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Chapter Thirty-Five
Arabella arrived at the Marquess and Marchioness of Danstall’s twentieth wedding anniversary ball, along with her parents. She was dressed in a sober, dark blue dress. Most of the attendees were also dressed in dark colors, in remembrance of those who had recently lost their lives.
“Thank you for having us,” Arabella told them. The Marchioness took her hands in her own.
“You are most welcome, My Lady,” Lady Danstall said.
“Congratulations on twenty years,” the Duchess of Tiverwell added.
“Yes, well, the trick is to fall in love,” the Marquess said, winking at Arabella. She smiled as they both smiled at each other. They were clearly very fond of each other. Their children surrounded them. It was a happy picture.
Arabella let herself drift through the crowd, beside her parents. Her mother clutched her father’s arm. They both discussed those in attendance. Arabella looked around, waving her black lace fan in front of her face.
She had spent the past few days in a whirl of confused feelings. With the Duke of Longmire’s funeral approaching, she wasn’t sure how she was supposed to react. That a gentleman had to be murdered in order for her to be free was against everything that Arabella stood for.
Not to mention, she felt betrayed by her father, for placing her in that situation. Neither of them had spoken to each other since the other day. They didn’t even look at each other, despite having shared a table several times, as well as a carriage on the way there.
Her head spun. She looked around at all of the finely dressed members of the ton. Candlelight flickered, making the room seem enchanted. There were little bunches of hot house flowers—white roses, lilies, tied with satin bows to evergreen branches. She followed her parents as they passed by a group of recently debuted ladies, who were whispering amongst themselves.
That was when she saw him. She knew Charles by the slant of his shoulders, the proud way that he held his head, despite being surrounded by the den of vipers. Her heart seemed to stop as he turned and saw her. His eyes softened, and he smiled.
“Excuse me,” she said to her parents, making her way through the crowd. He moved toward her, and they met, halfway between where they started.
She curtsied as he bowed. Then, they stood for a moment, smiling at each other. She sought for something to say—there were so many things she wanted to say, but couldn’t. She ached for him, but she could say nothing about it.
“Are—are you well, Sir?” she asked, blinking back tears.
“As well as can be expected, My Lady,” he replied. “Are you well?”
“I am,” she replied, not adding that it was only because of his presence. A hand gripped her by the arm, and she turned to see her father’s livid face.
“Neither of you are to be alone,” he growled.
Just then, Lord Dunsmore walked up to their group. He smiled at her father. “Your Grace,” he said. Something passed between them. Her father’s eyes widened. Lord Dunsmore glanced at Charles. “Oh, Mr. Conolly! Are you to dance with Lady Arabella?”
The musicians in the corner were tuning up their instruments. Arabella smiled, even though she had no idea what manner of leverage Lord Dunsmore had over her father. She was wildly curious to know.
“Pappa,” she whispered. “If you do not let go of me, everyone will talk.” She glanced down at his hand, which still gripped her upper arm.
His eyes widened in fear. One thing that her dear father hated the most was scandal, particularly public scorn for rudeness. He let go of her arm, nodding. His nostrils flared as he breathed deeply.
“Very well,” he said, grimacing. “I will watch from here.”
“Understood, Your Grace.” Charles offered her his arm. She placed her hand in the bend of his elbow. He led her out to the middle of the floor. It was a fancy, grand ball, so there would be no simple country dances.
They faced each other. She placed her hand in his, the other on his shoulder. He pulled her close, his hand on the small of her back. There was a warm flash in the pit of her belly. In his arms, Arabella felt even more drawn to him than ever.
“This is my very favorite place to be,” she said softly.
“The Marquess of Danstalls?” he asked, winking at her.
“No, silly. In your arms,” she whispered. No doubt, someone else heard, but Arabella didn’t care. The smile that bloomed across his face, the tender look that was in his eyes—that was all that mattered.
* * *
Charles had to keep his focus. Her words were tender—bold, too. He could feel the Duke of Tiverwell’s gaze on them. Almost searing into his flesh with the heat of his anger.
“It’s just like fencing, isn’t it?” he asked, recalling the time when they’d both been happy. It seemed like forever ago, when they’d fenced back at Tiverwell Manor. So much had happened, had changed. “You said that, once.”
