Vicar's Daughter to Viscount's Lady (Transformation of the Shelley Sisters 2)

‘Yes, thank you,’ Bella lied. She had hardly slept, tossing and turning, troubled by her thoughts and knowledge that she should tell Elliott how she felt.

‘Come into the drawing room,’ he said, his hand gentle but inexorable under her elbow. ‘I don’t think you are well, whatever you say, and there is something I must tell you.’

‘I’m all right,’ she snapped, cornered.

‘Bella, what on earth is the matter?’ Elliott shut the door and came to stand in front of her before the fire. ‘This is not like you.’

‘No,’ she said slowly, feeling all the old restraints and certainties falling away. ‘No, it isn’t. But you see, I have been thinking and, Elliott, I am sorry, but I find it hurts so much now. I should never have married you.’

‘Arabella, darling.’ Elliott managed to fold her tight into his arms. ‘Listen to me, you really are not well. You are tired. Your nerves are still not calm after the birth. You—’

‘Don’t darling me!’ Her face was crushed against his waistcoat and her arms pinned to her sides. His body was hard and strong and her own body stirred in treacherous arousal. Arabella kicked, making no impact at all on his Hessians with her indoor shoes.

Elliott held her away from him a little, his hands tight on her shoulders. ‘Arabella, stop this. I don’t understand why you bring this up now. Of course we had to marry, it was the right thing, you know that.’

‘Yes, of course it was, once you knew. Don’t you see—’ Bella stared at him, trying to make him understand what she was only just beginning to comprehend herself ‘—I should have gone the moment I realised Rafe was dead. Now we are trapped. I cannot even run away and leave you—Viscount Hadleigh would not seek a divorce. You are stuck with me and I will be a good wife and breed sons for you. I suppose it will be…convenient.’

‘It is not convenient, damn it.’ Elliott was losing his temper now too. His eyes were dark sapphires, his mouth a hard line. ‘It has never been convenient. I did not want to marry you. But I had to and I have had to learn to live with the emotional baggage our marriage brought with it and you will just have to learn to live with it too. I thought I had,’ he added bitterly.

Elliott, her tower of strength, her refuge, her honest friend and her lover, was telling her the truth at last. ‘Emotional baggage,’ she said, all the anger gone, her voice cold and flat to her own ears. ‘Of course. You are naturally gallant, naturally kind, but it must be a strain. I thought I was happy. I should be. I am so sorry I cannot be happy.’ She twisted in his grip and broke free, ran to the door without looking back.

‘Arabella, stop,’ Elliott called after her. ‘Where are you going?’

‘To find my sister. I am going to the War Office. Why haven’t they written to tell me where she is, where they are paying her widow’s pension?’ She needed someone to love, someone to love her. Someone who would understand.

There was something in the utter silence that stopped her in her tracks, sent her back to the doorway. ‘Elliott? What is it? Have you heard something?’

‘Negative news,’ he admitted. ‘I was going to tell you this morning. There is no trace of Margaret. It seems her marriage to James Halgate was never legal. After the battle of Vittoria where he was killed she seems to have slipped from the records.’

‘Meg? But they must know where she is.’

‘They do not know. Arabella, listen to me.’ He took her by the upper arms as though to restrain her. ‘Spain is a vast country, in chaos. This was more than two years ago. Perhaps she has remarried, settled out there, or—you must face it, my dear—she may have died.’

‘No! No, I will not believe it. Take me to London, Elliott.’

‘It is pouring with rain, you need rest, you have a baby and there is nothing you can do in London, Arabella. I am so sorry. We will think about it, find some contacts in Spain—I can send someone to investigate. But not now, this minute. You must see it is not rational.’

‘No, of course not.’ Rational? He wanted her to be rational? She was weary of being sensible and stoical. Something cold and hard settled over her, something like the bitter determination that had seized her when Rafe left. Elliott did not love her. Perhaps he could not love, not after an upbringing by remote parents, after a brother who hurt and rejected him. He did not understand how she felt about Meg and Lina, so she must find them herself.

Perhaps if they had a little time apart they could see their feelings for each other more clearly. Perhaps she could learn to do without love. She would come back, of course. It was her duty to be a good wife, to give Elliott an heir, to give Marguerite a proper home. But just now she could not bear to be here.

‘No. Of course not.’ She turned on her heel and walked away.

What had happened? What had gone wrong? Elliott stared at the half-open door feeling as though his heart had been wrenched out of his chest.

He thought he had made her happy and secure at least, but it seemed it was an illusion that something had shattered and now he did not know how to build it up again.

She would be in her bedchamber, he guessed. Toby sat outside, whining. Elliott tapped on the door, then turned the handle. It was locked. With a muttered oath he strode down the corridor to the sitting-room door. Locked. The nursery door was locked too. He knocked again. ‘Arabella?’ Silence.

Elliott wheeled round and stalked back to his own room, went through the dressing room and tried the interconnecting door. Locked. ‘Arabella, will you please let me in?’ He banged on the panels with his closed fist. From close by there was the thin wail of a child abruptly wakened. He felt his temper slipping; Marguerite should be in the nursery with her nursemaid. He banged again, harder with no response.

Locked in the safe were duplicate keys for the whole house. It took him a matter of minutes to return with the ones for the whole suite of rooms. ‘Arabella, if you do not open the door I will.’

He waited and at last the door opened. Arabella stood there, pale and dry-eyed. ‘Please do not make so much noise, you will frighten Marguerite.’

‘Then do not lock the doors,’ he said, walking past her into the room.

‘I do not want you here. I do not know what to say. I am sorry, I should never have spoken, I just lost my…my will, I suppose.’