Belle of the ball (6 page)

The young woman's reddish eyebrows raised in surprise. "That is a question I cannot and will not answer, sir. And it is not the done thing to ask, you know."

"Now, if there was one woman in this room who I thought would enjoy flouting convention, it would be you," he said. Miss O'Clannahan was the type of woman who would do well in the wilds of Canada, he thought. From their brief conversation earlier, he thought she had a mental toughness that she hid from the world.

"It is not convention I would be flouting by giving you that information, but friendship. That I will never abandon."

He bowed slightly. "I honor your circumspection, and your loyalty."

"I can tell you a little about Arabella if you are interested." She glanced at him sideways, and took his silence as consent. "Arabella Swinley is the daughter of Baron Swinley, who died a few years ago. Before his death she spent little time with her parents. From what I can gather—for you must know, delicacy forbade me asking direct questions—her mother. Lady Swinley, had no use for her before it was time for her come-out, so she spent all of her school holidays with her cousin Miss Truelove Becket, now married to a wealthy viscount down in Hampshire, somewhere. I think Miss Becket was a good influence on little Arabella, but since she has been with her mother, she has learned to think differently about some things. I worry about that."

Marcus glanced sideways. This was a new side to Miss O'Clannahan, whom he had taken for a rather cynical, hard-edged young woman. "Her mother is not a healthy influence?"

"Her mother," the lady said, acidly, "is a mercenary, money-grubbing— I have no words for what I think of Lady Swinley and her effect on Arabella."

At that moment, Arabella sailed by in the arms of a young man. She was smiling up at him and gaily laughing, but even from a distance Marcus could see a hint of desperate eagerness in her flirtation. "Who is that fellow?"

Eveleen peered rather short-sightedly at Arabella's partner. "Oh, that is Bessemere, next Duke of Haliburton. Poor fellow, he is this year's prize. Rather like a stud bull, don't you know? Everybody's preferred stock."

Marcus gazed at him with disdain. "That child? He looks frightened, as if the world is out to bite him. He would not last two minutes in Canada. What makes him such a prize?"

"He is the next Duke of Haliburton," Eveleen said, patiently. "He is the Marquess of Bessemere, in his own right wealthy, and when he becomes Haliburton, he will have access to millions—literally, millions of pounds. And it is rumored they are looking for a match for him this year But his mother will never choose someone like Arabella. She is wasting her time on him. She is too low-born and too poor."

"Do you mean she is flirting with him to try to gain his attention?"

Miss O'Clannahan turned and placed her hands on her hips. "See here, Westhaven, just how long have you been out of the country, and what have you remembered about all of this?"

Marcus was silent. He remembered Arabella's eyes when he said he was about to inherit, the way the green had deepened to jade. So she truly was nothing more than a money-grubbing little schemer, he thought with disappointment, and his burgeoning feelings for her must be nothing more than physical attraction, and the tendency to imbue the desired object with graces and attributes.

Eveleen O'Clannahan was watching him, he could feel it, and he met her steady gaze.

"You blame her for her ambition?" the young woman asked.

"How can I help but blame her for fortune hunting? You yourself called the mother mercenary. I despise people who only care about wealth. It was one of the reasons I was not sad to leave this country."

"And no one anywhere else in the world does this, or something very like it? Do parents in other lands not wish their children to marry well, to be wealthy and happy, whatever that means in another culture? Somehow, I cannot believe it."

"But we have made a sport of it," Marcus protested. "Like hunting. In England we hunt for the inedible merely for the sport You will not find anyone in Canada doing that. There, we hunt to eat. There is so much about this country I do not like." He watched Arabella sail by again, her whole focus on the young man holding her in his arms. He felt his stomach convulse in a queer twist of jealously and revulsion. "How can she," he burst out, crossing his arms across his chest. "She is so intelligent and witty and beautiful and lively and—and she is worth more than that, damn it, so much more!"

"Do not condemn, sir, what you do not understand. I urge you to get to know her before you decide what she is. You could be surprised." Eveleen, with one last look at Marcus, turned away from him and drifted off to join other friends.

Five

Arabella buried her nose in the massive bouquet of white roses that sat on a table in the hall, and sniffed deeply. What a glorious scent! She eagerly read the card and felt a jolt of disappointment. They were from Lord Bessemere. She should be in alt, for such an offering meant she had made an impression on him, though a personal visit would have been better. And she had liked the young marquess. He was not bad-looking, she supposed, and his character was one of studious gentleness. For the longest time he had seemed almost frightened by her gay chatter until she had hit on the subject of books, not something she knew a lot about, but that was never a reason to shy away from a subject, she had learned, since gentlemen invariably wanted to lead the talk anyway. Then his eyes had lit up and the rest of their dance, a waltz, had gone well.

No, her disappointment was not because she had not liked him; she had. But she had hoped a floral offering would come from another gentleman she had spent some time with. She searched among the bouquets and cards. Sanders, MacDonough, Lewisham, Andrews— not there.

Nestled among the larger bouquets, though, she saw a tiny basket and fished it out. It was small, just the size of her two cupped hands, and it was made of some strange white bark and with a twig handle, all lashed together with what looked like leather thongs. It had a kind of rough, sturdy beauty all its own. Nestled in the basket, in moss, was a small bouquet of golden buttercups. A moment of fierce longing swept over her, a longing for her childhood. These were the very same flowers she and True and Faith, True's younger sister, had been used to gather down by the river when they were all children at the vicarage where True's father made his home.

Tears pricked the back of her eyes as she turned the basket around, noting the fascinating texture of the bark and how it contrasted with the soft waxy petals of the buttercups. Who sent this? She saw a note slipped down in the basket and pulled it out. It was damp from the moss, but she could still read it.

"To the Belle of the Ball, from a secret admirer."

Her heart thudded. It had to be from Westhaven; the rough bark was as unique as he was, rugged yet attractive. Somehow she knew it was his offering, and her heart was touched. As she stared at it she relived the thrill of his hands touching her, his gray eyes looking deep into hers, as though he were seeking her very soul. She had never been stirred like that, had never felt as though—

"What is that you have there?"

Her mother had come upon her, her slippers silent on the marble floor of the hall of their borrowed May-fair town home. Flustered, Arabella said, "Oh, 'tis nothing, just a ... a small basket with a nosegay of buttercups from . . . from a secret admirer, it says."

Lady Swinley grabbed the basket, glared at it, and said, "Paltry offering! Who would send such a piece of trash?"

"I ... I don't know."

"Buttercups? Must be a poor man."

"I think it's rather pretty, don't you. Mother?"

"Pretty?" Lady Swinley's hard eyes narrowed. "My girl, any man who was really interested in you would send something more than mere country flowers. He must know you will be besieged with offerings, and any man who wanted to fix your interest would try to dazzle you. Buttercups? Ha!"

Frowning, Arabella considered her mother's words and reluctantly decided they held a great deal of sense. Should a man not be trying to impress her? Was that not the game men and women played, until each could single the other out from the crowd?

Lady Swinley threw the basket down on the table and sailed away, calling over her shoulder, "Come, Arabella. We have much to do today, so no dawdling."

But Arabella could not resist rescuing the small basket "Brock," she said to a footman passing, "could you have this taken up to my room, please? Have Annie set it on my bedside table."

"Yes, miss," he said, taking the basket.

For the rest of the day Arabella was on tenterhooks, wondering if he would visit. Gentlemen came and gentlemen went, but Westhaven did not make an appearance. Oh, well, she thought. She had mentioned that she was to attend the Tredwell musicale that evening; maybe he was invited, too, and she would see him there. She did not want to think why she was so intent on seeing him again. He was an infuriating man, alternately teasing and maddening and charming. And there could be no future. He had said himself he was poor enough that a couple of hundred pounds seemed like a lot of money to him.

But he was not at the Tredwell musicale that evening, nor at the Silkertons' Venetian breakfast the next day, nor at the Smythe-Jones ball the next evening. But Bessemere was, and so was Lord Pelimore.

Lady Swinley, impressed by the massive bouquet of white roses Bessemere had sent to Arabella, advised her to try for the younger, wealthier man, but if there was no definite sign within days that he was attempting to fix his interest with her, she was to transfer her attentions to Lord Pelimore, who was, after all, a baron and quite wealthy. She sat with Lord Pelimore, danced with Bessemere, and spent some time talking to both.

With Lord Pelimore she merely listened while he retailed story after story of his youth and the high adventures he had had. By his own admission he had been a rascal, a bon vivant of the old king's time, when every gentleman still wore a wig, and men's clothing was silk and lace to rival a lady's. She could not help but let her mind wander to the memory of a tall, broad-shouldered man dressed in sober black, so masculine as to make all other men in the room appear effeminate. Could she picture him rigged out in lace and satin, carrying the de rigeur gentleman’s accessory of the last century, a fian? No, she could not, but if he did he would somehow contrive to make it look manly, like the brilliant feathers of a peacock beside the dull plumage of a peahen.

The next night at the Connolly ball, Eveleen sought her out in the withdrawing room while Arabella removed her shawl and left it with Annie, her maid. Lady Swinley had already hurried off to accost a crony she had not yet seen that Season. After a brief hug of greeting, Eveleen said, *'And has your rough-hewn swain come to visit you since the Parkhurst ball?"

"My—" Arabella colored. "I do not know who you mean. Eve."

The older woman chuckled as she took Arabella's arm and strolled with her into the ballroom. It was already full, and the noise of a hundred or more chattering people echoed from the high vaulted ceiling as the heat from their bodies created a swirl of air. "Oh, Bella, how can you say that with a straight face? You are looking around the room for him this very minute, are you not? I thought perhaps he told you he was to be here."

Arabella's color deepened and she stopped her quick scan of the ballroom. "I will not pretend to misunderstand you; you mean Mr. Marcus Westhaven. I have no more interest in Mr. Westhaven than he has in me, so you can stop fishing for information."

"So little interest as that, hmm? I happen to know that he was invited tonight."

"Really? Is he here? Have you—" Arabella stopped abruptly, cursing her unruly tongue.

Eveleen fought back a smile. "No, he sent regrets, apparently. 'Unavoidable business' was the excuse, I think. He has a letter of introduction, you know—I have that from Lady Connolly herself, who is some sort of aunt or cousin to me—^which is why he is invited. Some regimental captain from the Canadas, very well connected, etcetera, begs Lady Connolly to 'be kind to him.' "

So that explained his forays into the upper echelons of society, Arabella thought, with disappointment. He must have asked all of his contacts in the regiment for letters to people they knew in London. She realized that she had been cherishing secret hopes that he would prove to be the long-lost scion of some noble house, but that was clearly ridiculous, given his poverty.

"Let us not talk of men tonight," Arabella said. She looked her friend over, from the jeweled headpiece of emeralds in her hair to the tips of her slippered feet. "I have missed you these last couple of days. You look marvelous in that green, Eveleen. It becomes you."

With a humorous smile, she replied, "And that lavender becomes you. Now we have canvassed clothing, what else shall we speak of?"

Arabella knew what she wanted to ask her friend, but she could not bring the subject up. She must turn her mind away from such unprofitable lines and concentrate on the business of the Season, which was to find a gentleman and marry him. Preferably not old Lord Pelimore. They took a place at the edge of the ballroom, near a magenta draped window that was open just a little to let in the still-cool spring air. The room was already hot, and before long it would be stifling from the body heat of hundreds of energetically galloping couples. The Connolly ball was well attended and would likely be called a "squeeze" the next day in the papers. That would be considered a compliment.

Sighing, Eveleen said, languidly, 'T suppose you really must marry this Season?"

"Yes. It is imperative that I find someone and attach him before too long. We . . . my mother is depending on me, Eve." Arabella smiled and nodded at a couple of young ladies who passed her, arm in arm. She scanned the crowd and saw Bessemere with his mother, the formidable Lady Haliburton, formerly an intimate of Lady Farmington. Would she have heard? Could the Farmington debacle ruin her chances with young Lord Bessemere?

And there was still Lord Conroy to be worried about. He always attended the Season; it was life and meat to him. Why was he not yet in London? Was it because of his mother's indisposition? Could she count on his continued absence? Surely not. After all, the woman would recover sometime. But even when he did come, could Arabella perhaps hope that he would be as little willing to have his private affairs bandied about society as she was, and so he would stay silent and not ruin her? It was her best hope for salvation.