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“That was quite the duel,” Fabrizio said, clapping his hands. “I haven’t seen swordplay like that since I was on the circuit myself.”
“Thank you, Fabrizio,” Lady Arabella said, breathlessly. “Have you had breakfast, Mr. Conolly?”
“I have not,” Charles said, his stomach rumbling.
“Me either,” she replied. They put away their foils, then left their helmets on one of the benches.
They walked together, talking companionably as they went up to the breakfast room. Annette followed behind them. Ever present, yet always silently observing.
“So, Mr. Conolly,” Arabella said. “Have you often been in the country?”
“No, My Lady,” he replied. “I have not had the pleasure.”
“Then you must come riding with me soon,” she said. “Lord Drysdale will likely tag along, too, but there’s nothing as pleasant as a ride in the countryside.”
“I would be happy to, My Lady,” he said.
“Good. It’s settled then.”
She smiled at him as they neared the breakfast room. Her smile seemed to light up the dim hall. Light spilled in through the doorways, lighting her up from behind.
It wasn’t often that Charles felt as though he was being treated as an equal. However, he had certainly made an ally of Lady Arabella.
* * *
When Arabella and Mr. Conolly arrived in the breakfast room, her father was the only one still there. He liked to sit, reading the morning post and drinking tea. It was Arabella’s favorite room in the house, with lemon yellow and cream striped wallpaper, and large windows, through which light emanated.
“Well? How did it go?” her father asked, slipping the letter that he’d been reading into his jacket pocket.
“She’s a strong fencer,” Mr. Conolly said. “She beat me thoroughly.”
“He put up quite the defense,” Arabella added, as she sat down at the mahogany wood table. “Mr. Conolly is equally as strong.”
“Have you fenced much, Mr. Conolly?” the Duke asked.
“Yes, Your Grace, I was in the fencing club while at Cambridge.”
“Ah, I see.” The Duke smiled. “You didn’t let Lady Arabella win?”
“I wouldn’t dare, Your Grace,” Mr. Conolly replied, buttering a slice of toast, then biting into it.
Arabella grabbed a slice of toast from the rack, slathering it with marmalade and butter. She was pleased with herself. He certainly hadn’t let her win—she knew by now when someone was letting her win.
She poured herself a cup of tea, then ate with absolute relish. There was nothing so pleasant as toast and tea after a good bout of fencing.
“So, I take it you’ll be all ready to move forward with the estate planning?” her father asked.
“Of course, Your Grace,” Mr. Conolly replied.
“Very good.”
Arabella looked up at her father. He was frowning thoughtfully. He stared down at the white tablecloth. He drummed his fingers in agitation.
“Pappa?” she asked, watching him seem to shake off his thoughts. He looked at her. “Is something wrong?”
“Heavens, no. Nothing at all, my sweet.”
“All right.” She went back to her tea and toast. It was odd. For a moment, he had seemed…distracted. Worried about something. But now he was smiling.
