time.”
She stood up, thinking that her next awkward caller would probably be David. Lavinia wouldn't waste much time before she poured her outrage into his clerical ear. ”I'm going to work in the hothouse,” she said over her shoulder as she went to the door.
”I'll expect you to join me in the dining room at five o'clock. That was the agreement, I believe.”
”As you please,” she said, closing the door behind her.
Arabella worked in the dirt and the heat all afternoon. As always, nurturing her orchids brought clarity, as her mind was free to follow its own course while her hands potted, patted, clipped, staked. In mid-afternoon she went out into the garden to deadhead the roses and weed the rockery, and there on her hands and knees with the rich smell of the earth in her nose and the loam beneath her nails, she faced the question that had been lurking all day. Would marriage to Jack Fortescu actually be worse than its alternative?
She and Meg had often discussed their view of marriage as an inst.i.tution that was designed for the subjugation of women. It had always been so and was unlikely to change. At least not while men made the laws. But some women managed to arrange matters to suit themselves. They took lovers, they presided over literary and political salons, they patronized the arts, and they influenced kings. The Prince of Wales was a friend of Jack's. Inevitably Jack's d.u.c.h.ess would meet the prince, be his hostess at dinner parties. Why shouldn't he become her friend also? Why shouldn't he listen to her advice? Subtly couched, of course.
She was a twenty-eight-year-old virgin, officially on the shelf. That in itself was not an awful destiny . . . but a spinster with no independence, that would be insupportable.
She sat back on her heels, the trowel falling unheeded into her lap. Cornwall, a tied cottage, a vegetable garden, condescending relatives . . . what had she been thinking? She couldn't face such a future with any degree of equanimity. She wouldn't really have any independence. She'd be a poor relation dependent on the kindness and charity of people she'd never even met. Better surely to embrace a destiny that maybe she could shape.
Jack Fortescu knew d.a.m.n well she had little choice but to accept his proposal. It galled her, but not as much as the knowledge that she didn't know why he wanted this connection. He'd ruined one Lacey, why did he want to offer some kind of salvation to the other? She didn't believe for one minute that it had anything to do with reparation. He had his reasons, and for as long as she didn't know them she would be at a disadvantage.
But there would be compensations. Boris dug his nose into her lap and she pulled gently at his ears. This life that was hers, had always been hers . . . she wouldn't have to lose that. Her dogs, this garden, the house, all the little comforts and possessions that she had never questioned before.
And then there was the opportunity to expand her horizons into regions that she knew instinctively would excite her. Marriage to Jack Fortescu was the price to be paid. How heavy a price could it be?
She picked up the trowel again and vigorously dug out a weed that had escaped her vigilance. There was a greater satisfaction than usual in ripping out the plantain by its roots and throwing it into the pile of discards behind her.
A symbolic tossing away of a past that was over? Arabella shook her head, impatient with her own fancy. She had by no means made up her mind. She lifted her face to the heat of the sun, felt its warmth strike her eyelids, slide over her cheeks and lips.
Pa.s.sion. He had offered her that too.
Oh, no. She thrust her hands palm-out in front of her, physically pus.h.i.+ng the thought away. Not now . . . definitely not now. But she couldn't forget what Meg had said about the dreariness of a life lived in a state of chaste spinsterhood. Was the prospect of avoiding that fate worth considering Jack Fortescu's proposal?
She let her tense shoulders droop on a long exhalation. The dogs had flopped down beside her and their panting breath was adding unmercifully to the swampy heat of the late afternoon. Frederick had lost his life, his fortune, and probably his soul to Jack Fortescu. Why? St. Jules was not after her life, obviously. As obviously, her fortune didn't exist.
Her soul, on the other hand, was a rather different matter.
With a little exclamation she s.n.a.t.c.hed her hand from the thistle she was attacking. It was never wise to be inattentive around thorns. Again she sat back on her heels, staring down at a bead of blood on her finger. Her soul, of course, was where the risk lay. She had the feeling that if she was not very careful, Jack Fortescu could swallow her whole.
She sucked the blood from her finger then tucked the trowel into the pocket of her ap.r.o.n as she straightened from the rosebush. Her hair was sticking to her forehead and she brushed it to one side. She'd asked Becky to have a bath prepared and it must now be close to four o'clock. Dinner at five gave her little time.
She snapped her fingers at the dogs and headed towards the house. She felt a little lighter, as if some resolution was at least in the offing. And then the memory of the full misery of her London Season rushed back. Did she really imagine she could become part of that shallow, despicable world, where to see and be seen were the only important activities?
But what actually could be worse than living the rest of her life on the charity of her Cornish relatives?
What price resolution now? She ran her hands through the limp tangles of her hair and thought her head would burst.
Becky was waiting in her bedchamber with a tub of steaming lavender-scented water and a cup of lemon juice. ”I thought maybe the pink damask gown, m'lady?” she said, gesturing to the gown that lay freshly pressed on the bed. ”His grace always looks so handsome.”
”Yes, he does,” Arabella agreed somewhat dryly as she surveyed her tumbled appearance in the cheval gla.s.s.
”Stays tonight, ma'am. And perhaps panniers?” Becky suggested hopefully.
The stays were necessary to achieve the right set of the gown. But that was the only concession Arabella was prepared to make. There was no need for hoops or panniers. She remembered the duke's comment about wanting to have the dressing of her. It was a rather patronizing comment, she decided. Her present wardrobe was probably outdated and countrified, but it suited her way of life perfectly well. And why on earth had he qualified his statement with that oddly enough? It seemed vaguely insulting.
”Just the stays,” Arabella said firmly.
Becky looked disappointed and Arabella explained with an attempt at conciliation, ”It really is too hot even for stays, Becky. But I will wear those and you may do my hair however you wish.”
Becky's eyes sparkled. ”Powder, m'lady? I'll just get the box.”
”No,” Arabella said more forcefully than she'd intended. ”No, Becky, anything but powder.” She shuddered slightly, thinking of Lavinia Alsop's monstrous creation. ”We can do well enough with lemon juice, and you're so skilled I know you can achieve the best effect.”
Becky smiled with pleasure as she helped Arabella out of her work-soiled clothes. ”Oh, yes, m'lady. And you have such pretty hair. It's a pleasure to work with.”
<script>