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Chapter Fifteen
Arabella walked down the staircase, dressed in her lemon-yellow silk gown, the silk falling luxuriously around her legs. Her hair was piled on top of her head in an elaborate chignon. Annette had gone out of her way, to make sure that Arabella looked elegant, for her big night.
Her gloved hands shook a little. Not because all of the attention would be on her. Not because the gentlemen and ladies of the ton would be gossiping about her habit of wearing breeches.
Mr. Conolly would be there. She was so looking forward to seeing him, after months of exchanging letters, and wishing for his presence, she was looking forward to basking in the light from his eyes.
“Arabella,” her father said. He and the Duchess were standing by the door, ready to greet their guests. He smiled at her—what felt like the first genuine smile in an age. “You look like a dream,” he said.
“Thank you, Pappa,” she replied.
“Your mother and I are…so proud of you,” he said.
“That we are,” the Duchess agreed.
“I love you, both of you,” she replied. “Thank you for throwing me this party.”
“Perhaps, tonight, you will dance with your husband to be,” her mother said excitedly.
“Perhaps I will,” she agreed.
The three of them were soon busy with their large influx of guests. Arabella made sure to smile at all, even the ones who looked at her sternly.
Finally, she saw him. His eyes were on her, the moment he stepped through the door.
“Mr. Conolly,” she said, holding out her hand. He took it in his, pressing it. She beamed at him.
“Lady Arabella,” he replied. “Happy Birthday.”
“Thank you,” she murmured.
“Mr. Conolly! Welcome!” her father said.
Mr. Conolly glanced at her once more. Something passed between them, that secret look that passes between two lovers, which says everything that they cannot say in front of others.
Arabella was ecstatic that he was there. She was impatient to speak with him. Unfortunately, there was still a long line of guests, trickling in through the door.
* * *
Charles made his way through the crowd inside of the Duke of Tiverwell’s townhome. It was a large space, with gleaming marble floors, and an elegant white silk wallpaper on the walls. Charles drifted past a large painting, depicting the Duke, riding on a large white horse. It was in a gilt frame. Beside it, in a smaller, less ostentatious frame, there was one of Lady Arabella, along with the Duchess.
As Charles looked around the crowd, he spotted Lord Drysdale, who was clearly trying to get his attention. He waved at Charles, urging him to come over. Charles waded through the crowd toward him.
“Mr. Conolly,” Lord Drysdale said. Charles returned his bow.
“How have you been, My Lord?” he asked, settling against the wall.
“I’ve been well, Mr. Conolly,” Lord Drysdale replied.
“Any further threats?” Charles asked in a low voice.
“None at all, sir.” Lord Drysdale smiled. “I now believe it to be some sort of mischief. Nothing more than a prank.”
Out of the corner of Charles’s eye, he noticed Lady Arabella. He knew it was her, by the bold flash of yellow, reminiscent of a gold finch among sparrows. He glanced her way. She motioned with her eyes, then walked out of the room.
Charles looked at Lord Drysdale who smiled at him. “Excuse me, sir. I must go and greet Lady Catsmore.”
Somehow, Charles had received Lord Drysdale’s approbation.
