To Pleasure a Lady (Courtship Wars)

His hands rising to her shoulders, he hauled her close and brought his mouth down to kiss her-a hard, irate meeting of lips that was more punishing than loverlike. Even so, it instantly stirred heat and hunger deep inside Arabella.

When finally Marcus broke off and drew back his head, his eyes were glittering with anger and triumph. “You feel the same passion I feel, but you aren’t willing to admit it because you’re letting fear drive you. I won’t hurt you the way your bastard betrothed did, Arabella…but I can’t force you to believe that.”

“No, you cannot,” she replied shakily.

The muscles in his jaw clenched again, but Marcus managed to restrain his ire other than to say tightly, “My solicitors will be in touch.”

Returning to his desk, he snatched up his letter, then turned on his heel and crossed to the door. Flinging it open, he strode forcefully from the room without looking at her again, leaving a profound silence in his wake.

Swaying, Arabella moved over to a chair and sank down, her hand held to her breastbone, where a relentless fist squeezed her chest. She wouldn’t let herself believe what Marcus had claimed, even though a part of her dearly longed for it to be true.

I love you. I want to marry you and to have children with you. I want to spend the rest of my days with you, making you happy.

The remembrance made her throat ache-

Stop this ridiculous sentiment at once! Arabella berated herself. Marcus didn’t love her. He had walked out without attempting to change her mind, without even demanding to play out the final day of their wager. How powerful could his feelings for her be if he hadn’t even bothered to argue with her?

She had wanted to argue with him. She had wanted to call him back and tell him how she felt for him.

At the painful wrench of her heart, Arabella squeezed her eyes shut. What idiocy! She should be glad she had deliberately sent him away before she risked even greater hurt than last time. Yet no amount of rational logic could explain the dreadful ache inside her, the hollow sense of devastation.

Trembling, Arabella wrapped her arms around herself. What was wrong with her? It was absurd to feel moisture burning in her eyes. Absurd and deplorable. She despised tears. Other than to mourn her father’s passing, she had never cried during the terrible scandals her parents had caused. She had borne the painful loss of her mother and the public repudiation by her betrothed without once giving in to tears. She had stoically endured the humiliation, the rejection and poverty that had followed. So why did she feel so desperately like crying now? She was free of Marcus. She should be overjoyed that the threat was over.

Yet it seemed an empty, bitter victory.

It was then that she heard Lily’s muttered oath behind her. “Did the earl make you cry, Belle? I swear, I will draw and quarter him!”

Arabella dashed frantically at her eyes and summoned a weak laugh as she looked up at her youngest sister. “It is not ladylike to swear, Lily. And it is certainly not polite to threaten to dismember an earl.”

“I don’t give a fig! I will murder him for hurting you.”

Easing Lilian aside, Roslyn bent over Arabella and took her hand. “She doesn’t mean it. It is just that we hate to see you in such pain.”

“I will get over it.”

I will! Arabella vowed fiercely, although she knew it would be a long time before it happened, if ever.

Chapter Seventeen

Can I believe Marcus when he says he loves me? Do I dare to trust in love again?

– Arabella to Fanny

Dismayingly, the pain did not relent. Nearly a full week after Marcus’s acrimonious departure, Arabella still felt the residual effects, despite her every effort to the contrary.

The weather on this Saturday afternoon was perfect-lazy and bright with sunshine-and yet a stark contrast to Arabella’s dour mood. The academy’s pupils were enjoying an outing at the Freemantle estate, some playing Pall Mall on the lawns with Roslyn, others rowing boats on the ornamental lake, supervised by Tess and Lily, and still others plucking flowers from the gardens and making wreaths to adorn their hair and bonnets under the guidance of Jane Caruthers. A sumptuous tea would follow later, held under the elm trees and presided over by Lady Freemantle.

Arabella took little pleasure in the treat, however. Instead, she withdrew to the shade of an elm, where she could nurse her melancholy in private and halfheartedly watch the frolic on the lake. When the girls began playing tag with the rowboats, splashing each other and frequently erupting in shrieks of delighted laughter, she was surprised that Tess Blanchard joined in.

Arabella roused herself from her morose thoughts long enough to smile. It was good to see Tess laughing and enjoying life for a change, since she’d been in mourning for the past two years. Before her engagement had ended with the death of her betrothed in the terrible Battle of Waterloo, no one had been more lively and high-spirited than Tess. That she was now showing some of her once customary gaiety suggested that she finally had resolved to rejoin the living.

Perhaps a quarter hour later, Tess tore herself away from the lake battle and made her way, breathless with laughter, to where Arabella sat all alone.

“I have come to recruit you to our side, Arabella,” Tess said, extending her hands down as if to pull Arabella to her feet. “We need you for reinforcements.”

Arabella returned a wan smile. “Thank you, but I have no desire to become drenched, as you are. I endured more than enough soaking last week when I chased after Sybil in an atrocious thunderstorm.”

Tess cast an amused glance over