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Chapter Twenty
Arabella was nervous, as she waited for Charles to show up. She’d dressed in her very best rust colored silk, which brought out the copper color of her hair. She wore her gold locket, on a black ribbon at her neck.
Everyone else was talking in low voices. Lord and Lady Tindall and the Lady Linton, and her daughter, Lady Eleanor were there, as was the Duke of Longmire, who walked over to her.
“My Lady,” he said, courteously. She curtseyed to him.
“Your Grace,” she replied. He was the sort of individual that her father wanted her to marry—a Duke, with the wealth of Croesus. Unfortunately, he was also a bore.
“You look lovely,” he commented.
When she smiled at him, her eye twitched. “Thank you, Your Grace.” She swallowed. The Duke of Longmire always said the right things, but they felt empty. He could have easily said the same thing to all of the other ladies in the room. As a matter of fact, he had.
The door opened, and Mr. Blankley peered inside. “Mr. Charles Conolly,” he announced. The sound of Charles’ name caused lighting to strike Arabella at the core. She turned.
Arabella’s eyes met his, across the room. Her skin tingled. There were dark circles pressed underneath his blue eyes, and he looked pale.
She walked over to him—the Duke, forgotten.
“Are you all right, Mr. Conolly?” she asked, remembering that they weren’t alone, and the entire room was watching them, right then.
He bowed. “I’m much better than I was, My Lady,” he replied.
She curtseyed, still holding his gaze. Something passed in between them. He nodded, a little, as if to assure her that he was fine. She felt herself relax. Here he was, unharmed, whole. She could relax, if only a little.
If only we could slip off, unnoticed.
She had so much that she wanted to ask him—all of it, completely improper in front of the gathered company.
“Mr. Conolly,” her father said, from just behind Arabella. “Welcome.”
“Thank you for having me over for dinner,” he said, his eyes finally leaving Arabella’s.
“Come, have something to drink,” the Duke said, slipping easily into the guise of gracious host.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” he murmured, bowing his head. As he moved past her, his eyes met hers again. Arabella fell into step beside him. She didn’t care who was watching. She was going to show them that Charles was trustworthy—blamed through no fault of his own—he had been at the wrong place at the wrong time. Rumor was a nasty thing, one which the ton dealt with like a kind of currency.
“Are you well, Sir?” she asked. She tried to communicate with her gaze.
He blinked. The hint of a smile played at the corners of his lips. She warmed to him, like a flower, facing the sun as it moved in its arc through the sky.
“I am, My Lady.”
“Good. We were all so worried about you, Mr. Conolly,” she said, really meaning,I was worried half to death. He smiled, and she knew that he guessed her meaning.
“We were,” her mother agreed. “We all knew it to be a rumor, and nothing more”
“Unfortunately, it’s a story that I’m well acquainted with, Your Grace.”
Arabella’s heart went out to him. His father, she knew, had been executed for a crime he didn’t commit.
Her heart was racing. She needed to speak with him, after dinner. As he was surrounded by the other guests, and they began to ask him questions, the Duke of Longmire sidled up beside her.
“He’s innocent, then?” he asked—he looked annoyed. It wasn’t often that a Duke was upstaged by a simple London barrister.
He’s going to have to get used to it if he’s planning on sticking around.
“Of course, he is,” she replied, stoutly.
