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There is simply no one like her.
When they finally exited the Black Dog, they ran into Lord Drysdale.
“Mr. Conolly!” he said. “My dear man. I’ve just heard what happened at the Duke of Tiverwell’s.”
Charles was horrified. “Does all of London know?” he demanded, looking at Arthur, who stepped in.
“Dear Mr. Conolly is drinking to soothe his broken heart,” Arthur explained. “Please assure him, My Lord, that his mortification is not, in fact, known to all.”
“Oh, dear me, no,” Lord Drysdale assured him. “I merely stopped in to discuss a bit of business with the Duke.”
“It’s all right, dear friend,” Arthur assured him, patting Charles on the shoulder. Charles exhaled, relaxing a little.
“For my part,” Lord Drysdale said. “I’m very sorry to hear that he’s turned you down. I’ve seen you with Lady Arabella. It’s easy to see how truly the two of you light up when you’re together.”
“Thank you, M’Lord,” Charles said, slurring his words. He held out his hand, which the Viscount of Drysdale shook heartily. “I hope that you’re well.”
“I am. I’m courting Lady Violet Fanning,” he said. “We are to be married in January.”
“Good to hear,” Charles said.
“I imagine that I’ll have some estate planning to do,” Lord Drysdale said.
“I’d be happy to help, M’Lord,” Charles replied.
“Good. I’ll be in touch to schedule an appointment,” Lord Drysdale said, raising his hat. With that, he was gone, vanishing into the crowd.
“He’s a kind sort of gentleman,” Arthur remarked.
“The best,” Charles agreed, leaning on his friend.
“Let’s get you home,” Arthur said.
“I had been ready to let her fit up the house,” Charles said sadly. All of his plans, come to nothing, in the space of a morning.
“I know, old chum,” Arthur replied mournfully.
* * *
It had been three days since Charles’ failed visit to her father. In that time, Arabella had not broken down. She had not spoken to, nor looked at her father.
Dinner was a silent affair. The air was filled with the sound of cutlery clinking against plates. Arabella kept her gaze on her food. She only spoke to her mother, not that her father was saying anything to her.
“Lady Catsmore is considering purchasing a second chaise,” her mother said. “I told her that it was such a necessary expense.”
“What does second chaise matter?” Arabella asked. “But I suppose if you’ve married for money, and not love, then that’s all that matters to you.” She finally looked at her father. “Is that who you wish me to become, Father? Obsessed with buying more than one chaise? Until I die, and then I can use it to bury myself in?”
Her father looked at her. Cold fury was spread across his features. He said nothing. Clearly, the matter of Arabella falling in love with her father’s barrister was still smarting.
“I barely recognize you of late,” she said, turning her gaze toward her plate.
“How dare you sit at my table, and eat my food,” he stated, “while you speak ill of me.” There was no fury in his voice—the icy calmness of it was chilling.
“Do you wish me to starve, then?” she asked, looking him in the eye.
“It is because I do not wish you to starve that I turned down Mr. Conolly,” he replied.
She stared at him. She didn’t know what else to say. Charles was well-off. He had assured her as much. He worked for nearly every gentleman of the ton, and Arabella knew that they paid him well. How was he going to lose all of his money, when he was putting it away in the bank, to provide for her comfort?
