"Mr. Whitmore's financial difficulties and previous... disappointments do not make him an unsuitable husband," Devon replied with the sort of diplomatic evasion that made her want to scream with frustration. "Indeed, such challenges may provide him with the motivation to prove himself worthy of your regard."
"His financial difficulties?" Arabella rose from her chair with sudden violence, her carefully maintained composure finally cracking entirely. "You speak as though his debts were the only objection to this match. What of his cruelty to Miss Fitzwilliam? What of the violence that drove her to break their betrothal?"
Devon's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, but his voice remained maddeningly calm. "We have only rumour and speculation regarding that unfortunate affair. It would be unwise to condemn a gentleman based upon such incomplete intelligence."
The cool rationality of his response filled Arabella with a rage so pure it left her trembling. Here was the man who had held her in his arms mere days before, who had whispered words of love and devotion with such passionate sincerity that she had believed in the possibility of happiness despite all rational thought to the contrary.
"How dare you," she breathed, her voice shaking with suppressed fury. "How dare you stand there speaking of incomplete intelligence when you know… you know that I will be walking into a marriage that may well destroy me? Is your precious reputation so much more valuable than my safety, my happiness, my very life?"
For a moment, Devon's mask slipped, revealing something raw and anguished beneath the cool facade. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, and she saw him struggle with what appeared to be genuine torment before reassembling his defenses with visible effort.
"Your safety will be assured by the protection of your husband's name," he said with forced steadiness. "Your happiness... I pray that time and proper conduct will bring you the contentment you deserve."
"Contentment," Arabella repeated with hollow laughter. "Not love, not passion, not even companionship—butcontentment. How very generous of you to wish me such... modest aspirations."
"Love," Devon said with sudden harshness, "is a luxury that people in our positions cannot afford. You would do well to remember that, Miss Greystone, and to build your future upon more solid foundations than romantic sentiment."
The words were like daggers to her heart, yet beneath their cruelty she glimpsed something that gave her pause. There was a quality to his voice, a tension in his posture, that suggested he was fighting some internal battle even as he delivered these devastating pronouncements.
"And what of Livia?" she asked quietly, grasping for any weapon that might penetrate his armor of indifference. "What of the sister who has come to depend upon my guidance and friendship? Are you prepared to explain to her why I am to be cast aside with such casual dismissal?"
Devon's expression grew pained, and for a moment she thought she had found the chink in his defenses. "Livia will understand that your marriage represents a natural progression, not an abandonment. She is stronger now than when you first arrived, quite capable of managing without your supervision."
The careful choice of words, supervision rather than friendship or affection, made it clear that he was determined to reduce their relationship to its most clinical components. Yet Arabella had not missed the slight hesitation before he spoke, the way his eyes had flickered with what might have been regret.
"I see that your mind is quite made up," she said with asmuch dignity as she could muster. "I shall not importune you further with my... romantic sentiments. If you will excuse me, Your Grace, I have wedding preparations to attend to."
She moved toward the door with her head held high, determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing her break down entirely. Yet as she reached for the door handle, his voice stopped her with barely controlled desperation.
"Arabella..."
She turned back, hope flaring briefly in her chest at the raw need in his voice. For a heartbeat, she thought he might abandon this charade and confess whatever plan he was concealing beneath his mask of resignation.
Instead, Devon's expression settled back into formal politeness, though she noticed that his hands were trembling slightly as he smoothed his already perfect cravat.
"I wish you every happiness in your new life," he said quietly. "You deserve... you deserve far more than I could ever offer."
The gentle benediction was almost more than she could bear, and Arabella fled the room before the tears she had been holding back could finally fall. As she made her way through the elegant corridors of Ravenshollow Manor for what might be the last time, she struggled to understand how the man who had shown her such passionate devotion could abandon her so completely at the moment of her greatest need.
Yet even in her despair, some small part of her mind notedthe inconsistencies in his behavior—the trembling hands, the moments when his mask had slipped, the careful way he had avoided meeting her eyes directly. Perhaps there was more to this apparent betrayal than met the eye, though such hope felt more like cruel self-deception than rational analysis.
***
In his study, Devon remained standing before the windows long after Arabella's departure, his entire frame rigid with the effort of maintaining the facade that had nearly destroyed him. The interview had been the most difficult thing he had ever endured, requiring him to wound the woman he loved more than life itself in order to preserve any hope of saving her.
Yet the plan was already in motion, set into place the moment he had received confirmation of Whitmore's true character from his man of business. Every cruel word, every apparent betrayal, had been carefully calculated to ensure that tomorrow's dramatic intervention would have maximum impact upon both Whitmore and London society.
The door to his study opened without ceremony, and Livia entered with the sort of determined expression that reminded him forcibly of their mother in her more militant moods.
"I have just encountered Arabella in the corridor," she announced without preamble, her dark eyes flashing with uncharacteristic anger. "She appeared to be in considerable distress, and when I attempted to offer comfort, she could barely speak. What have you done, Devon?"
Devon turned from the window with the same carefulcomposure he had shown Arabella, though maintaining such deception with his perceptive sister proved considerably more challenging.
"I have done what honour demands," he replied with studied calm. "Miss Greystone is to be married tomorrow, and it would be unconscionable for me to interfere with arrangements that have been so publicly celebrated."
"Unconscionable?" Livia's voice rose with indignation. "What is unconscionable is allowing a woman you profess to love to marry a man whose character you yourself have proven to be thoroughly debased. Have you taken leave of your senses entirely?"
"I have come to them," Devon corrected gently. "My feelings for Miss Greystone, whatever they might be, cannot justify destroying her reputation or yours for the sake of romantic sentiment. She deserves a respectable future, not the scandal that would inevitably follow any alternative arrangement."
