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Charles stood there, in the torch-light of the gardens. He could see gentlemen and ladies, walking through the hedges. In the darkness, he couldn’t tell who was who.
“Mr. Conolly,” the Duke of Tiverwell said.
Charles turned to him. “Your Grace,” he replied, bowing respectfully.
“I imagine that you know I mean to have Lady Arabella marry the Viscount of Drysdale.”
“I had surmised as much,” Charles agreed. Clearly, the Duke had seen something that he wasn’t happy about. It gave Charles an uneasy feeling.
“Whispers are making their way around the room, that you and my daughter are getting along very well…almost too well. I myself have noticed.”
“Your Grace, I apologize if I have overstepped,” he said. “There was gossip of Lady Arabella, which I could not stand silently by. I admit, I defended her.”
“Gossip?” The Duke raised an eyebrow.
“I’m sure you’ve heard some of it—about her donning breeches and such.”
The Duke nodded, the anger going out of him. “I apologize, Mr. Conolly. I might have presumed too much. On top of that, I saw the two of you speaking in the hall.”
“Nothing more than a discussion between two acquaintances,” Charles assured him, pretending like the Duke’s angry confrontation had not been a clear message—to keep from getting too close to Lady Arabella.
Charles kept smiling, even though he was seething inside. Charles would even admit—he was a proud man. He had risen far from his poor roots. He was the only child of a seamstress. While he may mix with the ton and do their bidding—it was never more clear that he was not one of them.
* * *
Arabella sat back against the blue velvet of the seat cushions in her father’s barouche-landau. The lanterns at the front were lit, throwing light on those inside—Arabella, her mother, her father, Lord Drysdale, and Mr. Conolly.
“What a success!” the Duchess proclaimed, breaking the heavy silence which had filled the interior of the carriage.
“Indeed, Mamma,” Arabella agreed.
“I saw you dance with nearly every gentleman there,” the Duchess said. “Lady Catsmore was saying how lovely you looked. Like an angel, she was saying. In all of that white!”
Arabella smiled. Her eyes went to Mr. Conolly, who was seated directly across from her. His eyebrows were drawn, the corners of his mouth downturned. He looked upset, then glanced away.
What could be the meaning of this?
“Lord Drysdale, does she not look like an angel?” the Duchess asked.
“She does, indeed, Your Grace,” the Viscount agreed.
“Thank you, My Lord,” Arabella said, noting how Mr. Conolly was not asked his opinion. She turned her gaze out of the window to her right. All she could see were darkened fields.
It was late—nearly three of the clock. She was exhausted. She supposed that Mr. Conolly was, as well. The change in his demeanor was so complete.
When the carriage arrived at Tiverwell Manor, her mother linked her arm in Arabella’s, ferrying her up the stairs. When she turned to look at him, his eyes met hers, sadly, it seemed.
