“If you give my father cause to suspect that I have misbehaved in any way, I will spread the word faster than you can blink. When everyone learns what you did, not one person in Britain will allow you near any ladies, let alone a precious daughter.”
“Is this meant to be some kind of blackmail?”
So now she was a blackmailer too. She had never asked for this. All she had asked was to exercise a little control over her own life. They had built the maze and dropped her into it; she was only trying to find her way out.
“I must protect myself, my lord, since clearly you will not.” She gestured at the garden entrance. “The days grow shorter. You should leave soon, if you are to cover a good distance before nightfall. Ride ahead. The servants will send your belongings after you.”
“And when this sweetheart does not appear?”
“Alas, the course of true love never did run smooth.”
His mouth worked as he stared at her, his red-rimmed eyes poisonous with loathing.
“Very well,” he finally said. “You say nothing, and neither will I.”
“Go.” Gathering her courage, Arabella turned her back on him. “You will be gone before I return to the house.”
Chapter 10
Arabella entered Vindale Court through the front door, with a secret sense of ceremony. Perhaps this would be her final entrance. Perhaps the next time she left this house, it would be for good.
Ramsay was in the foyer. He sent away the other servants as she peeled off her gloves.
“Lord Sculthorpe?” she prompted. She unpinned her hat and dropped it onto the table, ignoring the protest of her tender ribs. A chunk of hair tumbled onto her face. She pushed it back. It fell again. She must fix that before Papa saw her.
“He is gone and we are packing his belongings. Your father wishes to see you.”
“I don’t doubt it. Is he in a terrible temper?”
Ramsay’s lips thinned. The mirror confirmed that her walking dress betrayed no signs of misadventure, though her eyes seemed unnaturally bright. And she really must fix her hair, but she took a sudden perverse delight in it. That her coiffure was coming undone seemed fitting right now.
This time, when Arabella entered her father’s study, Queenie was silent and Papa was already on his feet.
“A fortnight,” Papa said. “You managed to keep a man for two whole weeks.”
Arabella stared at the horizon like a soldier. She ignored Queenie, ignored the stuffed birds, ignored Oliver’s smirk.
Mama slipped through the door. Papa did not pause in his tirade.
“Sculthorpe was staying in the very house his son would inherit, yet a letter comes from someone he’s not seen in years and he cannot get away fast enough.”
Arabella fixed her eyes on the wall. Sculthorpe had obeyed her. He feared her, then, a little.
“Look at you, this disgraceful mess.” Papa sneered at her loose hair, which, to be fair, was irritating Arabella now too. “That I was robbed of my son and cursed to have only one living child, and that child is you!”
“Peter! Enough!” Mama said sharply.
Papa wiped a hand over his face. Arabella’s eyes went helplessly to Oliver, who crowed, You know he wishes it were you up here and me down there!
Oh, go break your head against a rainbow, you irksome brat.
Silence blanketed them. Arabella could think of a thousand things to say, but she would only make matters worse.
“We have a houseful of guests and a betrothal ball in three nights,” Mama said, ever practical. “We must cancel it.”
“No, make her attend the ball. Let everyone see her shame. A betrothal ball and no betrothal.”
Finally, Arabella spoke. “You could put me in stocks in the middle of the ballroom and provide the guests with rotten fruit to throw.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
Of course she had to face the world. Why not at her own betrothal ball? She would glide through that ball in her elegant new evening gown, long gloves hiding the marks already blooming on her arms, flawlessly coiffured head held high. No one would know how her engagement ended; no one would guess how weak and helpless she had been.
“The morning after the ball, you will leave,” Papa continued. “I don’t want you in this house unless you bring a legitimate son by an acceptable husband. Until then, I am changing my will.”
“Peter, please consider whether that is necessary,” Mama said. “This isn’t Arabella’s fault. If Lord Sculthorpe loves someone else—”
“I’m tired of you defending this hoyden, Belinda. It is her fault. If Sculthorpe loves someone else, it’s because our daughter is a woman whom no man can love.”
“Do not say that,” Mama said quietly. “Never say that.”
His mouth twisted sourly. “Consider that Treadgold girl. Three minutes with a man and he’s wrapped around her finger. Yet Hardbury has known Arabella most of his life and he can hardly bear to be in the same room as her. Sculthorpe should have procured a special license in London and married her on the spot.” He collapsed into his chair. “Now get out of my sight.”
It was no surprise that Mama followed Arabella to her room and sat.
“Tell me what happened,” she said. “Surely you did not let Sculthorpe go without a fight?”
Arabella said nothing. Mama had always been on her side, even when it didn’t feel like it, pushing her harder, trying to mold Arabella into the best version of herself. Yet still she had turned into a woman whom no one could love.
She released the four buttons on her left sleeve, fumbling a little, and slid the fabric up her arm. It was tight, and resisted, but she yanked and did not care when a seam tore.
Red welts bloomed over her pale forearm. One did not need much imagination to picture the fingers that had left them.
The loose lock of hair fell past her face as she bent her head and ran her fingers over them. The tender flesh was slightly swollen and hot with indignation.
She kept her head bowed through the whisper of skirts, the comforting fragrance, and then Mama was taking her forearm, turning it gently to study the marks, her palms dry and cool.
“Oh my darling. Why didn’t you say?”
Mama’s fingers were brisk, but not nimble, as she released the buttons on the other sleeve and pushed back the fabric to reveal the other set of marks. Mama had never been tender, and Arabella was glad of that now.
“I was wrong about Lord Sculthorpe,” her mother said.
“You didn’t know, Mama.”
“I should have.” She ran her fingers over the mottled skin. “You didn’t tell your father.”
“Papa would have blamed me for provoking him.” She looked up. “I did provoke him.”
“And you would have continued to provoke him every day of your married life.” Mama tweaked the loose lock of hair, tucked it behind her ear. “I truly believed Sculthorpe was not threatened by your strong character.”
“I said something.”
“I don’t care.” Mama’s eyes flashed. “Whatever you said or did, no man does this to my daughter. By heaven, I’ll shoot him myself. The shame is his, not yours, do you hear me? If you had discovered his true nature after your marriage, you would never have escaped him and it would only have grown worse.”