To Pleasure a Lady (14 page)

When the girl scowled, Arabella remarked gently, “A lady does not grimace when a gentleman displeases her, Sybil. Nor does she make remarks that can be hurtful to others.”

“Yes, Miss Loring,” Sybil muttered, her cheeks still scarlet.

“You know that in polite society you are judged by your every word and action. You do wish to be considered a lady, don't you?”

“Yes, of course, Miss Loring.”

Arabella smiled encouragingly. “Then perhaps you will be kind enough to allow Miss Trebbs the opportunity to practice first with Lord Danvers.”

“Oh, very well.” Conspicuously struggling to bite her tongue, Sybil stepped back, but not before flinging Arabella a rebellious look.

Arabella calmly ignored the spoiled girl as the excited Miss Trebbs took the floor with Marcus. But when she herself moved to the sidelines, she caught sight of her sisters' expressions. Lily was simmering with suppressed anger and hurt at Sybil's nasty taunt, while Roslyn was pretending a cool dispassion that hid similar warring emotions.

Arabella shared their feelings. Since their parents' infamy had followed them all the way from Hampshire, they were not received in any of the better neighborhood households—in large part because their late step-uncle had publicly repudiated them for their mother's sins.

It was a bitter pill for Arabella to swallow, not so much for her own sake as for her sisters'. They had learned to accept the inevitable, but still it stung to be shunned by nearly all the local gentry for scandals their parents had created.

Arabella watched the practice sessions with only half her usual attention, and at the end she was distracted enough that she let Marcus usher her into his carriage to take her home when she had meant to avoid being alone with him so soon after their romantic rendezvous.

“So tell me,” he said when the vehicle was moving, “why were you and your sisters not invited to Sir Alfred's ball?”

“I should think it obvious,” Arabella replied, trying to keep her tone light. “The scandals still haunt us. In this district, no one who moves in higher circles will associate with the Loring sisters—other than Lady Freemantle and Miss Blanchard, of course.” She shrugged. “I don't care about myself, really, but my sisters deserve better.”

A muscle worked in Marcus's jaw. “I will see to it that you all three are invited to the ball. And I mean to escort you there myself.”

She looked at him curiously. She had little doubt he could persuade Sir Alfred and Lady Perry to issue them invitations, but she couldn't understand why he would wish to. “You needn't go to such trouble, Marcus.”

“I do need to. I won't have my wards being shunned, especially since you're being condemned through no fault of your own.” He was angry on her behalf, she realized.

Arabella forced a smile. “It doesn't matter, truly. We are accustomed to being excluded. In any case, we have nothing appropriate to wear. Our ball gowns are four years out of fashion.”

“Then you will order new ball gowns made.”

“By Monday?”

“It can be done. I will send for a London modiste to attend you tomorrow.”

“Marcus, it would cost a fortune to have gowns made on such short notice!”

“I happen to have a fortune, sweeting. And I can think of no better way to spend it.”

This time Arabella shook her head firmly. “We don't need your charity.”

“It isn't charity. As your guardian, I am obliged to provide for you.”

Hearing the echo of her late step-uncle's complaints at being saddled with their upkeep, Arabella felt herself stiffen. “It is indeed charity, and we won't accept.”

Marcus pinned her with a stern look. “Don't be tiresome, love. It is only your pride suffering.”

Arabella scowled at him in return. “That is easy for
you
to say. You have obviously never been utterly dependent on anyone. You can't understand the helpless feeling—how humiliating it is to be beholden for every morsel of food and stitch of clothing on your back—”

“No, I cannot understand,” he agreed sympathetically. “But your former guardian was a selfish, miserly bastard who deserved to have his teeth knocked down his throat for treating his own nieces like supplicants.”

Then perhaps realizing how distressing the subject was for Arabella, Marcus softened his expression. “If you won't accept a new gown for your own sake, then do it for me. My pride is at stake. I won't have my wards dressed in rags. And surely you don't want to appear at a disadvantage in front of your pupils by appearing at the ball dressed in outmoded gowns.”

When she hesitated, Marcus prodded, “Come now, confess it, Arabella. You would like to go, if only to prove that you and your sisters are as worthy as the haughty nobs who have scorned you all these years.”

She couldn't deny that the thought had appeal. When she remained silent, however, Marcus continued. “I imagine your sisters would find it pleasant to be welcomed back by their peers…to take their rightful place in society. And so would you.”

She looked away, surprised that Marcus seemed to understand her conflicted feelings. Four years ago, when she'd been disowned by her peers and many of the acquaintances she'd called friends, Arabella had held her head high—defiantly, in fact—refusing to let her life be governed by the fickle denizens of the Beau Monde. Yet there were times when she found herself longing for the kind of acceptance she had enjoyed since birth, before she and her sisters had become social pariahs. Even though she had pretended not to care, she
did
care, probably more than was wise. And she very badly wanted Roslyn and Lily to have the opportunities denied them when their familiar world had come crashing down around them.

Marcus's low tone was unexpectedly serious when he said, “I can see that you and your sisters are accepted in society again, Arabella.” Then he caught her hand and made her look at him.

Arabella drew an uneven breath. The warmth in his eyes made it too easy for her to forget that she was supposed to be resisting his overtures. She was oddly touched by his concern, though. His protectiveness brought a strange ache to her throat.

It took effort to withdraw her hand from his grasp. “I would indeed like to attend the ball for my sisters' sake….”

Marcus smiled slowly. “Then it's settled. I will escort the three of you. Have your sisters come to the Hall tomorrow morning to have their measurements taken by the modiste.”

Arabella felt her mouth twisting in reluctant amusement as she eyed Marcus. “Only a nobleman would have the confidence to think he needs only snap his fingers to make the world do his bidding.”

“Because it's true,” he said amiably. “Never underestimate the power that comes with rank and wealth.”

“Oh, I do not underestimate it, believe me.”

His gaze leveled on her. “You could always accept my proposal of marriage. As Lady Danvers, you would be able to lord it over the entire neighborhood.”

Arabella couldn't help but smile, as no doubt he'd meant her to. “That is a delightful notion…but even that treat won't tempt me to marry you, Marcus.”

“Then I will have to think of some other means of convincing you. I can be quite resourceful when I put my mind to it, you know.”

She found herself laughing softly as she turned to gaze out the carriage window. Somehow Marcus had managed not only to banish the dismay she'd felt over Sybil's spiteful comment, but to lighten her spirits as well. It would be extremely gratifying if he could reinstate her sisters in society as he anticipated.

Hearing her husky laughter, Marcus felt an unfamiliar softening inside him. It was rather humbling to witness Arabella's fortitude. He'd never been subjected to the sort of blatant ostracism she had endured, not even for his most outrageous transgressions. For years Arabella had been unjustly humiliated and scorned for her parents' sins.

But, Marcus vowed, he intended to change that, even before she became his countess. By the time he was through, every high-browed member of the Quality in the district would be making amends to her.

Chapter Nine

I never expected to be grateful to the earl, but I truly am.

—Arabella to Fanny

The next several days passed in a whirl for Arabella. Every available moment was filled with dress fittings and unexpected visitors in addition to ongoing house renovations and her usual classes at the academy.

To her astonishment, she began receiving calls from many of her hitherto disdainful neighbors. The first to appear were Sir Alfred and Lady Perry, who came the very next afternoon to issue a personal invitation to their ball.

Her ladyship practically fell all over herself welcoming the new Earl of Danvers to the neighborhood before she turned to Arabella. “We would be delighted, Miss Loring, if you and your charming sisters could join us for our ball,” Lady Perry declared with an enthusiasm that was obviously feigned, since she had always cut the Loring sisters dead whenever they chanced to meet in public.

Arabella refrained from grinding her teeth at the hypocrisy and instead smiled serenely and returned a gracious thank-you.

But because Sir Alfred was the highly respected magistrate of the district and his wife the acknowledged leader of local society, they set the example for the rest of the neighborhood.

Of course, Arabella knew, none of the gentry dared defy a nobleman of Lord Danvers's rank and consequence, yet it was Marcus's irresistible charm that made them eager to ingratiate themselves. Arabella was frankly awed by his ability to manipulate people into doing his bidding. She watched as time after time he had their callers lapping up his every word. And after the first two days, she no longer had any doubts that his efforts to restore the Loring sisters' social status would be successful.

Since he'd begun conducting his daily affairs from Danvers Hall, Marcus also had numerous visitors of his own, mainly business acquaintances—his solicitors, his estate steward from his family seat in Devonshire, and most frequently, his secretary.

Surprisingly, his secretary brought daily reports on matters concerning the House of Lords. Arabella discovered the fact when Marcus had to travel to London one morning to vote on the latest bill before the House.

When she expressed surprise that he followed the politics of the day, Marcus shrugged amiably. “My conversion to politics has been fairly recent. My good friend Drew—the Duke of Arden—wrenched my arm and convinced me I should take an interest. Drew's theory is that with privilege comes the responsibility of governing.”

The revelation gave Arabella food for thought. She had little familiarity with governmental affairs. Her step-uncle had never taken his seat in Parliament, although she knew that both he and her father had been conservative Tories rather than liberal Whigs, as Marcus professed to be. But it made her realize there was indeed more substance to Marcus than she had ever imagined.

What surprised Arabella most, however, was that he made no more overt physical overtures toward her. Oh, he still required her to spend their allotted time together in intimate dinners, but his lessons in passion had subsided entirely. Oddly, Arabella's relief at the respite was accompanied by an unmistakable disappointment; she had begun to eagerly anticipate the sensual duel of wits between them that usually ended with her flushed and feverish. Yet Marcus never attempted even so much as a kiss.

Instead, after dinner, he usually read aloud to her, or she played the pianoforte and sang. Sometimes they indulged in banter, but more often they simply talked.

He told her about his upbringing, which was typical for sons of the British aristocracy. He'd been relegated from birth into the care of nursemaids, then tutors, before being shipped off to boarding school, and from there, university. He'd seen little of his parents while growing up, since they preferred the delights of London over the country estate of the Barons Pierce in Devonshire, where Marcus had spent the first eight years of his life.

He'd had no close friends until Eton, when he met Andrew Moncrief, the future Duke of Arden, and Heath Griffin, who would eventually become the Marquess of Claybourne. From the tales Marcus told her, Arabella had the picture of a lonely young boy who'd suddenly experienced the joy of finding “brothers” as adventuresome and reckless and outrageous as he was.

“What of your younger sister?” Arabella asked. “Eleanor is her name, I believe you said?”

Marcus smiled at the mention of his sister. “Eleanor came along unexpectedly ten years after I was born, after I had already left home for Eton. But I saw her whenever I returned on holiday. From the very first, she managed to wrap us all around her finger—Drew and Heath as well.”

His expression softened visibly when he spoke of his sister, his stories an indication of their genuine fondness for each other.

He was so forthright in his accounts of his youth that when Marcus questioned her about her own childhood, Arabella answered as honestly, telling him things she had shared with few people other than her sisters and her close friends.

During her girlhood, her family had resided in London each Season and the Loring estate in Hampshire the rest of the year. But no matter the setting, their parents fought bitterly. While in the country, she and her sisters fled out of doors as much as possible, which had resulted in the three of them becoming enthusiastic walkers and excellent riders. And when they were in London, they eagerly escaped into their studies as a distraction from the vitriolic atmosphere Victoria and Charles Loring had fostered.

“Roslyn became downright bookish,” Arabella confessed with a fond smile. “She was fascinated by the newest methods of scientific investigation and actually taught herself Latin. But even Lily turned to books for solace. She would pour over historical and geological tomes while dreaming of exploring the world in search of adventure…which of course is impossible, given her sex and social station as a baronet's daughter.”

“And what of you?” Marcus asked curiously. “Did you keep your lovely nose buried in books?”

“Yes, but not to the extent Roslyn did. And I found my greatest diversion in literature and poetry, not science.”

“If your parents disliked each other so violently,” Marcus was curious to know, “why did they not simply go their separate ways?”

Arabella had wondered the same thing countless times. “I am not certain. I think they simply took pleasure in hurting each other, perhaps out of revenge for their own misery. My mother once confessed that she had fallen in love with my father shortly after they wed, but the feeling wasn't reciprocated, and his infidelities destroyed any chance her affection might have lasted.”

“Then I suppose it's only logical,” Marcus said slowly, “that you developed an aversion to unions of convenience.”

“I am glad you finally understand,” Arabella replied, managing a light tone.

“That doesn't mean you are a hopeless cause, however,” he mused. “I won't give up trying to persuade you just yet.”

Arabella knew very well Marcus wouldn't give up his pursuit of her until one of them won the wager. He was determined to wed her because he wanted a genteel wife to bear him heirs—although his courtship had definitely changed since the day of their picnic. It was as if he was giving their friendship a chance to catch up to their physical relationship.

She suspected it was a patiently calculated strategy to undermine her resistance. If so, she had to admit it was effective. In truth, she enjoyed the quiet evenings she spent with him. During the day, the house was overrun with modistes and workmen who needed her approval, and with illustrious callers who required her polite attention, so the peace was welcome after the hectic pace of the day. But it was Marcus himself who made the interludes so enjoyable.

He seemed to find them enjoyable as well, and he said as much the last evening before the ball. A comfortable silence had fallen between them as they took tea together in the drawing room while outside a late spring storm spent its fury.

“This is remarkably pleasant,” Marcus commented lazily, stretching his long, lithe legs out toward the cheerfully crackling hearth fire. “We might as well be an old wedded couple.” Then his amused smile flashed at Arabella. “Although if we were indeed wed, you would not be sleeping alone each night.”

Arabella felt her cheeks flush at his suggestive remark.
This
was more like the Marcus she had first come to know. For the past three nights when she retired for bed, he had given her nothing more than a chaste kiss on her fingertips. But even that mild caress had her skin tingling, and she lay awake each night thinking of him, remembering the startling pleasure he had given her the afternoon of their picnic and wondering when he would attempt any repetition.

It would not be tonight, Arabella realized a half hour later, for all he did was wish her sweet dreams, without so much as touching her hand.

His tame dismissal left her strangely dissatisfied—until she scolded herself and resolved to focus her energies on tomorrow's ball rather than on the provoking Earl of Danvers.

         

The next afternoon Arabella ended her labors on the house early in order to dress for the important event. She and Marcus were to take his carriage to Tess's house to collect Roslyn and Lily and Tess and escort them all to the ball.

Since he had hired an abigail to look after Arabella's wardrobe and to help her dress, it took her less time than usual to bathe and arrange her hair and don her ball gown. When she studied herself in the cheval glass, she was quite satisfied with her appearance.

Her new abigail, Nan, was more effusive. “Oh, Miss, yer a breathtaking sight!”

Her gown was indeed an exquisite confection—silver net over emerald sarcenet that set off her gray eyes and red-gold hair, while the moderately low décolletage and puffed sleeves exposed a fashionable amount of skin.

She was about to go downstairs when Marcus surprised her by sending up a footman bearing a velvet jeweler's box, which contained a delicate emerald necklace and matching earbobs. Arabella hesitated at first to accept such an expensive gift, even though it wasn't improper between guardian and ward. But when Nan cooed over the jewels, she relented enough to try them on and discovered they embellished her gown perfectly.

Marcus seemed to agree, for when she joined him in the drawing room, he stared at her for a long moment before offering her a devastating smile. “That lovely gown and necklace almost does you justice.”

“You should not have gone to such expense,” Arabella remarked, hiding her flush at his flattery.

“Of course I should have. It was entirely my pleasure.”

Marcus himself looked irresistibly handsome in black-and-white evening clothes, and Arabella was keenly aware of him as he helped her on with her satin wrap and then escorted her to his carriage. As they drove the short distance to Tess's house, however, she distracted herself by reviewing for him the names and ranks and relationships of the guests he was likely to encounter at the ball, some of whom had already called at Danvers Hall to make his acquaintance and scrutinize her.

Her sisters and her friend were awaiting them with varying degrees of eagerness, Arabella discovered when they were admitted to the house.

Tess was definitely the most sanguine about attending this evening's ball. She was always welcomed at assemblies and balls, for despite her lack of significant fortune, her birth and breeding were exceptional. And since her mother's family hailed from nearby Richmond, Tess was a great favorite with the older matrons and dowagers in the district.

Roslyn, who looked stunningly beautiful in her new evening finery, maintained an appearance of cool detachment, but Arabella suspected she was keenly hoping the evening turned out well. Roslyn stood the most to gain from their reinstatement, since she was not quite ready to abandon the prospect of having a husband and children someday. And after the mortification of being offered several shameful propositions by various rakes and reprobates, she was more willing than her sisters to accept their new guardian's protection and support.

Lily, Arabella knew, had no desire to associate with any of the disdainful arbiters of the haute ton. Yet even Lily understood how momentous this evening could be to their futures. Thankfully, she had agreed not only to attend, but to make an effort to be charming and ladylike.

“You promised to exhibit no trace of the hoyden tonight, remember, Lily?” Arabella reminded her as Marcus helped the ladies on with their cloaks and wraps.

Lily gave a droll smile. “I remember. You needn't worry, Belle. I would not have endured all those excruciating fittings or primped for hours this afternoon if I planned to spoil our big night.”

“Well, the result is splendid.”

Lily dimpled before twirling around in her new apparel. “We do look elegant, don't we?”

Arabella had to laugh. While Lilian felt more at home in a shabby old riding habit, she was feminine enough to appreciate a beautiful gown.