"James Whitmore," she whispered, the card falling from nerveless fingers.
"Who is James Whitmore?" Livia asked with concern, clearly noting Arabella's distress.
"A gentleman who... who expressed interest in my hand before my circumstances changed," Arabella replied, her voice barely above a whisper. "I had not expected him to... that is, I thought my disgrace would have discouraged his attentions."
Livia moved to her side with swift sympathy. "But surely this is good news? If he still wishes to court you despite the scandal, perhaps your reputation is not as damaged as you feared?"
Arabella stared at the ostentatious display of flowers, her mind reeling with the implications of Mr. Whitmore's gesture. That he knew of her current residence was disturbing enough, but the tone of his message, the presumption that she was merely in "temporary exile" and would soon return to receive his suit, filled her with a complex mixture of emotions she could not quite untangle.
"I... I am not certain," she managed, sinking into the nearest chair as the full weight of her situation crashed over her anew. "Mr. Whitmore is a respectable gentleman with adequate fortune, but I never gave him reason to believe his suit would be welcomed."
"Perhaps he sees this as an opportunity," Livia suggested gently. "If other suitors have withdrawn their interest, he may believe he has a clearer field."
The pragmatic observation made Arabella's stomach churn with something uncomfortably close to revulsion. Was that what she had become? A prize to be claimed by whoever proved willing to overlook her tarnished reputation?
"I should write to him," she said quietly, though the prospect filled her with dread. "Thank him for his kindness whilst making it clear that his attentions are neither expected nor encouraged."
"Are you certain that is wise?" Livia asked with surprising directness. "Forgive me for speaking plainly, but your currentposition, whilst honourable, is not permanent. If Mr. Whitmore offers marriage, you would have security, respectability, your own household..."
The words trailed off as Livia recognized the distress her practical advice was causing, but the damage was already done. Arabella felt the cruel truth of her situation settle over her like a shroud. She was indeed dependent upon Devon's generosity, with no guarantee of what would become of her when Livia no longer required a companion.
"You are quite right, of course," she said with forced composure. "I must consider all possibilities with proper seriousness."
Yet even as she spoke the words, Arabella knew that she could never accept Mr. Whitmore's suit, not when every fiber of her being recoiled from the thought of binding herself to a man who inspired nothing in her but mild distaste. Better to face an uncertain future than to condemn herself to a lifetime of suffocating respectability.
The afternoon wore on with both women rather subdued by the arrival of the unwelcome flowers. Arabella found herself glancing repeatedly at the elaborate arrangement, as though it were a serpent that might strike at any moment. Finally, unable to bear the oppressive sweetness of their perfume any longer, she asked Mrs. Henderson to remove them to another room.
"Perhaps the morning room," she suggested weakly. "Where they might be better appreciated."
Mrs. Henderson's knowing look suggested that sheunderstood perfectly why her new mistress might find the flowers distressing, but she merely nodded with professional discretion and had the arrangement relocated with admirable efficiency.
As evening approached and there was still no sign of Devon's return, both women found themselves growing restless. Livia retired early, claiming fatigue from the day's lessons, whilst Arabella attempted to lose herself in a novel, she had discovered in the library that morning.
The book, a Gothic romance featuring a brooding hero and an imperiled heroine, should have provided exactly the sort of escapist entertainment she craved. Instead, she found herself reading the same page repeatedly, her mind wandering to thoughts of dark eyes and cynical smiles, of a man whose complexity continued to confound every attempt at understanding.
When the clock in the drawing room chimed ten o'clock with no sign of Devon's return, Arabella finally admitted defeat and prepared to retire for the evening. Perhaps a good night's sleep would restore her equilibrium and allow her to face whatever challenges tomorrow might bring with better grace.
Yet sleep proved as elusive as concentration had been. She lay in the vast bed staring at the canopy above, her mind churning with thoughts of Mr. Whitmore's presumptuous flowers, of her uncertain future, and most disturbing of all, of the way Devon's eyes had seemed to see straight through to her soul during their charged exchanges.
Finally, unable to bear the confines of her chamber anylonger, Arabella rose and wrapped herself in the silk robe that had been provided with her evening attire. Perhaps the book would prove more effective at quieting her restless thoughts than lying in darkness brooding over matters beyond her control.
The house was silent as she made her way through the corridors, her bare feet soundless on the thick carpets. Moonlight streamed through the tall windows, casting everything in silver and shadow, transforming the familiar elegance of the daytime into something more mysterious and charged with possibility.
The library door stood slightly ajar, and as Arabella approached, she was surprised to see the warm glow of firelight emanating from within. Had someone left the fire burning unattended? Surely that was dangerous in a room filled with precious books and manuscripts.
She pushed the door open quietly, intending to ensure that the fire was properly banked, only to freeze in the doorway as she realized she was not alone.
Devon sat in one of the leather chairs before the fireplace, still dressed in his evening clothes though his coat had been discarded and his cravat loosened to reveal the strong column of his throat. A brandy glass hung loosely in one hand whilst the other held a slim volume that he appeared to be reading with absorbed attention.
The firelight played across his aristocratic features, emphasizing the sharp line of his jaw and the sensual curve of his mouth. His dark hair was slightly disheveled, as thoughhe had been running his fingers through it, and there was something about his posture, a subtle tension in his shoulders, a line between his brows, that suggested he was not entirely at ease despite the relaxed setting.
For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Devon looked up from his book, his dark eyes finding hers across the room with an intensity that made her pulse quicken despite her determination to remain composed.
"Miss Greystone," he said quietly, his voice rougher than usual in the intimate silence. "I did not expect to encounter you at this hour."
"Nor I you, Your Grace," Arabella managed, acutely aware of her state of undress despite the concealing folds of her robe. "I could not sleep and thought perhaps a book might..."
She trailed off, suddenly uncertain of the wisdom of this midnight encounter. There was something different about Devon tonight, something raw and unguarded that made him seem more dangerous than ever.
