Almost - Almost A Bride Part 6

Oh, Arabella thought, somewhat dismayed. She was a little too early for comfort. She had hoped to explain matters to Meg before divulging the situation to Sir Mark and his lady. But there was nothing to be done about it now. The steward was already opening the door to the small breakfast parlor behind the staircase.

The three people at the breakfast table looked up in surprise at this interruption, but surprise turned swiftly-as always-to warm greeting. Arabella was as welcome in the Barratt home as their own daughter.

"Why, Bella, my dear, you're up and about betimes," Lady Barratt exclaimed, her round pink-complexioned countenance wreathed in smiles beneath her stiffly starched lace cap. "Come, sit down and have some coffee." She gestured to the chair next to her daughter. "Have you breakfasted?"

"Yes, at least an hour ago, ma'am," Arabella said, bending to kiss Lady Barratt before going around the table to Sir Mark. His tall figure had the permanent stoop of one accustomed to ducking beneath low lintels. His long face was deeply lined but the green eyes were sharp and shrewd beneath untidy gray eyebrows whose thickness belied the thin gray wisps that adorned a domed and s.h.i.+ning pate. In the privacy of his own house he chose not to hide his baldness beneath the powdered wig that was de rigueur in the outside world. He rose to his feet and bestowed a paternal kiss upon Arabella's forehead.

"Good morning, my dear Bella. I trust it finds you well." There was a questioning undertow to the benign greeting, which didn't particularly surprise Arabella. Sir Mark Barratt, like his daughter, missed very little and her arrival this morning was unusually early.

"Well enough, sir," she temporized.

Meg, sandy eyebrows raised in eloquent question, rose too to hug her friend. "Great minds think alike,"she observed with her customarily infectious chuckle as she tucked an errant strand of vivid red hair behind her ear. "I was going to walk over to Lacey Court after breakfast . . . before it got too hot." She filled Arabella's coffee cup.

"So what is it, my dear?" Sir Mark got straight to the point once Arabella had taken her first revivifying sip. "Something out of the ordinary must have brought you here this early."

Arabella considered her words. Sir Mark and his lady would have enough to work on with the simple facts. There would be no need to muddy the waters with tales of proposals. That story she would relate only to Meg.

"It's hard to know where to begin," she said, shaking her head slightly. "Frederick's dead." The blunt statement lay heavy in the already overheated air, but she couldn't for the life of her think of any way to soften such a crude and basic fact. She felt Meg's hand for a second squeeze her knee beneath the table.

"Oh, my dear," Lady Barratt murmured, dabbing at her lips with her napkin. "You poor child." She reached across the table to pat Arabella's hand as it lay flat on the deep rosewood surface.

Her husband cleared his throat. Sir Mark liked to stick to facts unconfused by emotions. "In what circ.u.mstances, Bella?"

Should she produce the duel fabrication or tell them the truth? She looked around the table at their concerned faces and knew she couldn't lie to these people. They had stood her friends all her life, and, indeed, had become to all intents and purposes her family when she was barely out of infancy. She couldn't remember her own mother, and her father had always been such a distant and generally indifferent figure in her life, she had always turned to Sir Mark for paternal comfort and advice. And he had never failed her.

She explained, her voice very quiet in the now silent room where food lay forgotten and coffee cooled in the cups.

"Oh, my dear," Lady Barratt said again when Arabella had at last fallen silent. She looked at Arabella with stricken eyes. "It's . . . it's so hard to believe."

"It's not really," Sir Mark declared, pus.h.i.+ng back his chair restlessly. "Frederick's not the first fool to lose everything in a card game, and he won't be the last. Gambling is the curse of this society." He got to his feet and paced back and forth between the window and the fireplace, hands clasped at his back. "Arabella is now our concern."

"Oh, yes," his lady said with swift sympathy. "What are you to do, my poor child? How could there be no provision . . . ?" Her voice trailed away but there was more than a hint of indignation in her voice.

Meg rubbed at her sharp chin, pus.h.i.+ng her fingertip into the deep cleft at its point, a habit she had when deep in thought. "Perhaps this duke could be persuaded to make some provision," she offered.

"That would certainly be my first suggestion," her father declared. "If he's an honest man, he'll do the decent thing. I shall call upon him at once. Where is he staying, Bella?"

"At Lacey Court, sir." Arabella waited for what she knew was to come.

Sir Mark stopped in his tracks, halfway between window and fireplace. "He was there last night?" he demanded, staring at Arabella.

"Yes, sir. In my brother's apartments in the east wing."

"And you?" The question was incredulous, as if he was antic.i.p.ating the unbelievable answer.

"In my own in the west wing, sir." Arabella clasped her hands tightly in her lap to still the slight quiver of her fingers. The good opinion of the Barratts was too important to her to accept their displeasure with equanimity.

"Good G.o.d!" For a moment he was speechless. He pa.s.sed a hand over his s.h.i.+ning scalp before demanding, "What could you have been thinking of, Arabella? You should have come here immediately."

Lady Barratt recovered her own powers of speech. "Indeed, my dear, you must not go back to that house at all," she declared energetically, taking up her chicken-skin fan. "No, no, all is not lost if you remain here from this moment. We shall say that you arrived late last night when this . . . this . . . oh, there are no words . . . when the duke arrived and forced you to leave your home. What kind of brute must he be?" she wondered abstractedly, plying her fan with a vigor to match her words. "We shall send for your things . . . Franklin and Mrs. Elliot will know exactly how to carry this off."

"Ma'am, there's no need for that." Arabella spoke carefully. "As the duke explained, he stands at the moment in place of my brother. There can be no objection to us remaining in separate wings of the house. We don't even need to pa.s.s each other in a corridor. Besides," she added when it was clear her audience found plenty of objection, "I have a surplus of chaperones. Mrs. Elliot, for one; my old nurse, for another."

"Your old nurse is in her dotage and wouldn't know if the house caught fire around her," retorted Sir Mark. "And you cannot claim a mere housekeeper as a chaperone. If I didn't know you better, Arabella, I'd say the news of Frederick's death has overset your reason." His eyes bored into her and he shook his head impatiently. "No, there's to be no argument. You will come to us immediately."

He marched to the door. "I shall pay a visit upon the duke of St. Jules without delay and we'll put this right."

"My dear sir, are you acquainted with his grace?" Lady Barratt inquired.

"Not personally. We would hardly move in the same circles," Sir Mark said shortly. "But the man's reputation goes before him. He's a rake and a rogue. No self-respecting female would be in the same room with him."

"Interesting . . . every cloud has a silver lining," murmured Meg for Arabella's ears alone. Arabella suppressed a grin at this example of her friend's irrepressible irreverence. She could always rely on Meg to raise her spirits however dire the situation. And it was true, whatever else she might think of the duke of St. Jules, he was certainly interesting.

"I believe his grace is out of the house at present, Sir Mark," she said as the baronet laid a hand on the door latch. She added the small lie, "I saw him ride out as I left."

"Oh, then I shall ride over to Alsop's and discuss this disgraceful matter with him." The door shut with a decisive click on Sir Mark's departure.

"Yes, just leave it to Sir Mark. He'll soon have everything put to rights, Arabella dear," Lady Barratt said with her customary confidence in her husband. "And of course you will remain here."

Much as she hated the idea of upsetting her friends, Arabella knew that she could not run into their arms, yielding all control over her future. However bleak it was, it belonged only to her. She had to make her own decisions however hard they might be and she was determined that she would not be a burden on anyone.

"You are very kind, ma'am," she said carefully. "But I must remain at home for the present. I'm expecting a consignment of orchids from Surinam any day now. Very delicate . . . precious specimens. I must be there to receive them. They were very expensive, you see." She offered an apologetic smile but swept on before there could be any further objection. "Also, I have two orders for my own crossbreeds that I've promised to s.h.i.+p as soon as possible. Only I can do that."

"Orchids," exclaimed Lady Barratt. "How could orchids take precedence over your reputation?"

Arabella's conciliatory smile did little to mask her inner determination. "My reputation is in no danger, ma'am," she said. "I'm well past the age of discretion, as you must agree."

"My dear, that's really not the point," her ladys.h.i.+p said with a worried frown.

"But I don't see why it should be considered unrespectable for me to reside under the same roof as my brother's successor," Arabella pressed. "The duke's well past the age of discretion himself, ma'am." She somehow hoped to convey the impression of an elderly bewhiskered gentleman rapidly approaching his dotage, but she could see that Lady Barratt was unconvinced by this argument. How she'd react when she saw the duke of St. Jules in the flesh could only be imagined.

Resolutely she continued, "Besides, ma'am, it won't be for very long. I have already written to my mother's relatives in Cornwall. I'm hoping that they will have a small cottage on the estate that I could use."

"Oh, my dear, what would your mother have said?" Her ladys.h.i.+p waved her fan, her distress apparent in her flushed cheeks.

Arabella wondered if she would have found herself in this parlous situation had her mother lived beyond her daughter's fifth year. Surely she would have championed her daughter, insisted on some kind of provision for her. But there was nothing to be gained by might-have-beens. She didn't really know what kind of woman her mother had been. Strong and independent? Weak and under her husband's thumb? Lady Barratt had never really managed to convey an accurate impression of Virginia Lacey.

She swallowed an involuntary sigh and said, "I a.s.sure you, ma'am, I will conduct myself irreproachably."

"Oh, yes, of course you will . . . but this man, the duke . . . a rogue . . . a rake . . . oh, what is to be done?" She shook her head and the lace bows on her cap bobbed.

Meg tapped her lips with her steepled fingers. She could see the battle lines being drawn and she knew rather better than her parents exactly how resolute Arabella could be when her mind was made up. But maybe it was too soon for her friend to have made an irrevocable decision.

"I don't think we can decide anything until we know more," she said, her own deep frown drawing her thin, arched eyebrows together. "It would be best if we let the dust settle and then perhaps we can all think more clearly." She rose from her chair and went round to her mother to plant an affectionate kiss on the lady's heated cheek.

Lady Barratt gave a heavy sigh. "Well, we'll just have to wait until your father returns."

Meg murmured a rea.s.suring a.s.sent and she and Arabella left the breakfast parlor. They went without consultation upstairs to Meg's old schoolroom that now served as her private parlor. Several generations of children had inhabited this small paneled room with its scuffed oak floor and scarred window seat and it still smelled faintly of chalk and slate. The furniture was shabby, the colors of the cus.h.i.+ons and the threadbare turkey rug sun-faded, the spines of the books rubbed smooth. But it was homely and comfortable, a copper bowl of marigolds blazing in the empty grate, one of Arabella's orchids blooming, wonderfully exotic, on a gateleg table, and they closed the door with a mutual sigh of relief.

Meg deposited her thin, angular frame on the threadbare cus.h.i.+on of the window seat and regarded her best friend with intent curiosity in the intelligent green eyes, her small head to one side. "So fill in the missing pieces, Bella."

Arabella pulled at her earlobe. She had expected Meg to know that only the bare bones of the story had been told in the breakfast parlor and she had no desire to hide anything from her even if she could. The two girls had shared first a governess and then a tutor when it became clear to Sir Mark that they would benefit from more than the ordinary education considered appropriate for girls destined for marriage, and the years of shared education had left both well able to read the other's mind.

"So, tell, Bella," Meg repeated when her friend remained silent for a few minutes.

Arabella started hesitantly. "I was in the conservatory, all hot and sweaty and grubby, when this duke just walked in without warning, looking, I might add, utterly immaculate," she declared with some disgust. "You can imagine what I looked like."

"Easily," Meg agreed sympathetically. To a certain extent she shared Arabella's general disregard for appearances. "But since you were working, and it was in your own house, after all, I fail to see what business it might be of his."

Arabella smiled reluctantly at her friend's typically fiery defense. "He didn't exactly comment," she said. "But he looked."

"He looked you over, found you wanting, and then he told you that he'd killed your brother and was throwing you out of house and home?" Meg demanded incredulously.

"There wasn't much finesse about it, certainly," Arabella agreed. "But he didn't say he was throwing me out, he said I could stay at Lacey Court as long as I liked." She turned away from Meg's sharp green gaze, aware of a slight flush on her cheeks.

Meg's eyes narrowed. "That sounds remarkably like an indecent proposal to me."

Arabella turned back with a slight self-conscious laugh. "That was my initial reaction. However, it turns out his grace had a rather different proposal in mind." She paused, her eyes abstracted suddenly as she thought over that proposal.

Meg waited, holding her breath. "Bella," she protested finally, "for G.o.d's sake. You always do this. You start something and then just stop at the good part. Tell me!"

"Oh, sorry." Arabella came to with a start. "Well, not to put too fine a point on it, Meg, he asked me to marry him."

Meg's eyes became wide as saucers. "He went down on one knee and proposed?"

Arabella shook her head and couldn't help laughing at the absurd image of the elegant and composed duke of St. Jules on one knee. "No, nothing like that. It was a straightforward proposition: I need a wife and heirs; you need a home."

"Had he ever seen you before? I mean, did he know you at all?" Meg was having trouble with the concept.

"No," Arabella said flatly. "And he was kind enough to tell me that he had a perfectly satisfactory mistress, so all he really wants is a legitimate heir."

"He sounds like a positive c.o.xcomb," declared Meg with impa.s.sioned disgust. "I hope you gave him a thoroughly dusty answer."

"Of course," Arabella stated with much the same pa.s.sion. "What do you take me for?"

Meg gazed down at her sprig muslin lap, tracing a flower with a fingertip. "Of course," she said slowly, "in different circ.u.mstances there could be some advantages in such a marriage."

"They'd have to be very different," Arabella said with a touch of acid. "But no, I'm not blind to the advantages of being married to a rich duke. I'd just prefer to come by him in a rather more conventional fas.h.i.+on."

"And he did drive your brother to his death," Meg murmured. "I didn't have much time for Frederick, and he made your life a living h.e.l.l when he was around, but still, there's something a bit"-she shuddered slightly-"a touch of the devil about such a death."

Arabella nodded somberly. "I feel the same. And in truth, Meg, there's a touch of the devil about the duke of St. Jules."

Meg looked up from her skirt. There was a spark suddenly in her eye. "I've always rather liked the idea of playing with fire."

"I know you have," Arabella said, jumping up from the low armless chair where she'd been sitting. "But there's a difference between playing with it and being consumed by it." She paced the room, her striped muslin skirts swinging around her with each agitated step.

Meg watched her for a minute, then said shrewdly, "Have you been a little scorched already, Bella?"

Arabella stopped pacing. She spoke with slow deliberation. "Meg, he marched into my house, proceeded to take it over, insisted on my company at the dinner table, and then kissed me. What do you think?"

"I think you have a point." Meg nodded slowly, the spark in her eyes now fully aflame. "A good kiss?"she inquired, with genuine curiosity.

Arabella picked up a cus.h.i.+on and hurled it at her. Meg, laughing, ducked and twisted on the window seat to catch the cus.h.i.+on as it hit the gla.s.s behind her. "Oh," she said, her head still turned towards the window. "It looks like your duke has come back for you."

"What?" Arabella moved to the window. The duke of St. Jules was leaning idly against the gatepost, his face lifted towards the sun. A perfect picture of contentment.

"Bella, that is a most elegant and very handsome duke," Meg p.r.o.nounced.

"I didn't say he wasn't," Arabella said somewhat defensively. "But that doesn't alter the facts. He's a rake and a rogue, you heard your father say so. He's an inveterate gambler who's quite prepared in cold blood to drive a man to his death-"

"There is something of the devil about him," Meg interrupted in musing tones. "A certain indefinable hint of something."

"It's menace," Arabella said firmly. "He exudes menace."

"I can see what you mean," Meg said thoughtfully, leaning her forehead against the gla.s.s to get a better look. "I wonder if it's that streak of white in his hair. It gives him a most fascinating look."

"He's as dangerous as that rapier of his," Arabella stated. "And he has some ulterior motive for being here, for this absurd proposal . . . for driving Frederick to suicide. I'm convinced of it."

Meg nodded. "Yes, I'm sure you're right. Ah," she said suddenly. "This is going to be interesting."

"What?" Arabella knelt on the window seat beside her friend. Sir Mark Barratt was walking down the path towards the stranger at his gate. Two mastiffs paced at his heels, their hackles up. With a sense of the inevitable, Arabella watched as the duke clicked his fingers and the two ma.s.sive dogs came to him, bending their heads for a pat.

"Lord love us," Meg whispered. "Those brutes put the fear of the devil into everyone except my father."

"I tell you, Meg, if Jack Fortescu charms your father as well, then he is the devil incarnate," Arabella stated. "Those beasts are merely acknowledging their master."

Meg went into a peal of laughter even as her gaze remained riveted on the scene at the gate. They couldn't hear what was being said but the duke was smiling, very much at his ease. He seemed to be explaining something and Sir Mark was listening without making any attempt to interrupt. The mastiffs were now lying on the gra.s.s, as peaceful and unmenacing as a pair of miniature poodles. Once or twice the baronet glanced down at them, clearly puzzled at this extraordinary docility from his watchdogs.

"Poor father, he doesn't know what to think," Meg observed. "What's your duke saying to him?"

"He's not my duke," Arabella denied automatically.

"Well, look at that," Meg exclaimed. "You're right. The devil incarnate."

Sir Mark was heartily shaking the hand of his visitor and with a hospitable gesture urging him into the house.

"He has father eating out of his hand," Meg said in awed tones. "If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn't have believed it."

"I never said he couldn't be charming when he chose," Arabella commented. "But can you give me one good reason why I would marry someone who had forced my hand. And why my hand? Why would Jack Fortescu pick on me?"

"Reparation," Meg suggested.

"That was exactly what he said. But I don't believe it. There's something else." Arabella got off the window seat and resumed her restless pacing. "Besides, I'm not willing to be reduced to the status of some poor female who, no longer protected by her family, has to be taken care of by the man guilty of depriving her of that protection."

"No, of course not," Meg agreed rapidly. "That's a dreadful prospect. We both know that we couldn't accept something like that. We could have been married years ago if we were willing to make those kinds of compromises. Of course you can't give up your independence, but is there another way of looking at it, perhaps?"

"I don't see how," Arabella said. "I'm being offered a simple exchange: Be a complaisant wife, let my husband do as he pleases, and take him into my bed whenever he demands it." Her tone was biting.