“I have in the past. Most gentlemen of means do.”
She arched an eloquent eyebrow of her own. “I cannot take a blithe view of adultery. I would never tolerate affairs and infidelities from my husband.”
“Some men give up their mistresses upon marrying.”
“But I could never trust that you would do so, or that you wouldn’t relapse, even if you promised fidelity in the beginning.”
He held her gaze levelly. “I am not your father, Arabella. And you insult me to put me in the same category.”
The sudden intensity of his tone took her aback. “Forgive me,” she apologized with a strained smile. “I am only attempting to make you understand why I don’t want a marriage of convenience. If your parents had endured a marriage such as mine had, I’m certain you would be just as adverse to repeating their experience.”
His mouth twisted sardonically. “As it happens, my parents were much more discreet in their affairs than yours were. But I confess, their experience left me with no fondness for the institution of matrimony.” Marcus paused. “Apparently, though, your mother was as guilty as your father of faithlessness.”
Arabella’s smile faded. “I don’t like to speak of my mother.”
Victoria Loring’s initial transgressions had been nowhere near as severe as her spouse’s had been; her single affair had stemmed out of revenge against her husband’s countless infidelities. Yet she had committed a worse sin, to Arabella’s mind, by abandoning her family. For a moment, Arabella closed her eyes at the dizzying wave of pain that memory conjured up.
Marcus must have seen her expression, for he made a sympathetic sound. “You have not had an ideal time of it, have you, love? First the scandals and being forced from your home, then having to earn your living.”
Her eyes opened abruptly, finding his blue gaze alarmingly tender. “You needn’t pity me, you know. I have long since gotten over the pain and humiliation.” Which was a lie, Arabella added to herself. “In any case, adversity builds character, or so they say.”
“You and your sisters have had more than your fair share of adversity.”
She managed a shrug. “We were determined to make the best of our lot. The worst part was being dependent on our step-uncle’s largess, at the mercy of his whims. More than once he threatened to evict us. But thankfully, we were able to open our academy. It offered us gainful employment so we wouldn’t be forced into menial servitude or compelled to wed as our only means of survival.”
Marcus’s response was forestalled by a discreet knock on the drawing room door. When he bid entrance, Simpkin appeared to announce that dinner was served in the small dining parlor.
Glad to leave off such an uncomfortable subject as her family chronicles, Arabella took Marcus’s arm to accompany him in to dinner, an action she regretted immediately. Beneath his coat sleeve, she could feel the warmth radiating from him, could feel the hard muscles flex under her fingertips. The contact did strange things to her pulse.
She was glad to see that their places had been set at either end of the long table, with a significant distance separating the two.
Marcus shook his head at the arrangements, however. “We needn’t be so formal, Simpkin. I prefer to have Miss Loring seated beside me.”
“As you wish, my lord.”
The butler obeyed, hurrying to rearrange the place settings. When Arabella was finally seated to his lordship’s right, Simpkin gestured at the two attending footmen to serve the soup course.
When that was done, Marcus nodded. “Thank you, Simpkin. I will ring when we are ready for the next course.”
All three servants silently withdrew, without shutting the door at least. Yet the open door couldn’t dispel the sense of intimacy Arabella felt at sitting so close to Marcus, or allay her tingling awareness of his nearness.
Trying her best to ignore him, Arabella applied herself to the bland-looking soup, which appeared to be greasy chicken broth with a few pieces of limp vegetables. She nearly choked at the first sip, since it was so salty as to be almost inedible.
After one taste, Marcus shot Arabella a questioning glance and then set down his spoon. Innocently, she forced herself to continue eating her soup.
“So tell me about this academy of yours,” Marcus said, his tone curious.
“Why do you want to know?”
“Because I am intrigued by it. And because I want to learn everything about you to aid my courtship.” When she grimaced slightly at the reminder, he merely smiled. “You said your academy is something of a finishing school? How did it start?”
Since it seemed to be a safe subject, Arabella was pleased to explain. “Lady Freemantle actually gave me the idea. We became friends after my sisters and I moved here to Chiswick. Winifred was the daughter of a wealthy industrialist, but she married far above her social station and was never accepted by her husband’s family or friends. One day she confessed how difficult it had been for her, being the wife of a baronet, enduring all the slights and snubs, and that she wished someone had taught her the proper social graces so she might have competed in Sir Rupert’s milieu. I began thinking that there must be other young women in similar circumstances. Most daughters of wealthy magnates are destined to be sold into marriage to gentlemen in need of rich wives, as Winifred was.”
“So you proposed establishing the academy?”
“Not at first. When I suggested I might be of help to some of them-advise them on how to fit in to the Beau Monde and make their path easier-I only envisioned taking on one or two pupils. But Winifred leapt at the idea and offered to fund a much larger enterprise.”
“But you don’t run the academy solely on your own,” Marcus said.