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Chapter Twenty-Four
The tension in the carriage on the way back to their home was tense. Arabella could have cut it with a knife. It pulled up in front of the house. The Duke got out, then assisted the Duchess out.
Arabella didn’t wait for her father to help her. She got out then began to walk up the front steps behind her mother.
“Arabella?” her father asked.
“Yes, Pappa?” She turned to face him.
“A word, please?” He gestured with his chin, toward the upstairs where his study was located. The Duchess was already crossing the downstairs parlor, where she would sit, comforting herself with a cup of tea.
“Certainly,” Arabella said, following him to his study. As soon as the door was closed, he turned.
“I thought that I told you—” he began, angrily.
“Not to marry him,” she finished for him. “But that doesn’t mean that I can’t treat him with the same respect that I would give another Gentleman.”
“He’s not—”
“Of the ton. That appears to be his only offense.”
“Arabella, please. See this from my perspective,” her father insisted.
“Oh, I do, Father,” she replied bitterly.
“And how is that?”
“All my life, you’ve raised me to speak my mind,” she replied, remaining calm and collected. It wouldn’t do to lose her temper—not when her father was already close to losing his own. “When I do speak my mind, on something that truly matters, then you completely disregard it. You want me to ride like a gentleman, fight like a gentleman, and even speak and to think like one. But when I fall in love, then you forbid me from doing so. It doesn’t make sense.”
“There is a difference between marrying a lowborn individual, and someone with a bloodline,” her father said. “If only you would consider, seriously, someone like the Duke of Longmire!”
Arabella blinked.
I knew it.
“The Duke of Longmire? He’s as good as marrying a greeting card. He says all of the right things, but there’s nothing of substance to be had.”
“What’s wrong with that?” her father demanded. “Don’t ladies love a gentleman like that?”
“I am not just any lady,” she replied frostily. She looked her father in the eye, challenging him to say otherwise. He was smiling at her, fondly.
“At least consider him,” her father replied. “Give him a chance.”
“If I do, and I still do not like him, can I choose for myself?” she asked, seeing that there might be a way that she could convince him of Charles’s suitability.
Her father sighed, looking away from her. He was silent, clearly attempting to come up with a decisive riposte.
“That’s what I thought,” she snapped, standing up and letting herself out of the study. She stormed down the hall. Arabella had never felt so hopeless in her entire life. Her father had raised her to be confident. To feel like she was the one in control. But she wasn’t—nor had she ever been.
* * *
Charles knocked on Arthur’s door. “Come in!” Arthur called out. He was sitting at his desk. He had poured himself a few fingers of brandy, and was leaning back in his armchair, lounging.
“Care for a drink?” Arthur offered amiably.
“Yes, please.” Charles sank down into one of the armchairs. It was pleasantly warm inside of Arthur’s office. The fire crackled in the grate. The one in Charles’s office had gone out. The frosty air had cooled it.
Arthur popped up, moving over to the sideboard, where he kept a decanter and a few glasses, for when his rich, titled clients stopped by. He poured Charles a few fingers, bringing it over to him.
